#CAT Number system | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cbeargyu · 3 months ago

Text

assigned to you

summary: in a dystopian future where the government enforces arranged marriages to combat plummeting birth rates, you’re assigned a husband—choi yeonjun, a stranger you’ve never met.

pairing: yeonjun x fem!reader

genre: dystopia, slow burn, romance, angst, smut, fluff.

warnings: explicit sexual content, soft breeding kink, language, forced marriage system, emotional vulnerability, pregnancy, domestic intimacy, power imbalance due to forced pairing, first time sex, creampie, dirty talk, oral sex,

wc: 19,1k

notes: hi everyone! ✨ so recently this idea popped into my head—i’ve been wanting to write something with an arranged marriage trope but the whole cold ceo x neglected wife thing was starting to feel a bit repetitive, especially since i’ve already written something in that genre (which i still LOVE btw, but i just wanted to try something new) 🥲 then i remembered this anime called koi to uso — it’s about this dystopian world where the government assigns you a partner and yeah… i never finished it because it turned super harem-y and that’s not really my vibe AJSJHSKJJH but the concept really caught my attention, so i thought hmm maybe i should give it a try 🫣

hope you guys enjoy it!! 🫶

everything begins the day you turn twenty.

you wake up to the faint noise of birds outside your window, sunlight filtering through the pale curtains, painting quiet shadows across your bedroom floor. your mother is already in the kitchen, humming lowly, but there’s something off in her tone. a tremble, maybe. or maybe it’s just you. maybe you’re imagining it because today’s the day you have to register.

the day you officially surrender your right to choose who you’ll love.

in this country, love is not a decision. it is a number, an equation, a state-mandated obligation for survival. for years now, the country’s birth rate has been plummeting. desperate to avoid demographic collapse, the government instituted the pairing system: when you turn twenty, your data—genetic markers, temperament, emotional intelligence, compatibility rates—is run through the database. the algorithm does the rest. your match is chosen, your future locked in, and within the year, you are expected to marry and attend compulsory family planning. you have one job: produce offspring.

love is banned unless sanctioned by the state.

you walk into the government building with your hands shaking, your mother squeezing your fingers too tightly, her eyes red-rimmed but dry. she’s been crying in secret, you know. she didn’t want this for you. no one does.

and yet—there is no other choice.

the registration is swift. a photo, a signature, your blood drawn for one final compatibility cross-check. they tell you the letter will arrive in three to five business days. the envelope will be yellow. unmistakable.

“please return home and prepare for assignment.”

you try to keep your days normal after that. university lectures. cafeteria lunches. walking home with your head down, ignoring the couples holding hands across campus, each one with an official barcode tattooed on their ring fingers—a symbol of government approval. your own hand feels heavy just looking at them. branded love. manufactured desire. they never really chose each other.

sometimes you wonder if any of them are happy.

three days later, the yellow envelope is in your mailbox.

you freeze when you see it. fingers trembling, breath caught, skin going cold. the paper almost burns in your hands. you don’t open it right away. you walk straight to your room, lock the door, sit on your bed with your heart racing so violently you think you might throw up. and then, slowly, carefully, you tear the seal.

your eyes skim the top. the official logo of the bureau of demographic affairs. your name, your assigned number. and then:

assigned partner: choi yeonjun. age: 20.

a small, passport-sized photo is attached to the right side of the letter.

you stare.

he’s... beautiful.

cat-like eyes, tilted just enough to make him look a little wild. dark lashes, long and thick. a soft, upturned nose with a gentle slope that suits the elegant structure of his face. lips—full, plush, the kind that look perpetually kiss-bruised even in monochrome. his jaw is sharp but not too much, softened by a slight pout in his mouth. he’s unnervingly symmetrical. there’s a balance to his features, a harmony, like he was designed—crafted—to be attractive.

your throat feels dry.

beneath the photo, there’s a line of text confirming the date of your preliminary meeting—next friday at 2 p.m., government center, family conference room 2B. both sets of parents are expected to attend. your wedding will be planned based on that meeting’s outcome.

you lie back on the bed, letter pressed to your chest, and stare at the ceiling.

it feels... wrong to think this—but he’s attractive. unfairly so. and that terrifies you even more. because you were always taught not to feel. not to dream of fairytales or meet-cutes or falling for someone in the rain. love at first sight is a myth now. it's forbidden. it would disrupt the system. too much emotion, too much unpredictability. and yet—

yet here you are, cheeks warm, heart skipping, staring at the grayscale face of a boy you’re about to marry.

a boy you’ve never met.

friday. 2:00 p.m.government center, family conference room 2B.

you’re early.

your dress is navy, modest, but it hugs your figure in a way you wish it wouldn’t. you didn’t pick it to be pretty—you picked it because it was formal, appropriate. your mother insisted on curling your hair, and your father didn’t speak the entire ride over. only your little brother tried to smile at you, but even his usual mischief was subdued. he kept playing with the sleeves of his hoodie in the backseat, pretending not to be upset.

the building is tall and silent, cold in a way that doesn't come from the air conditioning. it's the sterility of a place that sees life as a series of documents and laws. a place that doesn’t care about dreams.

you sit on one side of the long glass table, your family beside you. your mother keeps wringing a tissue in her lap. your father’s jaw is clenched, his hands crossed tightly. this is the last time they will sit with you like this—before you are someone else's.

and then the door opens.

you hear his voice before you see him. low, warm, laughing quietly at something one of his parents said. and when he walks in, it’s—

it’s hard to breathe.

he’s wearing a black suit that fits too well. slim, tailored, crisp like a page never touched. his hair is pushed back, soft and styled, a few strands falling delicately onto his forehead. and his face—his photo didn’t do him justice. his features move with his expressions, eyes gleaming like obsidian, mouth curved just slightly at the corners as if he’s always on the edge of a smile.

choi yeonjun.

his mother is elegant, her hair in a low twist, expression unreadable. his father looks composed, dignified, already halfway through a handshake with the government official present. this isn’t their first pairing. you remember reading his file—third son. they’ve done this before.

you feel like you’re being auctioned off.

“this is my assigned partner?” yeonjun asks, voice lilting, curious—not judgmental. he’s looking straight at you. and then he bows.

you stand and bow too, polite. your voice stays caught in your throat.

“you’re pretty,” he says softly, once he straightens. “i’m glad.”

it shouldn’t affect you. it shouldn’t. and yet your stomach flutters, just for a second, before you kill the feeling dead.

you don’t say anything. not because you’re rude—but because this isn’t real. this is a performance. this is a sentence.

the government mediator begins to speak, outlining the stages of the arrangement: the preliminary meeting. the planning process. the mandatory cohabitation. the one-year marriage trial before reproduction is expected.

you zone out after a while. your mother is crying again. your father’s voice is hoarse when he answers the legal questions. your little brother won’t look at you. and across from you, yeonjun looks like he’s done this in another life. calm. collected. but not cruel.

then, the mediator clears her throat.

“now, if the parents could please give the pair some time to speak privately. it is customary.”

your mother hesitates. she squeezes your hand until her knuckles turn white. she whispers something—"don’t let them take your heart too, okay?"—and then lets go.

and just like that, you are alone with him.

just the two of you, in a silent room that smells like paper and polished wood.

yeonjun exhales once your families are gone. his shoulders relax a little.

“wow,” he says. “that was intense.”

you nod. your hands are in your lap, clutching the fabric of your dress.

“you don’t talk much, huh?”

you glance up at him. he’s watching you with a soft kind of curiosity. not the kind that pries. more like he’s observing the weather—trying to guess if rain is coming.

“i do,” you say finally, voice quiet. “just... not today.”

he smiles. “that’s fair.”

a pause. he sits across from you again, legs crossed, posture easy, like he’s not under the weight of state surveillance. like this is his decision.

“i know this is strange,” he says. “i’m not gonna pretend it’s not. they pick someone for you, give you a name and a photo, and you’re supposed to start building a future. it's... a lot.”

you say nothing. you’re watching the way his fingers tap on the edge of the table. rhythmical. patient.

“i’m not here to make this harder for you,” he says, gentler now. “i know some people get assigned to assholes. i promise i won’t be one.”

your brows knit together, surprised.

he leans forward, elbows on the table, chin resting in one palm.

“if we have to go through this, we might as well not suffer through it.”

and you look at him then, really look.

his gaze is steady. not forceful. not manipulative. he’s not trying to make you like him. he’s just... honest.

"you’re used to this,” you murmur.

his smile falters. “not really. i’ve just watched my brothers go through it. and i learned what not to do.”

there’s something about the way he says it. like he’s seen what happens when the system doesn’t pair people right. like he knows how love can die before it’s even born.

you swallow, throat tight.

“i didn’t want this,” you admit.

he nods. “me neither.”

silence settles between you again. it’s not awkward. just full. like both of you are trying to breathe in a place with no air.

“but...” he says softly, after a while. “i think you’re interesting. and you’re easy to talk to. even if you don’t say much.”

your cheeks flush, and you hate that you can feel it. he notices, of course. but he doesn’t tease you. he just smiles to himself, quiet and pleased.

“so,” he says, tilting his head. “can i know something real about you? not government data. just... you.”

you blink.

he waits.

slow burn. that’s what this is. he’s not rushing. he’s not playing pretend. he’s offering you a chance to make something human out of something cold.

and even though everything in you is screaming don’t trust it— you speak.

you tell him a little. not much. just enough.

and he listens. attentively. sincerely.

maybe that’s how it starts. not with a kiss. not with a confession. but with someone sitting across from you, asking who you are when no one’s watching.

two weeks later.

the wedding is on a thursday.

you don’t get a white dress. there’s no music, no flowers. no ceremony beyond a document and a pen and the sterile voices of government officials making sure everything is binding and accounted for.

you wear beige.

yeonjun wears black again. no tie this time. his hair is messier, like he didn’t bother too much. he looks good anyway, like he always does. like someone who never had to try.

the room is almost identical to the one where you met: glass, steel, a flag in the corner.

your mother sobs quietly during the signing. your father doesn’t let go of her hand. your brother tries not to look, but when you lean down to hug him goodbye, he hides his face in your shoulder and mutters a broken, “please don’t forget us.”

and that’s when you finally cry.

not loud. not messy. just silent tears running down your cheeks as you sign the paper that says you no longer belong to them. your name next to yeonjun’s. your status: married. active participant in national repopulation initiative.

they even stamp it. a red seal. final. absolute.

you don't remember the ride to your new shared apartment. only the sound of the car, the blur of the buildings, your hands gripping the hem of your coat in your lap like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality.

yeonjun doesn’t speak for a while. and when he does, it’s soft. careful.

“you don’t have to pretend around me,” he says, eyes on the road. “i know this hurts.”

you don’t answer.

he pulls into a residential complex. government-provided. modern, quiet. two bedrooms, a shared kitchen, everything fully equipped. it smells like fresh paint and new plastic. not like home.

your boxes are already inside. so are his.

the apartment is... neutral. beige walls. grey couch. chrome kitchen. there’s a small balcony, but it faces another building.

you walk into your assigned bedroom and close the door without saying a word.

and to his credit, he doesn’t follow you. not right away.

but now, days pass like fog.

there’s a schedule pinned to the fridge now. a printed routine from the bureau: acclimation period, cohabitation adjustment, health preparation. underlined: mandatory hospital check-up before family planning begins.

you go to the hospital together a week later.

the nurse greets you by your couple ID number.

yeonjun jokes to break the tension—something dumb about feeling like a robot in a factory—and you don’t laugh, but you glance at him sideways. just a little. he notices.

you both go through blood work, fertility testing, infectious disease screening. the nurse asks personal questions. too personal. about cycles and hormone levels and sexual history— you flinch.

yeonjun speaks for you when you freeze.

“she’s not comfortable,” he says simply. “ask me first.”

his voice is calm, but there's steel beneath it. the nurse adjusts her tone after that.

on the ride home, you stare out the window. he drives with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping his thigh, nervous energy he never shows in his posture. it’s the little things you’re starting to notice.

“you didn’t have to speak for me,” you say, finally.

“i know,” he answers. “but i wanted to.”

and again—there it is.

that kindness you didn’t ask for. that warmth he keeps offering, even though you haven’t given him much back.

nights are the hardest.

you pretend to sleep early, even when your eyes stay open in the dark for hours. the room feels too still, too foreign. the bed smells like the laundry detergent they gave you in the relocation kit. the ceiling fan turns slowly, quietly. your chest feels tight, like grief has found a home inside your ribs and refuses to move out.

sometimes, you press your ear against the bedroom wall. you can’t hear much. just the occasional soft shuffle, the hum of yeonjun’s voice when he speaks on the phone in hushed tones. he never speaks long. never laughs out loud. not anymore.

you miss your mother’s voice echoing from the kitchen, your brother’s heavy footsteps running down the hallway. the scent of warm rice and grilled mackerel. the sound of your father clearing his throat before calling everyone to eat.

now, there’s only silence.

until one night, a knock.

not loud. not urgent. just... present.

“hey,” comes his voice through the door. “you don’t have to open. i just wanted to say... i know this feels like the end of everything, but it isn’t.”

you sit up slowly. your hand hovers near the handle but doesn’t reach it.

“i know we didn’t choose each other,” he continues, voice low and careful, “but maybe that doesn’t mean we can’t choose to be good to each other.”

you swallow. your throat feels raw.

after a pause, your voice comes out in a whisper, hoarse but steady. “okay.”

you don’t open the door. but you walk to it, lean your back against the cool wood. and then—almost imperceptibly—you hear the sound of him lowering himself on the other side. sitting with you. just like that. no pressure. just presence.

you stay like that for a while. breathing the same air, separated by a few centimeters and a thin barrier. but somehow... it feels closer than anything else has in weeks.

you don’t talk more that night. but when you finally slide back into bed, you sleep without crying.

that’s a first.

the next morning, there’s tea waiting on the counter.

he doesn’t say it’s from him. but he’s the only other person here, so you thank him anyway.

a nod. a tiny smile. you sip it, and it’s sweet.

from that night on, something shifts. neither of you says it aloud, but the air is different now.

you start having breakfast together. simple stuff—toast, boiled eggs, fruit. you sit across from each other at the tiny kitchen table and talk about nothing. weather. uni schedules. news updates.

one afternoon, you both arrive home soaked from the sudden rain.

you were out grocery shopping. he met you on the walk back by chance. no umbrella. you ran together. you laughed—really laughed—for the first time since being assigned. your clothes clung to your skin, your breath short from the sprint.

in the elevator, he looks at you and says, a little breathless, “you’re kind of cute when you’re mad at the rain.”

you blink at him. cheeks warm. you don't know what to say.

that night, he passes you a hairdryer through your door.

“so you don’t catch a cold.”

you murmur thanks. he lingers in the hallway a moment, like he wants to say something else. but then he leaves.

the next few nights, he knocks more often. never asks to come in. just talks through the door. sometimes you join him on the floor again, your backs pressed to opposite sides of wood. you start to open up. a little at a time.

one night, just past midnight, you both end up in the kitchen again.

you couldn’t sleep. neither could he. you make tea, he brings a packet of cookies.

the city outside is asleep. your apartment is bathed in soft fridge light.

you find yourselves sitting on the floor, backs to the counter.

he asks, voice low, “did you ever fall in love before all this?”

the question feels heavy. you stare into your cup.

“no,” you answer honestly. “i didn’t let myself. what was the point, if it was forbidden? if we were all going to be assigned anyway?”

he nods slowly. you notice the way his eyes flick toward the window, as if remembering something far away.

“i did,” he says finally.

your heart stirs.

“in high school,” he goes on, “i fell for this girl in my class. she had this ridiculous laugh and used to bring snacks for everyone. i liked her for three years. never told her. i thought... i don’t know. part of me really believed she’d be assigned to me.”

you watch the way his lips twist into something halfway between a smile and a wince.

“i used to daydream about it,” he admits, almost embarrassed. “our names printed together on the envelope. hers next to mine. like it was meant to be.”

you don’t say anything. you let him speak.

“and then she got married last year. to someone else. she posted a photo with her husband and... i laughed. like, really laughed. because it was so stupid. how much hope i’d put into something that was never mine to decide.”

you imagine it. the version of him in a classroom, heart racing every time she turned around. young, hopeful. painfully innocent.

you don’t know her name. you’ll probably never meet her.

but you hate her a little.

you hate that she had his love, his dreams, his belief. something you were too scared to even touch.

and you hate that your chest aches when he says her name without saying it.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper. “that it didn’t work out.”

he looks at you, and there’s something tender in the way his eyes soften. “i’m not,” he says after a beat. “i wouldn’t have met you if it had.”

the silence after that is heavy, electric.

you don’t answer.

but you stay there with him. knees almost touching. the scent of tea between you. eyes a little too full. hearts slightly ajar.

the email arrives quietly, with the mechanical ding of a notification breaking the silence of your morning. it’s nothing dramatic—just a government seal, a cold subject line: YOUTH EMPLOYMENT PROGRAM FOR NEWLYWEDS.

you’re still in your oversized sleep shirt, hair loosely tied up, your fingers wrapped around a warm mug of barley tea as you sit at the small kitchen table. the place smells like toasted bread and laundry detergent. yeonjun walks in a few minutes later, yawning, dressed in sweatpants and a faded university hoodie, a slice of toast clenched between his teeth. he glances over your shoulder to see what you're looking at.

you click the email open. it’s from the ministry of social and familial affairs—another mandatory policy. another thing the government arranges for you, like you’re pieces on a board.

“because both parties are currently enrolled in higher education,” you read aloud softly, “the government will provide access to part-time employment opportunities and offer a financial subsidy for essential living expenses during the first year of marriage.”

you don’t say anything for a long while after that. the words hover in the air, bureaucratic and impersonal. but somehow, they make this life feel more real. more permanent. like you’re not just living in a temporary dream—you’re expected to stay here. build something.

“well,” yeonjun finally says, mouth half-full, “that’s... something. we should check it out later.”

you nod, even though your stomach feels hollow.

you still think about that night. the night he told you about his first love. about how he spent three years loving her in silence, convinced she'd be the one fate would give him. the girl with snacks and a bright laugh. the one who got married last year. not to him.

and no matter how much you tell yourself it’s ridiculous, it still gnaws at you sometimes. there’s this faint, irrational heat in your chest whenever she crosses your mind. you don’t even know what she looks like. you don’t know her name. but something about the way he talked about her—with such tender resignation—makes something sour rise in your throat.

you hate that it lingers.

you hate that it hurts.

that night, the rain starts late.

it begins with a steady tapping against the glass, the kind that would normally soothe you—white noise for your thoughts. but then the wind picks up, howling through the narrow alley between your apartment and the building next door, and you know what’s coming.

the first clap of thunder makes you freeze.

your fingers curl around the blanket. your chest tightens. you try to breathe slowly, like your therapist taught you when you were younger. but then comes another one—louder, deeper. it shakes the walls. it shakes you.

you’ve always hated storms. they made you cry as a child, and when you were too old to crawl into your mother’s bed, you forced your little brother to sleep beside you just so you wouldn’t feel alone.

now you’re in a place that doesn’t smell like your mother’s laundry, that doesn’t hold your brother’s sleepy warmth.

you’re alone again. except you’re not. not really.

you don’t think. you just move.

barefoot, your steps light across the cold floor, you open your bedroom door and cross the hall. you knock on yeonjun’s door twice, already feeling embarrassed, but unable to stop.

he opens almost immediately, wearing a gray t-shirt and sleep-tousled hair. his eyes are soft when they meet yours.

“are you okay?” he asks gently, already understanding.

you hesitate. “can i… stay here tonight?”

there’s a beat of silence. he nods, stepping aside without a word, and gestures for you to come in.

his room is dim, smelling faintly of his cologne and clean linen. it’s warmer than yours. there’s a stack of books by his bed, an open laptop with half-written notes still on the screen, a navy blue hoodie slung over the chair.

he grabs an extra blanket and starts to lay it out on the floor, but you shake your head, already trembling from another rumble of thunder.

“i… don’t want to be alone,” you whisper.

yeonjun pauses. and then, slowly, he walks back toward the bed and lifts the corner of the blanket for you.

you crawl in on one side. he lies down on the other. space between you, but not coldness. not indifference.

“i’ve always been scared of storms,” you murmur into the dark. “when i was little, i’d run to my parents’ room. then i made my little brother stay with me. i thought that when i grew up, i wouldn’t be scared anymore. but i guess… i still am.”

you feel the bed shift as he turns onto his side, facing you. his voice is low, almost a hush.

“nothing’s going to break tonight.”

those five words feel like something heavier than comfort. they feel like a promise. and they make something fragile inside you twist.

you’re quiet for a long time after that. the silence is heavy but not uncomfortable. it’s the kind of silence that lets your heartbeat slow. the kind that feels full of something new—something you don’t have a name for yet.

you fall asleep to the sound of rain and his breathing, even and steady beside you.

and when you wake up in the early morning light, his hand is resting over yours.

you slept like a baby.

it's the first thought you have when you blink your eyes open, bathed in the pale light of morning seeping through the curtains. the room smells like faint detergent and something unmistakably yeonjun—warm cotton and the slightest trace of his cologne. the air is quiet now, no more thunder shaking the walls, no rain tapping restlessly against the windows. and your chest feels… calm.

it surprises you, how rested you feel. how deep your sleep was. how safe.

you remember all those nights with your younger brother, clinging to him as the storm rattled outside, whispering stories or counting sheep until your mind shut down from exhaustion. sleep was never easy back then. it was something you wrestled for, clawed your way toward, until it finally overtook you like mercy. but last night... last night, it came softly. it held you.

and now you realize why.

yeonjun’s arms are around you.

not tightly, not possessively—just gently draped, like he forgot to move in the night, like his body instinctively curved around yours in sleep. one of his hands rests over your wrist, the other loosely against your waist, warm even through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt. and his face is so close, calm and boyish, lips slightly parted, his breath even and soft against your skin.

your heart pounds immediately, panic fluttering low in your stomach—not because you’re scared, but because this is unfamiliar. because you don’t know what to do with this kind of tenderness.

you want to pull away. you should. you really, really should.

but instead you stay.

you stay because there’s something about this moment that feels too fragile to break. something inside you, some cracked place, is being filled just by existing in this quiet closeness. and you realize—though you’ve never wanted to admit it—that you’ve been touch-starved for a long time. that there’s a part of you that’s been aching for connection, for warmth, for someone.

his fingers twitch slightly in his sleep, adjusting against your hip, and your breath catches. the movement is innocent, unconscious—but your skin reacts like it’s been branded. you swallow hard, trying to still the storm inside you, even though the one outside is already gone.

you stay like that for several more minutes, listening to the soft hum of the apartment, watching the way the sunlight plays over his features. you trace the line of his brow with your eyes, the soft curve of his lashes, the shape of his lips. he looks so peaceful like this—unguarded, almost boyish. and for a second, you wonder what he’s dreaming about. if he ever dreamed of something like this.

he stirs eventually, a sleepy sound escaping his throat as he blinks slowly awake. his gaze is unfocused at first, but then it lands on you, and something warm flickers in it.

“…morning,” he mumbles, voice still gravelly from sleep.

“morning,” you whisper back, suddenly aware of how close you are, of how your bodies are still tucked together like pieces of the same story.

neither of you moves.

there’s a pause where his eyes search your face, slow and unreadable. and then, with a sleepy smile tugging at his lips, he lets out a soft breath.

“you didn’t run away in the middle of the night. that’s a good sign.”

you laugh quietly, your cheeks burning. “i slept too well to even think about moving.”

he hums, pleased. “me too. i usually toss around like crazy, but i guess… you were a good influence.”

you want to joke. to deflect. but instead you find yourself whispering something real.

“i felt safe.”

his eyes soften.

you don’t say anything else. you just lie there a while longer, not moving, not rushing. there’s a peace in the way your bodies still fit together, in how neither of you seems quite ready to let go.

but the world, eventually, pulls you back. responsibilities, the clock ticking louder in your head. breakfast. classes. life.

yeonjun stretches lazily and finally pulls back, giving you space without question, his smile sleepy but kind. “i’ll make us coffee.”

you nod, watching him slip out of bed, hair tousled, shirt riding up slightly at the back. you press your hand to where his body had been, still warm, and you sit there a little longer, your thoughts spiraling in slow, confused circles.

because even though last night was about fear and storms… this morning feels like the beginning of something else entirely.

the waiting room smells like antiseptic and soft lavender, a strange combination that doesn’t manage to calm your nerves. you sit side by side with yeonjun on a sleek government-issued bench, your fingers clasped tightly on your lap, trying not to let your knee bounce with the anxiety pressing into your chest.

he seems more composed than you are—back straight, hands relaxed, legs slightly spread in his usual confident posture—but when you glance sideways, you notice how he keeps licking his lips, how his jaw clenches just a little every few seconds.

the appointment with the planning officer had been scheduled right after your wedding—clinical, efficient, emotionless, like everything else in this system. you hadn’t talked about it. hadn’t even wanted to think about it. but now it’s here, and there’s nowhere to hide.

“choi yeonjun. choi y/n,” a nurse calls softly from the doorway, clipboard in hand. “follow me.”

you walk side by side into a white, spotless office where a woman in a pale beige suit greets you from behind a desk. she looks to be in her forties, composed, direct, her nametag reading ms. kang – reproductive health officer.

you sit across from her. the air feels heavier now.

“so,” she begins, smiling in that polite, unyielding way government workers do, “you’re about a month into your union. how’s the adjustment been?”

you blink, unsure how to answer. yeonjun speaks first.

“we’re getting used to it. slowly.”

“good,” she nods, tapping something on her tablet. “you’ve both passed the health screenings, no genetic flags or fertility concerns. so the next step is to begin trials of compatibility-based conception.”

you shift in your seat. trials.

“have you already begun your sexual relationship?” she asks, her tone calm, like she’s asking about the weather.

your breath catches. your eyes widen slightly, and your face goes hot. “uh—no. not yet,” you manage, your voice too soft, almost guilty.

yeonjun straightens a little, eyebrows twitching, his tone sharper. “we’ve only been married a few weeks. there hasn’t been time.”

ms. kang doesn’t flinch. she only nods and types something on her screen. “i see. while it’s natural for some couples to take time, we recommend initiating intimacy soon. it will help establish the rhythm of your connection and allow us to track progress for planning interventions if necessary.”

your ears are burning now. her words play back in your head like static: initiate intimacy, track progress.

you glance at yeonjun without meaning to, and he’s already looking at you—but his expression is unreadable. his jaw is tight again.

“we’ll… take that into consideration,” he says curtly.

the rest of the appointment passes in a blur. you nod and agree to things you barely hear, accept pamphlets on fertility monitoring and hormonal optimization. by the time you walk out of the clinic, your skin feels too tight for your body.

you don’t speak on the way home.

you sit beside him on the train, trying to focus on the passing buildings outside the window, but your thoughts keep circling the same place. the way she said it. the expectation of it. and worse—the idea of it.

because the thing is… you’ve thought about it. even before this meeting, in the quiet moments, in the space between shared breakfasts and brushing past each other in the kitchen, in that night you slept in his arms like you belonged there.

you’ve wondered what his mouth would feel like pressed to your neck.

you’ve wondered how his hands would move if he weren’t just offering comfort.

you’ve wondered how his voice would sound if it wasn’t so composed—if it cracked with want.

but that was all private. safe in your imagination. not something stamped into paperwork. not something tracked by government programs and fertility logs.

and now you can’t not think about it.

when you finally get home, it’s too quiet. you move around each other like magnets unsure if they should attract or repel. you both pretend you’re just tired. that it was just a long day.

but the silence drips between you, thick and unspoken.

you head to your room without a word, tossing the clinic folder on your desk like it burns. you try to sleep. but the image of yeonjun, tense and handsome in the cold clinic light, won’t leave your mind. his voice, defensive. his fingers, twitching on his knee. and most of all, the memory of his arm around your waist from that night—the heat of his skin under your palm.

an hour passes. maybe two.

you shift in bed, restless. you toss the blanket off. put it back on. stare at the ceiling. you hear footsteps in the hall.

a soft knock at your door.

you sit up, heart hammering. “come in.”

yeonjun stands there, messy hair and hoodie half-zipped, eyes unreadable in the dim light. he doesn’t come in right away. just leans against the doorframe and runs a hand through his hair.

“sorry,” he says after a moment. “about earlier. the clinic.”

you nod. “it’s okay.”

he looks at you then, longer, and something flickers in his expression—something caught between curiosity and hesitation.

“they make it sound like it’s supposed to be… mechanical,” he murmurs, crossing the room slowly. “but it’s not, right? it’s not supposed to be.”

your breath catches.

he stops by your bed. close enough for you to see the flutter of his lashes, the nervous line between his brows. close enough that you feel the heat radiating off his body.

you don’t know who moves first. maybe it’s you. maybe it’s both of you at the same time. but suddenly, the space between you disappears.

his hand brushes your cheek, soft and hesitant, and you lean into it without thinking.

“i don’t want it to be just… a task,” he says quietly, voice barely a breath now. “not with you.”

you don’t answer. you just let your forehead rest against his chest, your heart beating too loudly, your breath catching in your throat. and when he wraps his arms around you again—warm and strong and familiar—you feel the storm rising again.

but this time, it’s not outside.

it’s you. it’s him.

and it’s not fear anymore.

it’s something else entirely.

you don’t kiss that night.

you could’ve. maybe you almost do. there’s a moment where his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth and your eyes lift to meet his, and you feel it—that shift, like the world holds its breath. but then he steps back, gives you a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and says goodnight in a voice that’s too soft, too careful.

he leaves your door cracked open behind him. and somehow, that’s worse than closing it.

after that, the tension lingers—thick and quiet like smoke.

in the mornings, you find yourselves together more often than not. your coffee mugs sit side by side now. sometimes you forget whose is whose. he steals sips from yours and you pretend to scowl, but your heart trips every time your fingers brush when you both reach for the sugar at the same time.

you fall into a rhythm. not romantic. not domestic. but something else. something intimate in a quiet way.

when the job placement emails come through, you sit together on the couch, scrolling through them on your shared government-issued tablet. yeonjun lands a spot as an assistant at a community cultural center downtown—flexible hours, reasonable pay. you get placed in a local library, part-time shelving and cataloguing.

it’s not exciting. it’s not your dream. but it’s… stable.

“at least we won’t starve,” yeonjun says one evening, his arm slung lazily over the back of the couch behind you. “thanks, government.”

you snort. “maybe next year they’ll assign us a kid and a dog, too.”

he laughs—really laughs, loud and full—and something about the sound makes your chest ache. it makes you want to say something dumb just to hear it again.

but what sticks with you, what haunts you, is that night after the storm. not because of what happened—because of what didn’t.

and what happened at the clinic. what the officer said. what yeonjun said after.

you think about it too much. think about him too much.

and you think about her.

the girl he loved once. the one he talked about in that quiet, midnight voice, when the rain had softened and you were wrapped in his hoodie like armor.

you remember how his gaze turned distant as he spoke of her, how he confessed that he truly believed she’d be the one assigned to him. that he waited. that he hoped.

how the disappointment burned when he found out she wasn’t.

and you shouldn’t feel anything about it. it’s in the past. he told you that.

but sometimes, when you catch him staring into space or fiddling with that little leather bracelet he always wears, your chest twists a little. and you don’t know why.

you’re not in love.

you’re not supposed to fall in love.

yet it keeps slipping in—quiet and slow. like water through cracks.

one evening, it rains again. not a storm, just a steady drizzle that makes the air smell clean. you’re both tired from work and university, but neither of you wants to be alone in your room.

you sit on the windowsill together, knees touching, sharing a bowl of strawberries yeonjun bought on the way home. the fruit is sweet and cold against your tongue.

“i used to love the rain,” he murmurs, watching it trail down the glass. “when i was a kid, i’d sit on the porch for hours just listening. it felt like… everything else stopped for a while.”

you glance at him. his profile is soft in the dim light, his hair falling slightly over his eyes.

“it used to scare me,” you admit quietly. “storms, i mean. as you may know...”

he smiles without turning to you. “you were scared.”

“yeah.”

there’s a pause.

“you weren’t scared the other night,” he says. “not with me.”

you shrug. “you made it easy not to be.”

the silence that follows is gentle. not awkward. just… full.

“do you think it’s still possible?” he asks suddenly. “to fall for someone? even with all of this?” he gestures vaguely, and you know he means the system, the laws, the matching algorithms and fertility checkups and pre-written life paths.

you don’t answer right away. you don’t know how to.

“i think we’re not supposed to,” you say after a long pause. “but maybe… that doesn’t stop it from happening.”

his eyes find yours then, and they don’t look away.

your heart stumbles.

neither of you speaks. the air feels like it’s crackling again—not with lightning, but with something just as dangerous.

the next night, you fall asleep on the couch together. not planned. not anything.

you were watching something. you don’t even remember what. but you woke up with your head on his chest, his arm wrapped around you, heartbeat steady against your ear.

you don’t move. you can’t move.

it feels too good. too right.

his shirt smells like laundry soap and skin. his fingers shift in his sleep, brushing lightly along your back. it makes you shiver. it makes you think about things you shouldn’t.

you stay there until the sun begins to rise.

you pretend to be asleep when he finally stirs and lifts his head slightly, blinking at your face. you feel the weight of his gaze.

but he doesn’t move either.

and neither do you.

because something’s changing. you both feel it.

you just don’t say it. not yet.

not until it’s too loud to ignore.

and maybe that moment is coming faster than either of you is ready for.

you try not to overthink the moments.

you try.

the accidental sleep on the couch becomes less accidental. the next week, it happens again—this time during a shared late-night study session. you're both exhausted, papers and notebooks strewn across the coffee table, half-finished cups of coffee gone cold.

you wake up tucked under the same blanket, the light off, the tablet blinking low battery on the floor. yeonjun is beside you, his legs tangled with yours, his breathing soft against the crown of your head.

he doesn’t say anything when you open your eyes. he’s already awake, watching you, and when he sees you stir, he whispers a faint “morning” like it’s a secret.

you nod, throat dry. “morning.”

neither of you moves.

and maybe it’s the silence. maybe it’s the way his hand is resting lightly on your hip, not possessive, not bold—just there.or maybe it’s because of the way your name sounds in his voice lately—gentler, more familiar, too intimate for two people who were supposed to be strangers made spouses.

whatever it is, it roots itself deep in your chest, wraps vines around your ribs, and refuses to let go.

but things are still complicated.

you remember the appointment at the family planning center far too clearly. how the sterile walls and uncomfortable chairs felt like a sentence being handed down. the woman at the desk, clipboard in hand, speaking in clinical terms while smiling too much. the questions.

“have you two begun sexual relations yet?”

your body stiffened so fast it hurt. you’d shaken your head, cheeks burning.

“no,” you said, barely above a whisper.

and then yeonjun.

his voice didn’t waver. didn’t shrink. but there was a hint of something—offense, maybe, or just discomfort buried beneath practiced calm.

“not yet.”

not yet.

those words echoed for hours after.

the woman nodded, unbothered, flipping her pen in one hand.

“you should consider beginning soon,” she said, checking off a box. “intimacy will help strengthen the emotional bond and allow us to begin identifying which fertility path will suit your needs. the government recommends couples begin within the first ninety days of union.”

you had never wanted to disappear more.

the walk home was silent.

yeonjun didn’t mention it. you didn’t either.

but it sat between you like a stormcloud, buzzing with electricity, waiting to crack open.

you catch him watching you more after that. not in a bad way. not in a way that makes you feel unsafe. no—it makes you feel too safe, and that’s somehow worse.

he’s careful. always. but he’s still a boy. and you’re still you. and your bodies know things your minds are afraid to say.

the small space you share only makes things more dangerous.

his cologne clings to your pillows. your lotion starts appearing on his arms. he hums the songs you listen to in the shower. he buys your favorite snack without asking.

you start wearing his shirts to sleep without realizing. you only notice the third time it happens—when he stops in the hallway and his eyes dip, linger, then flick back up with a quiet clearing of his throat.

“is that mine?”

you glance down at yourself. it’s an old oversized gray tee. soft. worn. familiar. his scent baked into the fabric like sunlight.

“uh… yeah. sorry. it was just on the chair and—”

“keep it,” he says, not letting you finish. “looks better on you.”

you go to bed that night with your skin buzzing.

and things only build from there.

he starts cooking more, pulling you into the kitchen with an easy “help me” that really means just stand here while i talk to you. you lean on the counter while he cuts vegetables, while he stirs sauces, while he tells you about his classes and how boring statistics is, how he almost fell asleep mid-lecture. you laugh and call him dramatic. he grins and tells you it’s your fault for not waking him up when he left.

“you’re supposed to be my wife now. you have responsibilities.”

he says it like a joke. you laugh like it is one.

but your heart stutters anyway.

one night, it rains again. not a storm, just heavy and constant, soft thunder echoing in the distance. you find yourself awake at midnight again, restless, curled on the couch in the living room with your knees tucked to your chest.

yeonjun finds you there.

he doesn’t say anything—just sits beside you, close but not touching, and watches the rain drip down the windows.

“can’t sleep?” he asks.

you shake your head. “not really.”

“you okay?”

you nod, even though you’re not sure.

the air between you hums. it’s familiar now. this closeness. this heavy, unsaid thing growing slowly between shared silences and sidelong glances.

you lean your head on his shoulder, unsure why. maybe it’s because the rain feels lonelier tonight. maybe it’s because it feels like something is shifting again.

his breath hitches almost imperceptibly, but he doesn’t move away.

“do you think they’re watching us?” you ask softly. “the government, i mean. checking how fast we fall in love. how fast we sleep together.”

he’s quiet for a moment.

“maybe,” he says finally. “but they can’t measure the parts that matter.”

“like what?”

he tilts his head toward yours. “like this.”

you feel the words like fingertips down your spine.

you close your eyes, and his shoulder under your cheek feels like solid ground.

this is the moment where maybe everything could change.

but you don’t kiss. not yet.

you breathe in together.

and for now, that’s enough.

the power cuts out a little after ten. it happens suddenly—an abrupt flicker, followed by darkness swallowing the apartment whole.

you blink, heart skipping, your body already tightening with reflex from the sound, from the silence that follows too quickly.

then the soft sound of rain begins again.

but unlike the last time, this one is gentle. no thunder, no flashes of light through the windows. just rain, steady and calm like fingers tapping against glass. it’s the kind of rain that makes the night feel softer than usual. quieter.

yeonjun lights a candle he keeps in the drawer near the kitchen, its flame swaying in the center of the living room table, casting shadows on the walls. he brings it over to the couch where you sit curled up under a blanket, your knees pressed to your chest, already waiting.

he joins you without asking.

“guess we’ll have to pretend we’re in the 1800s,” he murmurs, glancing at the candle.

you laugh softly. “at least you’re not reading me poetry.”

“don’t tempt me,” he grins.

the silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. it rarely is now. something about the rain, the flicker of light, the way you’re seated side by side with your shoulders barely touching, it all feels… close.

your gaze drifts to the window, where the raindrops race each other down the glass. and before you can stop yourself, your thoughts start circling again. you’ve been doing that more and more—ever since that night. ever since yeonjun told you about her. the girl he loved in high school. the one he thought would be assigned to him.

you swallow. your chest tightens, not with pain exactly—more like an unfamiliar ache. something raw you haven’t named yet.

“can i ask you something?” you say, voice quiet.

yeonjun hums, eyes still on the candlelight. “of course.”

“i haven’t stopped thinking about her.”

he turns to you, brows faintly furrowed. “who?”

“the girl you were in love with.”

his expression doesn’t change much. he just blinks slowly, watching you. “why?”

you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “i don’t know. maybe because… i’m jealous of her.”

that makes him laugh—soft, surprised. “jealous?”

you nod, heart pounding. “yeah. i guess it’s stupid. but… she got to be your first love. she got all of you when it meant something. and now, i’m just—”

“my wife?” he cuts in, still smiling, trying to lighten the air. “you’re my wife now. kind of a win, don’t you think?”

but you don’t smile back.

you turn to face him, the dim light catching on your lashes, your jaw tight. “it’s not the same,” you say softly. “i know this is supposed to be a marriage, but it doesn’t feel right… hearing about your past like that. it’s not fair. it’s not fair that i have to be the one who came after.”

yeonjun’s smile fades. the playfulness drains from his face, replaced by something heavier. something slower. he looks at you like he’s really seeing you now—like maybe he’s been seeing you all along but didn’t know how close you were to unraveling.

“hey,” he says quietly, voice low and careful. “you’re not after anyone.”

you try to look away, but he catches your chin between two fingers, guiding your eyes back to his.

“she’s the past,” he murmurs. “but you—you’re the present. you’re the one who’s here. who sleeps beside me. who leaves hair ties on the bathroom sink and wears my shirts and steals my side of the bed.”

your lips part, but no sound comes out.

“don’t do that to yourself,” he whispers. “don’t compare. it’s not the same because this is real. and growing. and you—”

he leans closer.

“you make me forget her name.”

you blink, breath catching. the air feels different now. the candlelight flickers between you, but you can barely see it. all you can see is him—his face inches from yours, his voice warm and deep and trembling just enough to make your pulse race.

“yeonjun…”

“can i kiss you?” he breathes.

you nod.

slowly, his hand slides to your jaw, his thumb brushing the soft skin beneath your cheekbone. he closes the space between you inch by inch, giving you time to pull away, but you don’t. you lean in.

when his lips finally meet yours, it’s not fireworks. it’s gravity.

you sink into it, into him, into the warmth and tenderness of it. it’s careful, at first—testing, soft, a question asked in the silence. but then you tilt your head, fingers finding the collar of his shirt, and he answers with a deeper kiss, one that pulls a sound from the back of your throat you didn’t expect.

it’s too much. it’s not enough. it’s everything all at once.

when you finally part, you’re breathless.

he presses his forehead to yours. the candle crackles gently nearby. the rain keeps falling.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper.

“don’t be,” he says, brushing his nose against yours. “i should’ve known. i should’ve said something sooner.”

you shake your head. “no. i needed to feel it. to say it. i think i’ve been holding everything back since this marriage started.”

“me too.”

you both fall quiet again, but this time, it’s different.

you’re not two strangers trying to survive a system anymore.

you’re two people finally reaching across the space that was never meant to last.

and outside, the rain sings soft lullabies to the city, and the candle flickers like a heartbeat, and in his arms, you no longer feel like a second choice.

you feel chosen.

the next morning, something has changed.

it’s subtle. nothing overt. not at first.

you wake up earlier than him and find yourself just… watching him for a moment. the soft rise and fall of his chest. the curve of his lashes against his cheek. how he frowns slightly in his sleep, like he’s still half in a dream. you should look away—you’ve always looked away before—but now your eyes linger.

when he stirs, blinking against the light, he sees you watching. he doesn’t flinch. he just smiles, sleep-warm and real, and your heart does something uncomfortable and sweet in your chest.

“morning,” he murmurs, voice rough.

“morning,” you whisper back, your voice catching a little.

he reaches out lazily, his fingers brushing your arm beneath the blanket, and even though it’s nothing, just that, your breath hitches. you tell yourself it’s the closeness. the aftermath of the kiss. but the warmth in your chest says something else.

and then the day goes on—but not quite the same.

at breakfast, he sits closer than usual. your elbows touch when you both reach for the sugar. he doesn’t apologize like before. doesn’t pull away. just grins and bumps your shoulder on purpose this time.

you roll your eyes. “you’re annoying.”

“you kissed me last night,” he says, way too casually. “you don’t get to call me annoying anymore.”

“you asked first.”

“still counts.”

the banter is light, teasing, familiar. but under it, there’s a new current. an awareness. every glance feels heavier. every touch lingers a second longer than it should. when he hands you a dish, his fingers brush yours, and neither of you lets go right away.

the silence between you becomes something else entirely. no longer filled with obligation or awkwardness. now it feels like a question that neither of you is brave enough to answer out loud.

until it happens again. in the kitchen, late at night, as you’re washing dishes and he comes up behind you. at first it’s innocent—he says something dumb, you laugh—but then his hand finds the small of your back, and you freeze, not because it’s wrong but because it’s not. it feels too good. too natural.

you turn, slowly, water dripping from your hands, and he’s already looking at you like he wants to kiss you again.

he doesn’t. not yet. he just leans in and gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. his fingers graze your cheek, his eyes drop to your lips, and then—he walks away.

you stand there for a moment, heart pounding, wondering how the hell he keeps doing this to you.

a few days later, you’re invited to visit your family.

it’s your first time back since the marriage. your parents had called to check in, of course, had even video called once or twice, but nothing replaces being home. your mother’s cooking. your father’s quiet warmth. your brother’s chaotic energy.

the moment you walk through the door, your mom pulls you into a hug so tight you almost cry again. your dad claps yeonjun’s shoulder, awkward but trying. your brother, now twelve, looks like he’s grown taller.

he eyes yeonjun up and down, squints a little, then smirks at you.

“so, are you pregnant yet?”

you freeze.

your dad chokes on his tea. your mother lets out a gasp so sharp it could cut metal. yeonjun’s eyes go wide—like someone just yanked the floor out from under him.

“yoonho!” your mom yells, already reaching for the nearest dish towel like it’s a weapon. “you can’t ask that!”

“what?” your brother yells as he runs from her, laughing like a maniac. “i just wanted to know if the government system’s working!”

your dad is still coughing. you’re standing there redder than a tomato. burning with mortification.

yeonjun, after a stunned beat, laughs. really laughs. full chest, head-tilted-back laughter that’s so contagious you can’t help but giggle through your hands.

“don’t encourage him,” you say, smacking his arm lightly.

he grins down at you, eyes sparkling. “i’m sorry, that was—really something.”

“he’s an idiot,” you mutter, still mortified.

“he’s your idiot,” he says, voice softer now.

you glance up at him and smile, something warm spreading in your chest. it surprises you, just how much that smile feels like home.

and even after the chaos settles, even after your mom manages to drag your brother back by the collar to apologize properly, even when you sit around the table laughing and eating and telling stories—there’s a small, secret current running beneath it all.

the way yeonjun’s hand grazes your lower back when he leans past you to grab a dish. the way you lean into him just slightly when your mom starts talking about your childhood, and he listens like he wants to know everything.

and when the night ends, and you both return to your apartment, it’s quieter—but it’s a good quiet. that kind of peace you only feel when someone’s truly, finally getting under your skin.

the drive back home is quiet, but not in a bad way. it’s the kind of silence that lingers after too much laughter, after too much emotion crammed into too little time. the windows are fogged slightly from your breaths, and the hum of the road is the only sound between you. outside, the city lights blur in soft halos, the streets wet from the rain earlier in the day, reflecting neon and moonlight.

you’re leaning against the car door, eyes heavy, body full from dinner, from memories, from everything. your family had insisted you stay the night, but you knew it would’ve made leaving harder. too emotional. too permanent. so you thanked them, smiled through the tightness in your throat, and left.

and now, here you are, beside him. yeonjun’s one hand is on the wheel, the other resting between the seats, fingers tapping idly against the console. you glance at it once. then again. his profile is calm, a faint curve to his lips like he’s still smiling at your brother’s chaos.

you break the silence first.

“sorry about today… my family can be a lot.”

he lets out a soft chuckle. “i liked it.”

you turn to him, a little surprised.

“really?”

he nods. “they’re… warm. chaotic, yeah, but it felt real. like they love you so much they don’t even try to hide it.”

you press your lips together, looking down at your lap, suddenly blinking back something stinging in your eyes. you weren’t expecting that answer. or maybe you were, but not the way it made your chest ache so gently.

“thanks,” you whisper.

you don’t realize you’re still staring at him until he speaks again, this time softer.

“and your brother…” he smirks a little. “i can’t believe he said that.”

you groan, hiding your face in your hands. “please don’t remind me.”

“i’m serious,” he laughs, and then looks over at you, his gaze lingering longer this time, “you were so red.”

“because it was embarrassing,” you shoot back, but your voice is lighter, warm with the trace of a smile.

his eyes flick down to your lips.

“you’re cute when you blush,” he murmurs, and it’s so quiet you’re not even sure he meant to say it out loud.

your breath catches. your heart stutters. suddenly the space between you feels smaller. the console is no longer an arm’s length—it’s a breath. the air is thicker. hotter.

you look at him, really look at him—his jaw sharp in the glow of passing streetlamps, the tendons in his neck tense, his grip on the wheel a little tighter now. he looks back, just briefly, but it’s enough. something electric pulses between you.

and then he pulls over.

not far from your building, not quite home yet—but enough to be alone. enough to pause. the engine hums low, a steady heartbeat in the silence. he doesn’t look at you right away, just stares forward, fingers tightening, loosening, tightening again on the wheel.

you feel your pulse in your throat.

“i…” he starts, then stops. he turns to you, eyes darker than before. clearer. “can i ask you something?”

you nod, heart racing.

“why did it bother you?” he asks quietly. “about the girl i told you about.”

you stare at him. that familiar heat returns to your chest, crawling up your neck. you bite the inside of your cheek before answering.

“i don’t know,” you lie at first. but then, you sigh. “maybe because it was real for you. maybe because… you had someone you wanted, once. and i never did. and now i’m supposed to just… live with that. pretend like i’m not wondering if she would’ve made you happier.”

he watches you for a long moment, expression unreadable. then, finally, he leans a little closer, voice low.

“do you think i’m not happy?”

your throat dries.

“are you?” you whisper.

he exhales slowly, shaking his head like he can’t believe he’s about to do this. and then he shifts, fully turning toward you. his fingers reach up, brushing lightly against your chin, lifting your face to his.

“you’re not her,” he says. “you’re you.”

and then, without waiting, without asking again—he kisses you.

it’s not urgent. not rough. it’s slow, deliberate, tender with something sharp hidden beneath. like he’s been holding it back for too long and now that it’s happening, he’s pouring everything into it. his hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. your lips part before you even realize, and his tongue grazes yours, soft, testing, like he’s still asking if this is okay even now.

you melt into it.

your hand slides up his arm, gripping his bicep, grounding yourself as heat spreads through your veins. your bodies don’t move much, still confined by seatbelts and space, but it’s intimate. intense. and when he finally pulls back, breathing harder than before, he rests his forehead against yours.

“you’re not her,” he whispers again. “and thank god for that.”

you sit there, breaths mingling, skin flushed, hearts racing in tandem. your hand is still on his arm. his thumb is still tracing your cheek.

and this time, neither of you says a word. because you both know—something just changed again.

you’re not lovers. not yet.

but your hands brush again on the way to bed. he holds your gaze a little longer. and when you lie down, back to back, you find yourself pressing closer, just enough that your spine feels the heat of his chest.

you fall asleep like that.

and neither of you says a word.

you both had an appointment early in the morning. the ministry of civil labor had sent a formal notice last week, listing the available part-time positions for couples still enrolled in university, and now you were seated across from an administrative worker who barely looked up from her screen as she explained the contracts. yeonjun was placed in a logistics department for a government-run supply chain—something with inventory and system inputs. you were assigned to a small local archival center where they'd digitize old birth and marriage records, which felt ironic in a way that made your stomach twist.

“you’ll receive your first schedule by the end of the week,” the woman said without emotion, and you both nodded, signing at the bottom of the page, pens scratching the paper in tandem.

walking out of the building, yeonjun nudged your shoulder with his and whispered, “look at us. signing contracts like a real married couple.” and you rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the smile pulling at your lips.

“you mean we weren’t real before?” you asked, raising a brow.

he smirked, unlocking the car and opening your door. “we were married on paper. now we’re married... and employed.”

you both laughed, climbing into the vehicle, and the warmth lingered even after the engine hummed to life. it was a quiet kind of happiness, soft and simple, like the feeling of your bare thighs against the leather seat, like the sun warming the dashboard. you wore a dress that day—casual, nothing too fancy, but it clung lightly to your frame in the breeze when you walked out earlier, and you caught the way yeonjun had looked at you from the corner of your eye. not blatant. just... noticing.

the road was mostly empty. the hum of tires on pavement filled the silence as the laughter faded, replaced by something thicker. something weightier.

at a red light, he stopped the car smoothly, one hand still on the steering wheel. the other lifted, slowly, casually, and without looking at you, he placed it on your thigh.

he didn’t squeeze. he didn’t slide his fingers higher. just let his palm rest there, warm and firm, like it belonged.

your breath hitched.

you tried not to move, tried not to tense up, but the sensation crawled up your spine like wildfire. it was such a simple touch, so ordinary, but it landed somewhere deep in your belly—hot, twisting, coiling. your skin tingled where his fingers barely pressed into the flesh, and your thighs felt suddenly, achingly aware of how little separated them from him.

he said nothing.

neither did you.

but your body betrayed you—the way your chest rose a little faster, the way your knees shifted slightly, as if trying to find an answer to the question that touch had asked.

the light turned green.

he drove on.

his hand didn’t move.

the silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. it was charged. heavy with something that neither of you dared name yet.

you exhaled, slow and shaky, and he glanced at you briefly, lips curving—not into a smirk, but something softer. something fond. he rubbed his thumb in a slow arc, barely there, and your fingers curled around the hem of your dress to keep from shaking.

by the time you got home, the tension had woven itself into your skin like a second layer. you both stepped out of the car and walked toward the apartment quietly, but the air buzzed with every step.

inside, the routine resumed—shoes off, bags down, water poured into glasses—but your thoughts were nowhere near the surface. every time he passed behind you, you felt his presence more than you saw him. every brush of his hand, every graze of his arm felt like a firestarter.

you stood near the sink, rinsing the cups, when he came up behind you. didn’t touch you. just stood close enough that you felt the heat of his chest on your back, close enough that your breathing stuttered.

“need help?” he murmured, voice low, mouth near your ear.

you shook your head, but your body leaned slightly into him anyway. traitorously.

his hands didn’t move—not yet—but his presence surrounded you, a quiet pressure that built with every second. you turned your head slightly to glance at him, and the proximity was enough to make you both pause. your lips weren’t touching, but they could’ve. your noses almost brushed.

and then he reached for the cup beside you, taking it slowly, deliberately, his fingers brushing yours. your breath caught again.

“thanks,” he said, voice still low.

you watched him walk away, your hands trembling under the water, and you knew—tonight, you wouldn’t be able to pretend this tension didn’t exist. it was burning its way into your bones.

that night, everything felt like it was humming. the silence between you wasn’t really silence—it was full of what hadn’t been said, of what hadn’t been done but nearly was. the ghost of yeonjun’s hand on your thigh still lingered, burned into your skin. your legs still tingled from the pressure, the weight, the heat. and when he brushed past you in the kitchen again after dinner, it felt deliberate. or maybe you just wanted it to be.

your heart hadn’t settled since the drive home.

later, after you’d both changed into your sleep clothes, you met again in the hallway, the light above you casting a golden hue that made his skin look warm and soft. you paused at the same time, eyes locking. your breath caught in your throat, because he wasn’t just looking at you—he was seeing you. seeing the hem of your shirt, the way it clung slightly to your waist. seeing the bare stretch of your legs, your collarbone, the fine line of your neck.

you thought he’d say something.

he didn’t.

he just stepped past you, heading to the shared living room like usual. the storm from earlier had passed, leaving a cool breeze in its wake. you followed, drawn to him like always. you both sat on the couch, feet tucked beneath you, shoulders close but not quite touching. it was dark. the power had gone out temporarily again, only the soft blue emergency lights casting faint shadows across his face.

“you’re quiet,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

“just thinking,” he replied, his tone low, almost distant.

you turned your head toward him. “about what?”

he hesitated. “about earlier... the car. and how it felt.”

you sucked in a soft breath. “me too.”

silence again.

and then, slowly, as if guided by instinct, he reached over and touched your hand. fingers brushing the back of yours. the contact was small. barely anything. but it was enough to pull the air from your lungs. you turned your palm and laced your fingers with his.

it felt dangerous.

he looked at your joined hands like he didn’t recognize his own, and then back at you—his eyes darker than usual, hooded, like he was holding back a tide. you weren’t sure who moved first. maybe it was him. maybe it was you. but one second you were sitting apart, and the next your bodies were angled toward each other, your knees brushing, your breaths tangled. his hand cupped your jaw gently, fingers trembling against your skin, and he leaned in, close enough that his lips nearly grazed yours.

your pulse roared in your ears.

his mouth touched yours like a whisper—featherlight, testing.

you responded before you could think, lips parting for him, heat blooming low in your stomach like wildfire. the kiss deepened slowly, wet and slow and dizzying. his tongue brushed yours, cautious at first, then more certain, like he needed to taste you, like he was starved. your hand curled into his shirt, tugging him closer, and he groaned softly into your mouth, deep and breathless.

his hand slid down your side, fingers skating over the thin fabric of your sleep shirt, and you gasped when they reached your hip. he pulled you into his lap, your thighs straddling him, bodies pressed together too close to ignore. the heat between you crackled—your hips shifted without thinking, and you felt the hardness of him, solid and hot beneath you.

his lips broke from yours for a second, his breathing rough. “fuck... y/n...”

his hands gripped your thighs, sliding up, thumbs brushing the edge of your underwear. you whimpered, pressing closer, grinding down gently. it was heady. dizzying. perfect.

and then—

his phone rang.

the sound shattered the moment like glass.

you both froze.

you were on his lap, panting, trembling, your lips swollen from the kiss, your heart pounding like a war drum. he didn’t move for a second. then he cursed under his breath and gently lifted you off him, muttering a strained apology as he reached for the phone. his voice cracked when he answered, trying to sound normal.

you stood there, stunned, breathing hard, still tasting him on your tongue.

after the call, which only lasted a few seconds, he didn’t look at you.

“i think... i’ll sleep in my room tonight,” he said quietly.

you blinked. “oh.”

he didn’t explain.

he just walked away.

and something cold settled in your chest.

you crawled into your bed alone, wrapping the blanket around yourself tightly, but you couldn’t sleep. not when you still felt the ghost of his hands on your body. not when your lips were still tingling from the kiss. not when he had looked at you like he needed you, and then walked away without a word.

you turned over. again. again. and again. your heart ached with confusion. was it too much? did he regret it? had you done something wrong?

you couldn’t take it anymore.

you got up, padded down the hall to his room, and raised your fist to knock.

but then you froze.

because you heard it.

soft, muffled sounds, irregular breathing. your eyes widened.

a low groan, deep and drawn out.

then a quiet, wet sound—rhythmic, unmistakable.

your breath caught.

you didn’t mean to listen. but you couldn’t move.

then, you heard it.

“y/n...”

your name, moaned out—quiet but desperate. raw. like a confession.

your knees weakened.

another moan, louder this time, almost a whimper.

and then—your name again, breathless, almost broken, followed by the sound of skin slapping softly against skin, faster now.

he was close.

he was touching himself.

thinking of you.

you pressed your palm to your mouth, trying not to make a sound, cheeks burning, body trembling. you shouldn’t be here. you shouldn’t hear this. but your legs wouldn’t move. your breath came in shaky gasps, your heart thundering as heat rushed between your thighs, pooling heavy and hot.

you didn’t know what this meant.

but you knew one thing.

he wanted you.

and now, you didn’t think you could ever look at him the same again.

you didn’t mean to lean closer.

you didn’t mean to press your ear too tightly against the door.

but your balance faltered—just a second too long standing on your toes, your weight shifting, your breath too shallow—and suddenly your foot slipped on the edge of the smooth hallway floor. a soft, startled sound escaped your throat as your body tilted sideways, your hand fumbling for the wall, failing.

and then—thud.

a soft crash, your hip hitting the floor, your palms slapping down just in time to soften the fall. you gasped and quickly clamped your hand over your mouth, praying he hadn’t heard, that you hadn’t been loud enough—but inside, panic bloomed like fire. your chest heaved as you tried to stay perfectly still, your cheeks on fire, the oversized t-shirt—his t-shirt—riding high around your waist from the fall.

then you heard the shuffle. footsteps. hurried. a sudden rush from the other side.

“y/n?” his voice was sharp. worried. confused.

before you could react, the door swung open.

and there he was.

yeonjun.

bare-chested, sweat clinging to his collarbones, his hair disheveled, lips swollen and flushed, his hand still adjusting the waistband of his boxers as if he hadn’t had time to fix himself. and then he saw you.

on the floor.

his shirt up around your waist.

your bare thighs. your panties exposed.

your hand covering your mouth, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights.

time froze.

he stared at you, blinking once, then again. his mouth parted, but no words came out. his gaze dropped—just for a heartbeat—but you saw it. the flicker. the hunger. the tension that snapped into existence like a spark to gasoline.

you scrambled to tug the shirt down, cheeks burning, breath caught.

“i—i slipped, i wasn’t—i mean—”

“were you listening?” his voice came out low. rough.

you opened your mouth, then shut it. your throat tightened. your heart was pounding so violently you felt it behind your eyes.

“y/n…” he whispered, stepping closer.

your breath hitched.

“i heard you,” he said, his voice strained now. “outside the door. you… you heard me too, didn’t you?”

you nodded slowly, like it was all you could manage.

he knelt beside you without thinking, his hands hovering for a moment before one slid to the small of your back, the other cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin gently, eyes searching yours. “you heard me… say your name.”

you couldn’t speak.

“fuck,” he whispered. “i didn’t mean for you to know. i tried to walk away because i couldn’t control it. i thought... if i gave us space—”

“why?” your voice cracked. “why did you walk away after kissing me like that?”

his jaw clenched. “because i wanted more. i wanted too much.”

your lips trembled. “me too.”

something inside him snapped.

he surged forward, his lips crashing into yours with a hunger that was no longer restrained. this wasn’t careful. this wasn’t gentle. this was weeks of stolen glances and soft touches and building need exploding all at once. his mouth was hot, possessive, his hand slipping to your thigh, then gripping, pulling you into him as you moaned against his lips.

you tasted everything—desperation, desire, the salt on his skin from sweat, the sound of his breath ragged and wild. you clung to him, your fingers digging into his bare shoulders as he leaned you back slowly onto the hallway floor, his body covering yours, fitting against you perfectly. your thighs opened for him without thought, welcoming the pressure of his hips between them, the hardness of him pressing directly against the wet heat soaking your panties.

“fuck, y/n,” he groaned against your mouth, “you have no idea what you do to me.”

his hand slid beneath the hem of the shirt—his shirt—the one you wore to sleep every night, the one that smelled like him. his palm caressed your waist, your ribs, then cupped your breast softly over the fabric of your bra, his thumb teasing the sensitive peak until you whimpered, arching up into him.

“you shouldn’t be here,” he rasped, but didn’t stop. “i’m trying so hard to do this right. to be careful.”

“then don’t,” you whispered back, your voice broken, needful. “don’t be careful.”

his eyes burned into yours.

his lips kissed down your jaw, your neck, biting softly at the tender skin just below your ear. “you’re gonna make me lose it,” he growled.

“maybe i want you to.”

his hand slipped lower, over your stomach, fingers grazing the band of your panties—when suddenly—

a sharp knock on the front door shattered the moment.

you both froze.

his chest rose and fell against yours, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.

another knock. then a voice from outside.

“government delivery. lights restored. system check.”

“fuck,” he hissed.

he helped you sit up, both of you breathing like you’d just run miles.

you looked at each other.

your lips swollen. your skin flushed. your bodies aching.

you wanted to scream.

but instead you swallowed it down, tugged the shirt over your thighs, stood on shaky legs. he followed you in silence, running a hand through his messy hair, still visibly hard, still clearly affected.

“i’m sorry,” he whispered.

you didn’t respond.

because you weren’t sure you wanted him to be.

you weren’t sure what you expected when you whispered, maybe i want you to. maybe you thought he would pull away, maybe he’d laugh and tell you to go to bed, that you were just talking nonsense, caught up in the tension of it all. but he didn’t. instead, the room stayed still, save for the thrum of the rain against the windows and the sound of his breathing, which was slow, deep, heavier now, as he looked down at you with something dark and burning in his eyes.

his voice was low, but not soft. "do you know what you're saying?" he asked, barely above a whisper. you nodded, your throat too tight to speak. you could feel his body, warm and solid, pressed against yours as he leaned in again, and this time the kiss wasn’t tentative. it was hungry, deeper, drawn out, and you could taste the restraint in him, the way he held himself back even as his hand gripped your waist tighter.

you barely noticed how he guided you back onto the mattress until your head hit the pillow. your fingers curled around the fabric of his shirt, the same one you'd stolen from him to sleep in, and now it was twisted between your hands as he kissed you again and again, lips trailing down the line of your jaw, the hollow of your throat, your pulse fluttering under his mouth.

every touch was slow, deliberate. when his hands slid under the hem of the shirt you wore, it wasn’t rushed—it was reverent. he looked at you like you were something sacred, something he’d been aching for, something forbidden and now finally his. his fingers traced the line of your hip, the soft skin just beneath your navel, pausing just above the waistband of your panties. you shivered beneath him, your body responding before your mind could catch up.

"tell me if you want me to stop," he murmured, his forehead pressed against yours. you shook your head immediately, a breathy no escaping your lips before you could second guess it. and something in him broke. or maybe it snapped into place. he kissed you like it was the only thing keeping him alive, his hands roaming, learning the shape of you, the softness of your thighs, the arch of your back as you gasped under his touch.

he took his time. he whispered how beautiful you were, how long he had wanted you like this, how the thought of you in his bed had driven him insane since that first night the storm pushed you into his arms. every kiss lower was met with a pause, a glance, asking, confirming, cherishing. his hands didn’t fumble; they explored, gentle and firm, his mouth hot against your skin.

you had never felt like this before. it was more than arousal—it was a kind of unraveling, a melting of all the fear and restraint you had carried for so long. the rules, the systems, the cold logic of the world outside—none of it existed here. here, in his arms, you were just a girl wanting a boy. no laws. no assignments. no duties.

just him. just you.

and when he finally touched you, really touched you, the moan that escaped you was soft, stunned, your fingers digging into his shoulder as he kissed the side of your neck. you were wet, aching, needy in a way you hadn’t even known your body could feel, and yeonjun seemed to know exactly how to handle you—teasing, stroking, whispering your name like it was a prayer.

his own self-control was fraying at the edges. you could feel it in the way his breath hitched, the way his voice broke when he groaned your name against your collarbone, the way his hips rocked against your thigh without even realizing it.

"you make me crazy," he whispered, biting gently at your shoulder. "since that kiss. since that first night. fuck—i think about you all the time. you wearing my shirt, you laughing in the kitchen, you sleeping next to me—"

"yeonjun," you gasped, your back arching as his fingers slid beneath your panties, finally, finally touching you where you needed him most. he cursed under his breath, kissing you again as your legs parted naturally for him.

he kept you on the edge, slow, patient, as if he was memorizing every sound you made, every breath you took. he didn’t rush to have you—not yet. this was still the prelude, the first taste, the careful unraveling. but you were close. too close.

and then.

he leaned over you again, lips brushing your ear, his voice hoarse. "can i make love to you?"

you nodded, heart pounding. "yes. please."

every movement after that was reverent, every sigh swallowed into a kiss, every tremble in your limbs steadied by his hands. he helped you out of your panties, gently, and shed his own clothes with a kind of urgency that was quiet, controlled, but full of need. when he settled between your legs, he paused, eyes meeting yours with a question so full of tenderness it made your chest ache.

his hand wrapped around himself, and your breath caught in your throat. he was thick, long—too much. your eyes widened without meaning to, and he noticed, chuckling softly as he kissed the corner of your mouth.

“it’s okay,” he whispered, but your voice came out shaky when you murmured. “it won’t fit…” he hushed you gently, his palm stroking down your thigh.

“we’ll go slow,” he promised, though the way his jaw clenched told you even he was struggling to hold back.

the stretch was new, unfamiliar, but he moved slowly, letting you adjust, kissing you through the discomfort, murmuring praises against your lips. he held you like you were fragile, like the world would stop spinning if he hurt you, and when you finally relaxed around him, he moved with a rhythm that spoke of restraint and reverence, yet underneath it burned a fire he could barely contain.

it was gentle, yes, but not shy. it was soft, but not without heat. the way he groaned when your nails scraped down his back, the way he whispered your name like it anchored him—it was everything. his hands never stopped touching you, his mouth never far from yours, and the way he looked at you made you feel like you were the center of the universe.

the pace picked up only slightly, but the angle shifted when he gently maneuvered your body, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder before whispering, “turn around for me, baby.” your heart skipped as you obeyed, rolling onto your stomach, your cheek resting against his pillow, flushed and dazed, breath hot against the fabric. he settled behind you, large hands caressing the curve of your hips, his voice low and rough against your ear. “you look so good like this… fuck, i could lose my mind.”

you felt him guide himself back in, slower this time, deeper, and the gasp that left you was nothing short of a whimper, your back arching instinctively. the new position had him hitting that spot—the spot—with a precision that made your eyes roll back, your mouth dropping open against the pillow. “yeonjun—oh my god—” you choked, voice muffled, and he groaned above you, one hand gripping your waist as the other gently turned your face just enough so he could kiss your parted lips. “look at you,” he breathed, panting, watching your blissed-out expression with dark, desperate eyes. “you feel so fucking good—so tight around me… you were made for me, weren’t you?”

your voice came out broken, shaking. “it feels s-so good… i can’t—yeonjun, i—” but you didn’t need to finish. he could feel it. your body clenching around him with every slow, deep thrust. he bent over you, chest pressed to your back, skin to skin, and whispered filth in your ear in between kisses down your spine. “such a good girl,” he rasped, “taking me so well… fuck, i’m close. i can’t—i need to pull out…”

you nodded weakly, barely able to breathe, trembling as he gave one more thrust, then another—and with a strangled moan of your name, he pulled out and spilled his release onto the dip of your lower back, hot and heavy against your skin, dripping down to your ass. he groaned, his forehead against your shoulder, panting hard as he tried to come down from the high. “fuck, you’re perfect,” he murmured, voice ragged. “so fucking perfect.”

when he collapsed beside you, he didn’t pull away. his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest, both of you still catching your breath. the rain still tapped gently against the windows, the room now full of the scent of sweat and skin, of something new, something sacred.

"i’ve wanted you for so long," he murmured against your hair.

"i know," you whispered back, curling into him.

and for once, you didn’t feel cold. you didn’t feel alone. you didn’t feel like someone forced into something by a cruel system. you felt wanted. chosen.

his.

yours.

the morning came too quickly, the sun bleeding gently through the curtains, casting a golden warmth across the tangled sheets. your body still ached in the most delicious ways, and your skin was marked with soft reminders of his mouth, his hands, the way he held you like you were breakable and wanted all at once. you hadn’t said much when you woke. yeonjun had only kissed your forehead, helped you get dressed, and now you were sitting in the waiting room of the ministry’s planning clinic, the air sterile and overly bright.

the doctor, a warm-looking woman with gentle eyes and an enthusiastic tone, greeted you both like old friends. “ah! newlyweds,” she smiled, scanning her clipboard. “i see you’ve finally started your sexual life together. that’s wonderful news!”

your cheeks flamed immediately, and beside you, yeonjun coughed, suddenly fascinated by a poster about prenatal vitamins on the wall. “uh, yeah,” you mumbled, barely able to meet her gaze.

“good, good,” she said brightly, motioning for you to follow her behind a curtain for a quick checkup. “we need to make sure everything’s healthy and progressing normally. it’s still early, but we want to optimize for fertility, yes?”

you nodded, letting her guide you onto the examination table. her hands were professional, but the whole thing still made your stomach twist. you were sore—still a little tender—and she noticed, humming under her breath.

“you’re fine,” she reassured you, adjusting her gloves. “some sensitivity is natural after a first experience. but you’re healthy, everything looks good.” she smiled. “do you track your cycle, darling?”

you nodded slowly, fingers tightening on the edge of the table. “yes… i keep a calendar.”

“perfect. when was your last period?”

you told her, and she did some quick math on her tablet before her smile brightened. “then your most fertile window should be starting in about four days. if you’re trying to conceive—and you should be, of course—it’s best to be active every other day during that period. that increases the chances significantly.”

you wanted to sink into the floor. “o-oh.”

“don’t be shy. this is natural.” she patted your knee, then stood. “you’re young and healthy. your compatibility score is ideal. You just need to be consistent now. and relaxed. it should be something enjoyable.”

you weren’t sure what your face looked like when you stepped out, but yeonjun blinked and stood instantly. the doctor gave him a little wink and whispered something about keeping the environment fun, and you could practically feel the tension coil between your ribs as you exited the building together.

the ride home was quiet for a while. the hum of the engine, the soft buzz of traffic, the way your thighs were pressed together beneath your dress. he tapped the wheel with his fingers, sneaking glances at you out of the corner of his eye.

finally, you exhaled. “she said i’m entering my fertile window soon.”

his hands stilled on the steering wheel.

“in four days,” you added, your voice too high, too soft.

“oh.”

another silence.

“and she said we should—uh—every other day. during that window. for higher chances.”

“right.” he adjusted his grip again. “makes sense.”

but neither of you looked at each other. because the thing was, last night hadn’t felt like a scheduled duty. it hadn’t felt like a requirement, or a step in a plan designed by the state. it had felt messy, desperate, slow, sweet, and hungry. it had felt human.

and now the idea of doing it again, like you were just checking off boxes on a clinical list, felt… weird.

“does it feel weird?” you blurted, staring out the window.

yeonjun looked at you, startled. “what?”

“this. talking about it. like it’s a chore or something. when last night—” you trailed off, cheeks heating.

he nodded slowly. “it feels weird because it wasn’t just about the system. it was… about us.” his voice was quiet, unsure, but honest.

you twisted your fingers in your lap, the weight of his words settling between your thighs like the lingering ache from last night. you didn’t know how to act now—how to go from that kind of vulnerability to pretending you were just following instructions.

“i want to do it again,” you admitted, so softly it could’ve been mistaken for a breath. “but not because of the calendar. because… i liked how it felt. with you.”

his knuckles tightened on the wheel, his jaw clenching as he looked at you again. something in his eyes flickered—warm, molten, restrained. “good,” he said roughly. “because i haven’t stopped thinking about it since i woke up.”

your breath caught.

the red light ahead turned green, but neither of you were breathing normally anymore.

this wasn’t just about reproduction.

not anymore.

and neither of you knew how to navigate that yet—but the thought of exploring it again?

set your blood on fire.

you didn’t even make it past the front door.

as soon as it clicked shut behind you, he turned to you like something had snapped loose inside him—like the silence in the car, the weight of what had been said at the clinic, the image of you squirming in your seat all flushed and embarrassed, had pushed him past the edge. his hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you in with a force that made your breath stutter, his lips crashing into yours with none of the hesitation from the night before. it was need—pure, undiluted need—and you melted into it like you’d been waiting all day.

your back hit the wall, your fingers clawing at the hem of his shirt, dragging it up over his abs while he kissed you like it was the only thing keeping him alive. his hands found your thighs, lifted you slightly, pressing your hips together in a rhythm already too hungry for the softness of conversation.

you moaned into his mouth, and that was it—he growled low in his throat, carrying you the few messy steps to the living room, collapsing with you onto the couch in a tangle of limbs and breathless gasps. you straddled him instinctively, the dress you wore bunching at your hips, and the way you ground down against him made him curse under his breath, hands tightening on your waist.

"fuck, baby, you're driving me insane," he muttered, kissing down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, dragging the straps of your dress off your shoulders as his thumbs traced soft, dizzying circles into your skin.

"then do something about it," you whispered, breathless, rocking your hips again just to feel him buck up into you, so hard already it made your mouth go dry.

he didn't need more encouragement.

he kissed down your chest, taking his time, pulling down the top of your dress to reveal more skin, his mouth hot and greedy as he licked and sucked at your breasts, tongue flicking over your nipple until you were gasping his name. his fingers pushed the fabric higher, baring your panties and the damp patch growing darker by the second, and he groaned, burying his face between your thighs like he needed to taste you just to stay sane.

you cried out, your hands tangled in his hair, legs shaking as his tongue worked slow, devastating circles against your clit, sucking gently, teasing you with the edge of release only to pull away. “so wet for me already,” he whispered, voice thick, lips glistening. “you’ve been thinking about this since the car, haven’t you?”

you nodded, eyes fluttering shut, and he rewarded you by sucking harder, his fingers slipping inside to stretch you just right, his other hand holding your hips down while you rode the edge again and again until you whimpered, begging, thighs trembling.

“please, yeonjun… i need you, now.”

he didn’t make you ask twice.

he pulled you onto his lap again, kissing you deep, letting you taste yourself on his lips. and then he stood, shifting you onto the couch, turning your body gently, hands guiding your knees onto the cushions, your chest pressed to the armrest, your ass up for him—offered, exposed, throbbing.

"you’re so fucking perfect like this," he whispered, one hand sliding up your spine, the other gripping your hip as he positioned himself behind you, dragging the tip of his cock along your slit, teasing, wet and hot.

you whimpered, pushing back slightly, and when he slid in, inch by inch, you gasped—eyes rolling back, the stretch sharp and addictive all over again.

“fuck, you feel even tighter like this,” he groaned, sinking in all the way until your ass met his hips. “you’re gonna ruin me.”

he started to move slowly, the position letting him hit deeper, every thrust punching little moans from your lips. the slap of skin against skin echoed through the room, his hands gripping your waist, your thighs, your hair. and still, he kissed your spine, leaned over you, whispered filth against your neck.

“you like this, baby? you like being fucked like this?”

“yes—yes, fuck, yeonjun—it feels so good—”

he reached around, rubbed slow circles against your clit as he fucked into you deeper, faster, making you cry out into the pillow, your body arching under him, thighs shaking again.

"let me see your face," he panted, one hand turning your head slightly so he could kiss you, so he could see your expression—your flushed cheeks, your lips parted, eyes unfocused.

“you’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he growled. “you’re gonna make me come just looking at you.”

you felt it building again, heat coiling low in your belly, your body tightening, trembling, your moans turning desperate as he kept you right on the edge, hitting that perfect spot inside you over and over.

“yeonjun—i’m gonna—”

“me too—fuck—i need to pull out—”

but you reached back, grabbing his hand, voice shaking. “don’t. please. come inside.”

he choked on a moan, hips stuttering, and then he was spilling into you with a groan so deep it made your toes curl, holding you tight as he filled you completely, shaking from the force of it. your own climax hit just seconds later, white-hot and blinding, and you collapsed onto the couch, boneless, his body draped over yours, both of you gasping for air.

his come dripped slowly down your thighs, warmth spreading between them, and he didn’t move—just pressed gentle kisses to your shoulder, your back, your spine, whispering your name like it was the only word he knew.

neither of you said anything for a long time.

but you both knew.

there was no going back.

the following days slipped into a blur of aching need and restless nights. you both tried to keep the doctor’s advice in mind, to space out your moments, to give your bodies time to recover, but desire doesn’t listen to calendars or rules. every morning, before you left for university, you found yourselves tangled together, breathless and desperate, fingers tracing familiar curves as if memorizing every inch again and again. afternoons after classes weren’t any different; the moment you closed the door behind you, yeonjun’s hands were already on your waist, pulling you close, his lips claiming yours with the same fierce hunger that never dulled.

the days were a patchwork of stolen touches and whispered promises, of quick, heated moments before rushing to your part-time jobs—him with the university’s cultural center, tutoring students in language and literature, and you at a small café nearby, pouring coffee and smiling through the haze of exhaustion and longing. you came home exhausted but your body still hummed with anticipation, the ache of missing him settling low and deep, urging you back into his arms. your skin grew sensitive, your senses sharper; even the smallest brush of fingers sparked a fire beneath your skin.

and every time he pulled you close, you let him come inside you—every time—forgetting the cautious rhythm the doctor had suggested, letting your bodies rewrite the rules in the heat of the moment. the cool logic of planning was swallowed whole by your hunger, your need to be closer, to feel him deeper, to lose yourselves entirely in the mess and sweetness of this forbidden, stolen intimacy.

sometimes you’d catch yourself wondering if the doctor would be surprised—or scandalized—to know how little control you really had, how much your hearts raced and how your bodies begged for more. but in those moments, all that mattered was yeonjun’s warm breath against your neck, the way his hands shaped you like a secret only he was meant to know, and the way your own voice trembled when you whispered his name.

it was messy, it was frantic, but it was yours. and for the first time since everything began, it felt like freedom.

you were wiping down the counter when one of your coworkers, a woman named hana, leaned over with a gentle smile. she was older than you, maybe 35, and had a quiet confidence about her that made people listen. she lowered her voice just a little, as if sharing a secret.

“you know, i was assigned a husband too. i thought it would be awful, honestly. i was scared. but it turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. at first, i wasn’t sure if i could love him, or if he even cared. but slowly, i saw who he really was. and now, i’m so happy. we have two kids, and we’re thinking about a third. it’s scary, getting older, but i go to family planning a lot, trying to make sure it’s possible. the government even recognized me for wanting to keep repopulating. it’s strange, isn’t it? how these arrangements can lead to something real.”

you nodded, the thought settling deep inside your chest. could yeonjun and you be like that someday? sure, you cared for him. he was your husband, your partner in this harsh world. you pictured mornings waking up next to him, the soft light catching his face, the two of you building a life, maybe even raising children together. but love — real love? you had never felt it before, not like this. the feeling was foreign, like a story you’d read but never lived. still, yeonjun was everything to you, and that was enough for now.

later that day, when your shift ended, yeonjun was waiting by the door like always, leaning casually against his car. you slipped inside and immediately started talking about your day, the small victories, the tiring moments. he listened, eyes bright, then shared his own stories, laughter in his voice. the rhythm of your lives syncing quietly, comfortably.

and then, on a quiet street, just as the light ahead turned red, you suddenly blurted out, “do you love me?”

the car jerked slightly as yeonjun slammed on the brakes, both of you moving forward with the momentum. the question hung between you, heavy and unexpected.

he was silent for a moment, gaze fixed on the road ahead, and you could almost see the weight of the thought pressing on him. love was a strange word, loaded with promises and fears. but then his eyes met yours in the rearview mirror, steady and sure.

“i do,” he said slowly, voice low but certain. “maybe not like the stories you hear — wild and all-consuming — but i love you. from the moment i saw you, from that first kiss in the storm, from every day since. every laugh, every touch, every quiet moment. it’s real. and it will only grow.”

your heart fluttered in a way that was both new and familiar, and when the light turned green, he eased forward, hands gripping the wheel a little tighter.

back at the apartment, the world outside disappeared as yeonjun pulled you close. the night was gentle but full of fire, his hands exploring with a tenderness that spoke of trust and deep desire. lips brushed your skin with reverence, soft whispers mingling with quiet moans. you traced the curve of his neck, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. every touch was a promise, every kiss a new discovery.

he took his time, patient and caring, making sure you felt cherished, safe. the moments stretched between you, slow and delicious, as if the world had paused just for this — for the two of you, tangled in sheets and warmth, sharing something sacred.

and as you finally melted into him, the love he had spoken of filled the space between your bodies, unspoken but undeniable.

“congratulations,” the doctor said, her voice warm, glowing even, as if she had just handed you the entire sky. “you’re pregnant.”

the world stilled.

you blinked, lips parting, heartbeat stuttering in your chest. yeonjun, who had just stepped inside the room after waiting anxiously outside, froze beside you. his eyes darted from your stunned face to the doctor and back again, like he was trying to make sure he’d heard correctly.

“what?” you breathed, voice barely there.

the doctor smiled, gentle and knowing, like this was her favorite kind of moment to deliver. “you’re about six weeks along. everything looks good so far. the symptoms you’ve been experiencing — the nausea, the cravings, the mood swings — they all point to a healthy early pregnancy. we’ll begin prenatal care from today.”

you felt yeonjun’s fingers slip into yours, holding tight, like he needed to anchor himself. like you were both floating. he didn’t say anything right away — his throat worked around words he couldn’t seem to find — but his hand trembled slightly in yours.

the tears came slowly, not from fear or sadness, but from something else entirely. wonder. disbelief. awe.

a baby.

your baby.

with him.

“i…” you started, then shook your head with a small, breathless laugh. “i thought it was just stress. i didn’t want to hope.”

“and yet, here we are,” the doctor said kindly. “your next steps will be regular checkups, nutrition monitoring, and continued intimacy when you feel comfortable. you’re doing great already.”

you could hardly focus after that — her voice faded to a background hum as your eyes lifted to meet yeonjun’s. he was already looking at you, completely undone. his gaze was soft, watery, reverent. like you were something holy.

he squeezed your hand. “we’re going to be parents,” he whispered, like saying it out loud would make it real.

and it did.

you nodded, blinking away fresh tears. “we’re going to be a family.”

the drive home was quiet, but not empty. yeonjun kept stealing glances at you at every stoplight, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real — like he couldn’t believe the little life beginning inside you was real. his hand never left yours on the console between you, thumb tracing absent-minded circles over your knuckles.

when you stepped into the apartment, he didn’t let go. he guided you gently to the couch, like you might break if he wasn’t careful. and then he was kneeling in front of you, both hands now on your stomach, even though there was nothing visible yet — just warmth. just possibility.

“thank you,” he whispered. “for this. for you. for everything.”

you touched his hair, carding your fingers through the soft strands, heart swelling. “i didn’t do this alone, junnie.”

he leaned forward, lips brushing your still-flat belly, and then rested his forehead there, breathing slow and deep. “i’m gonna do everything i can to be good to you. to them. we didn’t choose this world, but i’ll choose you every day in it.”

you’d never felt more seen. more loved.

later that night, he held you closer than ever in bed, your back to his chest, one hand cradling your stomach, the other tangled with yours. the rain tapped gently against the window again, just like it had the night everything between you shifted.

and now it had shifted again.

you weren’t just husband and wife anymore.

you were parents.

you were a beginning.

and wrapped in his arms, with his heartbeat pressed against your spine, you let yourself dream — not of what the government wanted, not of duty or numbers, but of soft mornings and tiny fingers, of lullabies and laughter echoing through the walls.

of a future you hadn’t dared imagine.

but now, it was here.

growing inside you.

growing between you.

and it was love.

the apartment smelled of cake and laughter. pink balloons were tied to every chair, streamers hung slightly lopsided from the ceiling, and tiny frosting handprints decorated the corners of the tablecloth. your baby girl — chaeyeon — had turned one.

she was currently asleep in your arms, a little drool soaking into your blouse, her tiny chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm. you'd never seen her smile so much in one day, or so determined to wobble around on her chubby legs while everyone clapped for her.

your parents had cried. yeonjun’s mother had brought enough food to feed an entire village. your brother had looked absolutely horrified when asked to hold chaeyeon and had instead stood frozen like she was made of glass. yeonjun’s older brothers had been more relaxed — juggling their own kids, swapping parenting tips with you and yeonjun, their wives giggling over how much yeonjun had softened in just a year.

it was a blur of love. of family. of a happiness you never expected from a life that had once felt forced upon you.

now it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

when the door closed behind the last guest, you let out a long breath and leaned against it. yeonjun was on his knees collecting bits of wrapping paper and cupcake crumbs, his sleeves rolled up and his hair a bit messy from carrying hana all afternoon.

“i think i have frosting in places i didn’t know were possible,” he muttered.

you giggled and padded over, gently placing a hand on his head. “she’s finally asleep. like… deep asleep. miracle of miracles.”

he looked up at you and smiled, slow and soft. “we survived our first birthday party.”

“barely.”

you both laughed, exhausted but giddy, and after tidying up the last of the chaos, you shuffled into your shared bedroom — the one that now held a rocking chair, a baby monitor, and the scent of lavender oil and baby lotion.

you sat on the bed, back against the headboard, and looked at yeonjun as he pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside. his skin glowed faintly from the sweat of the day, and his eyes were crinkled with something tender when he looked at you.

“hard to believe we’ve made it here,” you murmured.

“i know.” he crawled onto the bed beside you, resting his head against your shoulder. “long time ago we were just trying to figure out how to be in the same room without losing our minds.”

“or jumping each other.”

he snorted, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “that too.”

you fell quiet for a moment, fingers brushing through his hair. “when they told me we were being assigned… i hated it. the system felt so cruel. mechanical. like love didn’t matter.”

“me too,” he admitted, voice low. “i kept wondering who you’d be. if you’d hate me. if i’d hate you.”

“and now… i can’t imagine waking up without you next to me.” you turned your face into his hair, breathing him in. “you’ve become everything.”

he lifted his head, eyes dark with something more than just love. “you gave me a family. you gave me her.”

“we gave her to each other,” you whispered, lips brushing his.

he kissed you then — slow, deep, familiar in a way that made your toes curl. and when he pulled back, eyes half-lidded, he murmured, “i need you.”

“then take me,” you breathed.

you barely finished speaking before he was on you, lips claiming yours again, more urgent this time, tongue teasing, his hands slipping beneath your shirt to cup your breasts. you gasped, arching into his touch as he rolled a thumb over your nipple.

“fuck, i love how sensitive you still are,” he muttered against your neck, biting softly before soothing the skin with kisses. “you get wet the second i touch you, don’t you?”

you nodded, already trembling as he dragged your panties down your thighs, fingers grazing your slick folds. “you make me like this… only you.”

he groaned, dipping two fingers inside you, curling them just right, his thumb circling your clit until your hips were grinding against his hand.

“look at you,” he said, voice rough, “needy little wife. always so eager for me. i could fuck you for hours and it still wouldn’t be enough, would it?”

“never enough,” you panted, nails digging into his shoulders. “please, junnie—”

he flipped you onto your stomach, lifting your hips until you were on all fours, head turned into the pillow. “you know what this does to me, seeing you like this,” he growled, running the head of his cock through your folds before slowly pushing in. “fuck, still so tight for me.”

you moaned, face burying into the pillow as he filled you to the hilt, rocking his hips with slow, brutal precision. his hands gripped your waist, pulling you back to meet each thrust, hitting that perfect spot that made your vision blur.

“tell me how good i make you feel,” he said through gritted teeth, fucking you deeper.

“so good—oh god, junnie—right there,” you whimpered. “you fuck me like you own me.”

“because i do,” he hissed. “you’re mine. every inch. every breath. and this pussy? fuck—this was made for me.”

your cries were muffled into the pillow, tears prickling at your eyes from the pleasure building impossibly fast. he bent over you, pressing kisses to your back, your shoulder, your neck, never stopping his rhythm.

“gonna come, baby?” he whispered in your ear. “cream on my cock like you always do?”

you nodded desperately, clenching around him, your orgasm ripping through you with a strangled moan.

he followed right after, cursing low and dark, emptying himself inside you with a final thrust. “fuck—gonna fill you up again. maybe give chaeyeon a little sibling.”

you both collapsed onto the bed, boneless and breathless, his arms wrapping tight around you from behind.

and in that moment, as the warmth of him settled over your back and your heartbeat steadied with his, you smiled.

because this was the life you never asked for — and yet, it was everything.

and now, there was no one else you’d rather be loved by.

3K notes · View notes

nanamiskentos · 5 months ago

Text

SCORCHED EARTH ✤ (五条悟, gojo satoru)

── NO GOD, THE ONLY MAN IN THE SKY IS ME. Gojo Satoru is the nation's treasure, and its most dangerous asset. In a world where Supes are lauded as celebrities and heroes, there's only a select few that sees superheroes for what they really are ─ cogs in the propaganda machine, corrupt and lecherous. You're determined to hunt down the golden boy that leads them, to find Gojo Satoru and bring him down. But he's just as obsessed with you, and he gets to you first.

➤ 𝐉𝐉𝐊, gojo satoru & afab!reader, wc ─ 5k

cw ─ MDNI. enemies to lovers, THE BOYS AU, love/hate sex, HOMELANDER GOJO 😁, superhero au, cat & mouse dynamics, vigilante!reader, evil!gojo to some extent, mentions of a plane crash to be safe, kitchen sèx, breaking n' entering but they're into that, súb!gojo if u squint, fíngèring, òral (f), usage of powers, 3x01 homelander/butcher inspired, BIG DÍCK GOJO!!

呪術廻戦 : 𝐍��𝐓𝐄 ( author says ) s/o to the evil man who inspired the gojo in this fic. and these scenes: 1/2 ofc (i'd rec watching to understand who reader/gojo is also inspired by). art, gojouify.

A ballpoint cap balances between your teeth as you scribble furiously, blue ink streaking across a spare napkin. The address is way too far out, a shipping container, two hours away and tucked into the skeletal maze of the port.

"This is a long drive for a maybe." You press the phone tighter against your ear, frowning at the scrawled numbers and letters, "You're sure I'll find something?"

On the other end, Nanami exhales sharply, the sound of a clock ticking faintly over the static. He's still in the office, no doubt hunched over a desk lit by the sickly glow of a desk lamp.

"Well," he hedges, ever the careful one, "I wouldn't go alone."

You tip your chair back, gaze drifting to the chaotic sprawl of files pinned to the red-string board by the wall. Photographs, names, offshore accounts that all lead back to the same festering rot. Lawmakers, politicians and billionaires.

The smiling, all-powerful titans who owned the system that was supposed to hold them accountable.

At the centre of it all? Gojo Satoru. The strongest superhero that the world had ever seen, barely held in check by Vought and international courts.

You chew at the soft inside of your cheek, "And you're sure this is the best lead we have?"

"After that shitshow at Congress?" Nanami sounds tired, stretched far too thin, "This is the only lead we have, or the only thing that I can find right now."

Ah, yes. The hearing.

The day you almost had them — Gojo, Vought and every polished, pre-packaged lie they peddled. A smoking gun to set the set the system ablaze.

And then, you could only watch the live television stream as every key witness's head popped like a balloon. Blood spraying against mahagony desks, gray matter splattered across the Capitol.

And not many had managed to escape that room unscathed. Save for a select few politicians and reporters, dealing out breathless, shaken interviews alongside an unshaken Gojo Satoru and Congressmen Geto.

You exhale through your nose, fingers tightening around the napkin, "Yeah, I'll check it out. See if I can find somethin' to nail that cunt."

"Let me know what you find," Nanami intones, a pause. And then, in a far more cautious tone, like he already knows you won't take heed, "Stay safe. And if you do come across Gojo, do not engage with him. In any way."

The line clicks dead.

You toss the streaky pen aside, reaching instead for the amber bottle on the cluttered table, the burn of whisky that's begging to be made familiar once more.

Regardless, it's far too late now to head out and check the address, for night has fallen and you doubt you'll manage to get far.

Beyond the murky glass of your balcony doors, the city pulses with sleepless energy. Neon signs flickering like dying embers, billboards — no doubt plastered with the airbrushed faces of the Supes who run this nation.

Sirens wail in the distance, and somewhere, far beyond the skyline you swear you see it.

A streak of white and blue, fast as lightning, splitting the sky for a fraction of a second. You blink, gummy and dry, nothing. Just the tired hallucinations of an exhausted, paranoid mind.

Pretending that there isn't a ghost in the sky watching you right back.

Your apartment is dying.

The walls peel like old skin, flaking onto the floors that were never properly finished. The overhead light's flickering, buzzing with a weak and dying hum. And the power outlets sputter like they resent being used. It's not a home, it never really was. Just another hideout, another temporary grave you haven't had to lie down in yet.

You press your knuckles into your eyes, willing the exhaustion away, but it sits heavy in your bones. Haven't you been running long enough? But even now, even here, you know it's not enough.

Because he knows. Gojo Satoru must have caught onto your trail months ago, and you can feel it in the way that the law often seems to let you go, and nation-wide manhunts culminate in no harm done. Like Gojo's toying with you.

Your fingers skim over the mess of papers on the table, stopping beneath a stack of unpaid bills and flyers. A small USB drive, wrapped in blue and silver.

Ah. Flight 37, a transatlantic flight carrying 123 passangers that never managed to land safely. But a goldmine had been fished out the torn wreckage, a shaky video clip that held proof of what Gojo Satoru truly was.

Not a saviour, not a hero. Not the golden boy that was worshipped on screens, talk shows and the international stage of diplomacy.

There's a prickling sensation under your skin, a slow burn that crawls up your arms. Then, it sinks deeper, heat. Your stomach clenches, cramping up as nausea slams into you like a freight train, your head spinning, your vision pulsing black at the edges.

You stumble, dropping the USB on the table as desparate fingers gripping the kitchen counter to stay upright. But you recognise the blisters blooming on the pads of your fingers, slow and ugly welts that bloom like flowers of rot.

This is no wayward sickness, for you would recognise the familiar decay of radioactive exposure. Something that's not quite human, or mortal.

Your blood turns to ice. Hold tightening around the edge of the counter, nails digging into the cheap laminate. Slowly, carefully, you approach the balcony.

The terracotta curtains are coarse under your fingers as you pull them aside. The city beyond is still alive, cars streaking through wet pavements and lights beaming in the smog. But it all feels muted.

Standing on the ledge, hands folded neatly behind his back, Gojo Satoru.

Your breath stutters as you force yourself to inhale, exhale. Slow and steady, through your nose. Whatever sick ploy he's radiating, you know it's simply meant to shake you. A twisted power play on his end.

So you hold your ground, and after a moment, the nausea ebbs. The blisters on your fingertips sealing over, cells stitching the edges of your frayed flesh back together.

You've never seen Gojo out of that deep blue suit, never without the brass eagles that pin the ridiculous cape over his broad back. Most heroes at least pretend to be human, some charade that they cling to for the chance of a secret life, away from the eyes of the press and the authorities. Supes often put on disguises, and casual clothes, something to blend in with the mortals that they claim to protect.

But Gojo?

There's no separation, no mask nor pretense. He doesn't walk among mortal men, he hovers above them. There's no separating him from the brutal power he wields — capable of striking a laser through a man's skull, or razing a city to rubble. Just a god with a PR-approved script, and the power to carve regimes into ribbons.

And yet, aren't you still standing?

If the strongest wanted you dead, he would have made a spectacle of it. Blood and fireworks for the evening news, another death used as collateral propaganda so the masses can thank him. That's the only mercy that Gojo knows.

You school your features, masking the instinct to flee. Or toss a plastic chair at his face. Gojo is akin to a hungry shark, and fear is blood in the water. You know that the safest way to deal with him is sheer indifference. If you give him nothing, he has nothing to bite or feast on.

You tilt your head, resting your weight against the large window as you pry it open. Letting the night air seep in, cold pricking at your skin, but it's nothing compared to the chill that Gojo's already dragged in with him.

He's staring. The blindfold is gone, and those impossible blue eyes fix on you, as though they're trying carve a jagged cut straight your ribcage — his handsome features stilled to stone.

You arch a brow, "If you're here to watch me get off, it'll cost you a tenner."

A beat of silence. And then, the smallest flicker of something that isn't amusement, but not quite irritation. Gojo doesn't rise to the bait, but his brow ticks up. The barest movement, as though he's debating whether or not to indulge you.

Jaw twitching as though Gojo seems to chew his words, slow and measured, "May I come in?"

You stare at him, gaze sweeping up and down, almost against your will. The way his suit hugs his body, emphasising the unfair curve of his chest, the sharp lines of Gojo's muscles, the tensions in the fabric as it stretches taut over skin. Eyes falling to the strand of white hair that flutters across his face, swaying in the night's breeze. Absurdly perfect, as if he's crafted from some celestial ideal.

But you refuse to indulge him, pressing your lips together tightly, not even a flicker of acknowledgement to the fact that he's standing on your balcony like he owns the damn place. Slowly, you step aside from the window, taking the invitation. Gojo doesn't need permission, but you give it anyway.

As Gojo sweeps past, your eyes linger on the sharp strands of his undercut, the delicate sweep of his hair, so pale it almost looks unreal. But you can see his nose wrinkle, disgust painted across his fine features as electric eyes skim the clutter of your apartment. The peeling walls, the cracked appliances, the mess of papers strewn across your table.

Gojo stops at the red string board, his gaze lingering on the photos and notes that have been painstakingly pinned up, and you see his mouth twitch. As though he's amused by your conspiracy, your obsession, your silent war.

"It's really always about me, isn't it?" Gojo's tone carries the faintest edge of mockery, that damn entertained smile curling the corners of his petal-pink lips.

Your jaw tightens, a flash of anger rearing up inside you. You tear your gaze away from him, "Why are you here? Got no-one to fuckin' torture over at Vought?"

Gojo sighs, almost theatrically, and he's puffing his cheeks out. As though he's bored, like this is a mild inconvenience for him, "So, you're going on a trip tomorrow, huh?"

You track his gaze to the napkin still resting on the table, the address scribbled carelessly across its surface, "What's it to you?" Hoping that your voice is level, and as neutral as it can get.

Gojo Satoru doesn't quite answer immediately. Instead, he pulls off those thick blue gloves, one finger at a time. His hands are oddly elegant, but you know just how capable they are of ending a life in a second, how capable they are of tearing a throat out without breaking a sweat. The very same hands now tuck the gloves into the bronze-metal band of his belt with an almost unsettling level of care.

"Well, I'm just hurt you're going somewhere without me," Gojo quips slyly, "We could have had ourselves a little road trip, sweetheart. Thelma and Louise on the open road, eh?"

You don't say anything, although you're dying to mention how Thelma & Louise ends. Gojo just rolls his searing-blue eyes skywards dramatically, as though he's used to your stubborn attitude.

"Y'know, I could jus' pull you apart, limb by limb," Gojo tacks on casually, "Make you tell me where you're going."

You can feel the tension in your gut tighten, but you refuse to let the Supe catch onto it, although you have no doubt that his superhuman senses can hear the beat of your heart pumping, every hitch in your breath.

"Nah," you bite back, "That'd be worthless. Victim always goes into shock. You gotta' start small. Fingers, nails, ears..." Your voice trails off, calling Gojo's bluff, forcing your words out as if the prospect doesn't shake you.

Gojo's vibrant, jewel-tone stare doesn't break, but the amusement in his eyes sharpens like iron against a whetstone. "It could be a matter of national security, you know," he murmurs, "I have a duty to protect his nation, to weed out any enemies of the state."

You huff in weary, mock exasperation, dragging a hand over your chin in faux-contemplation, "Look, uh, I don't mean to be rude, but can we just skip to the part where you laser my fuckin' brains out?"

Gojo just swears under his breath, "Oh, for fuck's sake," he's muttering, side-stepping around your rickety table, stepping closer as an almost fond smile tugs at his lips, "Where's the fun in that? Come on, look at ya'. It'd be like putting down a wounded dog?"

You don't flinch, you refuse the possibility. But there's that pulse of heat, low in your spine, when Gojo leans into your space. An electric storm about to crack wide as he studies you, eyes falling to the table where your cards are laid out blatantly, and you jolt. Remembering the innocuous little thing, that USB. The one that could very well be his undoing.

"What do you have on me, doll?" Gojo drawls, his voice smooth and untempered, towering over you like an impossibly magnetic force. You hold your ground as his eyes widen, "You do have something, I presume?"

With slow precision (and trembling fingers), you lift the USB, dangling it between your nails as Gojo's eyes flicker for a split second. Amused smile slipping just enough to show something that's less calculated. As though he knows what you grasp, what you're capable of.

Gojo's expression hardens for a split moment, blush-pink lips parted as he watches you, drinks in the sight of you gredily. All before cold steels locks into place once more, his demeanour laced with something far more callous, like a man cornered who knows exactly how to strike back.

"Go ahead. Release it," Gojo steps closer, until you can feel his breath against your skin, and you catch the tang of iron and clean, expensive leather. "Let's light this candle, huh? I mean, sure, I'll lose everything, doll. But then, I'll have nothin' to lose." His voice is quiet, but there's unmistakable malice beneath it.

"First, I'll take out the nerve centres. The seat of the government, the High Courts. Then, any domestic defense capabilities. Critical infrastructure, cellular, Internet, all of it. And then?" Gojo pauses, teeth catching onto the plush flesh of his lower lip.

"Then, I'll just wipe this city right off the fuckin' map, for fun," Gojo adds, a dark smile curling at the edges of his lips, "Hell, I'll throw in that little town your friend's from. Kento, right? Nanami, from the office? Because, why not?"

Gojo's lips brush the shell of your ear, and you resist the urge to shiver, locking your eyes with his own defiantly, venomously as he continues, "See, sweetheart, I'd prefer to be loved. Y'know, as the strongest, I really would. But if you take that away from me? Well, being feared is A-one, okey-doke by me."

Gojo wants you to challenge him, to hear you break the silence with something other than terror, "So, doll," he murmurs, practically cooing, "Go ahead. Do it." His lips curl, sharp fangs poking out from his glossy, red mouth, "No? You don't wanna? Well, then, I'd say you have absolutely no fuckin' leverage. Because I am the strongest, and I can really do whatever the fuck I want."

You blink angrily, breath catching as Gojo watches you with an almost affection gleam in his eyes. As though he's enjoying this, this sparring match where he's got you pinned. So you swallow thickly, and deep down, you know he's right.

Gojo Satoru is unstoppable. He could easily turn on the world that worships him, props him up, and there's nothing anyone could do about it. No nuclear treaty, no tank nor fighter jet could stand a chance against Unlimited Void or Hollow Purple.

There's no undoing the seams and stitches that hold Gojo together. None, apart from...

Your eyes flicker downwards, instinctively, to the thick curve that bulges through the tight suit he dons. That mouth-watering, delicious bulge that's packed, and if Gojo steps any closer, it would jostle against your thigh.

You inch closer, smoothly, grasping at the stray strand of ice-white hair to tuck it behind Gojo's ears. His expression widening, raw and open for a split second as he shivers, purrs.

"Say I call your bluff, Gojo," you say coolly, "What are you gonna' do, right here, right now?" Your hand trails away from his ear, brushing the high, stiff collar of his suit. Fingers gently pressing into the warm flesh of his neck. You feel his pulse jump under your touch, staccato beats that hiccup along.

And you could have sworn that Gojo breathes out a gentle sigh, lips parting around the words, "Finally."

But his cerulean eyes are narrowed, jaw still clenched, as though he's trying to figure out your angle. Now, he truly does push closer to you so that packed curve brushes against your thigh. And it's big, larger-than-life, like everything about Gojo Satoru is.

Fuck this, you shake your head, as though you're tossing away your rationality. Reaching up to thread your fingers through soft, white hair. Pulling Gojo closer as he groans, closing the distance. Lips crashing against your own, forceful and desperate.

You can feel Gojo freeze, stutter as he seems to work through his shock. But then, something irrevocably shifts in him. Ocean-blue eyes fluttering close, so white lashes kiss his creamy skin. A large hand gripping at your waist, pulling you impossibly close.

It's rough, and messy — and your tongue lingers on the taste of something like espresso, and sweet, sugar syrup to boot. The creamy taste of Gojo Satoru that lingers on your tongue and makes your mouth water.

"Tch', you –" Gojo murmurs, as though all the air in the world has been stolen from his lungs, "You jus' don't k-know how long I've wanted this. Ever since you, heh, fired that bullet at me when we first met."

His tone is erratic, large hands splayed against the small of your back, pushing you further against the kitchen counter.

"That shit went right through ya' head," you breathe, struggling to stay steady against the hard plane of Gojo's form, the muscles curling into you, "Didn't do a fuckin' thing."

Gojo's giggling, giggling as though he's already drunk on your touch, so utterly dangerous. Tugging at your top, fingers spread wide over the curve of your chest. Flicking at the sharp peaks of your nipples, "Waste of a perfectly good round, eh, doll?"

The tips of Gojo's ears are a searing shade of crimson, as he's pulling and toying with your clothes. You have never, ever in your wildest and most illicit fantasies imagined Gojo Satoru like this.

You've never pictured him so obedient, so desperate to meld into your hold. Bright blue eyes glazed over, filmy and hazy as his cheeks are mottled pink.

The most dangerous man in the entire world (or so you'd wager) has you firm against the cracking plastic of your counter, with his lips finding home on whatever skin he can find. Kissing, bruising, sucking at the tender flesh in a way that you know will leave blooming marks.

"C-can I?" Gojo pleads, as though he hasn't spent a lifetime whispering quiet threats into your ear, but now his large hand is softly pressed against the back of your neck.

Slick-strands falling from his lips as he sips at your taste, sucking gently on your tongue.

He kisses you firmly with such force that it leaves you dizzy, and the way he strokes at your cheek with a bruised knuckle is far too tender for a man who's practically a walking, ticking bomb.

He's roughly cupping your tits, kneading at the soft fat and flesh, "Hah, pretty, aren'tcha?" Strands of snow-white hair tickling at your neck as Gojo leans his head down, wrapping his lips around your nipple, lickin' and sucking wherever he can reach.

You arch your spine, pulling Gojo even closer. Grinding your clothed core right up against the hard length taut in that damned suit. Feeling every inch brush up against you.

"F-fuck," Gojo murmurs, slurring out babble and praise out through his kiss-swollen lips. You're slowly rocking your hips back and forth, unintentionally honestly, but you're desperate for some friction to relieve the ache that's blooming within your searing groin.

The pads of his fingers are tilting your jaw at the perfect angle, swollen lips sticky against yours, "Just like that," Gojo grunts, running his pink tongue over the kiss-bitten flesh of your own mouth, "N-not so mouthy now, are we?"

But then, because you think Gojo Satoru is unable to go even a second without antagonising you, the white-haired man is lifting his head. Glossy eyes tearing over your apartment as he pulls an unimpressed face, "Damn, this place is kinda' a dump. You really live like this?"

Your fingers latch onto the stray strands on his head, bucking your hips into his bulge harsher, "Says the cunt who made me a fugitive."

Gojo shakes his head, making a faint pshh, dismissive sound as he scoops you up, biceps not even curling to strain as he roughly stomps towards your meagre, thin bed. Laying you flat on the flat mattress as he rumples the waistband of your pants, hooking his thumb underneath the fabric.

You don't even realise it at first, but you're admiring those razor-sharp, strikingly handsome features. Watching as Gojo tugs at his cape, rough and coarse until the fabric tears away from his shoulder plates — until the azure stars and stripes end up on the wooden floor discarded.

"So, doll, how exactly do ya' want me? " Gojo titters, gently pulling a finger into the flimsy cotton of your panties. You can see his nose twitch, eyes flutter shut for a split second as he visibly reels from the messy, filthy slick pooling under his nails. You can only groan, arching at the sudden stimulation as he begins to crook his fingers faster against your folds.

You suddenly pull your thighs taut together, clenching the flesh to trap his hand, "Taste me, Gojo." Breath shuddering as Gojo's fingers suddenly still, ice-blue eyes blown wide at your gall to give him a command.

But he's always been an excellent soldier, hasn't he? Because he seems to be moving on autopilot, pulling his dripping fingers away and gently lolling his tongue on your translucent sheen, "Hah, I can't believe you're g-giving me orders." Gojo almost whimpers at your sweet tang, desperate to have your pussy drool into his waiting mouth.

"M-more, can you – oh, fuck," You inhale sharply, feeling Gojo's fingers imprint on your thighs, firmly spreading your legs apart so he can shuffle further back, his breath moist against your wet cunt, "Heh, never thought you'd ever be like this."

Gojo gives you a flat look, the underside of his eyes crinkling as he stares at you, "Don't get used to t-this." He's grumbling, but his eyes are blown wide, tongue darting out of his mouth to catch a stray drop of your precious arousal dribbling down your inner thigh, "It's just 'cause –"

You don't give his smart-alec mouth time to formulate any words, groaning as you pull at the thick, soft and tousled strands of white hair. Letting the tip of his sharp nose nudge against your clit as Gojo suddenly muffles a desparate, thirst-laden whine, "Mhm, mhm, fuck!"

"Yeah, y-yeah," You breathe, sighing in relief as he presses his tongue flat against your pussy, laving thickly at the glossy folds that he's desperate to munch at, "That's what I thought."

Stifled sounds prick at your ears, a mantra of words falling from Gojo's mouth, something that sounds suspiciously like "Thank you, t-thank you, thank —." The strongest man in the entire world losing his mind, so grateful to wrap his lips against your swollen bud, your throbbing clit as he sucks. Hard.

Your walls clench suddenly, and you can feel the tip of Gojo's tongue prod at your entrance. That length somehow managing to render you gummy, dazed and speechless as he pushes the wet muscle into your cunt, "Ah, ahh, 'Toru, please."

Nothing prepares you for how Gojo's long, slender fingers come to slap at your pussy. Lengthy digits pistoning right into your tender, sensitive walls as he's eager to curve and search for that sweet spot that will make you scream, "What'dya call me, sweets? 'Toru?"

Gojo's looking up at you, and if you didn't know better, you'd say his expression was almost shy. Those eyes, blue like the core of a searing star, like something inhuman was barely contained and desperate to break free. There's something eerie about how bright they are, how they seem to glow even in the dim, murky light of your apartment.

There's glossy, snapping strands of Gojo's new favourite thirst-quencher falling from his lips as he laps at you. Long lashes fluttering against high cheekbones as there's a slight sheen of exertion beading at his temple, "If, if I had known that all I had to do to shut ya' up was eat you out, then —" Gojo whistles low, the vibrations echoing through your cunt, "Woulda' drank this pussy a longgg time ago."

You buck your hips against his nose, canting against his shapely nose bridge, "Don't get c-cocky." Seems that Gojo's just that desperate for you to boss him around, because he's already turning his attention and bratty mouth back to your cunt, licking you right up until he's certain you're seeing stars.

He's still got his suit on, broad-shoulders snugly wrapped in the textured fabric. Sculpting over his bicep even as he draws you even closer, until he's face to face with his new, second favourite girl. With you being his number #1, of course, Gojo isn't afraid to admit that you plotting to kill him has turned him on immensely over the years.

The idea of you planting your thighs around his head 'til he's devoid of air has had him pulling and jerking at his cock, whimpering until he was shooting blanks.

"Come on," and Gojo's snickering at his own play on words, "Or s-should I say c-cum on." Smacking his lips filthily against your folds, fingers pushing at your clit and rubbing furious circles over and over again until you feel the world go blank, and you're star-struck.

Gojo's whispering sweet nothings, adoring praise into your cunt as you ride out your high against his face, "Pretty girl, s-so good for me, heh. Think 'm fuckin' addicted."

You're already lazily pulling yourself up, propping yourself back on your elbows as you take in the sight of a teary-eyed Gojo Satoru. You watch as he pulls himself up, frame towering over you in the flimsy bed as he tugs and paws at the thick, firm bulge in his suit. Now darkened with a translucent patch of his release.

Gojo's fisting his hand over his cock in some ineffective form of relief, "Wanna' show you, g-gorgeous, wanna' show you how the strongest fucks."

But then, his eyes are looking up, wide and superhuman. Searing blue that lights up the dim room like a torch, and it's only then you notice that the lightbulb that once precariously teetered from your ceiling has shattered, and there's a crack in the large window that you swore you've never seen before.

And clutched within Gojo Satoru's fingers, shards of silver metal and blue chips. Fuck, that hag, that doped-up cunt must have had that USB clenched between his fingers the entire time, swiping it off the table when you pulled him in.

"Don't look at me like that, sweetheart," Gojo scoffs, pulling out a cock that beams with an angry, red mushroom tip. Thick spurts of cum already clinging to the slit as he hisses, and your thighs clench in anticipation of the delicious split, "I got something b-better for you right here."

#gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo smut #gojo x you #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk x you #gojo satoru smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk #jjk fic #gojo satoru #homelander #the boys #jujutsu kaisen #daphworks #jjk x y/n #gojo x y/n

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feminist-space · 2 years ago

Text

Cat in the Hat:

"The German Health Minister gave an important update on the Covid situation yesterday.

I’ve written up the section of his speech from the video below for easy reading.

It’s immensely refreshing to see a government minister warning of the harms of Covid in such a transparent way."

https://x.com/_catinthehat/status/1732092683508678954

Prof. Karl Lauterbach

Health Minister, Germany

4 December 2023

"This second (long Covid) round table was very interesting, lasting three and a half hours. It serves as a unique forum for dialogue among scientists, researchers and those affected by long Covid, facilitating the exchange of ideas.

There are many new findings about long Covid. Not all of them are good news. One piece of not-so-good news concerns the fact that long Covid is actually still a problem for those who are newly infected. One estimate that has been put forward is that the risk of contracting long Covid now, even after vaccination, is around 3%. Now you may say, "that's not such a big risk" , but there are tens of thousands of people who are repeatedly affected in a short period of time. And so, the long Covid problem has not yet been solved.

We have also established that there really are many subgroups of long Covid and that we do not yet have a cure. And it was clearly pointed out that we are also dealing with problems here that will challenge society as a whole, because vascular diseases often occur after long Covid. Throughout Europe, we are currently seeing an increased incidence of cardiovascular disease in the middle-age group - from 25 to 50. This is associated with the consequences of Covid infections.

We also very often find cognitive impairment in older people. And one participant pointed out that it may well be like the Spanish flu, where 20 years after the Spanish flu there was a significant increase in Parkinson's disease and probably also dementia.

This is something we must pay attention to, as the past infection afiects how the immune system in the brain functions, as well as the brain's blood vessels, potentially increasing the long-term risk of these major neurodegenerative diseases. This is why we need to conduct very intensive research. This research has played a major role.

What is the overall assessment of the situation now?

We have to be careful. Long Covid is not curable at the moment. We also know that over 40% of those who have several manifestations of long Covid, for example, five or more, still have symptoms after 2 years, so it doesn't seem to heal spontaneously. We also know that those whose symptoms are more pronounced at the beginning are less likely to heal.

So some of what we know from the demographics of long Covid has been confirmed, and we now know more precisely which mechanisms in the brain, but also in the blood vessels and the immune system, are responsible for this. Professor Scheibenbogan will explain this briefly later.

At this point, I can only say the following - this is particularly important to me:

First of all, long Covid is a disease that stays with us and that we cannot yet cure. And we are seeing an increasing number of cases as the waves of infection continue to affect us.

Secondly, Covid is not a cold - with a cold, you don't usually see any long-term effects. You don't see any changes in the blood vessels. You don't usually see an autoimmune disease developing. You also don't usually see neurological inflammation - these are all things that we see with long Covid. Therefore, one should not assume that Covid infection is just a common cold. It can affect brain tissue and the vascular system, and we still lack an effective treatment, making these studies crucial.

Significantly, we know that the risk of long Covid decreases when you're infected but have been vaccinated. That's why it's concerning that only 3 million people have been vaccinated with the new, adapted vaccine. That is a very bad result.

Please protect yourself from severe infections.

Please protect yourself from long Covid.

Currently, the danger posed by Covid is indeed being underestimated. Nothing is worse than infecting someone at Christmas who then becomes seriously ill and may not fully recover."

Alt text is included in all images of this post.

#covid #not a cold #please wear a mask #pandemic #pandemic not over #long covid #Karl Lauterbach #Germany #German health minister

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drwhataretheodds · 3 months ago

Text

GOOD MORNING! here is my attempt to recap everything we've found so far on deltarune.com

for those unaware, last night toby released a new newsletter giving information about deltarune's release date. he also released a clip of an alternate ending for the sweepstakes for if silence would've been chosen instead of freedom. (for those even MORE unaware, the spamton sweepstakes were a 2022 2-day event raising money for a charity where all sorts of hidden pages were shown on the DR website.

now, my (and many other people's) immediate reaction to seeing this, as well as this passage in the newsletter,

was that surely the site had been updated with some new content. and it has, a lot of it! and so this is my attempt to document everything so far.

/sweepstakes/silence/

youtube

this page features this short video revealing the alternate ending for the sweepstakes. in it, spamton a. spamton is simply wiped out of existence. not that exciting, but fun to see!

the page also includes a barren version of the main /sweepstakes website, with all the text deleted.

HOWEVER! at the bottom of this page, we can see two links. both of these lead to pages already found in the ORIGINAL run of the sweepstakes.

the rest of this will be under the cut, to avoid spoilers for those interested in exploring the site themselves.

/code

this page is accessible by clicking on the purple square. it was originally found from the main sweepstakes page, on the listing for noelles "fur-thentic cardboard box" from chapter 2. this link leads to the /catpetterz page of noelle's blog, which explains how the Cat Petterz 2 breeding system works. it ends in "Until one day..." which leads to /egg, continuing the story on the previous page. the link at end of /egg brings you to /code, which links back to /egg.

nothing seems to be actually changed on this version of the site, and it only serves as a way to get you back onto /egg.

/egg

this page has all the same text as the 2022 version of the site did, with one exception: the text "secret cats" is now a link! this link leads to /rain.

/rain

this page is an as of yet unseen post from noelle's blog. she describes the experience of staying home from school because of the rain, and a friend coming over to play cat petters. this friend is called "she," making it unlikely to be kris, and as this story takes place in her childhood, it's unlikely to be susie. the postscript says that her friend came over because "she thought that means that I was going to pet HER," which makes me think it might've been catti? if anyone else has any theories, let me know.

the rest of the page discovers another one of noelle's strange cat petters glitches. her "guide to the rarities of different cats" includes "blue ora (aura?)," "rock & roll," and "angle wing" and "super holy angle wing" are listed at 0% and 00000% respectively. another addition to the pile of mysterious connections between noelle and angel symbolism....

she also describes finding a cat that "lowered the amounts of point she had," making her die immediately. the MOST significant thing on this page by far though is a link to "try it yourself," which leads to a simulation of the cat petters minigame she described.

/rarecats

this page links to a cat collecting minigame. one of these green dancing cats will bounce around the screen like the DVD logo, and clicking on it gives an amount of points. the tab title simply displays the number of points so far.

cat-001.gif

this cat gives 10 points. it's probably the "normal" cat that noelle describes.

cat-002.gif

this cat gives 50 points. it's probably the "blue ora" cat that noelle describes.

cat-005.gif

this cat gives 250 points, and plays a guitar chord instead of the sparkling sounds that clicking the other 2 does. it's probably the "rock & roll" cat that noelle describes.

cat-006.gif

this cat gives 1000 points, and plays a very dramatic musical flourish. it also causes a window sprite to briefly appear before disappearing, as seen below.

this sprite links to the /windows page when clicked on. this cat is probably the "ANGLE WING!!!!" cat that noelle describes.

cat-007.gif

this cat gives 3000, and also generates a window sprite linking to the /windows page. it plays a more extended musical flourish as well. it is probably the "SUPER HOLY ANGlE WING!!!!" cat that noelle describes.

other cats

cat-003.gif

this cat looks like a yellow version of the "blue ora" cat. i don't think there's a way to get this cat in the game.

cat-004.gif

this cat looks like the "rock & roll" cat without the flame effect. i don't think there's a way to get this cat in the game.

cat-008.gif

this cat seems to be an even more powered version of the other two angel cats. it may be possible to get in game with even smaller odds, but since noelle's page only lists 2 "angle cats" i think it's unlikely.

cat-009.gif

this is a png of the yellow and pink smile that appears in spamton's basement. the inclusion of it here suggests to me that it is in fact some kind of "cheshire cat" character/allusion, like people have theorized before!

/windows

this page is simply the stained glass window sprite from /rarecats looped over and over. the tab title reads "Are you forgetting something?" each of these links to a page with the words "forest" "grow" "lost" "the" "where" and "would," in seemingly random order. an example of a few of these are

/wherewouldforestlostgrowthe /thegrowlostwouldforestwhere /thewheregrowwouldforestlost /growwherethelostforestwould

only one of these actually leads anywhere, the rest all lead to the "dogcheck" page which is the default for broken links on deltarune.com.

/lostwheretheforestwouldgrow

this page contains an image of a tree, overlayed with an edited version of the water image that seems to be a recurring motif in deltarune, used most recently in "jockington grows the beard". clicking on it plays a solemn piano chord. after clicking a few times, it instead links to /window. the tab title reads "ROOTS."

/window

this page contains the same repeating stained glass windows as /window did. the tab title once again reads "Are you forgetting something?" this time, each links to page with the letters "cdeehhilnooprrt", in seemingly random order. an example of a few of these are

/lonpecrrohedhit /pdolhehrnriceto /ecrorltipendhoh /creohnptredilho

once again, only one of them leads anywhere.

/thepoorchildren

this page is another black screen. this time, you have the ability to draw with the mouse. clicking creates a trail of white squares. the tab title reads "Therapy".

drawing in the middle of the image for around a minute causes a sprite of the "egg room" tree to slowly fade in.

after drawing for a bit, the tree will move to the front and become clickable. clicking on this just returns you to the /egg page mentioned earlier.

as far as i can see, this is everything to be found on the "noelle's blog" side of updates, the ones accessible from the purple square. unfortunately, tumblr has a limit for how many images i can include in a post, so the stuff from the other link i will include in a reblog! be sure to check it out, it's where stuff gets REALLY crazy!

#deltarune #undertale #deltarune chapter 3 #deltarune chapter 4 #dr #utdr #toby fox #Youtube

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clockwayswrites · 2 months ago

Text

(Not Exactly the Haunting of Danny Fenton)

Tim's PowerPoint

“Drake, why are we here?”

“Because Bruce told us to be,” Tim said, eyes focused on the interface set in the meeting table. Damian was like a dog, too much eye contact and he took it as a challenge.

Damian was thankfully silent for about two and a half seconds. Then, “And why is Todd here?”

Jason tossed some popcorn in his mouth, talking around it. “Cause this? This I have to see.”

Tim resisted the urge to sigh. It would just encourage them both. He went through his PowerPoint one more time. Neither of them would allow for mistakes. He didn’t give a fuck what they thought of how he provided the information, but it would have to be right.

Which was annoying with a complex concept like polyamory.

“Right, let’s get started so that we can get this over with,” Tim said as he sent the PowerPoint to the big screen. “Dick is apparently in a new relationship.”

Damian tilted his head. “He finally saw off with that that absurdly cheerful vagabond of a Speedster?”

Don’t give them the satisfaction of sighing. “No. Dick is still dating Wally. The two of them have agreed to try adding another person to their relationship. Bruce wants to make sure nothing is said to ruin the new relationship, hence this PowerPoint.”

“Adding another person?” Damian asked, nose all scrunched up. “Why?”

“Because Polyamory,” Tim said with a grand gesture to the screen where the Pac-Man ghosts were standing with heart eyes under the word.

“Are you Clyde?” Jason asked.

“What? I’m ignoring you, you’re not required to be here,” Tim said and clicked the button on the laser pointer-slash-remote to go to the next slide. It was a rather artistic shot of what Tim was ninety percent sure was a pigeon orgy. The Merriam-Webster definition was over the picture in yellow:

polyamory noun

poly·am·ory ˌpä-lē-ˈa-mə-rē

plural polyamories

: the state or practice of having more than one open romantic relationship at a time

“Like much of nature,” Tim started as the picture behind the definition rotated between different animals from cats to frogs to cows and more, “some humans and humanoids participate in polyamory. There are, in fact, alien humanoids that engage in polyamory or polygamy as the primary form of relationships. If you are interested in a more detailed look at these alien races, there are links in the third slide.”

The third slide was the Clipart of the classic ‘little green man’ head with several footnote citations to various Justice League files. So maybe they shouldn’t have all that information, but Tim didn’t have a back door into the Justice League system for nothing.

“Considering that Dick, Wally, and their new third are all human, we will be focusing on the typical and basic human configurations of polyamory.”

Damian’s hand shot up. Raising his hand was, thankfully, a rule that had been made after the fifth time someone had been stabbed.

“Yes, Damian?” Don’t sigh, Tim reminded himself.

“Animals have the need to produce a large numbers of offspring. They also do not possess the same emotional processing powers as humans,” Damian stated. “While, perhaps, multiple partners assist in both the amount of offspring, but also the dispersal of genetic make up for animals, modern humans do not share this need.”

“…correct,” Tim agreed warily.

Damian kept his hand up as he continued. “I was also under the impression that if one is to be with a romantic partner long term, that the partner should be someone that one is romantically interested in and emotionally invested in.”

“Oh, he’s adorable,” Jason cooed.

“Raise your hand or shut up,” Tim said. “Yes, that’s generally correct, though there some other forms of relationships that are not romantic. We will cover some of these shortly.”

Damian nodded as if actually satisfied. “Then why would someone want to share?”

“Cause sharing is caring,” Jason said with a snicker.

“Ignore him,” Tim said, “and we’ll turn back to the slides! There are a few different types of standard polyamorous relationships! The first we’re covering is open relationships.”

On the screen, the words ‘open relationships’ went around in a circle like a train.

“In an open relationship, a member or members of the relationship are free to date, or otherwise engage with, whomever they might want to.” Tim clicked the buttons a few times and the main circle connected to other circles, some that spun and others that did not. “These other relationships may also be open or may be closed—limited to only a select amount of people—depending on the other person. These open relationships may also have certain rules in place or be completely open depending on the agreement of those in it.”

Tim clicked over to a rather scrunched list of rule examples. Maybe Tim made it purposefully unreadable so that he didn’t have to answer Damian’s questions about sex. Maybe.

“Why?” Damian asked. He sounded so confused that Tim decided to answer even though Damian hadn’t raised his hand.

“Lots of reasons. A person may want to experiment with other gender combinations. Or they may have different or more emotional, romantic, or physical needs than one partner can support.” Tim hurriedly clicked ahead to his slide on asexual and aromantic individuals. The background was a loop of hundreds of bouncy balls. Tim had no reason for that, he’d been losing his mind by then. “Asexuality and aromanticism run on a spectrum of course, but at a basic level, asexuals do not experience sexual attraction. They may be sex favorable or sex avoidant. So, for example, they might have an open relationship with their partner, so that the partner can satisfy their sexual needs.

“An aromantic individual does not experience romantic attraction, so again we might see multiple partners to satisfy the diverse need of the aromantic themselves or their partner.”

Damian frowned and tilted his head, but stayed quiet. Interestingly, Jason was also frowning slightly.

Tim moved on hurriedly and backed up to his intended slide. “Now, by contrast a closed relationship either does not add new partners, or partners are added with the approval of all members of the relationship. As a major simplification, this can be thought of as a series of arrows or triangles.”

“Now with arrows, the agreement and negotiations are still there, but everyone can be dating different people!” Tim said. Green Arrow stared back at them from the next screen. Tim thought it was particularity fitting, knowing what he knew of Oliver Queen. “So A might be dating B and C. And B is dating A and D. D and A are not dating. They might not even really be friends. Their relationship is known as metamors.”

Damian nodded slowly.

A spinning graphic of the triforce came up on the screen next. “This can really be any shape, but a triangle keeps it simple. Basically every member in this format is involved with every other member. This is what Dick will be in, if everything goes well. Think of it like… so A and B both like C. It’s not about A sharing B or B sharing A, not really, it’s about them both also getting C! It’s more cake. Though that’s an ace saying, but, um, it’s like getting an ice cream with two scoops, yeah?”

“Sure,” Damian mumbled, a lost sounding agreement.

“And this can be lots of shapes, like I said! This is how it would look with four people: triangles in a square. The more people you have, the more complicated the relationship, agreements, and managing emotions can get, but if people are a really good group with each other and are willing to talk, it can work out!”

Damian almost tentatively raised his hand.

“Yes?”

“How would… something like that even start?” Damian asked.

“Oh, well… like, I guess think of it like a hero team just with romance? Sometimes you know people deeply enough that you trust them with your life and identity and everything else. In cases like that, it might not be odd for things to… for things to, um,” Tim trailed off, blinking up at the interconnected square.

“Drake…?” Damian prompted.

Jason started giggling.

“I, what? Sorry!” Tim said with a shake of his head. He continued in a rush as he flicked through various relationship set up examples. “But something like that! So um, those are your basic types but things can be combined and changed and altered. The main thing is to respect that someone who is in a polyamorous relationship wants to be in one. And that if you enter one, that you aren’t afraid to talk things out, make boundaries that you need, and talk through any changing boundaries!”

Tim flicked quickly to his last side.

“Oh, and, um, queer platonic relationships is sorta like aroace stuff, people in it dedicate themselves to a partner or partners even if they have no romantic or sexual feelings. It’s basically a way to say that a person is that important to them just as a person!” Tim said as he fumbled for his phone. “Anyways! The PowerPoint has been emailed to you. Direct any questions to myself or Bruce and be polite to Dick, Wally, and their new guy, okay? Okay. Gotta run.”

“That was odd, was it not?” Tim heard Damian ask Jason.

“Yeah…” Jason was still staring at the screen on queer platonic relationships when Tim glanced back. “Actually, I have to go too, okay? Doesn’t have to be your jam for you to be polite, got it?”

“What on earth has gotten into them,” Damian mumbled.

Cassie crossed her arms as soon as Tim appeared on Mount Justice. “Okay, what’s the emergency?”

“It’s, okay, so Bruce made me give this presentation to Damian because Dick and Wally added a new person to their relationship and no one want’s Damian to be an asshole—”

“Like he normally is,” Cassie muttered.

“—and ruin things before it starts, you know?”

“Please tell me it wasn’t your normal style of PowerPoints?” Kon asked.

“Of course it was,” Tim said with a dismissive wave. “But I was giving it and—just it all made sense suddenly! We are all idiots.”

“Hey!” Bart chirped. “I mean, yeah, but hey!”

“No, I mean—” Tim let out a noise of frustration and grabbed the nearest teammate, which happened to be Bart, and kissed him.

Bart made an adorable little squeak and then practically went boneless and still in a way that Tim had never seen Bart go before.

“Oh,” Kon said off to the side, sounding oddly flat. “That’s—congratulations you two.”

“Zeus, you are an idiot,” Cassie said.

Kon’s reply was muffled.

Tim pulled back, shoved the lax Bart at Cassie (who had just finished kissing Kon), and marched over to pull Kon into a quick, crushing kiss.

Kon blinked back. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” Tim said. “All of us. I want… I want all of you and for all of you to want all of you and for… and for us to be together—teammates and more in all the ways. Because I trust you all, and I never don’t want to have you.”

Tim looked from Kon, who still looked stunned, and over at Cassie who was cradling a boneless looking Bart and petting his hair. She rolled her eyes. “You’re all idiots.”

“Yeah,” Tim agreed breathlessly. “But you love us.”

“Yeah,” she agreed with a smile and a sigh. “yeah I do.”

#dc fanfic #dcu #yj core4 #dick/wally #kori/roy/jason #the connecting fic is dp x dc but Danny isn't even named here so #sorta soft #dp x dc #danny/dick/wally #thanks chesire and mimi for reading over it #I know this is a HUGE simplification of polyamory but

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reiderwriter · 1 year ago

Text

Flirting with the FBI

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Word count: 7.1k

Request: Hiiii!! This is my first time requesting anything on this app, but Spencer reid has me in a chokehold. So, I was thinking that the reader is the unsub, and she's like this very good hacker who keeps teasing the fbi cause she's bored or something so she keeps sending hints about who she is or where she is but they keep getting nothing on her. And all of this just keeps getting on Spencer's nerves. And so when Spencer finds her, she keeps teasing him and acting like a brat so he "disciplines" her and takes her roughly and maybe a bit of spanking???

Warnings: a lot tbh - mentions of case details, mentions of domestic violence and police brutality, reader is a possible target of a serial killer, bad tech skills from the writer who really couldn't be bothered to do anymore research than the actual CM writing team, rough Dom Spencer, brat reader, sexual innuendo, semi-public sexual play, spanking, dirty talk (good girl, brat etc.) fingering, raw sex/creampie, aftercare, slight dacryphilia (crying kink) and bimbofication.

A/N: My last fic was a heartwarming family fic, and now I'm back to being depraved. Apologies to anyone here for cute fluff 😭

Masterlist

You always thought hacking the FBI mainframe would be hard, but it's one of the easiest things you've done all week.

If they were going to sit around doing nothing while a serial killer ran around in their own backyard, then obviously, they needed a helping hand. Or a helping poem or two.

Getting into their security camera feed was just an added bonus.

You grabbed your bowl of popcorn and settled into your desk chair, clicking open the window to find which room exactly they would gather in to freak out together.

You made sure to get their attention, blacking out all the computers in the office as they ran to a backroom where a very distraught looking blonde woman was sat. She was evidently the go-to tech support of about six agents who quickly ran to her room to figure out what the issue was. It was show time.

“There once was a serial killer,

Who ate boys and girl both for his dinner,

He cut, diced and slashed,

Left the feds quite abashed,

So I leave this message to be clearer”

The poem scrolled onto their screen on a loop, flashing in and out quickly before you let the computer systems relax again.

You thought they'd panic, scramble for a pen or paper or something, but none of the agents moved until the flashing was over.

You watched curiously as an older man took charge of the scene, likely directing the woman at the desk to figure out who you were, where you lived, and what your social security number was. She got to work quickly, and he moved on to the other agents.

None of them had written the poem down. None had even taken a picture, but one man started talking, and for a while, all eyes and attention in the room were focused solely on him. His hands moved as his mouth did, as if he were casting a spell over the room as he spoke. Even more intriguing was the fact that he rarely seemed to make eye contact with any of them as he spoke. He wasn't conversing or giving directions. He was simply talking.

And you really wanted to listen in.

The younger man began to walk and you watched him quickly pace over to a whiteboard, switching from one feed to another as he made his way there, and pick up a pen before notating the poem perfectly.

Whoever this man was, he was making you feel more and more excited about the game of cat and mouse you had begun with the FBI. You weren't entirely sure if he was to be the cat or the mouse, though.

A few days later, they'd seemingly lost the motivation to work, so you again did their job for them.

With another accompanying limerick to help them along, of course.

“There once was a bullpen full of agents,

Who thought they were very surveillant,

But a simply code crack,

And there system did hack,

A young girl who lived quite adjacent.”

This time, you let the words linger on the screen longer, as you slipped your information into their files, leaving more bread crumbs they could follow to the real villain.

The Agent - Doctor, you had since learned - took up his pen once again and scribbled your first poem next to your most recent.

Doctor Spencer Reid. An IQ of 187, three PhDs and however many Bachelor's Degrees, a member of the Behavioural Analysis Unit, and, as you could somehow tell from the grainy security footage, incredibly attractive man.

He was calm, again talking with his hands as he notated, again drawing the rooms attention like he was the sun and everything needed to orbit him to sustain life. You wondered what it would be like to fluster him.

Typing something out quickly, you broke back into the FBI system. It was risky doing it again so soon again, knowing that their tech analyst was already actively hunting you down, cyber-wise. But you couldn't resist.

“The tall, dark and handsome employee,

How I do wish that he could enjoy me,

I would gladly submit,

we match wit for wit,

But he's trying his best to arrest me.”

The BAU team stood silent on the camera before the two women on the team burst into rambunctious laughter. The camera feed was archaic, black and white, and grainy to boot, but even you couldn't miss the red stain against Doctor Spencer Reid's cheeks. A bonus was the other gentlemen subtly posturing, trying to figure out exactly which of them was “tall, dark, and handsome.”

The payoff for that poem was so great that over the course of the next few days, you kept serenading him with love poems among your quick hints about the actual crime being committed.

You'd first suspected the man of being dangerous when you'd seen the state of his wife. 19 domestic disturbance calls in two months, 0 arrests, and 1 very cushy job as a police detective. You'd done some simple computer programming for your local precinct, inputting data from cases into an algorithm that helped track everything easier, so you'd been intimate with cases that he'd handled.

A pattern had emerged, a series of murders of “undesirables,” people the city didn't care about when alive and certainly didn't have the resources to allocate to after their deaths. Prostitutes, the homeless, and runaway foster kids. All missing or dead, all cases handled by the same officer. The officer that lived next door to you and was one beer away from beating his wife into submission 5 days a week.

After your third 911 call, you'd been notified of your contract termination with the precinct. After the tenth, you noticed parole cars driving by every hour.

By call number 19, you were sure it was a miracle he hadn't tried to have you arrested.

So you turned back to the FBI to see what they could do about a man who treated his wife, and basically everyone else, like scum of the earth.

“Please don't get sidetracked by my hacking,

I'm a good girl, your team I am backing,

the killer, you see,

Is right now hunting me,

You're the ones who can do better tracking.”

You watched the tension snap back into place in the office as, for the first time, Spencer Reid was silent at your message. They all got back to work quickly, going over the files you'd dropped in their servers.

That night, Spencer Reid stayed in the office late, reading through piles and piles of files and looking for the connection he needed. You watched in pity, feeling almost guilty that you'd placed this burden on him instead of just approaching them honestly. But you'd called the police before, and it hadn't worked, so getting attention anyway you could was the only way to go.

You watched for so long that you began noticing his small habits. Each time you sensed frustration, he would run a hand through his hair and tug it slightly. When he found something, he leaned in closer to the page, as if his proximity to the words would make them clearer. Finally, he stood and began clearing his files. But you weren't quite ready to sign off yet, the shouting already beginning in the apartment next to yours, so you quickly typed out the first thing that came to mind to get him to stay.

“There once was a doctor called Reid,

Who I simply and truly just need,

I would lie on my back,

And then let him attack,

Any inch of my body with his seed.”

He fumbled the files in his haste to remove your words from his screen, from every screen now in the building, face awash with embarrassment as he looked around for some sign that no one witnessed your words.

Luck was not to be had as the tech analyst - Penelope Garcia - came shooting out of her office to join him in the near empty bullpen, and the older team leader - Aaron Hotchner - also looked out over the bannister from his office as they bore witness to your seduction.

You were driving Spencer Reid crazy.

He'd spent the last two weeks tracking down a serial killer who may or may not exist based on the word of a set of limericks delivered to the BAU through illegal means that had begun unabashedly flirting with him.

This latest limerick was his last straw.

“The cameras are how I can see you,

I do find myself enjoying the view,

His hair is so fine,

I wish he was mine,

The agent with more PhDs than two.”

“Another score, pretty boy, it was about time someone noticed your good looks instead of your brain for once.” Morgan patted him on the shoulder, barely containing his glee and laughter.

“She's watching us through security feed, and that's all you have to say?” he grumbled, writing out this limerick again, the words to the others burned into his brain. “She's playing with me.”

“It sure sounds like she'd enjoy doing just that,” Emily laughed from her desk, “but I think she might be right, Spencer. Every case file she's given us has suspicious activity on it. They're all unsolved, but the victims aren't linked.”

“He's crossing race and gender boundaries, but he's hitting undesirables.”

They had a case because of you. It didn't mean he wouldn't enjoy handcuffing you and putting you in a cell once this was all finished.

“WE'VE GOT ANOTHER ONE,” Penelope shouted from her office, to no avail. If it was at one computer, it was on all of them.

“The agents grew closer by day,

As the killer wanted to escape,

He paced across the floor,

As I watched by his door,

Getting closer than the agents could say.”

He paused then for a second, thinking through each of the limericks in turn and the panic began.

“Closer than… Emily, the officer that took in all of the cases, what was his name?”

“Officer Falstaff, why?”

“I think he might be our killer. And I think he knows she's on to him, or if he doesn't, he will soon.” He stood suddenly, grabbing a file and sprinting to Penelope’s office, Emily and Morgan trailing close behind.

“Spencer, wait-”

“No time. If we want them both alive, we have to move now.”

Throwing the door to Penelope’s room open, he didn't even bother with niceties.

“Can you get her a message?” He demanded, panting from the short run.

“A wha-? Spencer, what are you talking about?”

“Can you send the hacker a message? Or leave her one so she can find it when she comes?”

Penelope swivelled around in her chair once again, doing who-knows-what to answer his question.

“There's no telling what she actually sees in our servers, Spencer, we didn't see any breach in classified files, the only thing she's done is read your personal file and drop us hints.”

His hands closed into fists as he nodded along. “So no?”

“No, Spencer, I'm sorry. Why? Are you starting to grow fond of our little helper.”

“She's not our little helper. She's a criminal. And she'll be dead soon if I don't confirm with her that we have the right guy - excuse me.”

The anger was washing over him now, as he left the room to get some air, getting only as far as the corridor before slamming an open palm into the wall and resting his forehead against it for a moment, just thinking.

The stress of the case was almost too much for him as he turned around and rested his back against the wall, sliding down it until he was sat on the floor. He may have despised you at that moment, but he didn't want you to get yourself killed.

Something nagged him, still, some stress or anger that hadn't yet surfaced, or some case fact he was missing. A glint at the corner of his eye had him looking up to the camera currently trained directly on him.

Computers are useless, he thought to himself, when you can send a letter.

The next time you sat down at your desk, you weren't exactly shocked to see an up close and personal shot of Aaron Hotchner - they'd turned your security stream into a one way facetime and you were sat directly opposite the big boss himself in an interrogation room.

“Checkmate, I guess,” you said, waiting for the man to move.

A signal from behind the camera let him know you were online and watching. He picked up a pen and paper and scribbled down something before holding the note out to you once more.

The name and location of the bastard next door. They'd done it, and now you simply had to drop your evidence, shut down your computer, and wait for the sirens to sound.

You felt slightly sad typing out your last message, knowing that you had no more reason to stay in touch with the team now. Still, you were only human and couldn't resist the chance to say something more.

“Aaron Hotchner and his clever team,

Working with you has been like a dream,

When Reid comes it is wet,

And my mind is all set,

Oh, I do wish that he'd make me cream.”

The camera turned seconds after your message was sent, and there he was, reading intently, frow creased in annoyance as he tried to remain calm. He, too, picked up a pen and paper.

“I have questions,” the paper said when he turned it around. Holding it up for a few seconds before returning his pen to paper. You typed out a message before he could finish dictating his, though.

“When you find me there's lots for me to say,

I can't help simply feeling this way,

Your profile I read,

Can't believe you're a Fed,

I yearn for you all night and day.”

Somehow, the lines between his brow deepened as he quickly scribbled out another message. This one wasn't a question, though. It was simply two words.

He'd written your name on that paper. He'd found you.

You weren't sure if the tingle that ran up your spine was fear or anticipation. One one hand, you'd likely committed multiple felonies in the pursuit of justice, and the SWAT team about to pick up the killer was going to knock for you, too. On the other hand, it was pretty much a given that you would be seeing Spencer Reid in person in the next few hours.

“The Doctor had finally cracked it,

The only identity that could fit,

The pretty young thing,

Who'd been flirting with him,

And was thinking of sitting on his…”

You sent a second message along with the first.

“I couldn't make this one rhyme, Doc. Come and get me.”

The sound of the FBI outside your neighbour's door had you stepping away from the computer finally. It was time to get ready to see him. You stepped out of your robe and into the shower as you waited to be collected and hauled into a police vehicle.

xxx

So far, you were a bit disappointed by the look of the BAU offices. It was smaller than it appeared on the CCTV, and you hadn't exactly given the tour. Unless the whole tour was the wall from the elevators, through the bullpen and straight to interrogation room one. You were also slightly embarrassed that you had yet to be greeted by any of your favourite characters yet. The lead swat officer had led you in some desk agents dropping by to have you fill out some simple documents - waiving your rights and all that. You'd seen not even a single member of the BAU since dropping in two hours ago, but you felt his eyes on you.

You faced the mirror, trying your best to stare straight through it and into the man beyond.

Spencer Reid was there. He had to be. He was too curious to be anywhere else. You smiled at him through the mirror and waited.

You were right, of course. Spencer stood on the opposite side of the one-way window and watched you look for him in every inch of the glass. He watched you squirm when you couldn't find anything, watched you pick at your nails as he made you wait.

He watched you cross and uncross your legs, the short skirt you'd slipped into just before you left providing just enough mystery to catch his eye and his breath.

He was annoyed, frustrated, a little bit impressed, anxious, and - to his peril - turned on.

“Spencer,” Hotch said, breaking the man's concentration. “We can't keep her that much longer. Go in and say something, or I'll cut her loose.”

Reluctantly, he pulled his eyes away and stepped out of the waiting room before letting himself into yours.

“Miss Y/N, my name is Doctor Spencer Reid, I'm a profiler working with the Behavioural An-”

“You're joking, right?” You asked, eyes lighting up, spine straightening as you looked up at the man. “I know who you are, Doc.”

“Please call me Doctor Reid,” he asked, setting down a file on the table and looking over the desk at you.

“Oh, I don't even get your first name.” You lifted your leg and ran it along the side of his until he moved his chair back, just out of reach. You pouted as he began reading through documents, asking you to confirm exactly which technical breaches you were responsible for.

“And the breach at 1:27pm on Thursday 5th-”

“Yes, that was me, too. They were all me, Doc, is that all? Are we finished now?”

“I don't know, are we finished? Can I leave?”

“No,” you shouted, just as he stood up to gather his things. “No, don't go. I want to talk to you.”

He sat back down, finally looking at you instead of words on a page.

“Do you enjoy attention, Miss Y/N?” He asked, voice cold but gaze burning like fire into your skin.

“As much as anyone does.”

“Do you enjoy my attention?” The words hung between you for a few minutes as you watched him carefully, searching for the right answer.

“What do you think, Doc?”

“Doctor Spencer Reid,” he repeated reflexively.

“I know your name,” you smiled, and he finally looked away, breaking contact to regroup for a second.

“We have reason to believe you used your backdoor into our system to access my personal file, is that correct?” It may have been asked as a question, but Spencer Reid already knew the answer.

“Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

You laughed at the simple question, sure that your behaviour until this point was evidence enough to answer it.

“Why? Because you're attractive and your smart and-”

“Why haven't you used the content of the files as leverage? I've been digging at you for the last half hour, and you have plenty of ammunition to throw back at me, yet you haven't. Why?”

For the first time in a while, you were speechless.

“Oh. Wow. Should I have said something? Would you have felt more comfortable if I were a horrible person using your background to make you feel vulnerable?”

“Why, Y/N?”

You sighed and looked back up at him.

“I'm interested in you. That's it. Honestly, there is nothing in your file more interesting than how you look running your hands through your hair.”

His jaw clenched and unclenched before he let out a sigh.

“So you're a compulsive liar.” He said it so finitely it was like a kick in the teeth.

“Or maybe you're just insecure. I can help with that.”

He shot you another warning look as a grin spread over your lips. Yes, it was very fun to mess with Spencer Reid.

“FBI Agents aren't allowed to sleep with suspects.”

“You want to sleep with me?”

His eyes went wide as he realized his mistake, mouth opening and closing as he tossed another annoyed look in your direction.

The door to the interrogation room opened, and Reid quickly bolted out of his seat as Aaron Hotchner entered. The two men shared a nod before the younger man left the room entirely.

“Such a shame, I thought we were really getting somewhere.”

To your surprise, Hotchner’s lips curled up in a laugh as he sat down, straightening his suit.

“Miss Y/N, we've reviewed the information you've given us and taken into account your motives, and the FBI has decided not to prosecute you for your actions.”

You sat for a minute, Hotch doing the same, the both of you caught waiting for each other to say something or continue.

“But?” You prodded, knowing there was more left to say.

“But, we'd ask for your cooperation on cases in the future that require technological man-power. In a consultancy role, of course. You wouldn't be given a badge or a gun or any clearance, and you'd need to be with an agent at all times.”

You tapped your fingers against the desk, trying to figure out if this deal was beneficial or not.

“I'll do it if I can pick the Agent.”

Now, the man was fully smiling at you or giving you what you assumed passed for a smile in his books.

“We had recommended Doctor Reid for the role. Of course, if you're more comfortable with another agent, you can-”

“Doctor Reid is perfect, thank you.”

The man nodded and stood, and you stood with him as he led you quietly out of the room.

A flustered Spencer Reid exited the adjoining room, hurrying to catch Hotch before he really signed his life away to you.

“Hotch, what is this?” He demanded, stopping the man in his tracks. They both paused, turning around and moved a few feet awaywfrom.you whispering out their argument.

You couldn't catch most of it, but you did happen to catch the phrases “man-eater,” “I'm not good with people,” and “Spencer, this will be good for you.” Victory in the end went to Hotch, who promptly turned on his heel and kept walking down the hall.

“I work here now,” you said, grinning up at Spencer.

“No, you don't.”

“According to your boss, I do. And you're my babysitter.”

“You're a criminal. You hacked into the FBI database to leave ominous clues to multiple murders.”

“If you call those ominous clues, I'm curious how people usually flirt with you.”

“They don't. Why…why are we having this conversation?”

He stormed off ahead of you, and you quickened your pace to catch up to him, following him down a familiar hallway to what was obviously tech central at the BAU.

“Spencer, seriously? You're walking around looking like that, and no one hits on you?”

He stopped abruptly, and you ran into his back before he turned around to scowl at you again.

“Can we keep this serious, please?”

“I'm very serious about flirting with you, and I'm stumped why more people aren't.”

“Okay, let's go somewhere and talk,” his hand landed on your waist, readying his grip to forcibly move you if need be.

“I thought that's what we were doing.” Instead of allowing him to move you, you leaned into his touch, stepping closer and raising a hand to his chest, as his head dipped to maintain eye contact.

“No, this isn't talking, this is some weird foreplay I've never heard of, and I'd like you to leave my office if you're going to continue,” the woman sat at the desk exclaimed, horror and amusement fighting a battle for her facial expressions. “I like to keep my office a no trauma zone, so please take a walk to the nearest bed or storage closet or car and you can shove your tongues down each other's throats in peace and out of my sight, please and thank you.”

Spencer tried to step away, but a hand on his tie kept him close and kept his eyes on you. You poked your head out around him and smiled at the other woman.

“Sorry to disturb you. I'm Y/N. Based on the tech, I assume we will be working with each other soon.”

“Oh my gosh, you were, like, my number one most hated person last week. Penelope Garcia, tech analyst.”

“I'm sorry about that. If it makes it any better, it was really hard to get past some of your firewalls. And I couldn't even touch the classified files.”

“Apology accepted, on the condition that you lead young Reid out of my office right now before he explodes.”

You grinned and grabbed the man's hand, sending Penelope a quick goodbye as you pulled him out of the room.

He stumbled behind you for a few moments before catching up and pulling you in a different direction, keeping your hands intertwined as he bee-lined for the elevators and pushed the button to go down.

It arrived, and he pulled you in, not releasing your grip until the doors were fully closed and you were alone.

“Getting me all alone, Doc? What do you have in mind?”

“I'm driving you home.”

“My apartment is a crime scene, and I have no family in the city.”

“What about friends?”

“I've been stalked by a homicidal police officer for the last month and barricaded myself into an apartment. Do you think I have friends?”

His gaze was somewhat softer as he looked at you again. You saw the math happening in his head as he tried to figure out what to do with you. You also saw his brain short circuiting when you wrapped yourself around his arm.

“We're friends now, Doc. Isn't that right?”

“What?”

“We're friends,” you repeated again, tone becoming a little defensive in a pout.

“We are not friends, Y/N. We've known each other for less than 6 hours, and we haven't engaged in any friendly conversation.”

“We've known each other for two weeks, and I've been more than friendly enough for the both of us.”

The elevator stopped, and the doors opened. Gesturing for you to go first, Spencer hurried you out of the elevator and into the parking garage.

“Trust me, Spencer, deep down, part of you really wants to be friends with me,” you said poking his chest with a finger. You couldn't resist flattening your hand against his surprisingly hard chest and letting the hand drop slightly.

“And an ever deeper down part of you doesn't want to be friends at all,” you smiled at him.

He caught your wrist before it could reach his belt buckle, your unconscious finish line, spinning you around and dragging you to his car.

The biting cold of metal cutting into your wrists was the first indication that maybe Spencer Reid wasn't as easy to mess with as you'd hoped. He closed the handcuffs around your wrists and handed you into the car as you gaped at him.

“Spencer!”

“Doctor Spencer Reid.”

“I’m not a criminal, Spencer, let me go.”

“I'll let you go when you prove to me you can behave.”

You pouted as he strapped you into the car and closed the door, walking around to the passenger side before letting himself in.

“What's next? Are you going to gag me?” You scoffed as he turned over the engine and began backing out of the parking lot.

“No. I think you'd enjoy that too much.”

The drive to Spencer's apartment was long and quiet as you sat pouting in the passenger seat. Every few seconds, you twisted and moved your arms, fidgeting left and right so he could see how much the restraints bothered you. Luckily, he'd handcuffed your hands in front of your body, so you still sat somewhat comfortably, but you didn't want him to know that.

He pulled up to the building and turned off the engine, pulling out his keys.

“Let's go,” he said, not even sparing you a look as he climbed out.

“Spencer, I'm handcuffed. How do I even get out?”

“You'll figure it out. You're a smart girl, right?”

He closed his door and began walking, and you quickly fumbled your way out.

“Spencer… Spencer, your neighbours are going to ask questions about you bringing a handcuffed girl into your apartment!” You whispered at him as you paced behind him, somehow running to catch up with his mere walk.

“I don't have neighbours like you, Y/N. They won't notice a thing.”

“Right, okay. And when you murder a dozen people over a six month period, they won't hack the federal government.” You rolled your eyes as he unlocked the door, taking your arm and finally handing you into the apartment.

It was dark and cold, and you shivered, feeling his body pushed in right behind yours, closing the door before he felt around for the light switch.

When the lights turned on, you blinked, adjusting to the light again as he walked you further into the apartment, hands on your hips as you slowly stumbled forward.

“Can you take the handcuffs off now?” You asked, looking over your shoulder at him.

“And let you touch my things? No.”

You shook off his hands and walked further into the room.

“You know I can still mess with your stuff with my hands tied up like this,” you said, walking to the nearest bookshelf.

“Whoops, look at that,” you said, pulling a book off the shelf and letting it fall to the floor between you with a thud.

“Y/N!” He exclaimed, voice pitched up in exasperation.

“Oh, this stack of books on the ground looks well organized. Oopsie!” You acted out tripping over the books, sending them flying in different directions.

“One more time, Y/N, mess with my stuff one more time-”

You didn't hear the words as you pulled yet another book off his shelf and let it tumble to the ground.

He was on you in seconds, lifting your wrists and pinning them to the top shelf, pressing his body against yours as he stretched you out.

You gasped at both the sudden contact and the tight grip he now had on your hands.

“Tell me, do you actually want to be in control, or do you just think you should want to be in control?”

“What's the difference?”

“The difference is how much you enjoy it. I think you're only being a brat to get a rise out of me. You're doing this because there's no one else in your life that will give you exactly what you crave."

"And what would that be?"

"Attention," he whispered into your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Great, thanks for the therapy. Are you going to show me how much I can enjoy relinquishing control now?”

“Brat,” he spat at you.

“Fed,” you spat back.

“You have a problem with law enforcement?” He asked, his breath hitting your ear as you tried not to shiver again at his touch.

“My neighbour was a serial killer whose day job was police brutality," you said, as if the answer was obvious, but Spencer still stared, waiting for true confirmation.

“Yes I have a problem with law enforcement. What, are you going to spank me?”

His eyes lit up, and you suddenly wondered if you'd made a mistake.

“You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

“N-No.” You stuttered, but he'd already begun moving you over to his couch.

“It was a joke. Spencer, it was a joke, don't-”

You underestimated his strength as he flipped you around and guided you down over his lap. Keeping your hips raised, he used one hand to hold you down while the other pushed up your tight skirt.

“S-Spencer, I really don't think-”

“Then don't think,” he said, bringing his hand down hard on your ass as you cried out in shock and pain.

“Stop thinking. You think too much, let me do it for you.”

With each hit, your shock grew fuzzy, melting into pleasure as you felt wetness pooling between your thighs.

The doctor you thought would be an easy target was not sadistically returning every teasing word back to you with his hands, letting bruises blossom all over your ass as he delivered painfully arousing strikes.

His hand stopped and he rubbed your ass as you twitched at the gentleness, panties sticking to the folds of your cunt as you absent mindedly pushed up into his touch.

“See, now you're listening,” he said, fingers trailing down to touch you over the sopping undergarments.

With two quick fingers, the crotch of your panties peeled away from your skin and he was plunged deep inside you, fingers pressing in as his thumb found its way to your clit.

“Fuck, Spencer-”

“Doctor Reid. You can use my full title now or you don't get to cum.”

“D-Doctor Reid, please!” His thumb rubbed slowly over your clit bit his fingers didn't move as you shuddered and contracted around them.

“Please what?” He asked, voice light as if he wasn't two knuckles deep in you already.

“Please make me cum, Doctor Reid!”

“Good manners,” he said as he finally began pumping his digits in and out of you, spreading your legs wider as you clawed your hands into his couch cushions to ground yourself in the moment. His spare hands left your wrists, and you felt them again, delivering small, almost cute hits to your ass as you twitched around his fingers, shying away from the painful contact.

“That's it, Y/N, let yourself relax,” he whispered, shifting his weight underneath you as you became aware of the tent in his pants.

Your brain was jello as you tried to bounce back on his fingers, chasing your oncoming orgasm.

“Look at you, trying to cum on my hands. You're just an attention-seeking slut, right?”

His fingers continued ppimg as your tongue hung loosely in your mouth.

“Answer me, or I'll leave you here high and dry, Y/N. Tell me you're an attention seeking slut that's been fingering yourself to the thought of this for weeks.”

“I-I'm an a-atten…tion seeking s-slut,” you stifled a moan and bit back tears as he pressed another finger inside of you. “Spencer I can't I need to cum,” you cried, tears spilling down your cheeks pathetically.

“Say it.”

“I'm an attention seeking s-slut that's been th-thinking about this-”

“Fingering yourself,” he corrected.

“Fingering myself to the thought of this for w-weeks,” you cried, sniffing now as your thighs shook in anticipation.

“What a nasty little slut,” he said as you finally came, your cum running down his fingers as he kept his hands moving.

Your tears were falling freely now as you bit back little sobs and chokes of emotions, the pleasure from the orgasm almost too much to handle.

Underneath you, Spencer shifted, freeing himself from his position and laying you fully down on the sofa as your legs still shook.

“There once was a doctor called Reid,” he said, unzipping his pants as he took up his place behind you.

They were your words, and your body signalled warnings everywhere as his hands pulled your hips up once more, pulling your knees up too to bend under you, laying you face down ass up.

“Who I simply and truly just need.”

He pulled the panties down to the crook of your knees before leaning down over you so he could deliver the next few lines as whispers into your ear.

“I would lie on my back, And then let him attack, Any inch of my body with his seed.”

A weak moan escaped your lips as he sank his cock inside of you, lips still pressed against your ears.

“I don't want you on your back, though. I much prefer you like this.”

His cock slid out of you and returned with a speed and strength that had your eyes rolling back in your head.

He was thick, maybe a little longer than average, and he filled you perfectly using your cum as lubricant.

“Such a good listener, now, Y/N. I like you like this,” he said with a moan, thrusting hard and deep inside of you.

You didn't talk. You could only drool and moan into his couch as he emptied your brain one thrust at a time.

You didn't think about how he wasn't wearing a condom. You didn't think about how he'd spat your words back at you, ready to fill you with his seed. You just sat in a pool of your own pleasure and let Spencer Reid use your body as you'd been begging him to for weeks.

He raised your hips and gave one last thrust, stilling there for a second as he filled your empty body and mind with his cum and his entire being.

If you weren't obsessed with Doctor Spencer Reid before this, you certainly were now.

He pulled out of you quickly, wiping his cock on your skirt before hurrying off to the bathroom to clean up.

Your brain was still absent when he returned, cleaning you off and finally removing the handcuffs. He removed your clothes, replacing them with his spares as he threw the soiled ones into the wash.

When you regained your wits or what was left of them, you were laid out in his bed, wrapped in a blanket and stuffed into a sweater and sweats, fully covered from head to toe. Spencer was picking up his keys and trying his shoelaces.

“Where are you going?’ You asked sleepily, stumbling to the doorway. Your legs were still shaky, and your movement was already limited. You knew that tomorrow, the use of your limbs would be nonexistent.

“Back to the office. Now that you're not around, maybe I'll be able to get some actual work done.”

“Spencer,” you said, forcing him to turn around to look back at you.

Before he could say anything else, you pressed your lips to his, hot and needy, wrapping your arms around his neck as he kissed back, slipping his tongue into your mouth and pressed you into the wall next to the door.

When you both pulled away for breath, you detangled your limbs, smoothing out his shirt and readjusting his tie.

He looked down at you, waiting for you to say something else as you met his gaze, grinning at him.

“I look forward to working with you, Doctor Reid.”

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid smut #mgg #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fandom #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid criminal minds #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x reader smut #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n

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cityselcouth · 13 days ago

Text

jumpscare!

pairing: xavier x reader

summary: fs in the chat for popular gamer shen xavier, because if there was one thing both you and his viewers loved to do, it was make him suffer.

themes: best friends to lovers, idiots to lovers lol, gamer! xavier, twitch streamer! xavier, gamer! mc, college! au, fluff, confession, first kiss, references to gacha systems and genshin impact, references to fnaf, one singular sexual innuendo/joke

word count: 5.7K

playlist: gam3 bo1 by seventeen, arcade by nct dream, video game lover

lyns notes: if you recognise this, no you don't ❤️ this is an old fic that i edited a little bit to fit our fav bunny, but if i stare at it too much i'll want to rewrite the entire thing so i left it at that. xavier is kind of a scaredy cat in this ik he's not usually but lets ignore that thanks 🙏🏼 this is me spreading my xavier plays animal crossing agenda one fic at a time.

Xavier blamed Jeremiah for his newfound RedBull addiction.

You had lectured him several times about the adverse effects of consuming the aforementioned energy drink, going as far as to mention how an excess of it could cause abnormal heart rhythm and even death. You knew your best friend was the worlds number one scaredy cat, so you had been almost certain that would have deterred him from having any more of it (because god knows Jeremiah was enough of a pain to deal with when he had a lot of it), but when you saw him at his desk taking a sip of what seemed to be his third can that day, you knew you had failed.

See, it wasn’t his fault, per se, or maybe that was just his terrible habit of deflecting and putting the blame on someone else. If only his friend hadn’t introduced him to the damned drink, he wouldn’t have been in this position. He caught your look of disapproval reflected in the screen of his monitor now that he had shut it down and grimaced, preparing himself.

“You’re going to die.”

He turned around in the rotating chair he had gotten for himself to face you, silently wondering how someone could look pretty while pulling a disgusted expression like that. You had come over to spend the day with him and maybe do a collaborative stream if the two of you felt like it, but he had a feeling that it would be pushed to much later in the agenda. As of right now, you were much too focused on informing him about his inevitable passing.

“Jeremiah hasn’t died yet,” he pointed out, taking a sip of the RedBull. He had never had much of a penchant for coffee, so this was a good replacement for caffeine. He needed it, given how prone to naps he was. The sweetness was a welcome flavour, unlike the bitterness that lingered when coffee was involved.

You were the exact opposite in that sense, adoring coffee with every fibre of your soul and insisting that it was healthier, even though that probably wasn’t true. That wasn’t the only thing the two of you were opposites in, and sometimes Xavier wondered if the two of you would have ever become friends if you hadn’t bonded over the fact that you were both twitch streamers, but even in that field, you differed. He preferred calmer games like Animal Crossing, while you preferred the ones with more action.

It was a wonder you got along so well with him.

You narrowed your eyes at him as you walked over, taking the can out of his hands and ignoring his protests. Then, you leaned down until you were face level with him, so he had no choice but to look at you. Stubbornness was ingrained in your nature, as was your fiery temper, which had resulted in the ever-famous ‘If I Swear I’ll Pull A Character’ series that you were known for. It was an expensive challenge to take on, so thank god for your steady income from Twitch and YouTube. The latter consisted of clips and moments from your live streams, which had been edited to be even funnier than they already were.

He had the same set-up, much like the other of your fellow streamer friends. If anyone told him that he would have almost a million subscribers and a loyal watch base when he was little, he would have laughed in their face. Life truly did lead you down the most absurd of paths, something you could testify to since it let you meet him.

“I don’t care about Jeremiah, I care about you.” It was funny how those words of yours had his heart stop for a moment, and it felt like he had to force it to restart so he didn’t die right there. That would have been extremely embarrassing, especially with all your talk about death caused by RedBull. He couldn’t have you being right, could he?

“Yes, ma'am,” he managed to croak out, eyes wide at the close proximity between the two of you. Looking away, he gave his long-gone gone RedBull one last longing look.

Y/n: 1. Energy drinks: 0.

Xavier also had no points, because he always gave them all to you. After studying his features for a few more seconds, you decided were satisfied with your actions and the result, collapsing on his bed and scooting back until you were resting against the headboard.

You would never understand how he could tolerate so much of the drink, seeing how sickeningly sweet it was. Other than the obvious health-related risks he was taking with having it, you also didn’t particularly want to deal with a Xavier on a sugar rush. You assumed it would be like what he was when he was drunk, except maybe a little more coherent and less clingy.

“I’d like you alive, thank you very much. Who else would I tease about being a wuss and force to play Slender Man with me?” You asked, getting a little fidgety. He glared at you.

He grumbled. “I am not a wuss.”

“Right,” you nodded as solemnly as you could, but your eyes were alight with mischief. “You’re a pussy. Not that you’d know, since you get none of that.”

Xavier scowled at you, the tips of his ears and the apples of his cheeks glowing crimson at your dig at him. You only winked and sighed, fighting the urge to reach out and mess up his mousy platinum blond hair. It was the result of an impulsive two am dye job done by yours truly. You had to admit, it suited him well. To be perfectly honest, you found everything about him attractive, though you refused to admit it most of the time.

Leaning back in his chair, he slipped his phone out of his pocket and rubbed the back of his neck before glancing at you. He recognised the signs, the slight pout on your lips, the way you slumped into his mattress a little restlessly. It was a little after 7 p.m., and the last time both of you had eaten was lunch, so it made sense.

“Hungry? I can order food.”

You nodded enthusiastically, realising just how late in the day it was. “Could I have-”

“The usual?” He asked, already placing the order and reading it out to you. A smile threatened to spill out onto your lips at that, and although it wasn’t the first time he had made it clear he knew what you wanted, you still found it endearing that he remembered. He looked up from reading the food order, eyes staring at you expectantly.

He had it down perfectly, down to even the drink you wanted (making sure to leave out any mentions of a certain damned energy drink for his own order). He read that one because he knew of your habit of sneaking a few bites from his, so he always made sure you were good with both.

You looked at your best friend for a moment, letting yourself smile affirmatively to confirm his assumption. He had always been this sweet, and you didn’t know what you would do without him because he was your constant, the one person you knew you could always depend on. You knew he would always catch you if you fell.

Part of you secretly wished he would catch you in a different way.

You were looking at him fondly now, making his breath catch in his throat. His glasses that previously sat snug on the bridge of his nose had slid down a little bit, but he didn’t bother to fix it. Your hair framed your face, and the small smile dancing across your mouth had him looking away. He got to his feet and mumbled some sort of excuse about having to check on something, getting out of the room.

Being in love with your best friend was tricky business, Xavier had learnt this over the three years of knowing you. Even worse, when you didn’t have much experience in the romance department, so at first he hadn’t even realised he harboured feelings for you.

It wasn’t until you showed up to his apartment when you heard he had been having a hard week before finals in his freshman year after he had worked himself to the bone, complete with a selection of bad comedy movies, marshmallows and every other unhealthy sweet snack one could have thought of, that he realized how much he cared for you.

The day ended without that collab stream, but instead, with you snuggled into his side as you stole a fry from his plate, watching as the movie he had picked played. You loved how simple and easy it was with Xavier; you didn’t have to pretend to be something you were not and vice versa.

Your response to him catching you red-handed at thievery was a guilty grin, one that had him rolling his eyes and pushing his plate to the centre so you could at least pretend to be more discreet. The squeal of happiness you let out was enough to have his heart skipping a beat, which he supposed counted as abnormal heart rhythm after all

TLDR; he was screwed.

“Ah fuck–”

You caught yourself quickly, cringing immediately when you realised what you had done. The chat erupted into laughter and emojis, declaring that you now had to pull on the latest weapon banner in Genshin Impact due to your profanity. You didn’t even want the weapon, and the banner itself was a royal scam, but these types of streams were always fun, so it was a good compromise.

Your main character fell to their knees and disintegrated into dust, reminding you a little of that scene in Avengers: Infinity War. Poor Xiao, the line ‘I don’t feel too good’ really did suit him well.

“Fine, fine,” you sighed dramatically, clicking open the wishing screen. Making money off your gambling addiction for characters was beyond weird, but it had all somehow worked out. You stared at the weapon in slight disdain, and then at the pitiful twenty primogems you had. The option of being a free and casual player had been lost to you a long time ago, and it didn’t seem as if you would ever go back to those roots.

“What if I just did one pull instead of ten at a time?” You offered, trying to strike up a deal with your viewers. You should have known better, because they were here only for the entertainment you provided, and your suggestion was instantly shot down. A familiar user popped into the chat with a message to taunt you.

lumieresux: do 10 coward

You scoffed, “Okay, Xavier, no one asked you.”

But your chat betrayed you again, overjoyed at his presence in your stream. Your dynamic and friendship with him were a well-known fact among the community; everyone loved seeing you two together and bickering.

spainbutthesissilent: xavier !!!! sylusessminifridge: qiqi main qiqi main qiqi main qiqi main qiqi main qiqi main qiqi main pipsqueaker: could we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are shooting stars childepspsps: do ten >:( lemuriayayaya: xavier is right ten is better userq3498: guys use code Y/n at checkout for ur gfuel order she needs it with all the pulls

You sighed, wondering if this was karma for all the times the chat had sided with you against Xavier in his streams. Leaning back in your seat, you stretched out your hands in front of you, cracking your knuckles as you mused over the situation.

“I’ll pull ten–,” you decided finally, already silently praying for your wallet and bank account (you were sure that your bank was always confused with the odd transactions made on your end). The chat jumped to conclusions, happy that you had given in to their wishes. Grinning evilly, you stared right at the camera.

“–If!” You paused for dramatic effect. “Xavier plays FNAF with me.”

You had expertly played the cards to your favour and earned the approval of your audience, who were all for this condition. The fact that Xavier didn’t have the best record when it came to horror wasn’t a secret by any means, and it was a weakness everyone loved exploiting. Sometimes, you felt bad, but his reactions were almost a little too adorable for you not to enjoy.

You raised a challenging eyebrow, waiting for a response from your best friend. You could almost imagine the shock on his face, the way his eyes would have been wide and his lips slightly parted in dumbfoundedness. He couldn’t have expected this to happen from any angle and was now trapped.

You promptly decided to make it worse by drawling, “Who’s the coward now, Xavie?”

Okay, so maybe the chat loved it when you called him that, and maybe they thought you were the cutest couple ever, even though you weren’t dating him. You had previously had to clarify that several times on the account of people genuinely thinking that both of you were together. It wasn’t a terrible idea, but you couldn’t have Xavier knowing of your massive crush on him, could you?

Absolutely not. He would probably make fun of you for it, the asshole.

lumieresux: thats copium

“It’s not copium!” You argued, moving your mouse to the single pull option. “It’s either this or single pulls. The only one that technically loses here is me, so why not just say yes? I have to buy more gems anyway.” You added the last part a little bitterly, wishing you hadn’t skipped out on the daily missions last week. At least you would have saved a little to do the pulling.

Xavier, on the other hand, was more distracted by the fact you had called him ‘Xavie’ while looking at the screen so triumphantly– it almost felt as if you were saying it right to his face. Having to sit through FNAF sounded terrifying, but letting you come out victorious sounded even worse, no matter how many times he let you win anyway.

Ah, but you see, this time his pride was involved. It wasn’t just you and him right now where he could give you the win just to see you smile in that pretty way you did (and it definitely wasn’t because he loved your smile or anything, that would have been way too cringy). This time, there was an audience, and that made it worse for him.

lumieresux: i hate u but fine

“That’s the spirit!” You cheered, converting some of your leftover crystals into gems you could use. “You heard it here first, folks, I’ll be playing Five Nights at Freddy’s with Xavier soon, so make sure you look out for that!” And with that announcement, you clicked and groaned when you saw that you got a five-star because you hadn’t wanted it this time around.

Xavier laughed aloud when it turned out to be Qiqi, mostly because your expression was priceless, your despair starkly contrasting the smug smirk you had worn only a few seconds ago.

sylusessminifridge: QIQI MAIN QIQI MAIN QIQI MAIN QIQI MAIN QIQI MAIN QIQI MAIN

You stared at Xavier in amusement, watching how jittery he had become all off a sudden. Having just about finished setting the stream up, all you had to do was actually start it but your best friend seemed to be else where, knee bouncing impatiently.

“Hey, you good?”

You asked this innocently, knowing fully well that he was not, in fact, good. If good was the destination, he had taken a wrong turn into the town of anxiety because that was what he was currently feeling. Swallowing thickly, he nodded meekly, and you beamed.

“Then let’s begin!”

You started the stream, settling into your own seat next to his. This time, you were in your apartment, and you watched as viewers trickled in, quickly switching to entertainer mode. You smiled, waving at the screen as the chat greeted him and you, overjoyed to see you two together after so long.

Now that it had begun, he couldn’t even decline it at the last minute. Xavier was sure he would never understand how you took so much joy in playing such games that were made to scare the shit out of you. It wasn’t like he hated horror games; there was just something so horribly unnerving about the animatronics in FNAF. He read a few of the messages on the chat, trying to take his mind off what would be coming.

“Today I’m here with Xavier!” You gestured towards your best friend, who shot finger guns at the camera a little awkwardly, earning a bewildered look from you. He shrugged, and you bit back a snort, pulling up the game for the rest of the viewers to see. At this point, he had no hope of avoiding this because he knew how the audience was. They found his pain funny, and that meant that he was stuck in a cycle of suffering.

“And we’ll be playing Five Nights at Freddy’s: Sister Location! This is personally my favourite game in the series, so I thought it would be a great one to introduce him to.” A mischievous glint remained to be seen as you stole a glance at Xavier, who looked very sceptical. Then, he looked at the screen and looked extremely worried.

“What the hell is that?” He asked, trying to sound as calm as possible because it would be extremely humiliating to seem scared right from the get-go. To be fair, though, the menu screen did look rather unsettling with doll-like figures standing one behind the other. The first was a female-looking clown, and if that wasn’t enough to tell him how the rest of his evening was going to go, then he didn’t know what was.

“That is an animatronic, she’s the main character of this particular game and even has a mini game thats hidden in the mechanics while you play!” You explained, clicking on the new game option. He always loved to hear you speak about something you were passionate about, so while it did barely anything to calm his rising nerves, it still managed to make him crack a slight smile. The chat was quick to notice the fond look he was giving you as you continued to speak.

“Oh, the lore too!” You distinctly remembered spending an entire night watching the Game Theory videos that were dedicated to the franchise. The theories that were spun for the game were wild, but so entertainin,g and you thoroughly enjoyed watching each one, even if it meant that you slept in and missed your first class that day. You still considered that worth it.

“Lore?” He asked a little hesitantly, and you nodded enthusiastically, grinning at the screen.

“Okay, guys, does anybody know of the lore? Because it’s insane like– it goes from murdered kids to soul juice and spirits haunting video games!”

You waited for a response from the viewers patiently, genuinely invested in the conversation. Responses started piling in and your eyes caught one, nodding enthusiastically, “Yeah! We should at least brief Xavie over here.” You turned to him, a giddy smile on your face that is wildly out of place with reference to the topic of what you were speaking about.

“So! There’s this dude called ‘Purple Guy’, right? He’s a murderer and kills a bunch of kids to turn them into like, soul juice to put into robots, which turn haunted, but then he somehow transfers his consciousness into old circuit boards that are used to make a game, which leads to a haunted video game.” You frowned for just a moment, “Actually, that last bit is irrelevant for this game, but the rundown is- murdered kids and haunted games.”

Jesus Christ. Xavier was horrified. If games were going to start getting haunted then that would be a very big problem for him considering playing those games was his job. Maybe it was time to actually focus on that Astrophysics major of his.

“Right.”

He winced when his voice cracked, and from the entertained look on your face, you had caught it. Biting back a quip over how he was going through puberty for the second time, you started the game and leaned back, getting comfortable in your seat, before you decided he was much too far away from you for your liking. Reaching out, you gripped the side of his chair, shot him an expectant look and attempted to tug him closer.

Understanding immediately, he pushed himself to be much closer to where you were. The screen of the game faded to black and then lit up again, showing that your character was in an elevator of sorts. The lighting was ominous and it flickered with old looking posters on the wall that sent a shiver down his spine.

“And we’ve begun! I think some of you guys will remember me playing through this for the first time a few months ago, and it took me a few streams to finish it in its entirety, so thats not our goal today! Today we’re just-”

“Here to make me suffer,” Xavier cut you off in a dry voice, but the look on his face did not match it.

You grinned, “Ditto.”

A few viewers commented about how cute the two of you were together, but you stoutly ignored those messages like you had done so many times before. It was easy now, but what wasn’t easy was pushing down the heat that rose so quickly to your cheeks.

The gameplay began, and you let Xavier take the reins. It was far-by the most entertaining thing you had seen all month, with him jumping at every little sound and detail revealed. Currently, you were laughing at his protests against doing something the game had instructed him to, leaning a little into your seat and his side as you covered your mouth with your hand.

Okay, so maybe the two of you were kind of adorable, and you maybe occasionally let yourself believe your chats delusions.

“You have to be careful during this part,” you warned when he had to manoeuvre the character through a dark room without being caught by the designated animatronic of that part. “I had to go through this sequence so many times I nearly quit the game.”

“Quitting sounds like a great idea,” he admitted, throwing you a pleading look. You shook your head, putting your arm around his shoulders and resting your head on it.

“Now, where's the fun in that?”

Right then and there, Xavier realised that you were a menace and nothing more. He glanced over at you for just a moment, only catching a glimpse of your hair. It was enough to distract him, though, because he was so preoccupied in trying to glare at you that he accidentally moved his character forward a little too quickly, and looked back just in time for a fox-shaped animatronic to jump at the screen.

The jaw of the robot unhinged, its eyes almost popping out of its metal sockets. Nothing could have screamed ‘bloodthirsty’ more than it did, and the sound effects that accompanied it were downright terrifying: a ghastly scream that faded ominously as the screen faded to black.

It wasn’t the only scream to be heard, though, because Xavier’s high-pitched one quickly followed suit as he jerked in his seat. Startled at the sudden movement, you froze when he instinctively wrapped his arm around you and pulled you closer until his face was nuzzled in the crook of your neck.

Game Over.

You squeaked in surprise as he refused to move, clinging onto you for dear life. You suspected the jumpscare had been a little too much for him with the way he had yelled, and because you could feel his heartbeat with how he was pressed against you. Involuntarily, your own heart rate spiked.

Flushing slightly, you hesitantly placed one of your hands on his back and the other on his head, hugging him.

“You’re okay,” you muttered softly, momentarily forgetting that the stream was still on.”Hey, it’s over.”

“I hate you.”

You cracked a smile, “I didn’t think you would get that scared, I’m sorry.” Out of habit, you pulled away from his embrace and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. His lips parted in surprise, and he shook some of his hair out of his eyes, suddenly aware of the lack of space between the two of you. You didn’t look away once, searching his eyes to see if he was really okay.

And then, of course, a twitch alert shattered the moment as a robotic voice read it aloud.

‘Now KISS’

You jumped for the second time that day, not truly registering the person's words until a minute or so later. They had voiced what everyone in chat had been dying to say the moment Xavier had turned to you for comfort, and now that it had been said aloud, the chat went wild, agreeing to this.

Your cheeks burned at this, and you detached yourself from Xavier, forcing a laugh that came off more nervously than anything. Your best friend turned pink, coughing into his fist as he looked away and back at the game screen that seemed to be mocking him right now.

“Don’t be ridiculous, guys,” you huffed, “He got scared–”

“–Surprised! I wasn’t prepared for it, which is why I reacted like that, but I swear I’m not that bad!” Xavier tried to defend himself to disguise his embarrassment and flustered state, giving you a reason to roll your eyes.

“Yeah, that’s exactly why you screamed like a little girl,” you teased, turning back to the screen

“Thats all!” He snipped, narrowing his eyes at you, before continuing more slowly, “We’re not like….that.”

The way he said it made something twist in the pit of your stomach. You didn’t know why you had to force a smile after that as well, nor did you know why it felt like you were pretending to agree with that statement as you nodded. He had shut the idea down so fast it came off as him being absolutely against even the thought of kissing you, and that hurt just a little bit.

Clearing your throat, you leaned back in your seat, “Well! Considering Xavier is probably traumatised now, I think this is a good time to end the stream since it’s been about… two hours? Yeah, and we’re already at night three, which is pretty good progress!” You looked at him once again. “Thanks to Xavier for coming onto my stream, and if you’re watching this on YouTube, don’t forget to like and subscribe! Bye!”

You waved once again to signal the end of the stream, watching as the viewer count dropped to a little over a hundred. You ended it, making a mental note to edit out that entire section about kissing him, more for your sanity than anything else. After closing Twitch, you sighed and stretched your arms over your head, shutting your eyes.

“That was fun,” Xavier muttered half-heartedly, taking note of the awkward air that had fallen over both of you. Your professional facade dropped, and you swallowed the lump in your throat.

“Yeah.”

Your voice was funny-sounding right then, possessing a far-away quality to it, like you weren’t paying attention to what you were saying. He knew you better than you knew yourself, so he immediately realised something was wrong, but before he could say anything, you got to your feet and walked away and out of your room.

Raising an eyebrow, he quickly followed suit, watching as you wordlessly got a glass down from your kitchen cupboards and poured yourself a glass of water. You were preoccupied, not mad, but it didn’t stop him from asking.

“Did I do something?”

You looked up for a second, and then immediately averted your eyes. “No, you didn’t. Thanks for actually going through with this, by the way.”

Why did you feel like this? It wasn’t the first time your chat had implied something was going on between the two of you, but it rarely happened when both of you were in the same room, and the way he had so swiftly denied any possibility of anything existing between the two of you left a sour taste in your mouth. It didn’t matter that you had done the same thing because you had only done so to mirror his sentiment.

“Something’s on your mind,” He observed, getting closer as he cocked his head to the side, silently questioning what it was. You couldn’t not look at him now, and you bit the inside of your cheek. “Wanna talk about it?”

Shen Xavier, your idiot of a best friend. You hate him, you love him, you would do anything for him. When you realised how scared he had gotten, you wanted nothing more than to kick yourself for being the indirect reason for it. You were in love with your best friend and didn’t want to carry around the burden of having to keep it in any more.

“Is–” You stopped yourself, hesitating once again, “Is kissing me such a bad thing?”

His eyes widened at your question because to him, it was the most absurd one he had ever been faced with (even more than that midterm he took, which was saying something). Of course, it didn’t sound like a bad idea, hell, he wanted nothing more than to be able to kiss you, but there was a teeny tiny little problem.

Xavier wasn’t just scared of horror games or ghosts (this one was definitely Jeremiah's fault). The thing he was most terrified, absolutely shit-scared of, was telling you he loved you and you not loving him back. It wasn’t just about being rejected; it was about being rejected by you.

He couldn’t imagine not being by your side, even if it was just as your best friend. The possibility of you not feeling the same way and things getting awkward was something he refused to let happen, and so he had never considered telling you how he felt.

But when he saw the way you looked at him right now, waiting in anticipation for his answer. Your eyes were almost sad as they searched his, lips pressed together in a thin line. When he waited for just a beat too long, you dropped your gaze, sucking in a breath. You shouldn’t have said anything; you should have just kept your mouth shut and not let a stupid alert from Twitch, of all places, get under your skin.

“It’s not.”

You blinked, “What?” “It’s not a bad thing,” he said finally, giving you a small, lopsided smile. “It’s never been a bad idea, it’s just– well, I thought that you–”

“Me?” You asked in bewilderment, voice going all high-pitched like it always did when you got defensive. “How on earth was it me?”

“You shut it down so quickly!” He argued in earnest, raising his hands to either side of his face. “But that’s not the point, Y/n, the point is that I would kiss you because I love-like–”

You didn’t let him finish the confession, which he was somewhat grateful for since that was not how he had ever seen it going. Instead, you leaned upwards and pecked his lips just to test the waters. He gaped at you, mouth opening and closing like a fish. You weren’t too sure where the sudden boost of confidence had come from, but you were glad for it.

“You’re supposed to keep your eyes closed during a kiss,” You mumbled slyly, and he scoffed.

“That was a terrible kiss. It didn’t even give me time to think about closing my eyes, let alone actually do it.”

“Oh? I guess you’ll just have to kiss me again, then.”

“Just say you want me to kiss you.”

“Excuse me? No way I’m saying that.” You shot him a weak glare, but the faint smile on your face told him all he needed to know. Dropping his hands to your waist, he tugged you closer.

“What if we agree to a truce?” He offered. “We both want to kiss each other.”

Xavier didn’t waste another second, pressing his lips to yours again. This time, he made sure to close his eyes when he wrapped his arms around you. Your hands found their place interlocked around his neck, smiling just a little into a kiss. Xavier could taste that peach lip balm you liked to wear (because strawberry was much too tacky for your taste) and was very aware of how you cupped his face carefully.

“I love-like you too,” You muttered, teasing him gently over how he stumbled over his confession when you pulled away from the kiss. He sighed, resting his forehead against yours. Relief filled him because he didn’t know what he would have done if you didn’t feel the same way. Probably would have blamed it on the RedBull and Jeremiah.

“That’s good.”

“Just good?”

He stammered, before whining when he realised you were pushing his buttons on purpose. “I mean– what exactly do you expect me to say here? Haven’t you put me through enough today?”

Your eyes shone, “I know exactly how we should commemorate our relationship.”

“Relationship?” He asked softly, before his eyes widened. “Wait fuck– I was supposed to ask you if you would like to be my girlfriend.” He cursed under his breath, “Please pretend I did that already. Go back to telling me how we should celebrate.”

You laughed, and it was the prettiest sound he had ever heard, almost as pretty as you were. Nodding in amusement, you rested your chin on his shoulder, the two of you swaying together to no music.

“To celebrate.” You started, cupping his face and grinning mischievously. “We should finish FNAF.”

He couldn't even hide his grimace. Celebrating the start of a relationship with a game about dead kids felt ill-advised, but one look at your beaming expression told him that you wouldn't see it that way. Still, he tried, "Would you consider Animal Crossing instead?"

You kissed his cheek. "Nope!"

Dear God. Xavier was going to need a lot more RedBull.

fin.

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