#Writing Spark Mind Mapping | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vibelladonna · 4 months ago

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✑ 𝒿𝑒𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝜗𝜚 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒸𝒽𝑜𝒾𝒸𝑒! 𝓈𝑜𝓁 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝑔𝑒𝑜

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: Oh boy… the two most possessive men in the whole damn game? Jealous!Sol & Jealous!Geo x Reader? Buckle up because this isn’t just a love triangle—it’s a full-on battlefield.

However, can't blame you for just messing around, testing the waters, seeing who got more jealous… and playing with fire gets you burned. You’re stuck in the middle, questioning every life choice that led you here.

What could possibly go wrong? (Spoiler: everything.)

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions.

𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: Anonymous! if you don't mind writing it, but jealous geo and sol, please??😭 Like they both like readers and are just silently jealous of one another? I am in desperate need of more fics of them interacting 🤧

Honestly, apologies in advance—I don’t sugarcoat things. A lot of my writing is rooted in realism and what I’m comfortable exploring. Soooo, if you were hoping for a lighthearted take… no chance.

[ 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ]

Jelly.

By definition, jelly is something sweet. A glossy, semisolid spread made from fruit juice and sugar, boiled to a thick consistency. Some people like sweets. Some don’t. But jelly can also mean jealousy. That gnawing feeling of wanting something—someone—that belongs to someone else.

And in this case? That something was you.

Not a thing, not an object, but damn if it didn’t feel like you were the prize in some unspoken battle. A war waged in subtle glances, clenched fists, and an underlying tension so thick it could choke the air out of a room.

And the worst part? You never asked for this.

Okay, maybe you did lie—just a little. But you sure as hell didn’t expect the weight of two unreadable stares pinning you down like prey, like you were something to be fought over.

Not the way Sol’s fiery red-orange eyes would zero in whenever some random guy so much as breathed in your direction, his expression eerily blank, but his fingers twitching like he was already mapping out a murder scene in his head.

And definitely not the way Geo, with his usual I-don’t-give-a-fuck aquamarine gaze, would suddenly become conveniently absent the moment on the same random guy—only for poor bastard to show up the next day with a busted nose and now suddenly doesn’t want to talk to you anymore.

Okay, maybe you like this…

Because—let’s be real—having two tall, hot men practically fighting for your attention? Yeah… yeah, that was kinda hot. And a little pathetic. But were you about to stop them?

Absolutely not.

So far, Sol and Geo hadn’t actually thrown hands at each other yet, probably because they still wanted to stay on your good side. But whenever you were with one of them, the other just happened to be around, watching, lingering, acting like your personal shadow.

Meanwhile, some poor random guy so much as breathes in your direction, and suddenly, it’s a whole different story. If there was one thing you could count on, it was that Sol and Geo had very different ways of dealing with people who dared to show interest in you.

Sol? Oh, he didn’t just get jealous—he lived in it. Stewed in it. Let it simmer under his skin like a slow-burning fire, always one spark away from an explosion. It didn’t matter how harmless the situation was. Some poor, clueless guy so much as breathed in your direction, and suddenly, the whole atmosphere shifted.

Like earlier, when you were just trying to study in the library.

“Who was that?” Sol asked, voice eerily calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that told you he was already two seconds away from tracking the guy down.

You didn’t even look up from your notes. “Don’t know. Just some guy.” That was, of course, the wrong answer.

Sol leaned in slightly, red-orange eyes narrowing. “He called you pretty.”

You finally looked up, raising a brow. “And? I am pretty, the hell.”

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t even crack a smirk. Just drummed his fingers on the table, his gaze locked onto the exit like he was memorizing the dude’s last known location.

You had no doubt that if you gave him a name, he’d find some way to make sure the guy never spoke to you again.

Geo, on the other hand? Possessive, sure. But jealous? Not really. If anything, his reaction was less ‘Who the fuck does this guy think he is?’ and more ‘Why the hell are you entertaining this bullshit?’

Like when you went to watch him practice archery after class. You’d barely been there ten minutes before some guy strolled up, all confidence and cologne, asking for your number like Geo wasn’t literally holding a weapon in his hands. You were scared for him.

You were about to respond—probably to reject the guy, but you had been taking your sweet time with it—when a sharp thunk split the air.

The guy flinched, eyes wide as he turned to see an arrow buried into the tree right next to his head.

Geo, standing a few feet away, barely spared him a glance as he reached for another arrow. “Oops,” he said, deadpan. “Must been the wind...”

The guy was gone instantly, practically tripping over himself as he made his escape.

You turned to Geo, unimpressed. “Seriously?”

He finally looked at you, one brow raised. “What? I didn’t do anything.” Yeah. Sure.

At this point you was probably wondering, ‘Oh my, oh my, if Sol and Geo are on good terms with you, do they ever have beef like you said? Or do they just straight-up ignore each other?’

Well… kinda.

It’s less of a mutual rivalry and more of a Sol has serious, undying beef with Geo, while Geo, in true Geo fashion, just casually ignores Sol’s entire existence.

Of course, you’d never hang out with them at the same time. That would be a death wish. You like your life drama-filled but intact, thank you very much. So, you very intentionally avoid situations where they’d have to be in the same room for longer than five seconds.

You keep your time with them separate—Sol on one day, Geo on another. Sol is more of your side friend group situation, hanging out with Hyugo, doing whatever chaotic shit they get into.

Meanwhile, Geo? He’s part of your main friend group—the one you’re actually seen with most of the time, which includes Brittany, Jericho, Jess, and Daryl.

However these been some days you’ll hang out with them along, just you and whoever. And because of this, there are definitely moments where you’ve caught Sol and Geo being jealous of each other.

Like the time you mentioned hanging out with Geo over the weekend, and Sol immediately went all dark and broody, arms crossed, staring at you like you’d just told him you were getting married and moving across the country.

“You spend a lot of time with him,” he muttered, voice low.

You blinked. “Yeah? And?”

“And I don’t like it.” Well... At least he was honest.

Geo, on the other hand, had a way of casually throwing shade when he wanted to. Like when you showed up to hang out with the main group after spending time with Sol.

“Didn’t think we’d see you today,” Geo remarked, arching a brow. “Figured you were off cutting your wrist with him.” I’m sooo sorry if this offensive to anyone.

You snorted awkwardly. “We were just hanging out.”

“Mhm. Sure.” He sipped his drink, giving you the most judgmental side-eye.

At the end of the day, you could ignore their little jealousy fits, but one thing was clear—Sol definitely had beef, and Geo just enjoyed playing unbothered while lowkey stirring the pot.

Then, so let’s talk about territory.

And let’s start with Sol.

Why Sol? Oh, I don’t know—he was fucking obvious.

He wasn’t subtle, and he didn’t care to be. You’d always catch his hand slipping around your shoulders, fingers ghosting over your waist—especially when Geo or your main group of friends were around. He didn’t just exist near you; he occupied your space, like some territorial cat refusing to let anyone else so much as breathe in your direction.

His touch? Not soft. Not casual. Possessive. Like he was making a statement without saying a single damn word.

It didn’t matter where you were—hallways, lunch, walking to class—Sol made sure everyone within a ten-foot radius knew exactly where you stood. And, more importantly, where he stood.

Right. Next. To. You.

Then there was Geo. He didn’t need all that. Where Sol was all hands-on, in-your-face, look-at-me-touching-you, Geo was smooth. Subtle. Calculated. Too composed for his own good, always watching, always analyzing.

He didn’t hover. He didn’t grab. He didn’t need to.

His presence alone was enough to send the message. The way he carried himself across campus—untouchable, like the world bent around him. When it came to you, he had his own ways of making sure people knew.

For example: the damn hoodie situation.

You didn’t even ask for his hoodie, but that didn’t stop him from throwing it on your face like you barely caught it. Cold? Hoodie. Raining? Hoodie. Forgot your jacket? Guess what? Hoodie. And it wasn’t just about keeping you warm—no, no. This was branding. Because that hoodie was his. And when people saw his deep-ass purple hoodie on you, it was like a silent warning: Don’t even try it.

And let’s not pretend like Geo didn’t notice when Sol was all over you. This man has SHARP EYES. But he’d play it cool, act like he didn’t care, keep his distance. But you knew he saw it. You could feel his eyes, sharp and assessing, calculating like he was taking inventory of every single move Sol made.

Now, if Sol ever really overstepped?

Oh, Geo would totally make his move. Not in front of you, though—he was way too clever for that. He didn’t need to start a scene. He didn’t need to flex his dominance in public.

Like for example, you’d start hearing rumors. Some random dude who tried to shoot his shot with you mysteriously walking around with a black eye or a swollen nose. The whispers would be everywhere. “Who the hell messed his ass up?”

And you’d know It was Geo. Handled quietly. Efficiently. Discreetly.

And if, by chance, you happened to notice the faint bruises on Geo’s knuckles the next day? Well. That was just something you didn’t bring up. Ever.

So, again, after everything, how do you feel about being possessed over by two men?

Like, at the end of the day, you were trapped—trapped between their heated stares, their possessiveness, their absolute refusal to let you exist without them staking their claim.

And you?

Oh, you were loving it, all in honesty.

What? If they were gonna play this game, you might as well play along. Hell, you held all the cards. You were the one pulling the strings, keeping them both on their toes, watching as they silently (and not-so-silently) battled for dominance over you.

Geo wanted to act all calm and cool?

Like he was above all of this? Fine. Let him pretend. You knew exactly what buttons to push to make him show his hand. A little too much laughter when another guy paid you a compliment. Casually mentioning how Sol was so protective over you. Flashing him that innocent, knowing smile whenever he tried to act like he wasn’t watching your every move.

And Sol? Sol was easy.

If he wanted to claim you with his rough touches, his dark glares, the way his arm would tighten around your waist just a little too much whenever another guy so much as looked at you—then you’d let him. But only just enough to keep things interesting.

Because you weren’t about to make this easy for either of them.

You’d walk into the room wearing Geo’s hoodie—just to watch Sol’s jaw clench. You’d let Sol touch you in front of Geo—just to catch the way his fingers twitched, his lips pressing into a thin line. You’d let their possessiveness fuel the game, and oh, was it a fun game to play.

Because at the end of the day, again...

You were the prize. And you knew it.

And what better way to start than with Geo?

Again, Geo was the kind of guy who never had to try too hard. Everything about him exuded effortless control—his tailored clothes, his rich upbringing, the way his hair was always just right like he walked straight out of some high-end fashion editorial.

Bilingual, top of his class, a sharp mind that dissected everything in the room before anyone even realized they were being watched.

Now, you wouldn’t call him perfect, but he was definitely a step above the average man. And that, in itself, was dangerous. Because Geo wasn’t just good at handling himself.

He was good at handling you. PFFF, I love this man.

And it was funny, really. He liked to act like he didn’t care—like he wasn’t watching your every move, like he wasn’t quietly attuned to your habits. But that was the biggest lie of all.

Geo noticed everything.

He knew when you were irritated before you even sighed. Knew you were hungry before you even glanced at the menu. Knew what to say to make you laugh, even when you swore you weren’t in the mood. He was calculated—never too distant, but never too obvious.

You knew exactly how to use Geo’s attentiveness to your advantage. He was clever, a little too clever sometimes, but that made him so much more fun to tease. So, when you casually invited him to hang out during one of your long gaps between classes—just the two of you—you made sure Sol was close enough to overhear.

You didn't even have to try hard.

Sol always seemed to be near where you were. Always.

He had this uncanny ability to be in the right spot at the right time. You'd find him lingering in the background, sometimes in doorways, sometimes leaning against walls like he was just passing by, yet always managing to stay just out of sight, barely making his presence known. The look in his eyes, though? You couldn’t miss it.

You watched as his gaze snapped to you the second you leaned in closer to Geo. His fingers twitched like he was holding back some kind of primal urge to pull you away from Geo. But he stayed still, just watching, quietly simmering with frustration.

When Geo agreed, his voice casual and smooth, "Sure, I got nothing better to do," you could almost feel the storm brewing behind you.

And you loved it.

You chose the place carefully. A small bakery, nestled just off-campus. It was cozy, and intimate, yet open enough that no one could barge in without causing a scene.

You knew Sol wouldn’t come in unless he had a reason—he wasn’t stupid, after all. It was one of those rare moments when you actually wanted some peace, to be able to enjoy your time with Geo without the constant interruption of Sol’s overbearing presence.

Geo sat across from you, his posture impeccable, legs crossed and back straight as if he was molded into the seat. His hands rested lightly on the table, fingers tapping softly, the rhythmic sound of it mingling with the soft hum of campus life around you.

Students typed away on their laptops, murmured conversations floated around you, and the occasional professor huddled in the corner grading papers. The place felt like the calm center of a storm—a comfortable space for both of you.

He looked at you, curiosity flashing in his eyes. "Why'd you pick here?" he asked, voice low, yet that sharp edge still noticeable beneath his calm facade. He propped his chin in his hand, elbow on the table, his fingers tapping idly against his cheek.

You shrugged, playing it cool. “I don’t know. The only place I can think of.”

Geo’s lips twitched then sighed, "Okay." His tone was amused, but there was an undeniable hint of intrigue there.

You both sat there for a moment, letting the tension simmer. Then, as if by instinct, Geo stood, his movements graceful and effortless. "You want anything? I'll pay" he asked, already moving toward the counter before you could even respond. See, what a man, he's paying already AND YOU DIDN'T EVEN HAVE TO ASKKK.

Minutes later, he returned, sliding your usual drink toward you—no questions asked. It was like he had memorized your preferences by heart. He placed a small plate beside it too, something extra—probably dessert, because he knew you liked sweets, and his attention to detail was uncanny.

You reached for it, your fingers brushing his in the process. It wasn’t intentional, but that fleeting touch sent a ripple through you. For a moment, neither of you pulled away.

Geo’s gaze flickered to your hand again, sharp and perceptive.

"Your hand," he murmured softly, his voice taking on that subtle edge of concern. His eyes dropped to the small scrape, and for a second, you felt like it was more than just a casual observation—like he was searching for something beneath the surface.

You blinked, unsure how to respond. "You can see that?"

You had almost forgotten about the scrape, honestly. It had happened the day before when you’d tripped going up the stairs—nothing serious, just a small misstep as you were rushing between classes. You remembered cursing under your breath as you caught yourself on the railing, but the scrape was just a small inconvenience, easily forgotten in the chaos of your day.

Geo didn’t answer immediately. His fingers reached out, slow and measured, brushing across the skin of your palm where the scrape had left a thin red line. His touch was light at first, just skimming over the wound, but then it became more deliberate, more intentional as if he was examining it for signs you couldn’t even see.

His fingers tilted your hand gently, his touch soft but firm, the warmth of his skin sending a shiver up your arm. The way he lingered, taking his time to inspect the scrape, felt almost… protective.

It wasn’t just the act of touching you—it was the focus, the way he seemed to memorize the small details, the way your skin felt against his. Holy shit.

"What happened?" He asked. Then, when his eyes lifted to meet yours again, the intensity in his gaze made your heart skip a beat. There was something more than concern there—something deeper, something soft that you couldn’t quite place.

"Why are you looking at me like that? The fuck," he asked his face now in disbelief, voice very much audible. His tone was almost conversational, but there was an edge to it, an unspoken command.

It was your face. And I MEAN YOUR FACE, eyes were shocked, and lips were barely open, still showing teeth. You hesitated for a moment, caught off guard by the question. For some reason, you felt like you were being tested—like he wasn’t just asking about the scrape, but about you.

"It's nothing." You said, looking away, rather annoyed. Like damn, he always messes up moments like this. "To answer your question, I tripped going up the stairs yesterday," you said, your voice soft, trying to make it sound casual. "Nothing serious. I just lost my balance, and scraped my hand a little on the railing."

Geo didn’t respond right away. He just continued to watch you with that unreadable look in his eyes, like he was trying to figure out something you hadn’t said. His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles again, slow and deliberate, and you felt the heat of his touch linger long after he pulled his hand away.

“I’m fine, really,” you murmured, trying to brush it off, but the way he held your gaze made it feel like there was more to this—more to him—than just a simple question about a scrape.

“Okay, if you say so,” he said, his voice low, his thumb lingering a moment longer as though he was reluctant to let go. The space between you seemed to shrink with every passing second, and you felt an undeniable pull, a magnetism that you weren’t sure you could escape.

And as he finally pulled back, letting your hand slip from his, you couldn’t help but feel that odd, electric tension still hanging in the air. If your heart skipped a beat at the lingering warmth from Geo’s touch, well… that was between you and him.

The next day, you were sitting next to Sol, his usual spot on the college roof where he always claimed the corner near the ledge, as his friend Hyugo went to town on the packed lunch Sol had made for him.

You could feel the tension in the air, thick and suffocating. Sol was pissed—furious, to be exact—but he wasn’t going to tell you that. Not directly. Oh no, that wasn’t his style. He wouldn’t admit to stalking you hanging out with Geo, not even in the vaguest sense. So, you had to work for it.

You hadn’t even taken a full bite of your food before Sol was already speaking. "You made lunch today?" he asked, his voice far too casual. But you could hear the undercurrent of something. Was it jealousy? Possessiveness?

You paused, spoon halfway to your mouth, and gave him a look so casually, "No, Geo made it for me," you answered nonchalantly, barely glancing at him.

That stopped Sol cold. You saw his grip on his water bottle tighten, his expression faltering for just a moment.

Hyugo, who had been enthusiastically chewing his food, even slowed down to glance at the both of you, like 'bitch what?'. "My little brother??" He blinked, the surprise in his voice unmistakable.

"Yeah," you said with a shrug, pushing your hair back out of your face. "We went out to a bakery yesterday. We had leftovers, so Geo made this for me and added his own cooking. Claim he had too much but I know he's lying,"

You made a show of taking a bite of that food, GEO's FOOD. Trying to act casual, but you could tell Sol was barely holding it together. His face remained unreadable, but you could practically feel the simmering irritation in the air.

"H-Have fun?" Sol’s voice suddenly went tight—too tight. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze flickered between you and Hyugo as if he were struggling to hold back something.

You grinned, knowing exactly what was happening. "Yup."

Sol’s grip on his water bottle tightened even more, the plastic creaking under his fingers. "Really?" His voice was lower now, tinged with something darker. The possessiveness was unmistakable.

You leaned back slightly, savoring the moment. "Mhm. Geo’s actually pretty great company, you know."

And that was it. That was the exact moment you saw something snap in Sol’s expression. His jaw tightened, muscles twitching with barely contained rage. His gaze darkened to something dangerous, something you didn’t quite recognize but felt all the way down your spine. His hand, which had been resting on the ledge beside you, clenched into a fist, almost as if he were physically fighting the urge to pull you closer.

You could practically feel the heat radiating off him, the raw jealousy simmering beneath his calm exterior.

Next was Sol, of course.

You see, Sol was on the opposite end of the spectrum in terms of lifestyle compared to Geo. Dyed hair, dark clothes, the entire emo aesthetic. But damn, despite all that edge, Sol never failed to make your jaw drop with the simplest actions.

The way he carried himself, that intense gaze, the way his presence seemed to swallow the air around him. He was a walking contradiction—grungy yet perfectly composed, dangerous yet captivating.

You watched him for a moment, letting the silence stretch between you. Then, leaning slightly toward him, you tilted your head, voice light as you broke the tension. "So, Sol... what are you doing tonight?"

He glanced at you quickly, but then his eyes slid back toward the ground, pretending to be nonchalant. "Nothing, why?" His voice was cool, but you could tell he was listening, waiting for your next words with that quiet intensity of his.

"How about we do something together?" you asked casually, making sure to catch his gaze, letting him know this wasn’t just an idle suggestion. "A little... escape from the usual?" For a split second, you saw the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes—he wasn’t sure if he should be pissed or if he was genuinely interested.

You leaned in a little closer, watching his every move, waiting for the shift. "Maybe the arcade? Or the rooftop bar downtown?" you continued, a playful grin tugging at your lips as you named the places that were always ‘off-limits’ in some way—places where neither Geo nor any of his calculated controlled habits would be there to shadow you.

You could feel Sol’s pulse race, his curiosity piqued, but you both knew he wasn’t going to admit it.

His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, he didn’t speak. You waited, knowing Sol was contemplating the idea with that unreadable look on his face. Then, with a slight shift in posture, he leaned back, crossing his arms. "Why not both?" he finally said, his voice low and laced with that underlying tension.

You couldn’t help but smirk, a triumphant little rush sweeping over you. "Thought you’d say that."

He tilted his head at you, a challenging gleam in his eyes. "You’re lucky I’m in the mood for it."

But you knew the truth: he wasn’t just in the mood for it. Sol was making this choice for a reason. He was staking his claim, showing you exactly what you meant to him, even if he wasn’t saying it outright.

"Let’s go then," you said, pushing up from the ledge and grabbing your bag. "I’ll drive."

You and Sol ended up at the arcade bar, the dim lighting, neon signs, and the sounds of games and laughter buzzing in the background. The place was filled with the usual mix of drunk college kids, rowdy groups playing shooting games, and couples lost in the flashing lights. The air smelled faintly of beer and popcorn, and the low hum of music blended with the clinking and clattering of game machines.

You walked up to the claw game, your eyes immediately spotting a small plush sitting just out of reach, nestled between other stuffed animals. A mischievous grin tugged at your lips as you studied the claw’s movement.

"Can you get it for me, Sol?" you asked innocently, but there was a hint of playful challenge in your tone.

Sol raised an eyebrow at you, his lips twitching into that familiar, knowing smirk. "I’m not your personal claw machine expert, you know."

"Oh, come on. You’re good with your hands, aren’t you?" you teased, turning your head to meet his gaze, making sure he saw the way your fingers twitched at the machine's controls.

Sol didn’t reply right away, just watching you, a flicker of amusement in his dark eyes. His gaze followed your every move, always studying you like you were some kind of puzzle he couldn’t quite crack. You didn’t expect him to move just yet, though—because you had a plan.

The claw machine was already set up for failure in your favor. You purposefully timed your moves to keep missing the plush, missing the claw’s target by mere inches each time. It was an art at this point, a silent dance between you and the machine.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Sol stepping up behind you. The warmth of his body pressed against yours for just a moment, the heat of him radiating even through the buzz of the arcade. His breath was warm against your ear, and you could feel his chest rise and fall just behind you as he watched, his body too close for comfort, too close to be innocent.

“You’re missing the timing," Sol’s voice was low, almost a growl, as he leaned down just enough for his nose to brush against the side of your hair. You could feel the weight of his presence behind you, feel the way his hands hovered just above yours, ready to step in if you let him. "You need to wait for the claw to line up perfectly before you move it. Let it hang for a second longer."

You shivered slightly, the sound of his voice in your ear making something inside you stir. The combination of his closeness and the tension from the game made your heart race, your hand still hovering over the joystick.

"Show me," you murmured, your voice a little more breathless than you intended, the excitement of the moment taking over.

Sol didn’t hesitate. His hand brushed over yours, his long fingers wrapping around your wrist as he guided your movements, his body pressing further into yours. The subtle brush of his chest against your back made your breath hitch in your throat.

He adjusted your grip on the joystick, his fingers briefly brushing your skin as he gently moved your hand to line up the claw with the black cat. His breath, warm and steady, ghosted against your ear as he spoke again, a soft command mixed with a hint of amusement. "Now, wait for it…"

You could feel his heart beating against your back, a steady rhythm that matched the growing tension in your chest. His thumb brushed over your wrist lightly as you waited, the seconds dragging on forever.

And then, in a move so precise, you almost didn’t see it, the claw dipped down, catching the plush perfectly. You both watched in silence as it rose, bringing the plush toy closer and closer and finally dropping it into the prize chute. "Got it," you said, the words almost a whisper but filled with a triumphant smile.

Sol stepped back, his body leaving a sudden chill in the space where he’d just been pressed against you. You turned to face him, only to see the satisfied, yet somehow unreadable expression on his face.

He didn’t say anything at first, just watched you as you picked up the plush, holding it in your hands like it was some kind of prize—not just the one you won from the claw game.

"You’re welcome," Sol muttered under his breath, but the way his gaze lingered on you, the way his lips barely twitched into something close to a smirk, told you everything you needed to know.

The next day, after classes, you found yourself lounging in the usual spot outside the campus café, the one with the low-sunk benches and worn-out cushions, perfect for chilling when the afternoon sun warmed everything just right.

Crowe and Geo were the only ones free—everyone else was busy with their own afternoon classes, leaving the three of you with some time to kill.

You’d already had your morning classes earlier, just like Crowe and Geo, getting the heavy lifting out of the way so you could enjoy the rest of the day without the looming shadow of assignments or exams. It was quiet, just the hum of conversations from other students and the occasional passing car.

Crowe casually leaned back in his seat, fiddling with his phone, but then his gaze landed on the plush you had won at the arcade bar last night. The small plush sat beside you, nestled in your arms. It was barely noticeable unless you were paying attention, but Crowe definitely noticed.

"You went to the arcade bar last night, huh?" he remarked casually, lifting an eyebrow as his eyes flicked over to the plush. "Looks like you had fun. You win that?" He pointed to the black cat in your lap, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You smirked, leaning back against the seat as you shrugged. "Yeah, had a pretty good time." You could almost feel Crowe’s curiosity growing, but you didn’t give him too much to work with. You weren’t sure if you were ready to delve into the details of your night just yet.

But before you could say anything else, Geo, who’d been unusually quiet up until now, spoke up, his tone casual yet probing. "Did you go with Brittany?" he asked, his gaze flickering briefly toward you as he leaned forward slightly.

You tilted your head, giving him a sideways glance. "No," you replied with a small, knowing smile. "I went with Sol."

Crowe’s eyes widened slightly at that, his interest piqued. "Sol?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "The guy you partner up with in your art gen ed?"

You nodded, glancing at Geo from the corner of your eye. "Yeah. That's him."

For a moment, the conversation seemed to stall. Geo’s expression didn’t change, but you could feel his energy shift slightly, the subtle tension in the air thickening. His eyes remained cool, distant, like always—but there was something just beneath the surface. A flicker. A brief crack in his calm, and then it was gone, leaving you wondering if you’d imagined it.

Crowe, however, seemed much more openly intrigued. "Didn't know you two hung out like that," he said, still grinning. "Interesting."

You met Geo's eyes again, but this time, he was looking at the table, fingers tapping lightly against his cup. His face was as unreadable as ever, but the way he had asked about Brittany—so focused, so sharp—left you with a sense of unease. It was subtle, but there.

You couldn’t help but watch him for a beat longer than necessary, but Geo’s cool demeanor didn’t crack. If he was feeling anything, he wasn’t showing it.

"Yeah," you said again, your voice quieter now as you let the weight of your words sink in. "Sol’s... something."

Crowe raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. "Something, huh?" He leaned in a little closer, his playful teasing tone back. "Sounds like you're keeping some secrets from us."

You just shrugged again, keeping the mystery between you all. You didn’t need to explain yourself. Not yet, anyway.

The rest of the conversation drifted off, but you could feel Geo’s eyes flicking to you every so often like he was sizing something up. Whether it was the situation, you, or something else entirely, you couldn’t quite tell.

But for now, you weren’t going to push.

After all, this had been going on for months now—stretching into the current year. Geo and Sol—two men who had wormed their way into your thoughts in ways you couldn’t quite understand. It wasn’t just when you were around them.

No, their presence lingered even when they weren’t there, like an unshakable hum in the back of your mind. It circled you constantly, like an orbit you couldn’t escape, especially as you sat in bed late at night, trying to focus on your homework.

Every time you’d start to make progress, one of them would pop into your head, their images uninvited and persistent.

Sometimes, you'd find yourself imagining them both vying for your attention at once—Geo, with his cool, almost aloof demeanor, and Sol, burning with that raw, intense energy he always carried.

You’d picture them both charming you at the same time, competing for your affections in some twisted game. You’d have to smack your head with a pillow to shake the thought loose, as if physical force could snap you back into reality.

Geo: the silent, brooding menace who could make you feel like the only person in the room with just a glance.

And then there was Sol: the human equivalent of a forest fire—intense, consuming, and just a little bit unhinged.

Each of them pulled at your heart in a very different way, and frankly? It was ruining your life.

Class should’ve been simple, but nope. Your mind kept spiraling between the two of them like some shamelessdaydreamer. This was supposed to be a harmless little game—a fun flirtation. You weren’t supposed to actually catch feelings.

And yet, here you were, caught in a ridiculous mental tug-of-war. You knew you couldn’t have both. You weren’t thatkind of person. Right?

…Right?

But the thought just wouldn’t leave. It sat there. Mocking you.

You groaned, running a hand down your face. It’s not like you could just—

…Oh god.

You couldn’t have a threesome with them.

That was insane. Insane.

You let out a quiet, awkward laugh at the mere idea of it. Geo and Sol? Together? Working together? As if. Those two could barely exist in the same airspace without someone looking ready to throw hands.

They’d sooner kill each other than ever—

…

Unless…

Before you could delve deeper into that increasingly absurd—and wildly tempting—thought, a voice cut through your spiraling thoughts.

"Hey, you good?"

You blinked, snapping back to reality, your thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind. There was Sol, standing over you, his pen set down on the table in front of you. His hand—big and warm—reached out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear with a simple, almost gentle touch.

It was something so small, so subtle, but it completely threw you off.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you had to cough to cover the sudden rush of heat flooding your chest.

Shit.

"You sure?" Sol’s voice was low and steady, but there was a note of concern in it that caught you off guard. His eyes lingered on you, studying your face, as if trying to decipher what was going on behind your cool exterior. "That look on your face says otherwise."

You quickly shook your head, trying to brush it off, though you knew it didn’t quite work. “I’m fine, really,” you said, though your voice had a slight edge to it—irritation creeping in. Why was he always so perceptive? It made you uncomfortable.

Sol didn’t buy it. Of course, he didn’t. He stood there, watching you with that intense gaze of his, making you feel like he could see right through you. Maybe you weren’t fine. Maybe the situation was more complicated than you'd like to admit, and maybe, just maybe, he was the one who could throw you off balance with just a touch.

But no, you wouldn’t let him know that. Not yet. You were fine.

You were just… fine. Right?

Fuck no.

Art class ended, and the moment the bell rang, you bolted out of the classroom, making a quick escape. You needed to get away—fast. The building seemed endless, but you were determined to make it out as you pushed the glass door open before you ran into anyone who would slow you down.

But as you rounded the corner, you collided with something—no, someone. Strong arms caught you before you could stumble back. You looked up to find Geo standing there, an unreadable expression on his face, clearly waiting for you.

“Watch where you’re going,” Geo said, his voice steady, though there was an edge to it as he held you firmly. “Could’ve fallen.”

You sighed, rolling your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart skipped a beat from the sudden closeness. “I know,” you muttered, pulling away from his grip. But as you tried to step back, you could feel his gaze on you, like he could read you better than anyone else.

Oh shit.

“Something wrong?” Geo asked, his tone softer, more probing now. He tilted his head slightly, studying your face.

You didn’t want to deal with this. Not here. Not with half the school walking by, eyes glued to the scene. You couldn’t bring yourself to make this anything public—not when the whole damn hallway was buzzing with life. You didn’t want to be an exhibit.

“Nothing,” you snapped, avoiding his gaze as you turned to walk away, trying to make your steps as quick and purposeful as possible.

But of course, Geo wasn’t the type to let things slide. You could feel the weight of his footsteps behind you, steady like he wasn’t planning to let you go that easily.

You kept walking, the distance between you and him narrowing as he caught up with you, his presence heavy in the air.

“Don’t think I’m letting this go,” he said, his voice low and knowing.

You almost wanted to tell him to drop it. To stop following you. But you couldn’t find the words. You’d rather deal with this alone in your studio apartment at your dorm building. Maybe just let the work pile up, let the hours drag on. You didn’t want to have this conversation—not now, not in front of everyone.

But as Geo walked behind you, you knew one thing for sure: he wasn’t going to let you hide from it.

You walked briskly toward your dorm, eager for the quiet refuge of your room. The noise of the campus buzzed around you, but you barely registered it. You needed a moment to think, to breathe, to escape the tension that had been building all day.

Just as you rounded the corner, ready to slip inside the safety of your dorm building, your luck completely betrayed you.

Sol stood in front of the door, arms crossed, his usual playful smirk replaced by something that looked almost like frustration. Behind you, you could feel Geo’s presence, steady and unyielding.

He’d caught up to you.

“Can I help you?” you muttered, not bothering to hide the irritation in your voice as you stopped short, staring at Sol’s casual stance.

Sol’s eyes flickered to Geo for a moment before focusing back on you. “So, what’s going on?” His voice was laced with amusement, but there was a clear edge to it, like he knew something you weren’t saying.

Geo didn’t speak at first, standing just behind you, as if guarding the space between you and Sol. He wasn’t making any moves to push past, but his presence was unmistakable, like a shadow you couldn’t shake.

You took a deep breath, hoping the annoyance that flared in your chest didn’t spill out as you spoke. “Nothing’s going on,” you said with heavy sigh, “I’m just trying to get to my dorm.”

“Oh, you’re trying to get to your dorm?” Sol repeated, his eyebrows lifting slightly, a mock sweetness to his voice. “How convenient. He’s with you.”

Geo shifted slightly behind you, his gaze on Sol but saying nothing. His silence was suffocating, like the calm before a storm, but you didn’t want to deal with it.

Not now. Not here.

“Seriously,” you said, your voice tight, trying to push past the bubbling frustration. “I’m not in the mood for this, okay? I’m not doing whatever game you two are playing. I just want some space.”

Sol stepped forward, blocking your path. “But space from what? From me? Or from Him?” He said, more like in a worried tone.

Your heart skipped, and the tension in your chest built up again. You had no idea what either of them wanted—if they were trying to get under your skin, if they were genuinely concerned, or if they just liked messing with you.

Either way, you were getting frustrated.

Geo finally spoke, his voice low and even. “There’s right. If they want space, they should get it.”

Sol’s gaze shifted to him, then back to you. His lips pressed together in the way he did when he was trying to hold back. But the tension between them was palpable. You could feel the pull of it, both of them watching you, waiting for something. You weren’t sure what it was, but you knew you didn’t want to find out.

“So what’s it going to be?” Sol asked, his tone still light but sharper now, like a blade hidden under velvet.

You were fucked, weren’t you?

Stuck between two guys who couldn’t seem to let you be, two men who both knew how to get to you in different ways. And for once, you didn’t know how to escape it. You didn’t know how to get them both to leave you alone.

You had to choose your next words carefully, but for the first time in a long time, you weren’t sure what the right choice even was.

The silence hung thick between you, Sol and Geo, both of them locked in a battle of wills without saying much—yet it felt like everything was being said. You could feel the tension in the air, thick enough to suffocate.

Then, with the smallest crack in the quiet, it started.

“You can’t seriously be this fucking oblivious, can you?” Sol’s voice was sharp, a knife-edge cutting through the air. His eyes flared with a familiar anger, but there was something else there now—something that definitely screams jealousy.

Geo didn’t back down.

“What the hell are you talking about?” His voice, obviously sturdy just annoyed.

“Oh, you’re really gonna act like you don’t know now?” Sol snapped, taking a step forward, his gaze never leaving Geo. "You can clearly see they not some fucking toy for you to keep playing with. Can’t you see there’s already fucking exhausted from all of this? From you”

The words hit like a punch, but they weren’t aimed at you—not directly. Still, you could feel the weight of them, as if they were pulling you in, squeezing tighter and tighter.

You stood there, frozen.

Your thoughts swirled in your mind—fuck this, you can’t deal with this now.

You wanted to scream, to tell them to shut up and let you go, but the words never came. Instead, you just stared at the ground, feeling the pressure of the moment pressing down on you.

“Exhausted?” Geo’s scoff was low, almost bitter.

“They haven’t said a word to me about being tired of anything.” His eyes flicked to you, but for once, you didn’t meet his gaze.

You couldn’t. It would make it worse.

it wasn’t long that your name fell upon Geo lips, looking down at you, you refused to look before he for you face to look at you.

"You have something to tell me?” Geo asked.

Fuck. Things are definitely worse now because with that sudden touch oh Sol? Yeah, he’s not having it anymore.

“Hey get your hands off them” Sol’s voice was nearly a growl now, and you could feel the heat radiating off him like he was a flame ready to burn everything down.

"I’m not letting you have them.”

Geo’s response was immediate, and the words were like steel. “Oh, I don’t have to take anything from you. I’m not the one chasing them around pretending to be thier fucking savior.”

You winced at the word savior. It felt like everything was crumbling in on itself. The walls that you had spent so long trying to keep up—between them, between your feelings, between yourself—were crumbling into dust.

And you didn’t stop them. You didn’t say a word. The argument, as much as it was annoying you, felt easier than breaking the silence. It felt better than picking a side, better than making this worse.

Instead, you just stood there, eyes glued to the floor however listen with your heart racing as the fight between them escalated. Every word, every accusation, every harsh tone felt like a dagger.

This is your fault, isn’t it?

Playing a game between two possessive men...

Yeah, you definitely fucked things up.

Sol stepped closer, his eyes flashing with a fierce intensity. “I’m not their savior. I just wanna make sure that they’re okay, you’re the one that’s stressing them."

Geo took a step forward, closing the space between them. “And who exactly said that? Last time I checked, you do not speak for them. How long are you gonna act like they belong to you, delusional ass.”

You could feel your pulse quicken as the anger between them seemed to rise, boiling over, threatening to explode. You were caught in the middle, a bystander to a fight that you caused.

And still, you did nothing. You didn’t speak, didn’t intervene. You just stood there, your heart hammering in your chest, trying to fight back the suffocating wave of frustration, fear, and exhaustion.

“Stop it,” you finally whispered, so quietly that neither of them seemed to hear it at first. But they were both too deep in their argument to notice.

"Stop," you said louder this time, your voice shaking but firm. “Just stop. I don’t want this.”

Geo and Sol froze at the sound of your voice, both of them pausing mid-sentence, and for a moment, you thought that maybe—just maybe—they might listen. But then Geo’s gaze shifted to you, his eyes filled with something unreadable.

“Look, I don’t need your help, either of you. I’m just… I just need some fucking space,” you said, your words sharp and exhausted, finally breaking the dam of silence that had been holding you in place.

You didn’t want to explain yourself anymore. .

Geo and Sol exchanged a brief, tense glance, but neither of them moved.

Your voice cracked slightly as you took another step back. “Please. Go away…”

Without waiting for a response, you turned and walked away, the weight of their eyes on your back like a burning brand. The silence between you all lingered as you left them standing there, words unfinished in the air.

You didn't know what would come next, but for now, you needed to be alone.

You slammed the door behind you, leaning your forehead against the cool wood for a moment, just to collect yourself. The weight of it all hit you then—every little mistake, every decision that had led to this point. Slowly, you slid down to the floor, hugging your knees to your chest as if holding yourself together was the only thing left you could do.

You hated this.

Hated the mess you’d made.

Hated that you thought you could handle it, that you could juggle them both without consequences. The worst part? You didn’t even really know what you were hoping for—what you thought would happen. You had an idea, but now that you were here, it felt like you’d just stepped into your own trap.

You cared for both of them, deeply. And as much as that made your chest ache, you couldn’t forget that they were adults, just like you. They were capable of making their own decisions, and this mess? It was your doing. You let it spiral.

With a deep sigh, you finally pulled off your shoes and tossed them aside, already thinking about the shower you desperately needed. Maybe, just maybe, they'd be chill by the time you were done.

But, fuck, who were you kidding?

This was far from over.

Meanwhile, Geo exhaled sharply through his nose, the tension in his shoulders growing with every missed shot. The arrow barely scraped the target this time, and he clicked his tongue in frustration.

It wasn’t like him to miss. His hands were steady, his breathing controlled—but his mind? His mind was an absolute mess.

Because of you.

Five damn calls. Five times he let it ring, only to get nothing in return. He had half a mind to try again, but instead, he shoved his phone into his pocket and shot off a final text.

I’ll leave you alone.

And yet, the moment he sent it, he regretted it. He didn't want to leave you alone. That was the whole problem, wasn’t it?

Before he could dwell on it, a voice cut through the air.

“So, you think you’re funny, huh?”

Geo didn’t even flinch. He already knew who it was before he turned his head. Sol was standing in the archery room now, door shut behind him, posture loose but his eyes sharp.

Geo rolled his eyes, lowering his bow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, emo.”

That was the last straw.

In a blink, Sol had grabbed him by the collar, yanking him forward, their faces inches apart. Geo barely had time to process the shift before Sol’s voice came low and dark.

“Don’t start that ignorant bullshit,” Sol growled, fingers tightening in Geo’s shirt. “I know exactly what you’re doing. You’re trying to make me look like an ass.”

Geo let out a breath of laughter, cool and effortless, but there was an edge to it. “Me? I didn’t do anything.” His smirk deepened the glint in his eye anything but apologetic. “You do that enough as it is.”

Sol’s grip tightened, knuckles whitening. His eyes were burning, brimming with something dangerously close to fury.

Geo just sighed.

Sol’s jaw twitched, his fingers still tight in Geo’s collar as he narrowed his eyes. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" His voice was low, filled with jealousy. "You’re obsessed. You keep trying to prove you’re better than me—so much so that you’d stoop this low?"

Geo let out a quiet scoff, his expression unreadable. "Obsessed?" He tilted his head slightly, considering the word. "If I were obsessed, you wouldn't even be able to breathe near them." His voice was smooth, even. "I trust them. I respect them. That’s what this is. You? You just want control."

Sol's grip wavered for half a second before his teeth clenched. "That’s some bullshit ass-kissing if I’ve ever heard it."

Geo’s smirk barely faltered. "And yet, you’re the one constantly up their ass for attention." He leaned in just slightly, voice dropping lower, colder. "How about you try treating them like a normal person instead of acting like you own them?"

Sol's expression darkened, however Geo didn’t move, didn’t even blink.

Damn, he really don’t care nonchalant ass.

Then, with deliberate slowness, Geo reached up and pried Sol’s fingers off his collar, brushing himself off as if the whole thing had been a minor inconvenience.

"I’d say grow up," Geo muttered, turning away, "but we both know that’s never happening."

Sol let out a short, humorless laugh. "I have no problem settling this with my fists, you know." His tone was sharp, a direct challenge.

Geo rolled his eyes, unimpressed. "Right, because that’s always worked so well for you." He adjusted the strap on his archery gear, not even looking at Sol as he spoke. "You can threaten me all you want, but we both know neither of us would like where that road leads."

Sol’s fingers twitched. His patience was razor-thin. "Tch." His brows furrowed, annoyance flickering across his face. "You always got that smug, rich asshole act going, huh?" He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "News flash, dude—just because you’ve got money and pretty looking doesn’t mean you're better than me."

Geo finally turned to face him, completely unfazed. "Never said I was." He packed up the rest of his things, moving with an infuriating amount of calm. Then, as he reached the door, he paused. Looking over his shoulder, he sighed.

"And?" His voice was light, almost teasing. "At least I’m not some crazy ‘yandere’ lover."

That was it. Sol’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

Oh, this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. Neither of them were backing down.

Not until you choose.

You stepped outside, and the cold hit you first—a stark contrast to the warmth of your dorm, where you had been holed up for the past week. The wind carried the faint chatter of students, the distant sound of traffic blending with the occasional echo of laughter.

The familiar scent of freshly brewed coffee from the campus café lingered in the air, but even that didn’t soothe the tension coiling in your chest.

The campus felt the same, unchanged as if the world had continued spinning without you. And yet, to you, everything felt different. The space between each step felt heavier, your mind was unwilling the overthink thoughts.

You pulled your jacket tighter around yourself, fingers clenching the fabric as you moved toward the main part of campus. It should’ve felt freeing, stepping out again, stretching your legs after days of isolation. But instead, a strange unease settled in your gut, an unshakable tension that refused to leave.

You sighed, pulling out your phone, and you flicked through your notifications.

Missed Calls: 15+

Messages Unread: 10+

Both are from Sol and Geo.

You sighed, rolling your eyes at yourself. You really should call them back.

But which one?

If you called Geo first, Sol would find out—one way or another. If you called Sol, Geo would know. Those two could be halfway across the world from each other, and they’d still figure it out.

Just your luck.

You stared at your phone, thumb hovering over the screen. A part of you thought about just ignoring them both for another day—but you already knew that wouldn’t last.

So...

Who first?

✑ 𝓈𝑜𝓁

You inhaled deeply, feeling the moment's weight settle over you as you stared at Sol’s contact on your phone screen. The decision to finally call him had been a long time coming, but now that it was here, your stomach churned with the uncertainty of what might follow.

You tapped the screen, watching the call ring, each second stretching longer than the last.

The phone barely rang twice before he picked up.

"You finally decided to call," he said, his voice lower than usual—quieter, almost softer, but there was an edge to it. Not anger. Not relief. But something else that you couldn’t quite place. The words hung in the air, a strange mixture of resignation and something else that made your chest tighten.

You hesitated, guilt gnawing at your insides. You’d kept your distance for so long. Too long. And now, hearing his voice—so calm, but threaded with an unmistakable undercurrent of tension—it felt almost like a punch to the gut. "Yeah. I figured it was about time," you said, your voice steady despite the roiling anxiety beneath the surface.

There was a long pause on the other end, just the faintest sound of him exhaling—a sigh of sorts. You could almost hear the weight of the silence before he spoke again.

"You okay?"

The simplicity of the question threw you off. You expected sarcasm, irritation—hell, even some passive-aggressive jabs would’ve been easier to handle. But this? It was genuine. A rawness in his tone that cut through everything else. He was asking, not because he wanted something, but because he actually cared. And that scared you.

You swallowed, fighting the lump in your throat, unsure of how to answer. "I—yeah. I just needed time," you said, the words coming out quieter than you intended.

"I get that now," he replied after a beat, the faint rasp in his voice betraying something deeper. "But I’m not gonna lie, I didn’t like it."

His honesty hit you harder than you expected. It wasn’t what you wanted to hear, but somehow, it felt like a relief. Sol wasn’t the type to mince words, and in this moment, you knew exactly where he stood. You weren’t sure what you were expecting from this conversation, but it was clear that what you’d put off for so long was finally catching up to both of you.

There was another long silence, the kind that settled heavy between you, and you could almost feel him on the other side of the phone, waiting, unsure of what you were going to say next.

"Can we talk?" you asked, the words leaving your mouth before you could second-guess them. The finality of it surprised you—this was it. The moment you’d both been dancing around for too long.

Sol was quiet for a second, the kind of silence that stretched just a little too long, leaving you hanging on the edge of the conversation, wondering if you’d pushed him too far. You held your breath, waiting. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, though still laced with that familiar edge of uncertainty.

"You sure?" he asked, the words carrying a subtle weight, as though he were wondering if this was something you both could handle.

"I wouldn’t be calling if I wasn’t," you replied, your voice firmer now. You weren’t going to back down. You needed to talk. You needed answers. And maybe, just maybe, you needed him.

There was a shift in his tone, like a decision had been made. A soft exhale followed by the sound of movement on his end, maybe him shifting in his seat, maybe running a hand through his hair. You could almost picture it—Sol, leaning back, thinking, processing everything that had happened.

"All right," he said finally. "Art classroom. After classes. The door’s open."

The way he said it made your heart skip. It wasn’t just an invitation—it was a call to meet, a place where things could be sorted. He wasn’t forcing it, but there was no mistaking the gravity in his words. He wanted to talk, too.

You let out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. "Okay," you replied, the single word carrying more weight than anything else you could’ve said.

"Good," Sol responded, his tone softer now. "See you then."

The call ended with a click, and for a moment, you just stood there, holding the phone in your hand, staring at the screen. You didn’t know what would happen next, but you couldn’t keep running anymore. Whatever was between you and Sol—it was time to face it.

Whatever happened, you would figure it out.

With a heavy sigh, you set the phone down, bracing yourself for whatever this conversation would bring. You couldn’t avoid it any longer.

The air outside was crisp, the warmth of the midday sun barely cutting through the lingering chill of early spring. Students filtered across the courtyard in waves, either rushing to their next class or loitering in clusters, laughing and chatting like nothing in the world could touch them.

You wished you could feel that kind of ease right now. Instead, the weight of unfinished business pressed against your chest as you stepped out of the building, prepared to put as much distance between yourself and the past week's tension as possible.

Then you saw him.

Geo.

Leaning against a pillar near the main walkway, his phone in hand, his expression unreadable. He wasn’t looking at you—not directly—but you knew him well enough to recognize the way his posture shifted, the subtle tilt of his head.

He’d been waiting for you. Your stomach tightened. Great.

Your grip on your bag strap tightened as you debated walking right past him. Maybe he’d let you go. Maybe you could avoid whatever this conversation was going to be—at least for a little longer.

But you knew better.

Geo wasn’t the type to let things slide, not when something was clearly bothering him. And sure enough, just as you tried to step around him, his voice cut through the noise of passing students.

"Hey."

You exhaled sharply, stopping in your tracks. “Hey, Geo.”

Finally, he lifted his gaze. Sharp, assessing—searching.

For what? You weren’t sure.

Whatever he saw in your face made something in his expression tighten, but he didn’t press immediately. Instead, he pushed off the pillar with an easy, practiced motion, sliding his hands into his pockets as he fell into step beside you.

Like this was normal. It wasn’t.

The silence stretched between you both, thick and heavy. You weren’t sure what to say, and for once, Geo didn’t immediately break it with some casual comment.

Then, a familiar voice cut through the tension.

"Okay, this is getting awkward as hell."

You turned to see Crowe standing a few feet away, arms crossed, one brow arched in amusement.

Geo scoffed. "No one's talking to you, Jericho.”

"Yeah, well, someone's gotta say it," Crowe shot back, stepping closer. He looked between you and Geo before sighing. "All right, real talk? You two need to clear the air, 'cause this weird-ass tension? It's making everyone uncomfortable."

Your stomach twisted. You knew it. Of course, the group had noticed. Even if you had spent the past week avoiding everyone, the energy between you and Geo—between you, Geo, and Sol—had lingered like a stain.

You exhaled sharply. "Crowe, not now."

"Then when?" Crowe challenged. "You can’t keep dodging this forever. And I know damn well Geo won’t drop it."

You flicked a glance at Geo, and sure enough, he was watching you carefully. He hadn’t denied it.

You rolled your shoulders, trying to shake the weight pressing down on you. “I just—” You cut yourself off, sighing again.

Geo spoke then, low and even. "I just want to talk."

It was that simple. Yet, it wasn’t.

Crowe tilted his head, giving you a pointed look. "So?"

You hesitated. You had already agreed to see Sol later. Adding Geo into the mix now? It felt like asking for trouble.

But at the same time…

You swallowed. “Fine. Let’s talk.”

Geo nodded once, slipping his hands into his pockets. Crowe grinned like he had just won something.

"Good. Now, I’m gonna leave before I end up in the middle of some dramatic lovers' quarrel." He spun on his heel and walked off, muttering under his breath about “...people and their complicated ass relationships.”

You took a slow breath, turning to Geo. “Where do you wanna do this?”

He gestured ahead. “Walk with me.”

You nodded. And with that, you fell into step beside him, feeling the weight of everything unsaid press down on you. Geo's silence as you walked together was unnerving, but not unusual. You had known him long enough to recognize when he was working something out in his head, dissecting information and piecing together a bigger picture.

And then—

"You're going to see him, aren't you?"

You froze for half a second before narrowing your eyes at him.

“How do you—”

Geo sighed, but there was no amusement in his expression.

"You just gave yourself away."

Fuck.

You clenched your jaw, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder. “.....I have to talk to him,” you admitted, voice measured.

Geo hummed, as if considering something, then tilted his head. "Because you like him?"

That stopped you. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The words were there, pressing against your tongue, but they refused to come out.

Geo exhaled sharply, leaning his head back before looking at you again, his usual cool demeanor cracking just slightly. "You need to stay away from him." His voice was firm, but not commanding—like he was trying to warn you rather than control you.

"He’s not what you think he is."

You rolled your eyes, scoffing. “Oh, what, you’re jealous now?”

Geo didn’t react right away, just watching you with an unreadable expression. You turned to leave, deciding you were done with this conversation, but before you could take more than two steps, his hand caught yours.

Not forcefully. Not to restrain. Just… holding.

You hesitated, glancing back at him. His fingers were warm around yours, his grip firm but careful.

Geo clicked his tongue in irritation. "I'm serious." His voice lost its usual arrogance, dipping into something quieter, something almost… uncertain. His brows pulled together just slightly, frustration flickering in his expression before he masked it again. "Believe me."

You hesitated, caught off guard by the shift in his tone. Geo wasn’t the type to plead, not like this.

Your fingers twitched at your side before you sighed, shaking your head. “Geo.” Your voice carried a tired edge. “I’m gonna see him. Whether you like it or not.”

His jaw clenched. "Use that brain of yours, dumbass," he muttered, irritation bleeding into his words. His usual smugness was still there, but it was strained—forced. "You can see it, can't you? That emo-ass dude isn't a good person."

You met his gaze, expecting the usual annoyed expression, the knowing glint in his eye. But there was none of that. Just something kept inside, something restless.

Still, you shook your head, unwilling to back down.

"I’ll figure things out myself."

Geo scoffed, but it lacked its usual bite. "Fine. It's your funeral," He didn’t stop you. Just shoved his hands into his pockets, watching as you walked away—like he wanted to say more but didn’t know how.

The sun had already begun to set when you strolled to the art building, the cool evening air wrapping around you in a bracing hug. The campus was quieter than usual, the incessant buzz of student chatter silenced by the soft murmur of distant conversations and the occasional crackle of leaves.

You walked down the corridor, your footsteps rustling softly against the floors, and arrived at the door to the art studio.

You paused for a single second, your hand hovering over the doorknob, before turning it and entering. The room was little illuminated, the golden yellow tones of the dying sun seeping in through the high windows, lighting the lengthening shadows thrown across the scattered easels and unfinished works.

The smell of paint and graphite filled the air, a welcome familiarity. The soft rumble of a heater vibrated through the room, and the soft whisper of papers as someone shifted around was the only sound.

And there he was.

Sol was sitting on a stool in the center of the room, a sketchpad resting on his knees. His dark hair fell just a little too long over his eyes, his usual brooding expression eased in concentration. He didn't even notice you at first, completely absorbed in the pencil gliding across the paper.

You stood there for a moment, watching him, the way the soft light caught on his face, the tension in his posture, the slight frown of concentration as his hand glided with practiced ease.

It was like a moment frozen in time.

You almost didn’t want to interrupt him. But then, just as you made a move to step forward, Sol looked up. His eyes met yours with that piercing gaze of his, dark and unreadable for a brief second. He blinked, his pencil pausing mid-air, and for a moment, you both just stared at each other.

He stood up slowly, pushing the stool back with a faint scrape of metal against the floor. His movements were deliberate, almost hesitant, as though he hadn’t quite expected you to actually show up. He stepped toward you, and you could feel the weight of his gaze settle on you like a heavy cloud.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Sol said, his voice low and slightly rough, like he had been waiting for this moment for a while. He took a few steps closer, his hands shifting awkwardly, unsure of what to do with them.

You didn’t answer right away, still trying to calm the nervous flutter in your chest. The tension between you two was thick enough to cut with a knife, but you had come here for a reason, and you weren’t going to back out now.

“Sol…” you started, your voice almost too quiet against the stillness of the room. You cleared your throat, meeting his eyes. “We need to talk.”

His expression shifted, ever so slightly, but you could tell he understood what you meant. There was a moment of hesitation, his lips pressing together tightly, before he nodded once, slowly.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice steady but with an undercurrent of something unreadable. “We do.”

He didn’t say anything else, just stood there for a second, letting the silence stretch out between you both. The space between you was intimate in a way that was almost suffocating, but you didn’t back away.

“I guess…” Sol started, breaking the silence with a soft chuckle, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s a good thing you came. I didn’t have anything better to do.” He paused, running a hand through his hair, his expression turning more serious.

“What exactly do you want to talk about?”

You chuckled softly, the sound almost a little hollow in the heavy atmosphere of the room. The absurdity of it all hit you then—how this had escalated, how you’d been caught between two men who seemed to be competing for your attention in ways you couldn’t quite understand or even fully control.

You couldn’t help but find it almost funny, the way both Geo and Sol had turned their jealousy into some kind of twisted competition, each trying to outdo the other. It had felt like a game at first, but now? Now, it was starting to weigh on you.

"You know," you said, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips as you finally broke the silence, "...it’s funny. The way you and Geo both get all... jealous. Like you both think it’s some sort of competition to see who can make me crack first."

Sol’s eyes narrowed slightly, a shift in his expression that you recognized. But you weren’t done yet.

"You both get under each other’s skin so easily, and it's... honestly kind of funny watching you two try to outdo each other," you continued, leaning against the edge of a nearby desk, arms folded. "But it’s exhausting too, don’t you think? Playing these mind games."

Sol stood there, jaw tight, his hands twitching by his sides as if he were trying to hold back whatever he wanted to say. His silence only fueled your need to vent more.

"Who’s more jealous?" you muttered under your breath, the words slipping out before you could even stop them. "You? Or Geo?"

Sol’s expression didn’t shift. He was standing there, his eyes scanning you, but you could see the flicker of frustration in them.

You could feel the tension rising, but you didn’t want to be here anymore—not like this.

The whole situation, the constant pull between them, was overwhelming, and it wasn’t just because they were being possessive. It was because you cared about both of them in ways you didn’t know how to explain.

You paused and shook your head, dropping your arms from your chest. “You know what? I can’t do this anymore.”

Sol’s gaze softened just a fraction as you spoke, and he stepped a little closer to you, though he was still keeping a distance. “Can’t do what?” he asked, his voice quieter, less biting now.

You sighed, your mind spinning. "I don’t want to be a part of this game anymore. The whole back and forth, the jealousy. I need peace." Your voice cracked slightly, and you hated how vulnerable it made you feel. "I don’t want to be the prize in some stupid contest."

Sol’s lips pressed into a thin line, his expression unreadable. There was a long, heavy pause as you stared at him, fighting the urge to turn away.

“You’re here to let me down, then?” he asked, his voice rougher now, a hint of something darker in it that sent a chill down your spine. He was looking at you like he didn’t know what to make of you anymore.

"No," you said, shaking your head quickly. "I’m not here to let you down." You took a breath, steadying yourself before continuing.

"I just… I like you. I do." You started.

"I like you more than I care to admit, and that’s the truth."

There. You said it. Happy?

Out loud, right in front of him. Sad?

You had to admit it at some point, and there was no better time than now. It felt like a weight lifted off your chest, though the air still felt thick with tension.

Yeah, you lowkey still cared for Geo, but when it came down to it, you realized it was Sol you were drawn to the most.

His intensity, the way he never seemed to need to explain himself, the way he got under your skin without even trying—it had all tangled together in your mind in ways you couldn't ignore anymore.

Sol stared at you for a long moment, his gaze softening just slightly, but still guarded. He didn’t speak right away, and the silence between you both felt suffocating. His eyes flickered between your face and your lips as if trying to read you, understand you, but it seemed like you had caught him off guard.

"I..." he started, then paused, like he was choosing his words carefully. "You don’t know how fucked up this is," he muttered under his breath, his voice low. "I didn’t think you’d actually come here and say that."

You could feel the weight of the moment pressing in, everything hanging between the two of you. But you didn't regret it. Not really.

“I needed to say it,” you whispered, your gaze meeting his with as much certainty as you could muster. "I’m done with the games, Sol."

He took a step closer to you, his hand reaching out, but he didn’t touch you—not yet. He was still watching you, trying to figure out where you stood, and where this would go next.

Then suddenness of Sol’s movement caught you completely off guard. One moment, he was standing in front of you, his expression guarded and intense, and the next, he had you in his arms, lifting you effortlessly off the ground.

Before you could react, he spun you around and placed you against the cold surface of one of the long tables in the empty art classroom. The sound of it echoed in the otherwise quiet room, but you couldn’t focus on that.

All you could focus on was him.

His body was pressed against yours, pinning you down, and you felt the heat radiating off him. The sharpness in his gaze was unmistakable, his red-orange eyes darker now, filled with something you couldn’t quite name but could feel in your bones—a hunger, a possessiveness. He leaned down, his breath hot against your ear, and you froze, caught in the intensity of the moment.

"Sol," you whispered, your voice shaking with a mix of uncertainty and something else, something you couldn’t quite understand.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his hand grabbed your wrist, holding it down on the table beside you with a strength that left no room for resistance. You could feel the pressure of his grip, the way he was keeping you in place, making sure you didn’t move. His thumb brushed lightly over your pulse, sending a chill through you as his gaze lowered to your lips.

"I’ve been waiting for this," he murmured, his voice rough, as if it were a secret he’d been dying to share. "I should’ve made you mine sooner, pumpkin. Shouldn’t have let you slip away, should’ve known you were mine from the start."

Before you could respond, before you could even process the words, his lips crashed onto yours. It was fierce, desperate, and possessive, his kiss taking control immediately. His mouth was hot, demanding, and he pulled you closer, using his hold on your wrist to keep you trapped beneath him.

Your breath caught in your throat as his lips moved against yours, and the more you tried to breathe, the tighter he pulled you. His body felt like a weight on top of you, keeping you locked in place. You tried to pull away, to create some distance, but his grip on your wrist tightened, and he growled low in his throat, making it clear that escape was not an option.

Sol pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes burning with an intensity that made you shiver. His breath was coming in shallow gasps, his chest rising and falling as he stared down at you, his lips still slightly parted from the kiss.

"You’re mine now, pumpkin," he murmured, the words soft—too soft—but laced with something undeniable. Something that curled around you like chains, invisible but unbreakable. His fingers brushed against your skin, gently, but you knew better. There was nothing gentle about him, not when he looked at you like that.

His eyes, dark and unwavering, held yours captive. “I’ll keep you close. Not Geo, not anyone… Just me.”

The way he said it, sweet like a lover’s promise, yet suffocating in its certainty, sent a slow, creeping shiver down your spine. This wasn’t affection. It wasn’t even love. It was something else—something unshakable, something that left no room for escape.

His hold tightened, his lips ghosting over your ear as his breath fanned against your skin. “I’ll make sure you never forget that,” he whispered, the words sinking in like a vow, like a sentence.

Your breath hitched. The room felt smaller. His grip on your wrist, the weight of his presence—everything about him pulled you deeper into something you weren’t sure you’d ever get out of.

Sol wasn’t just the man you liked anymore. He was something more, something dangerous. And as much as you wanted to fight it, to pull away, the terrifying truth settled in the pit of your stomach.

You weren’t going anywhere.

Not unless he allowed it.

✑ 𝑔𝑒𝑜

He's longer; sorry, I’m biased.

You stared at your phone for a long moment, the weight of your decision pressing down on you. You had spent the last week cooped up in your dorm, tangled in your own thoughts, unable to find peace with yourself or with them.

Sol and Geo... the constant pull between them had turned everything into a confusing mess.

But now? You needed clarity. You needed someone who wouldn’t add more fuel to the fire, someone who would just listen without trying to one-up the other. Maybe you were kidding yourself—because this was Geo, after all. But you needed this.

Taking a deep breath, you hovered your fingers over the screen, glancing at the missed calls again. Your pulse was racing, the anxiety of the choice settling in your chest. The last thing you wanted was to face this alone—but you also didn’t want to avoid it.

After what felt like an eternity, you made the decision.

You called Geo.

It rang one time before his voice answered, and you immediately felt the coldness in his tone, like he doesn't care but he's been secretly been waiting for this call.

“Hey, you cool now?”

Yeah he's definitely upset but also quiet concern hidden beneath his brooding ass personality.

You rolled your eyes but also tried to steady your breath, the weight of everything crashing down on you all at once. You didn’t know how to explain it, so you didn’t try to. Instead, you just said what you needed to say.

“I... I need to talk to you. Can we meet somewhere?”

There was a pause on the other end, and for a moment, you wondered if he was thinking it over. But he didn’t push for more information. He simply agreed, his voice calm and understanding.

“Sure. Where do you want to meet?”

You bit your lip, a brief moment of indecision hitting you. But then it came to you. "Where you at?"

He paused for a beat before replying, “About to start classes, but later I have archery practice.”

“Bet,” you said, your voice steadying. “I’m coming when you have practice.”

Before he could say anything else, you hung up. The decision felt sudden like you were just throwing yourself into the unknown, but there was a strange sense of relief mixed with it.

Damn, that really overwhelmed you.

You leaned back against the wall, closing your eyes for a moment. The tension that had built up over the past few days began to loosen slightly—though you weren’t fooling yourself. There was still so much left unsaid.

The afternoon passed in a blur of lectures and assignments. Your mind kept wandering to your phone, to the call you had just made to Geo. Every time you tried to focus, the weight of everything from the past few weeks came crashing down on you again, clouding your thoughts. You hated the feeling of being so torn, but there was little you could do to change it now.

After your last class, you quickly went to the campus snack shop. You grabbed a bag of chips and a couple of candy bars, trying to grab a bit of comfort before meeting up with Sol and Hyugo for lunch. The campus was busy with students, the energy of their conversations filling the air, but you felt strangely detached from it all.

You reached the stairs leading to the roof, where you were supposed to meet them. The familiar sight of the door at the top of the stairs felt almost comforting, like a safe haven. But when you pushed the door open and stepped onto the roof, you only saw Sol.

You paused, momentarily confused.

The quiet hum of the city outside the campus walls mixed with the soft sound of wind brushing against the roof, creating a peaceful atmosphere that contrasted sharply with the chaotic thoughts swirling in your mind.

But Sol?

He was there, leaning against the railing, his eyes fixed on the horizon. His usual sharp, confident demeanor softened in the warm sunlight, and there was a rare stillness about him, something you didn’t often get to see.

Your heart skipped a beat at the sight of him, but you quickly shook it off, determined not to let yourself be distracted. You needed to focus, to stay grounded, even though everything felt like it was slipping away.

“Hey,” you called out, your voice cutting through the quiet air.

Sol turned to face you, his eyes scanning you for a moment, his gaze lingering longer than usual. You noticed the faint shadows beneath his eyes, signs of something deeper—a weariness that didn't quite match his usual carefree attitude. He straightened up slowly, a smirk forming at the corner of his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time.

“You’re late,” he said, his voice carrying that familiar teasing edge, but something about it felt off.

You rolled your eyes, pulling out the snacks you’d bought and handing him a bag of chips before grabbing one for yourself. “I bought lunch. Where’s Hyugo?” you asked, looking around, expecting to see him somewhere nearby.

Sol’s smirk faltered, and he shifted his weight slightly, eyes briefly flicking away as if he were debating whether to say something. “He’s upset at me,” Sol said, his tone flat, almost defensive.

You blinked, caught off guard by the admission. “What? Why?”

Sol didn’t immediately respond. Instead, he leaned back against the railing, his eyes studying you for a moment as if he was weighing how much he wanted to reveal. “Doesn’t matter,” he muttered, but there was an edge to his voice now, something that made it clear there was more to the story.

You stared at him, wondering if you should press further, but before you could, Sol asked, “Are you meeting up with Geo today?”

The question caught you off guard, and you hesitated.

The look in his eyes was tried, searching. It was as if he already knew the answer, but he was waiting for you to say it. You felt a wave of unease wash over you. Should you lie? Should you be truthful? You knew that whatever you said, Sol would know eventually through, and yet, you didn’t want to push him further.

You swallowed, unsure how to respond. Finally, you gave a small, uncertain nod, your voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah...” you said, almost as though you were answering a question you hadn't been ready to face.

The silence hung heavy between you and Sol, the wind carrying a cool edge that seemed to make everything feel even colder. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t even flinched as you shifted uneasily beside him, and when he spoke again, his voice was more urgent than before, more desperate.

“Don’t meet with him,” Sol said, his tone low but intense, like a warning. He was staring straight ahead, hands gripping the railing a little too tightly.

You look at him, lost as hell, "What—" He cuts you off.

“He is from that rich society that happened to be kicked out of, and you know what that means."

You shrugged your shoulders and shook your head.

You didn't say anything. Ngl let's just hope he doesn't crash out.

"Long story short, you don’t belong in that world. It’s all fake, all about status and image. Why do you want to be with someone like that? Someone who looks at everything like it’s just a game for him?” His voice was laced with bitterness, the words tumbling out in a stream of disapproval, each one landing with a weight that made you feel suffocated.

You could feel his words digging into you, his frustration and anger clear, as though he had been holding this in for too long. The more he spoke, the more you could hear the layers of jealousy and resentment hidden beneath the surface.

“Why are you even considering him?” Sol went on, his eyes now locked on you, sharp and accusing. “You think he’s different, but trust me, he’s not. He’s nothing but a walking reflection of everything that’s wrong with that world. You’re just another thing to him, a new toy to play with before he gets bored. And you—”

Sol paused, his voice dipping, almost as if he was struggling to keep control of his emotions, “You’re smarter than that. You deserve better than to be some rich boy’s little distraction.”

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides, the frustration boiling inside you. You had been hearing this for days, and it was starting to feel like a broken record. His words kept echoing in your head, over and over, but with each passing second, it became harder to listen.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

“Are you good?” You finally blurted out, your voice sharp with irritation, cutting through his tirade. “Are you seriously obsessed with me or something?” The words left your mouth before you could stop them, the question hanging in the air between you two like a live wire.

Sol’s expression faltered for just a moment, his eyes flashing with something unreadable, something that was maybe a little too close to the truth. But then, without warning, his face hardened again, the smirk returning to his lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Sol muttered, more to himself than to you, turning his attention back to the skyline. His posture became stiff again, his shoulders drawn tight like he was bracing for something.

“You’re better off without him. Trust me on this.”

You felt your chest tighten as his words hung in the air, the tension between you thickening. A part of you was almost shocked that he’d go this far, but at the same time, you could sense that this wasn’t the first time he’d crossed a line like this.

His possessiveness, his obsession, it was always there, lurking just beneath the surface.

You could feel it now, the weight of it pressing down on you.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, but the anger and frustration bubbled to the surface. "You're worthless," you spat out, the words sharp, like a knife cutting through the silence. "I don’t know what the hell you think this is, but I’m not yours. I’ll never be yours." Your voice trembled slightly, not from fear but from the sheer overwhelming weight of your emotions.

For a moment, Sol didn’t react.

He just stood there, his back turned to you, staring off into the distance, the wind tousling his hair. But you could feel the shift in the air, the subtle way the space between you seemed to shrink like he was about to snap.

And then he turned to face you, his eyes darker than before, something almost predatory in his gaze. He stepped forward, closing the distance between you, his hand reaching out to gently, but firmly, take hold of your wrist. “Don’t say that,” he whispered, his voice low and almost dangerous, the words leaving a chill in the air.

“You’re supposed to be mine, Pumpkin.”

He looks at you deeply, "You just don’t know it yet.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut. For a split second, you almost felt like you were suffocating, caught in the intensity of his gaze and the suffocating grip he had on your wrist.

A part of you wanted to pull away, to fight, but another part of you—perhaps the one that was tired, exhausted from all the confusion and the constant pull between him and Geo—like shit this was tiring.

But Sol wasn’t going to let you go that easily.

“I can't see him.” His voice was soft, but the underlying threat was unmistakable. “You belong with me. You know that, don’t you? You feel it, too. You can’t deny it, not with how you look at me.”

The words burned through you, and despite everything, you felt a sick sense of dread settle in your stomach. “Stop,” you said, your voice trembling, trying to pull away from him. “You’re insane. You don’t own me. I’m not your fucking possession.”

Sol didn’t let go. His grip tightened just enough to make you wince, “You think I’m crazy?” he asked, his lips curling into a twisted smirk. “You have no idea, do you? I’d burn the world down just to keep you. And you want to play these games with him?” He stepped back for a moment as if letting the words sink in.

“I thought I was so lucky you gave me a chance.”

There was a moment of silence, the weight of his words hanging between you, before he suddenly broke the fourth wall, his voice shifting slightly as if addressing something outside the moment, outside of reality itself.

“You think you can just walk away from this?” Sol’s voice was sharper now, more knowing, as if speaking directly to the reader, to the reality that existed beyond the world you were in. “Do you think you can make decisions like this without consequences? Without me getting involved?” His eyes gleamed with something unsettling.

“You can’t run from me, not anymore.”

You felt your heart pounding in your chest as if it might burst from the pressure building inside. The world around you seemed to warp and distort, the edges of reality blurring.

You were lost—completely and utterly lost.

You’d thought you understood what was happening, but now, with Sol so close, his words was filled with something sinful and desperate, it was all unraveling in a way you couldn’t make sense of.

The way he looked at you, the way he gripped your wrist like it was his lifeline, it was suffocating. His gaze held something twisted, an obsession that felt too intense, too real.

Why have you been dumb until now? This wasn’t just a simple crush or playful teasing. This wasn’t just a guy who wanted to be close.

No. Sol was obsessed.

And it scared you.

You tried to pull your wrist free, but his grip was tight. The words on your lips were desperate, but they felt so small against the weight of his presence. “This isn’t right,” you murmured, more to yourself than to him.

Sol didn’t respond immediately. He only stared at you, his eyes darkening, as if weighing your every word, your every movement. “You don’t get it, do you?” His voice was low, but there was an edge to it. “I need you. I’ll always make you see. I'll be good, you can do whatever you want to me, use me, hurt me, please”

The words Sol had thrown at you hung in the air, thick and suffocating, making it hard to breathe.

"Pumpkin, please don't pick him." not like I can anyway in the game.

You felt paralyzed, trapped by the weight of his obsession and the raw, unhinged look in his eyes.

Was this really happening? Was this the mess you’d walked into, too blind to see the signs before?

Your thoughts spiraled, emotions crashing together like a storm you couldn’t outrun. But before you could sort anything out, the air shifted. The tension in the room grew thicker, a new presence making itself known.

Geo.

He appeared in the exit stair doorway, his posture rigid, like he was ready to explode at any second. But it was his eyes that caught your attention, locking onto Sol with a cold, seething intensity that matched the storm brewing between them.

“You’re really fucking crazy, huh?” Geo’s voice was sharp, his words cutting through the charged silence. His gaze never left Sol, as if daring him to say something back.

You tried to back away, finally pulling your wrist free from Sol’s grasp, but your legs were weak, your body trembling with the adrenaline coursing through you. You couldn’t think straight. You needed space; you needed air. But there was no time to escape.

Because Sol’s gaze never wavered, and Geo’s words had already ignited something in him.

“Stay the fuck out of this,” Sol growled, his voice low and dangerous. There was a flash of rage crossing his features, and you knew in that instant that things were about to escalate.

“You don’t get to come in here and play the knight.”

Geo didn’t flinch. If anything, he seemed even more determined. “You’ve already crossed every line. Just back off, she doesn't want you, peasant,” His voice was calm, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed the storm raging underneath.

“I won’t let you fuck with them any longer.”

And just like that, it was like the dam had broken. Crash out time!!

Sol lunged first, moving quickly, too quickly for you to process. He slammed into Geo with all his weight, pushing him against the nearby wall, and you couldn’t help but flinch at the sound of their bodies colliding.

Geo’s arm shot out, blocking the punch that Sol aimed for his face, and for a moment, they were locked in a brutal, silent struggle.

“Get the fuck off me,” Geo spat, trying to shove Sol away, but Sol was relentless, throwing punches with a viciousness that you didn’t know he had in him—no, no that's a lie, you been know just didn't question it AKA minding your business.

The rooftop felt like it was closing in around you—like no matter how open it can be, the sounds of their fight echoing in your ears as you stumbled backward, not sure whether to intervene or to run.

But you couldn’t move. You were stuck.

Sol was stronger than Geo in this moment, using the element of surprise and his sheer intensity to overpower him. Geo grunted as Sol’s fist connected with his ribs, however Geo wasn’t backing down either. He fought back with the same brutal force, each strike punctuated by curses and gritted teeth.

“You think you can just take them from me?” Sol snarled, his words slurring with anger. “I told you, they’re mine. I don’t care what you think, you don’t deserve them.”

“You don’t own them, Emo!” Geo shouted, his voice breaking with frustration. “Stop acting like you have some fucking right to control them. They’re their own person. You’re the one who needs to back the hell off.”

Geo’s fists collided with Sol with a brutal force that made your stomach churn. You watched in stunned silence as Geo moved with precision and anger, his strikes landing one after another.

Sol, once so confident, was now crumpled on the floor, his face swollen and bruising almost immediately. A deep purple and blue marred his features, his lip split and his cheek reddened from the force of the blows.

He tried to get up, and retaliate, however Geo’s rage was unstoppable. Sol was no match for him now, not when the fury in Geo’s eyes burned like a wildfire.

Geo didn’t even give him a moment to breathe. T-T

With each punch, the sound of their struggle echoed throughout the room. And when it was finally over, when Sol lay crumpled on the ground, barely able to move, Geo stood over him, chest heaving with the exertion of the fight. His fists were bloodied, but his gaze never wavered from Sol, whose body remained limp on the floor, groaning in pain.

Geo didn’t seem to care.

After a long, tense pause, Geo finally backed away, his hands shaking but his expression cold and controlled. He didn’t say a word, just took one last look at Sol—who was too beaten to even raise his head—and turned toward the door. He walked out with a calmness that betrayed the chaos that had just unfolded.

The fight had been fast, efficient, and brutal, and now it was over.

You stood there, frozen, trying to process the madness of the situation. The intensity of everything—Geo’s rage, Sol’s obsession, the violence—made your head spin. None of this was supposed to happen. This wasn’t the outcome you imagined when you first started this twisted game.

You just wanted to see how far it would go, how much each of them would fight for your attention, for your love—not actually fighting for real, for whatever the hell it was they were after. Oh yeah, you...

But like you had no idea it would spiral into this.

Now, you were sitting in a private room at the police station, the air thick with tension. The officers sat across from you and Geo, their eyes focused on the both of you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to speak. Your mouth felt dry, your thoughts a jumbled mess.

You didn’t know how to explain what had happened, how it all went wrong. It was too much.

Too fast.

You didn’t have the words.

The room was silent except for the low hum of fluorescent lights above, the officers waiting for some kind of answer, some kind of explanation. But you couldn’t give them that. You couldn’t even explain it to yourself. Your mind was racing, trying to make sense of everything.

The fact that it all started with some stupid game—a game to see which of the two would get jealous first—felt utterly ridiculous now. It was supposed to be harmless. You didn’t think it would turn into something this twisted.

But here you were, sitting next to Geo, whose face was unreadable. His expression was as cold and detached as ever, but you could feel the weight of the situation pressing down on him, too. His knuckles were bruised, his chest rising and fell with each deep breath. He didn’t regret what he’d done, and part of you couldn’t blame him.

Sol had crossed too many lines.

But it didn’t make it any easier to process.

You shifted in your seat, avoiding the officers' eyes, your mind spiraling out of control. You wanted to say something, wanted to explain it all, but the words wouldn’t come.

Everything felt so... out of place.

The fight between Geo and Sol had been violent and unnecessary, yet somehow, it felt inevitable.

This was what it had come to. You had pushed it, tested the boundaries, and now the damage was done.

The officers exchanged glances, their patience wearing thin just by looking at you. They know you were holding some information back, but you didn’t have the proper answers they were looking for.

How could you? Like its very much embarrassing to say, 'Hey I was two-timing these dudes and this led to them fighting,' that isn't the full truth but that's how they would sum it up in the file report.

Like you didn't expect things to get so out of hand. You didn't expect Geo to beat Sol into the fucking ground or why Sol had become so obsessed with you in the first place.

You were so over everything at this point.

“Please,” one of the officers finally spoke, his voice gentle but firm. “Can you tell us what happened here? What led up to this?”

You hated how weak you felt, how lost. You couldn’t explain it.

You couldn’t even explain to yourself how you had allowed this to happen. The moment you’d let your curiosity get the better of you—this was the result.

You just shook your head, the overwhelming sense of regret and guilt crushing you. You didn’t have the answers.

No—you didn't want to answer.

And even if you could, they wouldn’t make this any easier to process.

Geo’s eyes remained fixed on you, his usual cold demeanor softened by something you couldn't quite place. It wasn’t pity—at least, not the kind of pity that made you feel small—but it was something else. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t frustrated.

He was just... there.

When the officers started to ask more questions, Geo spoke up, his voice surprisingly calm as he interjected.

"Look he put his hands on them. And I just stepped in to stop him." His tone didn’t leave room for debate, his usual sharpness replaced by something quieter, more protective. "I don't have a clue why he's so... obsessed with them, but what's done is done. You have him arrested for assault, sexual harrsment and etc. What more do you?"

The officers froze at Geo's words, he didn't say much at the start—perhaps he could tell you were sitting at a police station for like three hours now and all you wanted was to leave.

"You have all the evidence. That enough. We'll leave now."

The officers exchanged a look, but they didn’t argue. They nodded, acknowledging Geo’s request, and you could hear the soft scrape of the chair as one of them stood up. As you left the station, the weight of everything that had happened crashed down on you like a flood.

It was all too much.

You didn’t speak on the way back to your dorm. The car ride was silent except for the faint hum of the engine, and every minute felt like it stretched on forever. You didn’t know what to say to Geo, didn’t know what to say to yourself.

You were lost—dazed, even. What had you done?

Everything had spiraled so far out of control that you couldn’t even find the starting point anymore.

When the car finally pulled up to your building, you didn’t even wait for Geo to open the door. You got out quickly, the silence between you both louder than anything. You didn’t even feel like you had the energy to say goodbye. You just wanted to retreat, to disappear.

You made your way up to your single studio apartment, the familiar surroundings almost too much. The kitchen passed in a blur as you shuffled into your small, cramped living space. You threw your bag on the floor with a dull thud before collapsing face-first onto your bed. You didn’t even bother pulling the covers over you.

You just lay there, unmoving.

Geo stood in the doorway—guessing that he followed you. Wait, you checked him in at the desk, right? Anyway, watching you. The door clicked shut behind him, but he didn’t approach.

He knew better than that. There was something almost resigned in the way he stood, his hands in his pockets as he regarded you.

"I ordered food for you," he said, his voice quiet, almost a whisper, like he didn’t want to disturb the fragile silence that had settled between you. "...I'll stay. If you’re scared, like if that's what you need."

You didn’t respond.

The weight of everything felt like it was suffocating you, and you didn’t have the words to explain it—not to him, not to anyone.

You felt stuck like the ground beneath you had turned to quicksand. The guilt gnawed at you, but the numbness in your chest was worse. You wanted to feel something—anything—but all you could muster was a hollow emptiness that made your heartache.

You heard Geo’s quiet footsteps echo in the room as he carefully took off his shoes and placed them by the door. It was such a small thing, however the gesture felt oddly intimate like he was respecting some unspoken boundary.

He stood there for a moment, looking at you, before he made his way over to the edge of your bed. You watched him, feeling a strange mix of relief and discomfort, as he knelt in front of you, his back straight and his posture solid.

You clutched the pillow tighter, a weak shield against the confusion that was swirling inside your head. You didn’t know what you needed right now. You didn’t know if you wanted him to say something, or if you just needed the silence. You wanted so badly to scream at the chaos in your life, but the exhaustion had drained all the energy from your body.

Geo glanced down at your bed, then back at you, a slight frown pulling at his features. “I don’t want to sit on your bed,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “I’ve been outside. You shouldn’t be either, you're covered in germs,”

Suddenly, the absurdity of the situation hit you.

The idea of Geo being so considerate after everything that had happened between you two made something inside you crack. You let out a small laugh, a soft chuckle that bubbled up from nowhere as the tension in your chest finally found a way to escape.

Geo froze, his brow furrowing in surprise as he processed the sound. “What...?” His voice trailed off, confused. He hadn’t expected it, clearly.

You shook your head, trying to stifle another laugh. “It’s just... you’re so serious sometimes,” you muttered, shaking your head again, trying to collect yourself. “Like, we’re in the middle of all this... shit, and you’re worried about sitting on my bed? It’s just funny.”

“Are you okay?” he asked, the question heavy with something more than just casual curiosity. He wasn’t asking to pry—he was asking. After all, he cared—in his own way, because he wanted to know if you were all right, even though everything around you was in pieces.

You hesitated, your chest tightening as you tried to push past the numbness, to find the words that would make sense of the chaos inside you. It wasn’t easy. You felt like you were wading through a thick fog, unable to see the shore, unable to find your way out.

You didn’t know what to say.

You didn’t even know what you wanted anymore.

“I don’t know anymore,” you whispered with a dry laugh, your voice barely audible as the weight of everything hit you all at once.

Geo sighed, and he stayed where he was, kneeling in front of you. He just watched you, waiting for you to find the words, letting you process everything at your own pace. The silence stretched on, thick and heavy, but somehow it was comforting.

You exhaled sharply, leaning back against the bed, clutching the pillow in your arms like it could somehow anchor you to the present.

“I don’t know when it all got so messy," you began, your voice unsteady, the words tumbling out in a rush like you were trying to explain something to yourself as much as to him. “It all started because… I wanted to see who was more jealous, you or Sol. It was stupid, I know. I thought I could handle it, keep it all under control. I thought I could play this game and walk away without getting caught up in it.”

You paused for a second, feeling your pulse quicken as you tried to make sense of everything, but the more you spoke, the harder it became to breathe. The confession felt like it was suffocating you, but you couldn’t stop.

“You know how it is. Just a stupid game. I thought I could just sit back, watch the both of you get all worked up, and have a laugh. But it... It didn’t go the way I expected. I didn’t expect to care. Not about him—not about Sol, I mean. And sure as hell not about you.”

You laughed bitterly, shaking your head as you glanced at Geo, unsure of what exactly you were trying to say. But the confusion, the mess in your head, only seemed to spill out more the longer you spoke.

"I was trying to keep control. You know, like always. But the more I played this game—god, the more it twisted everything around. I started getting feelings. First, it was just... Sol, and I thought I could push it aside. But then... it was you."

You stopped, your voice faltering. “I didn’t think I could get feelings for you, not after everything. You’ve got your own shit going on, and so do I, but here I am. And I’m not sure who’s worse. Me, for getting this deep, or you for dealing with me through all of it.”

Geo didn’t interrupt, though you could see the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers curled into a fist for just a moment before he relaxed them. His eyes were on you, unwavering, and it only made the confession feel like it was digging a hole deeper inside your chest.

"You can judge me for it. I don’t blame you if you do. You always do," The words came out bitter, almost accusing, like you were daring him to reject you, to call you out for being weak.

"I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, Geo. I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to feel. This whole thing was supposed to be a game, a stupid little test to see who cared more, but here I am—lost. And I don’t know how to fix it."

Your throat felt tight as you swallowed down the question clawing its way up. But eventually, the words spilled out before you could stop them.

“Do you… do you hate me?”

For a moment, there was only silence. Thick. Heavy. Unforgiving.

You didn’t look at him—couldn’t. You were too afraid of what you’d see in his face. Fear? Disgust? Or something worse?

Geo didn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze flickered away, shifting toward the floor, his jaw tightening just enough for you to notice. He wasn’t one to hesitate, wasn’t one to falter, and yet, here he was—pausing.

The silence stretched, each second pulling at your nerves like frayed threads.

Then, finally, he exhaled, slow and measured, before looking back at you. His expression wasn’t cold, but there was something guarded about it, something that made your chest ache.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he admitted, voice quieter than before. “If you’re asking whether I’m pissed? Yeah. That game you played was soo shitty and wrong. But If you’re asking if I regret meeting and talking to you...”

He sighed, looking away, "No. I don't."

Your breath caught by your lip, eyes widened as you lifted your body to look at him.

“Like hating you?” He shook his head, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I couldn’t even if I tried. And trust me, I've tried.”

He shifted near you again, the weight of his presence steady, grounding. And despite everything—the chaos, the mistakes, the games you played—you found yourself leaning just a little closer.

Your lips parted, the question forming before you could stop it. “Then...”

He hummed, his gaze steady on you.

“Do you… like me?” The words left your mouth before you could second-guess them, before you could convince yourself to let it go. You already felt exposed enough, but if you were drowning, you weren’t going to do it alone.

Geo didn’t flinch, but you saw the way his jaw tensed ever so slightly. That careful mask of his wavered just for a fraction of a second. Then, like clockwork, his face turned slightly red—shocking…

“I like a lot of things,” he said smoothly, stretching his arms above his head, his voice full of deflection. “My time. Plants, archery...”

You narrowed your eyes, not amused. “Geo.”

He sighed through his nose, gaze flicking away for a brief moment before locking back onto you. “And maybe you talk too much.”

You let out a sharp breath, shaking your head. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

You stared at him, frustration bubbling beneath your skin. He was doing this on purpose, keeping things just vague enough to avoid saying anything real. You wanted to pry it out of him, force him to admit it, but at the same time…

Geo wasn’t the kind of person you could force anything out of.

He’d say what he wanted when he wanted.

That was just who he was at this damn point.

You let out a sigh, something between acceptance and resignation. “Fine. Be stubborn.” You turned your body slightly, facing him fully. “But I don’t need to hear it. I already know.”

Then, before he could react, you jumped forward, wrapping your arms around his neck, and pulling him close in a tight embrace. Geo stiffened for a moment, caught off guard, but he didn’t push you away. Instead, you felt his arms slowly wrap around your waist, holding you steady, his warmth grounding you in ways you hadn’t expected.

Then, before you could stop yourself, you kissed him.

It was quick at first, just a light brush of your lips against his, testing the waters. But the second you felt him respond, his lips pressing against yours just as gently, something inside you caved.

The kiss deepened, slow and careful, neither of you rushing, just feeling. His hands stayed light on your waist, not pulling, not taking—just holding. Like he was afraid of breaking the moment, of breaking you.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him closer. Geo’s breath hitched slightly before he tilted his head, his lips moving against yours with more certainty now, but never rough, never greedy.

It was nothing like the game you had been playing before—nothing like what had happened with Sol. This wasn’t about control, about jealousy, about winning.

It was just real.

You pulled away first, your forehead resting against his, your breathing slightly uneven. Geo’s hands were still resting on your waist, his thumbs absently brushing against the fabric of your shirt.

For a moment, you just stared at each other, the room feeling quieter than it had before.

Then, suddenly, Geo pulled back, reaching into his pocket and checking his phone. He sighed dramatically. “Well, that was good timing.”

You blinked, still dazed. “What?”

He held up his phone, showing you the screen. “Food’s here.”

You let out a surprised laugh, shaking your head. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.” He stood up, stretching before glancing down at you. “Unless you wanna keep making out and let the delivery guy starve outside.”

You rolled your eyes, a small smile pulling at your lips despite everything. “Go get the damn food, Geo.”

He gave you one last look—something soft, unreadable—before turning toward the door. And even as he left, you could still feel the ghost of his lips on yours, the warmth of his touch lingering on your skin.

For once, you weren’t overthinking; he's yours.

#the kid at the back x reader #the kid at the back vn #tkatb #tkatb vn #tkatb sol #tkatb x reader #tkatb geo #tkatb head canons #the kid at the back sol #solivan brugmansia #sol brugmansia #sol x reader #the kid at the back geo #geo oogami #tkatb geo x reader #subaru oogami

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frailsituation · 7 months ago

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Tips for building immersive plots

1. Start with your core idea

• Every plot begins with a spark—a question, a concept, or a character. Build from that seed.

• How? Ask, "What excites me about this story?" and focus your energy there.

• Example: A story about a magical curse could explore themes of redemption or betrayal.

2. Brainstorm freely

• Don’t start by thinking about structure. Instead, write down every idea you have—plot points, character traits, world details—without judgment.

• How? Use mind maps, lists, or “what if” questions to expand your ideas.

• Example: “What if two rival kingdoms were forced to unite to stop a shared enemy?”

3. Map out key events

• Divide your plot into beginning, middle, and end, and identify major turning points. These events should shape the character’s journey.

• How? Use the three-act structure, or simply think in terms of setup, confrontation, and resolution.

• Example:

Beginning: A thief steals a sacred artifact.

Middle: The artifact begins to curse them, forcing them to seek help.

End: They must choose between keeping the artifact’s power or destroying it.

4. Plan with cause and effect

• Immersive plots follow logical progression. Ask yourself: “What happens because of this event?” for every key moment.

• How? Make sure each event impacts the characters or world.

• Example: A hero saves a village → the village leader reveals a secret about the hero’s past → this drives the hero to confront their estranged parent.

5. Flesh out your subplots

• Subplots add depth and make your world feel real. Tie them to the main plot for maximum impact.

• How? Use subplots to explore secondary characters, add emotional stakes, or introduce twists.

• Example: While on a mission to defeat a villain, the hero struggles to repair their broken friendship with their ally.

6. use story beats to stay organized

• Break your story into smaller moments: inciting incident, midpoint twist, climax, resolution.

• How? Write one sentence for each beat to outline the flow of your story.

• Example:

Inciting incident: A cursed item bonds to the protagonist.

Midpoint: They discover the curse is tied to a powerful enemy.

Climax: They must sacrifice their freedom to destroy the curse.

7. Think of immersive twists

• Twists keep readers engaged and make your story unforgettable. They should feel earned, not random.

• How? Ask, "What would surprise the reader but make sense in hindsight?"

• Example: The mentor helping the hero turns out to have caused the conflict in the first place.

8. Build emotional stakes

• Plot isn’t just about events—it’s about how those events affect your characters. The stakes should feel deeply personal.

• How? Tie the plot to your protagonist’s fears, desires, and growth.

• Example: A hero who’s afraid of failure is forced to lead a mission where the cost of failure is catastrophic.

9. Create a planning routine

• Writing immersive plots takes time and refinement. Set aside regular sessions to brainstorm, refine, and test your ideas.

• How? Use tools like storyboarding, sticky notes, or apps like Scrivener to organize your ideas.

• Example: Start each session by reviewing your previous notes, then tackle one section of your plot.

10. Test your plot

• Once you’ve mapped out your story, summarize it to see if it holds together. Does each event flow logically? Are the stakes clear?

• How? Share your outline with a friend or writer’s group for feedback.

• Example: “A reluctant hero must destroy a magical artifact to save their world, but doing so will cost them their memories.”

Follow for more!

#writeblr #writer stuff #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity #writing #novel writing #tips #writing tips #creative writing #writers and poets

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theskywithin · 4 months ago

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Birth Chart Breakdown: Planets in The First House

☉ Sun in the First House You carry the warmth of your own sunrise. Even in your quietest moments, something about you catches light. People feel it instinctively, they expect brightness, leadership, certainty. You know this, so you wear your glow like armor. But even the sun has shadows behind it. There are days you wonder: if I stop shining, will they still see me? If I dim, will I disappear? Let yourself rest, radiant one. You are not here to prove your fire, you are the fire, even when the sky clouds over. Shine for yourself first, and the world will follow naturally.

☽ Moon in the First House Your emotions write stories across your skin before you ever speak them aloud. You are a walking tide, ebbing and flowing with the moon’s quiet pull. People sense you before they know you, they feel you, deeply, even when you try to guard your waves. There is beauty in this openness, but also a quiet fear: am I too transparent? Do I reveal too much too soon? Remember, your sensitivity is not your weakness, it is your language. Let them read you like poetry, not as a map to navigate, but as a moment to feel. You are the ocean, not just the ripple on its surface.

☿ Mercury in the First House You are a thought turned into movement, a mind made visible. Words orbit you, fast and full of spark, as if they cannot wait to escape. Conversation is your oxygen, and curiosity your pulse. But beneath the flow of cleverness lies a quieter story: what happens when there is nothing left to say? Will they stay for the silence, or only for the dance of your mind? Trust the pauses, let your thoughts settle like dust in a sunbeam. Not every answer is spoken aloud, and not every connection needs words. Sometimes, being heard begins with hearing yourself first.

♀ Venus in the First House You wear beauty as effortlessly as breathing. It's not just in your features, but in the way you move, the softness you bring to the air. People are drawn in, as if by a silent invitation. Yet with every gaze that lingers, there’s a whisper inside: do they see me, or just the reflection of their desires? You have learned to navigate attention like a delicate waltz, but remember, your beauty is not a performance. Let yourself be loved not just for how you appear, but for the quiet landscapes of your soul, the ones only true hearts take the time to explore.

♂ Mars in the First House You carry thunder beneath your skin. Your energy arrives like a spark that catches before you realize it’s lit. Action calls to you like a second heartbeat, as if stillness is a betrayal of your nature. You fight for space, for recognition, for the right to exist loudly. But beneath the flame, there is a quieter ache: will they respect my power if I let them see my gentleness? Remember, fire is not only for destruction. It also warms, protects, and lights the way. You are allowed to rest. Your strength will not vanish in the quiet.

♃ Jupiter in the First House You move through life like an open sky, wide and full of promise. Optimism is stitched into your being, a horizon that always feels within reach. You naturally expand spaces, make people feel larger, brighter, more hopeful just by standing beside them. But you carry an unspoken question: must I always be the one to lift the room? What happens if I let my joy flicker? Know this: your light is not a performance, it’s an extension of your spirit. Even the vastest skies have clouds, and they do not diminish the beauty of the dawn. Let yourself feel everything, not just the sunshine.

♄ Saturn in the First House You carry the architecture of time itself, built into your posture. There is a weight to you, an ancient kind of knowing that others sense without words. Responsibility clings to you, sometimes gifted, sometimes forced. People trust your steadiness but forget your softness. You wonder: if I set down my burdens, will I still be valued? Will they love me without my structure? The answer is yes. Let the walls breathe. Let the foundations of your life include your own rest, your own freedom. You are not here to be a monument, you are here to live.

♅ Uranus in the First House You are the thunderclap in a quiet sky, the spark that changes everything. Your energy rearranges the air before you even speak. People sense revolution in your presence, a wildness that defies prediction. But inside, there’s a quiet fear: will I ever belong, if I am always the storm? You crave connection yet fear losing your freedom to it. Remember, you are not meant to fit a mold, you are meant to shatter it, lovingly. The right souls will not cage you. They will run beside you beneath your electric skies.

♆ Neptune in the First House You are the dream between waking and sleep, soft at the edges but deeply felt. People see what they want to see in you, projecting fantasies onto your canvas. You feel both visible and invisible at once, loved for the illusion but longing for something real. There is beauty in being the dream, but also loneliness. Anchor your heart gently to the truth of who you are. You are not here to be a reflection of longing, you are here to be whole, to be known beyond the mist. Let yourself be seen, not as a dream, but as a person worth waking for.

♇ Pluto in the First House You carry gravity in your bones, as if you were born from the ashes of stars. Your presence speaks of storms weathered and rebirths claimed, even if you’ve never told your story aloud. People feel your depth instinctively, and it can make them tremble, not from fear, but from recognition. Yet within you stirs a quiet question: if they see all of me, will they run? Trust this: your depths are not too much for the ones meant to dive with you. You were not born to stay on the surface. Let your truth rise like fire from the earth. The brave will follow.

💫 Want to go deeper into your chart? 📖 My book takes you through every sign, planet, and house.

#astrology #astro community #astro observations #astro notes #birth chart #natal chart #natal astrology #natal aspects #first house #planets #natal placements #astrology tumblr #astrology blog #astrology notes

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jungkoode · 2 months ago

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THE 25TH HOUR | 10

"cognitive dissonance"

"Information overload has consequences when your brain tries to map infinity. And some revelations about intellectual competition, tongue habits, and emotional resonance tracking really shouldn't happen in the same afternoon."

next | index | wc: 8.5k

↪︎author's note : AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH IT'S HEEEREEEE it's FINALLY here. The chapter I have been holding in my evil little claws like Gollum with the ring. My precious… (ᴥ⁝ ᴥ) Okay okay okay. Deep breath. This chapter is so much. Like we are in full "this is why nobody should say anything around Noma without thinking first" territory. I've been WAITING to show you the consequences of information being mishandled around a brain like hers. And it was such a challenge to write because obviously YOU (dear reader) need to get some of this lore and intel too—but we're not in omniscient narration. We're in deep, close POV with Noma, and occasionally Yoongi, and that means there's no "as you know, Bob" exposition. That's amateur hour. Everything that comes through to you has to come through them. It has to feel lived in. Felt. Filtered. With weight. And YEAH. There's a reason I wrote it the way I did. The info needs to creep in, not be dumped on you. This chapter was a narrative challenge and a DREAM to tackle because of that. I went full evil little narrative goblin. There are crumbs. There are cracks in the wall. There is an entire buffet of lore and psychological tension here. If you don't pick up on it… I will cry. And then stab you. Lovingly. Also. That convo between Tae, Jungkook, and Yoongi? YEAH. That's not filler. That is pivotal. I needed to show how people in a massive resistance organization aren't perfectly synced or briefed. This isn't a YA chosen-one fantasy. Jungkook is a literal baby with powers he doesn't fully understand, Taehyung is a modded enforcer who doesn't register information as a threat (which is SUCH a fascinating limitation, ugh I love him), and Yoongi is the only one who has full comprehension of the consequences. The disparity is real. Organic. Messy. And necessary.

The transition leaves an aftertaste of ozone and broken physics.

One moment, you are a collection of atoms held together by sheer will and Agent Min’s grip; the next, you are solid again.

Your feet meet a floor of polished, off-white composite material that seems to absorb all sound.

Back in the resistance headquarters; your mind helpfully supplies. Back to that long, sterile corridor that stretches before you, lit by light panels that emit a flat, shadowless glow.

The raw, bleeding edge of the portal behind you pulses once, then seals itself shut with a sound like tearing fabric, leaving no trace it was ever there.

“What was that?” is your first immediate question, referring to their commentary about Jungkook’s apparent teleportation abilities.

Your processing centers demanding data to fill the void left by the impossible event. It’s directed at the back of Agent Min’s head as he walks ahead.

No answer.

Agent Min’s shoulders remain rigid, mint-colored hair looking like someone splashed watercolor in a grayscale simulation.

You can see the unnatural angle of his left shoulder, the controlled set of his jaw against what must be a significant level of pain.

But his gait suggests someone who’s done answering questions for the next seventy-three hours.

The probability he is ignoring you registers at 98.7%.

Fine. If he won't provide the data, you'll find a more willing source.

You turn your head, your gaze finding Jungkook. “What did you do?”

Jungkook’s eyes dart from you to Min’s rigid back, a flicker of conflict crossing his features. He presses his lips into a thin, unhappy line and gives a minute shake of his head.

A clear non-verbal cue: can’t.

The first spark of real frustration ignites in your chest. A low-grade thermal reaction. It’s inefficient. Annoying.

“Why is nobody telling me anything?” The question bursts out, louder than intended, echoing off the sleek, quantum-reinforced walls. Your vocal modulation is off—pitch elevated by 12%, volume spiking beyond optimal conversational levels.

You don’t care. The lack of input is suffocating, a void where data should be.

“What did he do? He mimicked my abilities, didn’t he? I registered that much. I heard it.”

The query is directed at Taehyung this time. He’s the most likely to respond, with a 43% higher probability of verbal engagement based on past interactions.

But he just lets out a long, weary sigh, the sound echoing unnaturally in the dead air of the corridor. He doesn’t reply. Instead, his hand closes around Jungkook’s forearm, and he begins walking, pulling the younger agent along with him.

Jungkook releases a sigh himself, this one loud and theatrical, a clear broadcast of his own displeasure with the mandated silence.

Your hands curl into fists, knuckles whitening under the pressure.

The sensation is odd—muscle tension at 87% of maximum capacity, a physical manifestation of something you can’t quite name.

Anger? Frustration? Both?

You’re a walking processor, a system built for logic and analysis, not this messy, bubbling surge that threatens to override your control.

But it’s there, undeniable, pushing against the edges of your restraint—you want to slam your fist into the nearest wall, propriety be damned.

Instead, you plant your feet, the soles of your boots gripping the floor with a stubborn finality.

“I require answers.” The statement is flat, cold, and absolute. “If you refuse to provide the necessary information, I will acquire it through alternative, and likely less cooperative, means.”

That does it.

Taehyung and Jungkook freeze mid-stride. Min stops a few paces ahead, his back still to you, but the tension in his shoulders makes him seem taller, more dangerous.

Your eyes, those traitors, find the mint strands of his hair—a soft, pale contrast to the harsh black of his tactical vest and jacket.

The color is striking, almost unfairly pretty, like a glitch in an otherwise monochromatic design. It distracts you for exactly 0.7 seconds before you force your focus back to his face, to those golden eyes that always seem to see too much.

“Min.”

He turns slowly, the movement measured and deliberate.

“Noma,” he begins, his voice low and grating, “you are not in an adequate headspace for a tactical debriefing.”

“I will be the judge of that.”

“No.” He takes a step toward you. “I am.”

A humorless laugh escapes you, a puff of air. “By what authority? My operational parameters are my own.”

“Not when they intersect with mine.”

“And why,” you challenge, taking a step to meet him, closing the distance, “would you have any say in what I need, or what I don’t?”

His breath hitches, a ragged, sharp intake of air that speaks of immense pressure barely contained.

It sounds like he’s holding back a scream, or venom, or wrestling with something volatile. Anger, maybe. Or something darker. You don’t know, and that lack of knowing is driving you up the wall.

He stalks toward you, his gait fluid despite the injury. Taehyung and Jungkook melt away, retreating to the periphery as if clearing the stage for a collision they know is inevitable.

He doesn’t stop until he’s so close you have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. Inches away.

You can feel the heat radiating from him, and this time

it’s not just the ozone—but spearmint, that sharpens in the air around you. His eyes are no longer just tinged with gold; they are molten, blazing down at you.

“Because it became my choice,” he grits out, each word a shard of gravel torn from his throat.

Your own defiance rises to meet it. “I don’t recall giving you a choice.”

His jaw ticks, a violent spasm of muscle. “It became my choice the moment I had to watch you die sixteen times.”

The air vacates your lungs in a single, silent rush.

Sixteen times.

You died sixteen times.

Revival technology, temporal manipulation, parallel timelines—none of the models align with the raw certainty in his voice.

How is that possible? You’re alive. You’re here, breathing, thinking, processing data. There’s no evidence of revival technology in your medical records. No gaps in your memory that would suggest temporal manipulation. No—

If revival is possible, if you’ve died and returned multiple times, what does that mean for the fundamental laws of physics? For the nature of consciousness? For the reality you’ve been operating under?

What timeline are you even in? Or better, worse—how many have you lived through that you don’t remember?

“And I’m not letting you become a seventeen.”

He spits the last word out like poison, a final, damning verdict.

Then he turns, the motion sharp and decisive, and walks away down the corridor without a backward glance, leaving you shattered in his wake.

Jungkook and Taehyung remain stationary.

You note Taehyung’s grip on Jungkook’s arm—pressure increasing by approximately 12 newtons. Restraint behavior. But Jungkook’s eyes find yours anyway.

Then—

Something shifts inside your skull.

Not pain. Not memory. Something else entirely.

A voice that isn’t yours, speaking words that arrive without traveling through your auditory processing centers.

«Yes. It was your abilities. You control the spatial dimension.»

The transmission carries Jungkook’s vocal patterns but bypasses standard sensory input entirely—direct neural interface.

Telepathy.

He’s using Taehyung’s ability without anyone else detecting the connection.

Your gaze remains locked with his for exactly 0.7 seconds before he allows Taehyung to guide him forward.

Spatial dimension.

The words echo through your consciousness, connecting to memory fragments of golden tendrils and impossible physics. Of matter phasing and reality bending and distances that compress at your unconscious command.

Sixteen deaths. Seventeen possible.

You control space itself.

And apparently, nobody trusts you enough to explain why that matters.

The dream always starts the same way—with your hands mapping his chest like you're solving an equation.

You're above him, thighs bracketing his hips, that familiar analytical tilt to your head as you study him. Your hair falls in loose strands across your forehead, catching the low light of whatever timeline this is. Your mouth is parted just slightly, breath coming in those careful, measured gasps that drive him fucking insane.

You move like you always do—deliberate, testing, like every roll of your hips is gathering data. Like his body is some complex system you need to decode. Your palms press flat against his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat, cataloging the way his muscles tense beneath your touch.

"Fuck, Noma," he breathes, voice already wrecked, and you pause—just for a second—to process the sound.

That little furrow appears between your brows, the one that means you're filing away his response for later analysis.

Then you sink down on him again, slow and torturous, taking him inch by inch like you're conducting some kind of experiment. His hands move to grip your waist, but golden tendrils—yours, not his—wrap around his wrists, pinning them to the mattress above his head.

The restraint makes him growl, a sound that rumbles up from his chest. Every instinct screams at him to flip you over, to pin you beneath him and fuck you until you stop thinking so goddamn much.

But your tendrils hold firm, crystalline and unforgiving, and all he can do is lie there and take whatever pace you set.

"You're studying me," he pants, watching the way your eyes track every micro-expression that crosses his face.

"Always," you murmur, and the admission makes his cock twitch inside you. "Need to understand how you work."

You lean forward, changing the angle, and he sees stars.

Your breath ghosts across his ear as you whisper, "What does this do to you?" and roll your hips in that specific way that makes him see fucking galaxies.

His answer is a broken moan, hips bucking up involuntarily. The tendrils tighten around his wrists, a gentle warning, and you make that soft sound of satisfaction—like you've just confirmed a hypothesis.

"And this?" You clench around him, internal muscles squeezing, and his vision whites out for a second.

"Christ, Noma," he gasps, straining against the golden bonds. "Let me touch you, please—"

But you just smile, that small, secret curve of your lips that means you’re exactly where you want to be. In control. Gathering data. Driving him out of his fucking mind with the slow, methodical way you take him apart.

You ride him like you have all the time in the world, like this is your favorite puzzle to solve.

And maybe it is—maybe he’s your favorite system to understand, the one equation you never get tired of working through. The way you look at him, like he’s the most fascinating thing in any timeline, like every reaction is precious data you want to memorize.

He knows that look. It’s the same one you get when you’re completely absorbed in something you‘re obsessed with.

He’d let you study him forever if it meant keeping you here, keeping you safe, keeping you—

The orgasm builds slow and devastating, your name falling from his lips like a prayer as you work him closer to the edge with scientific rigor.

“Yoongi.”

His name in your voice, breathless and wanting, and he's gone—

He wakes with a sharp intake of breath, forearm thrown across his eyes, skin slick with sweat. His heart hammers against his ribs, the phantom sensation of your tendrils still wrapped around his wrists.

His room is dark, as usual, silent except for the climate control system.

He turns his head lazily toward the nightstand, where the digital clock glows an offensive blue: 3:47 AM.

He fucking hates that thing. Analog clocks don't mock you with their precision. They just tick, steady and reliable, marking time without judgment.

But digital clocks? They count down to the exact second when everything falls apart.

Again.

He keeps the forearm pressed against his eyes for a few more seconds, chest rising and falling in measured intervals.

In, out. Steady.

He wills his heart rate to slow, tries to sink back into sleep, back into dreams where you're safe and whole and—

His forearm jerks away from his face.

Something's wrong.

The feeling hits him like ice water in his veins, sharp and immediate.

He checks his Chrono-Sync Watch with frantic urgency, heart hammering against his ribs so hard it might crack them. The numbers blur—he doesn't give a shit about the time.

It's you. He feels it in his head, in his soul, in his fucking heart.

Something's wrong with you.

The sheets tangle around his legs as he throws himself out of bed, stumbling forward with too much momentum. His knee hits the floor hard, pain shooting up his thigh, but he doesn't stop. Can't stop. His chest is caving in on itself, lungs refusing to work properly as he runs.

Your door is already open when he rounds the corner.

Taehyung and Jungkook stand in the doorway like sentries, their faces pale in the hallway light. He darts past them without a word, shoulders clipping the doorframe.

The scene inside makes his stomach lurch.

Namjoon is on the floor, cradling your limp form against his chest. Jin kneels beside him, one hand tilting your head back, the other checking your pulse clinically.

There's blood—so much fucking blood—pooling on the concrete floor beneath you.

Your nose. It's your nose, dripping steady and relentless, painting your lips and chin crimson.

You're motionless. Completely still except for the shallow rise and fall of your chest.

His hands shake as he forces himself to breathe slowly, eyes darting around the room, cataloging details.

Your nose. Non-stop bleeding.

The telltale signal of cognitive temporal overload—too much information, too fast, your brain trying to process data it’s not ready for.

"Who told her."

His voice comes out low, barely above a whisper, but there's enough venom in it to make everyone in the room tense. Everyone except Jin, who's too absorbed in monitoring your vitals to care about the threat in Yoongi's tone.

"Who. Told. Her."

He rounds on Jungkook, whose eyes immediately dart away, guilt written across every line of his face. The kid can't even look at him.

Yoongi strides forward, rage building in his chest like a wildfire, but Taehyung steps between them.

"Yoongi."

"Move."

"Yoongi, listen—"

"Move!"

His eyes flick up to meet Taehyung's, and whatever Tae sees there makes him take a half-step back.

"He's just a kid," Taehyung says, voice steady but careful. "He's the youngest. Has only been active since timeline 715."

The bile rises in Yoongi's throat.

He's not violent—never has been. Doesn't lose his temper like this, doesn't let emotion override logic.

But if you're dead, if you fucking died for the seventeenth time because some kid couldn't keep his mouth shut—

He delivers a blow to Taehyung’s stomach. Hard. The impact sends pain shooting up his arm, and he hisses, shaking his hand.

Taehyung doesn’t even flinch.

They both know he wouldn’t. Former enforcer, body modified to withstand worse than anything Yoongi could dish out.

That’s exactly why he hit him instead of Jungkook—because Taehyung can take it, and because the kid doesn’t deserve his rage.

But someone needs to feel it. Someone needs to understand that this isn’t a fucking game.

“Feel better?” Taehyung asks quietly, not moving from his protective stance in front of Jungkook.

Yoongi’s breathing is ragged, chest heaving. “She’s bleeding out on the floor, Tae.”

“She’s not bleeding out. Jin’s got her.” Taehyung’s voice carries that enforcer-calm that always makes situations feel more controlled than they are. “And this isn’t anyone’s fault. She made a choice to push her abilities—”

“Choice?” Yoongi’s voice cracks with disbelief. “You think this was a fucking choice?”

Behind Taehyung, Jungkook’s face crumples.

“I just told her what she was doing,” he whispers. “She asked why I could grab her abilities, and I said—I said she controls spatial dimensions. That’s it. That’s all I said.”

“All you said.” Yoongi repeats the words like they taste bitter. “Do you have any idea what that means? What controlling space actually entails?”

Jungkook looks genuinely confused, eyes growing glassy. “She was already using it. When I mimicked her signature, I could feel how powerful it was, so I thought—”

“You thought what? That because you can copy abilities without consequences, everyone can handle that knowledge?”

“I don’t understand,” Jungkook says, voice breaking. “She manifested spatial manipulation during the rescue. I was just explaining what she’d already done.”

Taehyung’s jaw tightens. “He was trying to help her understand her own abilities. That’s not reckless—”

“Not reckless?” Yoongi rounds on him, eyes blazing gold. “Do you know what spatial dimension control means, Tae? Do you have any fucking clue?”

“I know it means she pushed too hard—”

“She didn’t push anything!” Yoongi explodes. “It’s called cognitive temporal dissonance, you absolute dimwit! It’s a fucking medical condition!”

Taehyung blinks, doubt creeping in his enforcer certainty for once. “What?”

“Jin?” Yoongi whips around, desperation bleeding into his voice. “Help me out here.”

Jin doesn’t look up from where he’s monitoring your pulse, voice dry as sandpaper. “Bit busy keeping her stable. Ask Joon.”

“Joon,” Yoongi turns to Namjoon, who’s still cradling your limp form. “Tell them. Tell them what cognitive temporal dissonance actually is.”

Namjoon shifts carefully, making sure your head stays supported. His voice slips into that analytical tone he uses for briefings.

“Cognitive temporal dissonance occurs when an Outlier’s consciousness is exposed to information that exceeds their current neural adaptation threshold.”

“Incongruent. She has better neural adaptation than any of us here. She should be able to process minimal information like that with ease, especially when she’s faced—”

“Jesus Christ.” Yoongi drags his hands through his hair. “It’s not minimal information Tae, it’s an entire fucking dimension of reality. When you tell someone they control space itself—not just ‘spatial manipulation,’ but the actual fabric of dimensional reality—their brain tries to comprehend the scope of that.”

Taehyung simply blinks, eyebrows furrowing. Yoongi sighs out loud, gestures wildly at your unconscious form.

“She doesn’t get headaches because she’s analyzing equations. She gets them because her human brain is trying to process the concept of controlling something infinite. Something fundamental to existence itself.”

Jungkook’s face goes white. “I… I didn’t know it was that big. When I copy abilities, they just feel like… like tools. I can use them without thinking about what they actually are.”

“Because your mimicry protects you from the full cognitive load,” Namjoon interjects softly, never taking his eyes off your vitals. “You experience abilities in ‘safe mode’—all the function, none of the existential weight.”

“But she was already using them,” Taehyung insists, clearly still struggling to categorize information as a physical threat. “How is knowing what you’re doing more dangerous than actually doing it?”

“Because doing it unconsciously is instinct. Understanding it consciously means your brain tries to map the parameters. And when the parameter is ‘I control one of the fundamental forces that governs reality’…” Yoongi gestures at the blood on your face. “This happens.”

Jungkook is sobbing now. “I thought I was being helpful. She seemed frustrated not knowing, and I just—”

“Your brain can barely fucking handle copying my temporal manipulation for seven minutes, Jungkook,” Yoongi cuts him off. “Could you handle knowing you control time itself? That every second that passes is subject to your will? That causality bends around your existence?”

The kid’s face crumples completely. “No. No, I couldn’t.”

“She’s been Outlier-aware for three days. Three fucking days. Her neural pathways are still forming the connections needed to process basic temporal awareness, and you just told her she controls space.” Yoongi’s voice breaks. “That’s like… that’s like telling someone who just learned to walk that they’re actually capable of flight. The concept is too big for a brain that’s still learning how to exist outside normal time.”

Taehyung is quiet for a long moment, his expression cycling through several configurations as his modified brain processes this new categorization of information-as-threat.

“But she’s strong,” Jungkook says desperately. “She handled manifesting the abilities—”

“Unconscious manifestation is completely different from conscious comprehension,” Namjoon explains gently. “When abilities manifest naturally, they’re filtered through instinct and necessity. When someone consciously understands the scope of what they control, their analytical mind tries to map it, test it, understand its limits.”

“And Y/N’s mind…” Yoongi’s voice is barely a whisper. “Y/N’s mind doesn’t half-ass anything. When she learns something, she learns everything about it. Every variable, every possibility, every potential application. Tell her she controls space, and her brain immediately starts trying to comprehend infinity.”

The room falls silent except for the sound of your steady breathing and Jin’s quiet monitoring.

Taehyung stares at you for a long moment in what Yoongi knows is enforcer processing—that mechanical way his brain reorganizes information when it encounters something that doesn’t fit his neural framework.

“I didn’t know,” Taehyung says finally, voice flat in that way that means his modifications are struggling with the concept. “Information overload isn’t… my brain doesn’t process it as a threat.”

Jungkook looks up at him, confusion mixing with his guilt. “What do you mean?”

“Enforcers were designed to absorb massive amounts of tactical data without psychological impact,” Taehyung explains, still staring at your unconscious form. “When you told her about spatial control, and you looked to me to see if it was dangerous…I literally couldn’t register it as harmful. To me, it’s just information. Like learning the time of day.”

“Yeah, that’s why you thought she was being reckless instead of recognizing she was having a medical emergency.” Jin sighs loudly.

Taehyung nods slowly, that mechanical processing still evident in his movements. “I thought she chose to push herself with new abilities. My programming doesn’t… it doesn’t understand how knowing something can hurt you.”

“Because it can’t hurt you,” Namjoon adds quietly. “Your modifications make you immune to information-based trauma. You could learn you control reality-warping abilities the same way you’d process a weather report.”

Jungkook makes a broken sound. “It’s my fault. When Tae didn’t react like it was dangerous, I thought it meant it wasn’t.”

“No, it’s my fault.” Taehyung runs a hand over his face, frustration bleeding through calm. “I keep thinking there should have been warning signs. Behavioral indicators. But information processing doesn’t trigger my threat assessment protocols. I should have deferred to Yoongi, should’ve known better than to let Jungkook make that call.”

“We all should have known better,” Jin speaks up without looking away from your vitals. “But beating ourselves up won’t fix her brain chemistry.”

Yoongi kneels beside you, careful not to disturb Jin’s positioning.

Your face is pale, dried blood still crusted around your nose, but your breathing is steady.

“Next time,” he says quietly, “any questions about abilities, about the past, about anything—you come to me first. Both of you. No matter how harmless it seems.”

“Understood,” Taehyung says, slipping into that formal tone his enforcer training defaults to during protocol establishment.

Jungkook just nods, still crying softly.

Yoongi reaches out toward your face, then stops himself, hand hovering in the air between you.

Even like this—unconscious, vulnerable, bleeding from cognitive overload—he can’t quite bring himself to touch you.

Not when you don’t remember choosing to let him.��

Particles of light drift together like puzzle pieces finding their home.

The ceiling materializes above you—unfamiliar angles, different shadows. Not your assigned quarters. Not even the sterile white of Jin's lab space.

This ceiling has character, personality. Warm lighting fixtures instead of clinical panels. Personal touches that speak of actual habitation rather than temporary assignment.

Your processing centers catalog the discrepancies while your vision sharpens from static to clarity.

The bed beneath you is softer than regulation standard, sheets that smell like fabric softener instead of industrial detergent.

Someone's personal space, then.

But whose?

Voices carry from somewhere beyond your field of vision, muffled by distance and what sounds like architectural features—columns, maybe, or room dividers.

"—absolutely ridiculous, Hoseok. She's not our responsibility."

"Where else is she supposed to go? Her room's a biohazard zone.”

A scoff. “So we’re the charity case now? It’s not fair to us, Fuyu. Why not just stick her in Jin’s lab?”

“Because Jin’s not a doctor, Jimin. He’s a memory tech. He doesn’t want her in there while he’s running diagnostics. She needs rest, not a front-row seat to his data streams.”

A pause. The sound of someone pacing, footsteps sharp against what must be concrete flooring.

"Yoongi's room, then. He's the one who—"

A sigh from Hoseok. “You know the protocol he set for this cycle, Jimin. Minimum proximity. No unnecessary contact. He’s trying a different variable; we have to respect that.”

“Respect it? He’s miserable. And right now his misery is sleeping in our bed.” There’s a sound of restless pacing. “I don’t want her here. It’s bad enough we have to watch him self-destruct from a distance, I don’t need a front-row seat to the cause of it.”

“She’s not the cause, Jimin. She’s the… focus. And you know as well as I do she can’t be in his space. Even without the distance protocols, she just went through a neural fissure. The least she needs right now is more cognitive strain.”

Your head turns slightly, seeking the source of the conversation, though the movement sends a dull ache through your skull—not the sharp, stabbing pain of cognitive overload, but the lingering throb of neural exhaustion.

"She could trigger memory fragments just by being in his space," the first voice continues, petulant. "Fine. But that doesn't mean she has to be in ours."

"It's temporary, Mochi. A few days at most."

"A few days of what? Pretending we're running a halfway house for temporally displaced analysts?"

Footsteps approach, and a figure emerges from behind what you now see is indeed a decorative column. Orange hair catches the warm lighting, and Jung Hoseok's face comes into view. His expression shifts from mild exasperation to something softer when he notices your open eyes.

"Oh. You're awake."

You manage a nod, the motion careful and measured. Your vocal cords feel scratchy, unused.

"Well," he says, hands finding his hips, "you really know how to put on a show, huh?"

A scoff of laughter accompanies the words, but there's genuine concern in his eyes. He sighs, the sound carrying relief and residual worry in equal measure.

He walks toward the bed, movements easy and unhurried. "How are you feeling? Scale of one to ten, with ten being 'ready to manipulate dimensional reality' and one being 'please keep the lights dim.'"

"Somewhere around a four," you manage, voice rougher than expected. "Maybe a three-point-seven."

"Specific. I like that." He settles into a chair beside the bed, leaning forward slightly. "Any nausea? Dizziness when you move your head?"

"Minimal. Cognitive processing feels... sluggish. Like running diagnostics through damaged circuits."

"That's normal after what you went through. Jin says your neural pathways are basically reorganizing themselves. Building new connections to handle the information load."

You process this, filing it away with the growing collection of data about your condition.

"Why am I here? In your room?"

"Because everywhere else was either contaminated, occupied, or specifically off-limits."

Pink hair like cotton candy ambushes your vision next, familiar, snappy voice joining the conversation. Jimin appears from behind the same column, arms crossed.

"Lucky you." Jimin’s tone carries enough sarcasm to power a small generator.

"Your room's got blood all over the floor," Hoseok explains, shooting Jimin a warning look. "Jin's lab isn't set up for overnight stays. And Yoongi..." He trails off, diplomatic.

"Yoongi's being a dramatic bitch," Jimin finishes, not bothering with diplomacy. "So you get to camp out here. In our space. With our things."

"Jimin."

"What? She should know what she's signing up for." Jimin's gaze finds yours, walking until he’s next to Hoseok. "This is the biggest room, so we've got a spare bed set up in the back area. But don't expect us to tiptoe around your delicate temporal sensibilities."

You blink, processing the implications. "Meaning?"

"Meaning," Jimin continues, deadpan, "if you hear sounds at night, you can suck it up. I'm not putting my sex life on hold just because we have a houseguest."

"We can be considerate for a few days," Hoseok sighs.

"Absolutely not." Jimin's response is immediate and firm. "What if two days become three? Become five? You know how Yoongi gets.”

His fingers trail down the front of Hoseok’s shirt, a deliberate, slow movement that draws attention to the motion. His eyes flick from his own hand to Hoseok's face, intentionally loaded.

“And you know how I get.”

Hoseok's hand moves to catch Jimin's wrist, stopping the downward trajectory. He licks his lips, head tilting in what looks like a silent plea.

Jimin's eyebrows furrow in response, and you realize you're witnessing an entire conversation conducted through micro-expressions and body language.

A communication system developed through intimacy and time, that you somehow, suddenly, crave.

You clear your throat. "I can handle background noise. My auditory processing filters are quite efficient."

Jimin jerks his hand away from Hoseok’s grip, snapping back to full irritation mode.

“I’ll take that as a challenge,” he says, rolling his eyes as he starts walking away.

He pauses, looking back over his shoulder with an expression that clearly expects you to follow.

Hoseok offers his hand, palm up—steady, warm. You take it, more out of protocol than necessity.

Your legs hold, but the world still lags half a step behind your movements.

He keeps pace beside you, easy and patient, while Jimin moves ahead with the attitude of someone eager to put distance between himself and the problem.

“Thanks,” you say, voice low.

It’s the kind of word that feels strange in your mouth, like you’re borrowing someone else’s language for a moment.

Hoseok glances down at you, one eyebrow raised. “For what?”

You keep your gaze ahead, watching Jimin’s back.

“Allowing me a place to stay. Even when your partner is clearly… less than enthusiastic about it.”

He snorts, the sound soft but genuine. “I’m not gonna insult your intelligence by pretending Jimin’s thrilled. You’d see right through it anyway. And I’d be lying.”

You nod, cataloguing the honesty.

Hoseok’s direct, but not unkind.

“He understands the need, though. Even if he hates the idea.”

You allow the silence to settle. Two seconds pass—long enough for discomfort to threaten, short enough to feel intentional.

“I asked him last time if he dislikes me.”

Hoseok’s lips twitch. “And?”

“He said yes.”

He laughs again, louder this time, shaking his head. “That’s Jimin for you. He doesn’t sugarcoat.”

You blink, parsing the statement. “Is that… typical?”

“Very.” He grins, then sobers a little. “He’s honest to a fault. If he doesn’t like you, he’ll tell you. If he does, you’ll know. There’s no in-between with him.”

You blink, trying to process the humor. “Why does he hate me?”

Hoseok’s gaze drops to the floor, mouth curving into a half-smile.

“It’s not hate. It’s… frustration. This whole mess has been rough on everyone, but Jimin—he takes things personally. Holds onto them. It’s just how he is.”

You nod, not sure you understand, but the explanation feels sufficient.

Maybe you don’t need to understand all the variables to accept the outcome.

The corridor opens up into a space that could pass for a boutique if not for the utilitarian racks and rows of tactical gear.

Jimin is already there, hand braced on the edge of a table, posture radiating impatience.

“Welcome to heaven,” he says, deadpan, not bothering to look back as he starts sorting through hangers with practiced flicks of his wrist.

“What is he doing?” you ask Hoseok.

Hoseok moves to a nearby section, fingers trailing through what appears to be a collection of coats. The fabric makes soft sounds under his touch—silk, wool, materials your tactile processors can identify even from a distance.

“Prepping you for your next mission.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. “I was not informed there was a mission.”

Jimin doesn’t look up from the rack he’s browsing. “Right. Because you were unconscious. Bleeding from your face. Kind of hard to deliver briefings in that condition.”

“That would imply poor timing on your part,” you say dryly. “Or an urgent operation being executed under suboptimal readiness conditions.”

Hoseok exhales—an audible, weighty thing. “It’s not ideal, but it’s happening. And you’re the only one who can do it.”

Your gaze drifts to the gown Jimin is holding, then back to Hoseok. “You’re sending someone who just experienced cognitive collapse into a mission requiring social infiltration?”

Jimin finally lifts his eyes, voice clipped. “Welcome to the resistance. We don’t have backups. We have probabilities.”

“That is not an explanation,” you counter. “It’s a deflection. Explain the mission parameters and the rationale behind assigning me.”

“Okay, before you go all ‘I demand answers’ on us, let me remind you—you just had a huge temporal dissonance episode. We will not be giving you new, life-altering info like Jungkook did.” Jimin snaps back. “Accept that first or there will be no answers.”

You narrow your eyes at him.

Curiosity demands answers.

Jimin demands accepting uncertainty.

Not accepting will result in no answers at all.

Plausible compromise.

“I accept.”

Hoseok rubs the back of his neck. “There’s a gala. High-level CHRONOS operatives. Important enough to warrant surveillance. We need eyes inside. Preferably someone who won’t trip alarms just by walking in.”

Your mind catches on the phrasing. “Yoongi.”

Jimin snorts under his breath.

You glance at him. “This is about Agent Min.”

“Of course it’s about Agent Min,” Jimin mutters. “He’s the only one who can get in without being flagged. You know that.”

“Because he disrupts CHRONOS’s detection systems,” you recall. “He reflects causality. Appears unindexed. A statistical blindspot.”

Hoseok nods. “Exactly. But using his ability too long causes fluctuations. Even Yoongi’s signature starts to spike.”

You blink. “So you need a stabilizer.”

“You,” Jimin says flatly.

You frown. “I stabilize his temporal signature?”

“You synchronize with it,” Hoseok corrects. “Your presence keeps both of you from triggering scans.”

Like on the rooftop.

Jimin crosses his arms. “And with CHRONOS agents watching everything? Even a small spike gets flagged.”

You nod once, calculation already forming behind your eyes. “So I’m the stabilizer. Redundancy protocol.”

“More like failsafe,” Hoseok mutters. “You’re the only one who keeps him from unraveling.”

“And vice versa,” Jimin adds. “You two stabilize each other.”

You don’t remember practicing synchronization. You don’t remember learning how to do it. But your body does.

You remember Yoongi’s presence—how time slows when he’s near, but never quite slips. You remember the way the air holds still when he stands too close.

And how your temporal signatures synchronized to 0% on that rooftop.

“I see,” you say. But you don’t see, not really, because— “Why not assign Jungkook as the stabilizer? Have him mimic Min’s ability to stabilize himself.”

A beat of silence.

“Should I…?” Hoseok prompts, looking for Jimin’s eyes.

“It’s basic info. She already knows Jungkook’s mimicry and some scope of what Yoongi can do.” He replies. Looks at you again. “It doesn’t work like that, Yoongi’s stabilization doesn’t work on himself. He anchors other people, sure, but he can’t anchor himself.”

You frown. “But why? If his ability can neutralize temporal spikes, why doesn’t it neutralize his own?”

Jimin’s jaw tics. “Because it simply doesn’t, okay? We’ve seen it. Firsthand. When he spikes, he spirals. No one can pull him back unless you’re—”

He cuts himself off, lips tightening.

You wait. He doesn’t finish.

Hoseok clears his throat gently. “His ability reflects outward. It doesn’t fold inward. He’s a buffer for others, not for himself. And if the pressure’s high enough… he unravels.”

“And Jungkook can’t hold his ability long enough anyway,” Jimin adds, apparently returning to safe grounds. “Mimicking heavy abilities drains him fast. Which is why he wouldn’t be able to mimic yours for long either—and you’d have to be present anyway. So.”

Your brain ticks through the logic—matching memory to data to anomaly.

And then it clicks.

“The travel spot,” you murmur. “When I lost stability. Jungkook—he was mimicking Min’s ability when he stabilized me.”

Hoseok nods once.

Jimin scoffs. “Look at her, she can actually process info slowly and make her own answers through assumptions. Who would have thought?”

Hoseok ignores his partner’s commentary. “Jungkook was able to do it for a few seconds. Long enough to suppress the spike and get you through.”

“He seemed fine afterward.”

“He was,” Jimin says. “It was under a minute. Well within what he can handle. But he still can’t sustain it for long periods of time.”

“That’s… inefficient,” you murmur. “Reliant on replication. He’s not a constant.”

“Exactly,” Hoseok says, voice quiet. “But you are.”

You process the implications.

Yoongi: a walking temporal singularity with no internal stabilization.

You: the only Outlier whose temporal signature resonates with his to perfection.

Together, you cancel out the spikes.

Together, you are balanced.

A paradox in perfect sync.

It seems deliberate.

Jimin breaks the silence. “Look, I don’t care if you’re barely recovered. You’re his anchor. That’s why it’s you.”

You look down at the dress again. “And if something goes wrong?”

Hoseok shrugs. “Then you sync with him.”

Jimin huffs. “Better keep the ticking bombs contained.”

You nod once, the weight of the truth settling over your shoulders like armor.

“Understood,” you say. “I’ll be ready.”

Jimin eyes you, skeptical. “Physically, maybe. Emotionally? I’d bet against it.”

“Emotions are statistically irrelevant to mission success,” you reply.

Jimin just snorts. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

You watch Jimin aggressively pull out another hanger.

Your mind immediately drifts back to resource allocation within this resistance base.

“May I ask how does this organization acquire such resources? This collection suggests significant financial investment or alternative acquisition methods.”

Jimin rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that’s safe info. Shouldn’t trigger any significant memory bleeds. The problem is usually with information you are not consciously aware of.”

Hoseok chuckles, pulling a velvet jacket off a rack. “Let’s just say my network of ‘friends’ in unregulated territories have eclectic taste. We trade in information and temporal contraband—unregulated timepieces, pre-war historical records, that sort of thing. They help us, we help them stay off CHRONOS’s radar.”

“And sometimes,” Jimin adds with a smirk, not looking up from a silk blouse, “CHRONOS just conveniently ‘loses’ a shipment of luxury goods. Taehyung has a knack for manipulating their inventory logs.”

“So formal wear is necessary for this gala.”

Hoseok chuckles. “It’s a social infiltration. High-security event, lots of important people, very specific dress code.”

“Define ‘very specific.’”

“Black tie,” Jimin says, returning his attention to the dress in his hands. He holds it up, studying the cut with professional interest. “Which means floor-length gowns, designer labels, and the kind of jewelry that costs more than most people’s annual salary.”

“I don’t own formal wear.”

“Obviously.” Jimin’s tone suggests this is the most ridiculous statement he’s ever heard. “That’s why you’re here instead of standing around looking helpless.”

“Jimin’s got an eye for this stuff,” Hoseok adds, moving to examine a section of what appears to be evening wear. “Fashion, style, making people look like they belong in places they definitely don’t belong.”

“Mhm,” Jimin hums, pulling another dress from its hanger. This one is milky white, with beading that catches the light. “The right outfit can make you invisible, or it can make you the center of attention. Depends on what the mission requires.”

“And what does this mission require?”

Jimin pauses, dress still in his hands, and looks at you directly for the first time since you entered the space.

“That depends on whether you can handle being someone you’re not for an entire evening.”

"I seem to follow that particular directive quite well," you observe, processing the implications. "Being someone I don't know I am appears to be my default operational state."

The words emerge as simple factual analysis, but Jimin's hands still on the fabric he's examining. He turns slowly, fixing you with a look that could strip circuits.

"I had just forgotten how analytically cunty you can be."

You blink, head tilting slightly as your processing centers attempt to parse the statement.

"Define ‘cunty’."

"Girl." Jimin's voice drops into a register that tells you his patience has officially expired. "I've seen you and Yoongi's version of foreplay. Very semantic, very 'I'm such a genius and I'm gonna demonstrate my intellectual superiority through vocabulary precision and get you horny whilst doing it,' so don't even try me."

Your optical processors stutter for exactly 0.4 seconds.

"I don't understand that reference."

"Of course you don't." Jimin returns to his clothing analysis with renewed vigor, pulling a cordovan dress from its hanger and holding it up to the light. "Because your brain conveniently resets every time you figure out that your analytical observations are sometimes intellectual dirty talk."

Hoseok makes a sound that might be a suppressed laugh. "Jimin."

"What? I'm stating facts." Jimin's tone carries that particular sharpness that means he's building momentum.”Yoongi’s already interrupted her twice when she starts with their whole intellectual play kink. She already knows she does this thing where she breaks down complex systems using precise technical language, and somehow makes equations sound like pillow talk. It's very specific. Very her."

"That sounds highly improbable," you say, though something in your neural pathways flickers—a ghost sensation, like muscle memory for conversations you've never had.

"Improbable." Jimin repeats the word with theatrical precision, mimicking your inflection. "See? There it is. Nobody says 'highly improbable' when they mean 'unlikely.' But you do, because your brain processes everything like it's conducting peer review on reality itself."

He moves to another section, pulling what appears to be an evening gown with a thigh cut.

"And apparently, certain people find that incredibly attractive. Which says concerning things about their psychological profiles, but here we are."

Your arms cross in front of your chest. "I don't recall engaging in any behavior that could be classified as—"

"Intellectual seduction?" Jimin supplies helpfully. "No, you wouldn't. Because every time you remember how to weaponize your brain for romantic purposes, CHRONOS hits the reset button."

Hoseok steps closer, clearing his throat. "Maybe we should focus on the mission parameters."

"Oh, we are." Jimin’s scoff is loud. “Because watching her figure out how to be someone else while simultaneously being exactly herself is going to be the entertainment highlight of this entire operation."

You process this information for 2.3 seconds before responding.

"Mission success probability increases when operatives maintain behavioral consistency within acceptable deviation parameters."

"There it is again." Jimin gestures at you with the dress still in his hands. "That sentence could have been 'I work better when I can still be myself,' but no. You chose the academic route. Every single time."

"Because precision in communication reduces misunderstanding and increases operational efficiency."

"And because you think being smart is sexy," Jimin adds, deadpan. "Which, according to my observations across multiple timelines, is apparently correct. At least for certain mint-haired individuals with concerning attachment issues."

Your mouth opens, then closes, processing algorithms struggling with the concept that analytical precision could be interpreted as flirtation.

Hoseok clears his throat. "Should we maybe start with sizing measurements?"

"Excellent suggestion," you say, grateful for the redirect to practical considerations. "Accurate dimensional data will ensure proper garment fit and reduce probability of mission compromise due to wardrobe malfunction."

Jimin stares at you for exactly three seconds, then turns to Hoseok.

"I rest my case."

“Could you provide specific examples of this alleged intellectual foreplay, though?” you ask, genuinely curious about the behavioral patterns being attributed to you. “I find the correlation between semantic precision and sexual arousal to be statistically unlikely.”

Jimin’s eyes close for exactly 2.7 seconds—a clear indicator of someone gathering patience.

“I’m not doing this right now.”

Hoseok, however, releases a delighted cackle that echoes off the boutique walls. “Oh, this is perfect. She doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.”

“Doing what, specifically?” You tilt your head, awaiting clarification.

“The way you two go at each other,” Hoseok grins, settling against a nearby rack like he’s preparing for storytime. “It’s not about complimenting each other’s intelligence. It’s the competition. The verbal sparring. Like in Timeline 289—you spent forty-seven minutes deconstructing his temporal cascade theory just to prove you could find a flaw in his logic.”

“That seems like standard peer review protocol,” you observe.

“Except it ended with him pinning you against a whiteboard while you tried to explain quantum entanglement with his tongue down your throat.”

You blink, processing this information. Your core temperature rises by 0.3 degrees.

“Or Reset 12,” Hoseok continues, clearly enjoying himself. “When you corrected his pronunciation of ‘dirigible’ during a mission briefing and somehow that turned into a three-hour debate about linguistic evolution that had the conference table creaking by the end.”

“Hoseok, please stop,” Jimin interjects, but his voice lacks real conviction.

“She asked for examples,” Hoseok defends, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Remember Timeline 467? The great coffee temperature optimization argument? They literally got into a screaming match about thermodynamics that ended with—”

“I get it,” you interrupt, though your analytical centers are spinning. “You’re suggesting that intellectual competition serves as our primary arousal mechanism.”

“Not just competition,” Hoseok clarifies. “It’s specifically when you try to out-genius each other. When you go all ‘actually, your calculation failed to account for these seventeen variables’ and he responds with some devastating counterpoint that makes you recalculate everything you thought you knew.”

You consider this data carefully.

“That does align with certain observations. When Agent Min dismissed my temporal analysis with a condescending partial smile in the alley, I did experience a statistically significant increase in heart rate.”

“There it is,” Jimin mutters, pulling dresses with increasing aggression.

“It’s particularly pronounced when he does that slight smirk—0.3 millimeter lift of the right corner of his mouth—while explaining why my analysis is incomplete.” You pause, accessing the memory. “I find myself wanting to… dispute his conclusions. Though I attributed it to simple frustration at the time.”

“It’s never simple with you two,” Hoseok laughs. “It’s this elaborate dance where you’re both trying to prove you’re the smartest person in the room, and somehow that translates directly to—”

“Choose a dress,” Jimin interrupts loudly, shoving the navy blue gown in your direction. “This one. Backless. Navy. Will complement your features.”

You take the dress, examining the fabric. “This one is structurally sound. The open back allows for optimal movement and ventilation.”

Hoseok wiggles his eyebrows. “And easy access.”

“Hobi.” Jimin warns.

“I doubt ‘easy access’ is needed. Agent Min has made it very clear that he refuses skin contact with me.”

Jimin straightens. “For the love of everything that’s holy—do not make skin contact.”

You nod, thoughtful. “Noted. Though with this cut, the probability of skin contact is high.”

“It’s not, because he will be wearing gloves like he always is.” Jimin interjects. “So just behave and don’t think about his big sexy brain.”

“I do find his brain appealing.”

Hoseok is practically vibrating with glee. “Oh, and that’s not even talking about the tongue thing.”

You freeze mid-examination of the dress. “What tongue thing?”

“HOSEOK.” Jimin makes a strangled sound.

“You haven’t noticed yet?” Hoseok looks genuinely shocked. “But you mention it every timeline! It’s like your sexual Achilles heel.”

“Define ‘tongue thing.’”

Jimin lunges for Hoseok. “Don’t you dare—”

“When he’s thinking really hard,” Hoseok dodges easily, still grinning, “he does this thing where he’ll bite it to the side. Or lick the corner of his lip. Sometimes he’ll just let it rest against his teeth while he’s processing something complex.”

Your memory banks immediately scroll through recent interactions, isolating relevant footage.

The briefing room. The coffee shop. That moment when he’d been calculating trajectories, pink tongue darting out to wet his lower lip while his eyes went distant with thought.

Oh.

“Fascinating,” you breathe, skin temperature rising 0.3 degrees. “I hadn’t consciously catalogued that behavior pattern, but reviewing my memory files… I need to pay closer attention to that.”

“No, you don’t.” Jimin groans. “What you need to do is try on the dress. Think about fabric. Think about thread count. Think about anything except—”

“The way his jaw tightens when I successfully identify flaws in his logic?” you supply helpfully. “Or how his pupils dilate by approximately 32% when I use technical terminology to dismantle his arguments? Or the specific angle his tongue—”

“This isn’t funny,” Jimin snaps at Hoseok, who is now doubled over with laughter. “You know what happens when she gets like this. He’s going to feel it, and then—”

A sharp beep cuts through the air. Jimin’s Chrono-Sync Watch lights up with an incoming message. He glances down, face draining of color.

“Fuck.”

“What?” Hoseok leans over to look.

Jimin holds up his wrist, displaying the text in glowing blue letters:

𝐌𝐢𝐧: 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗.

“Feel what?” you ask, but Jimin is already shaking his head.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Just—” He gestures wildly at the dress. “Try this on. Make sure it fits. Don’t think about intellectual superiority or competitive dynamics or anyone’s tongue doing anything whatsoever.”

“That seems like an unreasonable request given the neural pathways that have now been activated,” you observe. “I’ll likely spend the next 3-7 hours involuntarily cataloging Agent Min’s linguistic microexpressions.”

“Which is exactly what I was trying to avoid,” Jimin mutters, then louder: “Dressing room. Now. Before this gets worse.”

“How could it get worse?” you ask with genuine curiosity.

Jimin and Hoseok exchange a look—Jimin’s expression screaming ‘don’t you dare’ while Hoseok’s radiates pure mischievous delight.

“Well,” Hoseok starts, and Jimin immediately throws a shoe at him.

Another buzz. Another message.

𝐌𝐢𝐧: 𝙴𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝟹𝟺𝟸%. 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙.

“Fuck,” Jimin breathes. “He’s tracking percentages now.”

“He can quantify emotional resonance?”

“Of course that’s what you focus on,” Jimin mutters. “Yes, he can tell exactly how aroused you are, probably down to the fucking decimal point. Which means he knows you’re up here having revelations about wanting to fuck his brain out.”

“The phrase ‘fuck his brain out’ seems anatomically impossible—”

“Stop saying the word ‘fuck’, stop thinking about tongues, brains and how hot it makes you when Yoongi is being intelectually challenging to you.”

“That’s paradoxical. Telling someone not to think about something guarantees—”

“I know how cognitive psychology works,” Jimin interrupts. “Just. Try. Please. Before he decides to come investigate why you’re suddenly thinking about his doctorate in temporal physics.”

“He has a doctorate?” Your interest sharpens immediately. “What was his dissertation on?”

A third buzz.

𝐌𝐢𝐧: 𝟹𝟺𝟽%. 𝙸’𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗.

“I’M NOT TELLING YOU,” Jimin practically screams. “THAT’S EXACTLY THE KIND OF THING THAT LEADS TO PROPERTY DAMAGE.”

Hoseok is now laughing so hard he’s crying, collapsed against the table. “She doesn’t even remember why she’s attracted to him but she’s already ready to throw down about academic credentials. This is AMAZING.”

You take the navy dress, mind already calculating the statistical probability of Agent Min doing that specific tongue movement they mentioned during the upcoming mission.

The calculation suggests 87.3%.

Your core temperature rises another 0.4 degrees.

Behind you, Hoseok’s laughter echoes through the boutique while Jimin mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “he’s going to fucking kill me.”

if you liked this chapter, please consider buying me a coffee!! ♡'･ᴗ･'♡

next | index

— taglist @cannotalwaysbenight @taevanille @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @ktownshizzle @yoongiiuu93 @billy-jeans23 @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @hobis-sprite0218 @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @dltyum @dailynnt @sashakittyct @bjoriis @hemmosfear @bettytta

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mejaemin · 8 months ago

Text

nonchalant - jeon wonwoo

wc: 0.9k

summary: clingy wonu /ᐠ - ˕ -マ

warnings: streamer!wonu, writer!reader, fluff, not proofread !!!

an: i can think of so many ways to make a pt.2 to this… will i? nope!

───── ⋆⋅ ⊹ ⁺ 𐔌 ᩧ ຼ ͡ ৯ ♡໒⁀ ᩧຼ ꒱ིྀ ⁺ ⊹ ⋅⋆ ─────

the letters on your laptop’s keyboard are surely to start fading any time soon, but it’s worth it. especially right now. there’s yet to be a single time where you’ve felt this much inspiration in your entire career, so you refuse to let this go to waste. your eyes flicker to the notebook sitting next to you, information on the paper translating in your mind and being typed out into coherent sentences on the document.

you’re really proud of what you’ve written so far. you had your boyfriend read your unorganized thoughts you had set out for the plot and what not, and he thinks it’s good too. once your brain felt ready to start writing the real thing, your fingers were flying. you slipped your headphones on, essentially blocking out the entire world as you worked. you started when it was still light out, and you’ve only gotten up to use the bathroom, really. it’s dark now, and although he’s not working quite as hard, you can still sense your boyfriend moving around the house, making commentary as he pre records gaming content.

he’s left you alone so far. he’s not the type to nag you too much about taking care of yourself, especially when he’s already learnt his lesson about interrupting you when you have one of these moments of inspiration. not to mention he has times like this too, even if it was for something like a long term livestream. still, he treats you how he would want to be treated in the same situation. by that he means undisturbed… with the occasional interruption, of course. he likes to have his game time but if he isn’t filming he still wants to be with you.

your phone is on do not disturb, keeping wonwoo’s obnoxious friends and their instagram reel notifications from disturbing your work, so when a message notification dings through your headphones you know who it is.

won🖤: Are you almost done yet?

won🖤: I’ve finished recording.

you: no, sorry love :( i still have some left in me.

you: just a little more, okay?

won🖤: Just a little more. I try not to be that guy, but you really should stop soon. Eat something

you reacted with 👍

setting your phone down, you crack your knuckles with a sigh. you were reaching the end of your inspiration spark, so you really wanted to rush to get whatever you could in. it’s extremely rare that this happens, and you couldn’t stress it enough. you’ve got deadlines to meet, and for this to happen to you was literally perfect. you’re basically set, and might even be able to take a day off tomorrow.

you’ve gotten back onto your groove, putting the music on high while you work. you’re typing word after word, paragraph after paragraph flawlessly. everything you’ve been mapping out for weeks is finally coming to fruition, and it’s doing so perfectly. you’re so zoned in that you don’t notice when wonwoo comes in, only taking note of his presence when the weight shifts on the bed and his head lands on your shoulder.

you pause, pulling the headphones off your head. “do you need something?” you ask, hand instinctively coming to brush through his hair.

he looks up at you, and you’re sure he doesn’t notice the way he’s pouting. it’s rare that he’d be like that voluntarily. “how far are you? you’re almost done?”

“mm, i don’t think so.. sorry. i really need to make the most of this or else i’ll never get this finished.” you kiss the top of his head, and as soon as you put your hand back towards the keyboard he grabs it.

“you’ve been sitting here all day.”

“yeah, i noticed. but i’ll do just a little more, ‘kay?” you kiss his crown and return to work.

you finish the second to last plot point you had mapped out, and now you’re just revising what you done so far. even by your own standards you’ve done enough, and since wonwoo is indirectly begging you to spend time with him (in his own way) by clinging to your side, you suppose you can stop for now. it hasn’t even been that long and you can see him looking from his phone to you every three seconds. it’s cute really, how he’s trying so hard to be nonchalant about it when he wants to spend time with you so bad. every time he wants your attention, he sort of hovers around you and stares at you until you give it to him. he’ll never say it out loud, but he’s definitely going to be obvious about it in other ways.

you shut your computer and set it on the night stand, turning towards him fully. the corners of wonwoo’s mouth twitch as he tried to hold back his smile, but you know he’s happy that he’s won.

“you’re done now? are you gonna go back to work, or are you really done?” he asks, sitting up and readjusting his glasses.

you giggle at his cuteness, kissing his cheek. “yes, nonu. you’ve got my full, undivided attention now, ‘kay?”

he’s already up before you are, rambling about how excited he is to spend the rest of the night with you, even if it’s already late. he’s walking into the kitchen to make ramen for you, talking about eating it together while watching something, and then stopping to ponder about what to do after. you trail behind him, a smile on your face. your nonchalant, black cat boyfriend who uses very few words will throw it all out the window if it means getting your attention and keeping it for a good moment.

───── ⋆⋅ ⊹ ⁺ 𐔌 ᩧ ຼ ͡ ৯ ♡໒⁀ ᩧຼ ꒱ིྀ ⁺ ⊹ ⋅⋆ ─────

#mejaemin #seventeen #svt #seventeen x reader #svt x reader #seventeen fluff #svt fluff #jeon wonwoo #jeon wonwoo x reader #wonwoo x reader #wonwoo

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writeriguess · 6 months ago

Note

COULD YOU WRITE KATSUKI BAKUGO X FEM READER

SHE TELLS HIM SHES PREGNANT

A BIT OF SMUT TOO

One Time Won't Lead to Anything… Right?

It started with little things.

At first, you thought nothing of it. The nausea was easy enough to blame on stress, maybe a stomach bug, or something you ate. You’d been pushing yourself harder than usual, staying up late, skipping meals—maybe your body was just reacting to that.

But then, there were the cravings.

You had never particularly cared for pickles, yet you found yourself eating an entire jar in one sitting, only to immediately want something sweet afterward. The idea of eggs, which you usually had no problem with, made your stomach churn. And coffee—the drink you relied on to get through the day—suddenly smelled unbearable.

Then came the exhaustion.

It was different from the usual tiredness that came after a long day. This was bone-deep fatigue, the kind that made you want to crawl back into bed the moment you woke up. You had brushed it off, blaming the colder weather, the changing season, or just plain overwork.

But when your period didn’t come—when the days stretched into weeks—you felt the first prickling of worry settle in your chest.

Lying in bed one night, staring at the ceiling, the realization crept up your spine, cold and unrelenting.

Your fingers trembled as you grabbed your phone, opening your period-tracking app. Your cycle had always been regular, like clockwork, but now—

Three weeks. You were three weeks late.

Your heart pounded so loudly you swore you could hear it in your ears.

No. No, it couldn’t be that. Maybe your body was just out of sync, maybe it was stress—maybe—

And then, like a dam breaking, a memory surfaced.

You hadn’t always been careful.

Your face burned with the thought, breath catching as your mind wandered back to a night not so long ago—a night filled with heat, sweat, and reckless abandon.

That night had started with teasing.

Katsuki had come home late from patrol, his hero suit slightly scuffed, his body radiating heat as he threw himself onto the couch with an exhausted grunt.

You had been waiting for him, sprawled across the couch in one of his hoodies, the fabric swallowing you up. He had barely looked at you at first, rubbing at the sore muscles in his neck.

“Tough night?” you had asked, voice laced with amusement.

“Tch. You have no idea,” he muttered. “Dumbass villain wasted my goddamn time. Coulda been home two hours ago.”

You had pushed yourself up, crawling onto his lap, straddling him. His hands automatically found your hips, warm and familiar, but his eyes flickered up to yours with a questioning look.

“What are you doin’?”

You had grinned, leaning down to press a kiss to his jaw. “Making you feel better.”

That was all it took.

Katsuki had growled, gripping your hips tightly before flipping you onto the couch, his weight pressing down against you. His mouth had been hot and insistent, trailing from your lips to your neck, his hands slipping beneath your hoodie, rough fingers tracing the curve of your waist.

“You gonna be good for me, huh?” he had murmured, his voice deep and laced with hunger.

You had barely been able to form words, nodding breathlessly as he stripped you down, his mouth mapping every inch of exposed skin. His hands had held you in place as he worked you open, the stretch of his fingers sending sparks up your spine.

And when he finally slid inside, the fullness of him knocked the breath from your lungs.

You had clung to him, nails dragging across his back, legs wrapping around his waist as he set a punishing pace. The sounds of your moans and the slap of skin against skin had filled the room, drowning out everything else.

Katsuki had been relentless, hips snapping into you with a force that left you gasping, his grip bruising as he held you still beneath him.

But then—

“Shit—”

His movements had faltered, his breath hitching. He had slammed in deep, hips flush against yours, his entire body tensing as he came hard inside of you, his warmth spilling deep.

It wasn’t until after, when the haze of pleasure had started to fade, that his eyes snapped open in realization.

His hands had immediately gripped your waist, his body going rigid above you.

“…Wait. Fuck.”

You had blinked up at him, still dazed, your fingers threading through his damp hair.

“What?”

His gaze had flickered down between your bodies, and when he pulled back, you saw the way his expression darkened, his jaw clenching.

“We—” He had swallowed hard, looking at his cock still glistening with his release. “Fuck. I thought—I swear I put on a—”

Oh.

Realization had settled over you, but instead of panicking, you had merely exhaled a small laugh, pulling him back down against you.

“Relax,” you had murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple. “One time unprotected won’t lead to anything.”

Katsuki had still looked uncertain, his brows furrowing as he stared at you.

“You better be fuckin’ right,” he had muttered.

Sitting in the dim glow of your bedroom, your hands shaking as they held the plastic stick, you knew—

You had been wrong.

The little plus sign on the test was as clear as day.

You were pregnant.

A strangled noise escaped your throat, and you pressed a trembling hand to your stomach. The weight of reality hit you like a tidal wave, crashing over you with a force that left you breathless.

Your mind raced—how were you supposed to tell him? Would he be angry? Would he panic? You had reassured him that nothing would happen, and now—

No.

No, you needed to calm down.

You took a deep breath, exhaling slowly.

You had to tell him.

Katsuki had just gotten home when you finally found the courage to speak.

He was rolling his shoulders, kicking off his boots, his red eyes flickering up to meet yours. His expression softened slightly when he saw you.

“The fuck you lookin’ at me like that for?” he muttered, raising an eyebrow.

You hadn’t even realized you were staring.

Your fingers curled into the hem of your hoodie, gripping it tightly.

“Katsuki.”

Something in your tone made him pause. His gaze sharpened. “What?”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to breathe.

“I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

His entire body went still, his red eyes locked onto yours, unreadable.

“…What?”

His voice was quiet. Disbelieving.

You exhaled shakily, nodding. “I took a test. A few, actually. They were all positive.”

For a long moment, he just stared at you. His jaw clenched, his hands flexing at his sides. You could see the way his breathing had slowed, the way his mind was racing.

And then—he moved.

Before you could react, his arms were around you, pulling you into his chest. His grip was tight, almost crushing, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

“…Fuck,” he muttered, his voice thick.

You hesitated. “Are you—?”

His grip only tightened.

“I’m happy, dumbass.”

The breath you had been holding escaped in a shaky laugh, your arms wrapping around him just as tightly.

And in that moment, you knew—you weren’t alone in this.

Not now. Not ever.

#bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #katsuki x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugou x you #bakugou x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugo x you #bakugo x y/n #bnha #mha #mha fanfiction #my hero academia #boku no hero academia

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tteokdoroki · 1 year ago

Text

tw ! slight age gap, reader is older, cheating, fingering, smut.

hello going on a business trip or to a conference, escaping your mundane life and the marriage that brings you nothing.

you’ve really gone on this trip to get away from your dead bedroom and the spouse that treats you like nothing more than a money maker.

which leads you to having a chance encounter with bakugou at the bar of the hotel your conference is at. you remember him from one of the panels — he’s young for this field of work but incredibly handsome, has brilliant red eyes that draw you in like magnetising poles, he makes you laugh and from your belly too. he’s everything your current spouse is not, there’s a spark inside you that you haven’t felt in years and bakugou knows it too. he makes you feel beautiful and seen and all he’s done is buy you a drink with a sour olive in it.

you find yourself stumbling behind him after one too many drinks, katsuki guiding you back to your hotel room — the good man that he is. you’ve both got panels to attend tomorrow morning at 9am sharp. it wouldn’t be wise to spend the rest of the night basking in booze and one another’s company. but when you get the door, failing to slip your key card into the slot — the blonde’s hand touches yours to help you get it in and all sense of logic is lost.

you no longer feel drained by mundane life waiting for you back home, you no longer think of your boring spouse in currently sleeping in your marital bed where they fail to make you feel loved. from the moment katsuki’s hand had touched yours, all you could feel was electricity, the longing and the wanting you’ve been desperately craving.

his lips drag sweep across your skin in heated motions and they find pleasure spots you’re not sure you even knew existed. bakugou’s fingers map out every inch of your body as though he may never touch you again, they dip past the forbidden band of your a-line skirt and write secret promises of pleasure against your clit because you’re married and the both of you know this is wrong.

one touch turns into another, dull and thick fingers stretch you open and graze your g-spot with an ease your spouse could never find. you e never felt this good, your lashes flutter against katsuki’s neck as he holds you to his chest and finger fucks you to the high heavens…because you’re just a hardworking woman who hasn’t had her pussy ruined in a long time, not like you deserve. he grins when you cream on just two of his fingers, such a good girl, so easy to please.

“such a pretty girl… such a hard worker ‘n no one to take care of you,” the blonde purrs into your ear before pushing you into the plush pillows and blankets below. there’s a gravel in his voice that raises at the heartbeat between your legs, not to mention the perfect view of him loosening his shirt and tie above you. “s’that why you’ve fallen into bed with the youngest guy here. ‘cause i got what it takes t’keep up with ya, yeah? make you feel better than that poor excuse of a fuck you got back home?”

bakugou grins slow and sexy when your hips rise from the bed on instinct at his words and he kisses you just to reward you, a poor touch starved little thing. its hungry and sloppy and messy and somewhere in the mix of his tongue wrapped around yours and your hands in his hair — the blonde has ripped through your stockings and slipped his aching, dripping slick cock past your quivering entrance.

he feels like home inside you, feels you up to the brim and sends your eyes rolling back into the depths of your skull. every stroke is calculated, every piston of katsuki’s meaty girth purposive and intentional — crafted to make you see stars with every jolt of your body up the bed. you can’t go back to regular old life after tonight, you won’t be able to go back to the way things were without picturing bakugou’s tie hanging loosely above you and hearing his deep moans echo throughout your mind.

that night you leave marks on one another that you’ll be hiding for weeks, smiling at when no one is looking, reminiscing the sinful experience shared in this very hotel room. there’s too much passion in the room for this to just remain a one time thing, too much emotion behind the act saliva swept lip lock or love bite left below the line of future clothes to be worn.

you know that you won’t give katsuki up especially when he kisses you as you cum together, thick white seeping between your swollen and ravaged folds.

you’ll do anything to be underneath bakugou like this again, even if it means planning fake business trips every other weekend to get away from your spouse and get fucked to the high heavens by your young hot colleague.

#bakugou x reader #bakugou smut #bakugou x you #bakugo smut #bakugou imagines #bakugou drabble #bnha x reader #bnha smut #mha x reader #mha smut #bakugou katsuki smut #bakugo x you #✧ ₊˚੭ — writing #tteokdoroki #yeah idk what this is immm #✧ ₊˚💭੭ — aali just posted #tw: cheating

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mysteria157 · 1 year ago

Text

Pairing: Nanami Kento x Black Fem Reader

CW: Profanity, Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, Missionary, Doggystyle, Fingering, Oral (m! receiving)…

WC: ~10k (grab your snacks)

Summary:

Nanami runs into a problem that every man dreads.

Now, you find yourself navigating the treacherous waters of his bruised ego and growing hysteria, armed with nothing but your unwavering love and a seemingly endless supply of patience, as you try to help him overcome this unexpected hurdle.

Notes: Hello! Trying to get back into the swing of writing again after so many weeks on a break and naturally Nanami is who I gravitate towards. I thought this one shot would be a funny idea, and as someone once told me, I wrote this with “my c*it on the keyboard.”

Please do not ask me for more related to this story. This is just a one-shot of a random idea, please enjoy it for what it is lol. Thank you all for understanding!

Reblogs, likes, or comments are always appreciated! Happy reading!

Dividers: @cafekitsune | Header: made by myself

Masterlist | Ao3 | Twitter |

“Fuck, Kento,” you breathe, fingers digging into the satin of the pillow case beneath your head.

The soft, warm glow of the bedside lamp bathes your intertwined bodies in a honeyed light, casting shadows that dance across your rich brown skin. Nanami’s lips, hot and insistent, trail a path of fire down your neck, pausing to lavish attention on the sensitive hollow of your throat. He drags his teeth along your clavicle, brushes his lips between the skin of your breasts. A breathy moan escapes you as his tongue traces lazy, deliberate circles around an already-sensitive nipple, sending sparks of pleasure racing through your veins.

His hands, strong and sure, yet infinitely gentle, knead the soft flesh behind your knees, coaxing your legs to open wider, allowing him to sink deeper into the welcoming heat of your body. The blunt head of his cock grazes that sweet spot inside you with each measured thrust, and you can’t help but arch your back, silently begging for more.

Your hair, messy from his fingers, frames your face in a splatter of curls, some clinging to the sheen of sweat on your cheeks. The sight of you like this—open, wanting, completely his—nearly steals the breath from his lungs and makes him double down his efforts.

It’s been weeks since you’ve had this. Weeks of Kento stumbling home late from working overtime, collapsing into bed still fully clothed. Weeks of missed connections, family obligations, and movie nights cut short with you both passing out on the couch. But tonight, finally, you have each other, free from the demands of the world outside.

As Nanami moves within you, his honey-wheat hair, usually so perfectly styled, falls in soft, tousled waves across his forehead, clinging to the perspiration that glistens on his brow. The strong line of his jaw is taut with concentration, a muscle jumping beneath the skin in a way that makes your fingers itch to trace its contours. His eyes, normally a cool, observant umber, now burn with a fierce intensity, a volatile mix of desire and something else, something harder to define.

But even as you lose yourself in the rhythm of your lovemaking, in the exquisite slide of skin against skin, you can’t help but notice the weariness etched into the lines of Nanami’s face, the slight tremor in his hands as they map the contours of your body. He’s been working himself to the bone, pushing himself to the brink of exhaustion, and it shows in the tension of his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes. You had tried to get him to sleep when he sagged through the front door, but he was insistent, clawing at your too-big t-shirt, silent and too stubborn to listen to his body as he licked into your hot mouth.

He’s so tired. Mind still running through quarterly reports and half-completed project plans. But he won’t let that deter him. He’s determined to focus—to savor this moment, to lose himself in the intoxicating scent of your skin, to surrender to the tremors that course through him as your fingers ghost up his back. You marvel at the play of muscles beneath his skin, at the flex and release of his broad shoulders with each movement—a reminder of the strength he usually keeps so carefully controlled.

But as he leans in to capture your lips, that traitorous whisper of doubt in his mind grows in volume. That exhaustion that melted away from your touch has retreated to within him, to course through the blood in his veins and manifest again in its own, evil way at the apex of his thighs. Nanami’s movements falter, his rhythm turning erratic, unsure. You feel a change in him, a hesitation that wasn’t there before, and your heart clenches with concern. His brow furrows, his lips pressing into a thin line as he tries to hold onto the moment, to keep the passion burning between you. The confidence that usually radiates from him when you are both between the sheets seems to waver, leaving in its wake a man grappling with an unfamiliar sense of inadequacy.

He doesn’t want to believe it. He refuses to acknowledge the treacherous thought creeping into his mind. His cock, moments ago hard as a rock and pulsing within you, is betraying him. He digs one hand into the pillow beneath your head, fingers tangling in your curls, savoring the sharp gasp you shake out, desperately willing himself to focus on your heat, on your breath ghosting across his face—anything but the waning firmness of his erection.

With a low grunt, he thrusts deeper so there’s no room for his cock to leave you. The movement is sharper than usual, a force that has no trace of his care behind it and it immediately makes you blink through the fog of pleasure in your mind. You notice the change, concern filling you as you take in the tumultuous emotions on his face. His blonde hair falls in thick tufts over his forehead, brushing against the deepening crease between his eyebrows.

“Ken?” Your voice is soft, a gentle caress. You bring a hand to his cheek, and he leans into your touch as if your soft skin might anchor and keep him focused. “Is everything alright?”

Everything is far from alright.

It’s a nightmare scenario that Nanami can’t bring himself to voice. But he knows you feel it. Instead, he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in harsh, ragged pants against your vanilla skin, his fingers digging almost painfully into the flesh of your hips. He drives his hips deeper, angling upwards, trying desperately to lose himself in your pliant body.

But with his next thrust, the cruel truth becomes undeniable. What was once hard steel is now unbearably soft, slipping out of you as his hips collide with yours. Your gasp mirrors his shock as he jerks his head up to meet your gaze. The mortification in his eyes is palpable, a stark contrast to the passion that burned there mere moments ago.

“Ken, it’s okay—” you begin, but he’s already retreating, both physically and emotionally, his walls slamming back into place, shutting you out. You can practically see him retreating into himself, his shoulders hunching, his jaw clenching with a stubbornness of wounded pride.

“Hey, no, we aren’t doing this,” you insist, voice firm and laced with quiet determination.

You reach for him, your fingers wrapping around a thick wrist, anchoring him to you. You’ve spent years chipping away at his defenses, learning every facet of his being, and you refuse to let him shut you out now over something like this. This isn’t just embarrassment—it’s a fundamental shaking of his self-image, a crack in the foundation of who Nanami believes himself to be. An affliction that every man prays to the gods never finds them.

Limp dick.

You gently pull Nanami back to rest between your thighs, his weight a comforting shield against the cool air of your shared bedroom. Your fingers weave through his hair, feeling the tension thrumming through his body as he settles against you.

“Kento,” you murmur, your voice a low, soothing melody in the quiet room. “Look at me.”

He stills for a heartbeat, two, before raising his head, his eyes meeting yours. In their depths, you see a swirling maelstrom of emotions—frustration, embarrassment, shame. He’s tousled hair and flushed cheeks, an overwhelming exhaustion and stress etched beneath his eyes.

“It’s okay,” you breathe, cradling his face in your hands. Your thumbs trace the high arch of his cheekbones, feeling the heat of his skin. “This happens. It doesn’t change a thing—not how I feel, not how much I love you, none of it.”

Nanami’s jaw clenches under your palms, the muscle pulsing, a physical manifestation of the turmoil brewing within him. His gaze falls, unable to hold yours, as if the weight of his perceived failure is too much to bear. “I should be able to—”

“To what?” you interject, your voice gentle but firm. “To be some infallible sex god?” A soft laugh escapes you, your lips curving into a tender smile. “To never have limp dick?”

Those warm eyes glare at you, not at all amused by your light-hearted but poignantly accurate joke. “Now is not the time for a joke,” he grits out, his voice tight, strained.

“Now is exactly the time for a joke,” you counter, your thumb tracing the slight cracks of his bottom lip. You can sense his next moves, your body attuned to his very soul, feeling his inclination to withdraw, to roll over and brood, to let this momentary setback fester into something more. You tighten your thighs around his waist, refusing to let him drift away. “How long have we been together, Kento?”

“Three years.” His answer is immediate, automatic, a testament to the depth of your bond.

“And in that time, has this ever happened before?”

Your eyes lock—a silent battle of wills, logic against stubborn pride. He understands your point, recognizes the truth in your words, but his stubbornness matches your own. “No,” he admits, the word a reluctant concession.

“You’re human, Kento. Wonderfully, beautifully human, and the sexiest man I’ve ever known. Performance issues or not.”

He scoffs, but you feel his shoulders slacken, his body melting into yours as he exhales, the tension slowly bleeding from his muscles. His arms tighten around you, calloused hands splaying across the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, as if your touch alone could chase away the demons of self-doubt. Those beautiful golden strands tickle your cheeks as he nuzzles closer, his breath warm against your neck.

“Is that so?” he finally murmurs, and you can hear the small smile in his voice, a welcome change from the earlier tension. For as reserved as he is, Nanami preens under any sort of compliments you give him, a chink in his armor of cool composure.

“Mmhmm,” you hum, your hands sliding down to appreciate the firm planes of his back. “It’s a shame, really. You attract too much attention. I’ve been too generous with how long I let you out of the house.”

You feel more than hear his soft chuckle, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into yours. Nanami pulls back slightly, his dark eyes meeting yours. The vulnerability from before hasn’t completely faded, but it’s tempered by a familiar spark of determination kindling in their depths. You don’t know if the subject has completely dropped. But for now, he doesn’t seem to dwell on it, content to focus on you instead.

“Well,” he begins, his voice dropping to that deep, velvety tone that never fails to send shivers cascading down your spine, “I should ensure your satisfaction. Maybe then you’ll extend my hours outside.”

Before you can respond, he’s moving. He sits up on his knees, hot hands wrapping around your waist before yanking your hips closer to him, a delicious show of strength that has your breath catching in your throat. Your giggle of surprise quickly morphs into a gasp as his lips find that sensitive spot just below your ear, tongue sliding against the skin before it trails down the rest of your body, leaving a path of desire that makes you shudder against him.

You expected a period of adjustment, a gradual return to the easy intimacy you and Nanami had always shared. But as time passed, you began to notice a shift, subtle at first, but growing more pronounced with each passing day.

That first sign of something odd presents itself on day three since that night, a quiet Saturday morning that dawns with a gentle golden light filtering through your bedroom curtains. You wake up to find Nanami’s side of the bed empty, the sheets cool to the touch. Puzzled, you pad into the living room, your bare feet silent on the cool hardwood floor, your eyes roaming the space for any sign of him.

Nanami sits at the dining table, surrounded by a veritable fortress of books, their spines forming a colorful barricade around his hunched form. His laptop glows in the morning light, casting his features in a pale blue hue, multiple tabs visible on the screen. He’s hunched over and shirtless, his bare back a canvas of dark moles, constellations you’ve traced countless times with reverent fingers, your lips mapping a path between each celestial point.

As you circle the table, drawing closer to his absorbed form, you’re struck by the intensity of his concentration, the furrow of his brow, the set of his jaw. His fingers fly over the keyboard with a single-minded purpose, a man on a mission, lost in a world of his own making.

“What are you doing up so early?” you ask, running a hand through the short, silky hair at his nape.

He glances up, and the determined glint in his eye catches you off guard. “Research,” he replies simply, as if that single word explains everything.

Curiosity getting the better of you, you lean in to examine the book titles scattered across the table, your brow rising with each passing second:

Male Sexual Health

Nutrition and Libido

Stress Management for Peak Performance

What the—?

A mix of emotions bubbles up inside you—amusement at his determination, concern for his state of mind, a touch of exasperation at his stubbornness. Part of you wants to tease him mercilessly, to watch that adorable flush creep up his neck, to see him squirm under your playful attention. But you bite your tongue, sensing the fragility of the moment, the rawness of his exposed insecurities.

“Ken,” you begin, your voice a delicate balance of understanding and concern, “is this about what happened the other night? I thought we talked about this, baby.”

“We did,” he nods, not looking up from his screen. “And I appreciate your understanding. But I can’t let it happen again. I’m going to fix this.”

There’s so much you want to say, so many reassurances you want to offer. You want to tell him how normal this is, how surprised you are that it hasn’t happened more often given his grueling work schedule. But you bite your tongue, sensing that this is something Nanami needs to process on his own.

“Don’t you think this might be…a bit much?” you try one last time, your fingers tracing soothing patterns on his bare shoulder, careful not to make him feel defensive and push him further into his own head.

“Nothing is too much when it comes to satisfying you.”

And with those words, spoken with such conviction, such raw honesty, your heart swells, a tidal wave of love and affection crashing over you. He won’t be swayed, and there’s no point in trying to argue with him when he’s set on something. You can’t help but sigh fondly, running your fingers through his hair again, your nails gently scratching his scalp in the way you know he loves. He leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment, a low groan of appreciation rumbling from his chest as he guides your fingers to just the right spot.

As Nanami launches into an explanation of the benefits of Ashwagandha root, his fingers running along a line of text in one of the magazines, you can’t help but shake your head affectionately. You love this man, even (or perhaps especially) when he’s being ridiculously over-the-top, his determination to be the best partner he can be, even if it means diving headfirst into a world of herbal remedies and performance-enhancing techniques.

The days slip by, each one blurring into the next, a haze of normalcy tinged with an undercurrent of unease. It’s not until the morning of day ten that the true extent of Nanami’s newfound obsession becomes impossible to ignore.

The soft schick of his razor fills the bathroom, a rhythmic counterpoint to the rush of running water. He stands before the mirror, shirtless, a towel draped over his broad shoulders to catch stray flecks of shaving cream. You watch, transfixed, as he meticulously glides the razor along the sharp line of his jaw, each stroke precise, measured.

You stand beside him, your own morning ritual underway, massaging a rich, creamy lotion into your melanin-kissed skin. Your favorite scent of vanilla fills the air, mingling with the crisp, clean aroma of Nanami’s shaving cream. It’s a familiar dance, this shared moment of grooming, of preparation for the day ahead.

But as you reach for your leave-in, your eyes catch on something new, something that sends a jolt of surprise through your system. There, amidst the clutter of skincare products and toiletries, sits a new addition to the growing collection of bottles on the counter. The mustard-yellow label boldly proclaims: “Maca Root: For Vitality and Stamina”.

“Ken?” you murmur, plucking the bottle from the counter, your eyebrows dipping in confusion. “What’s this?”

Nanami’s eyes flick to yours in the mirror, his hand pausing mid-stroke, the razor hovering just above his skin. “Just a supplement,” he evades, his voice carefully neutral, a forced casualness he uses to avoid arguments he won’t win that always sets your teeth on edge. “For…overall health.”

You turn the bottle in your hands, eyebrow arching higher in disbelief with each word you read as you take in the bold, almost aggressive labeling. Your gaze darts to the other bottles littering the counter, a growing sense of unease settling in the pit of your stomach as you take them in for the first time.

“Uh-huh. And the Zinc? The Ginseng? The…” you squint at another label, your voice dripping with skepticism, “L-arginine? All for ‘overall health’ too?”

He clears his throat, his gaze darting away from yours, focusing intently on his reflection as he studiously avoids your probing stare. “That’s right.”

“Baby—” you begin, but he cuts you off, setting down his razor with a definitive clink and shutting the water off, turning to face you fully.

The sight of him, bare-chested and gleaming under the harsh fluorescent light, sends a bolt of desire through you, a hunger that’s been left unsatiated for far too long. The thick cords of muscle that stretch across his chest and arms, the taut planes of his abdomen, the trail of dark blonde hair that disappears beneath the low-slung waistband of his sweatpants—it’s exquisite torture, a feast for your senses after days of famine.

But there’s a tension in the set of his shoulders, a skittishness in his gaze that sets off warning bells in your head.

“It’s the research I’ve been doing,” he admits, almost apologetic as he pulls the towel from his shoulders, wiping away the last traces of shaving cream from his jaw. “From what I’ve read, these have proven benefits for…various aspects of wellbeing.”

He seems almost afraid, as if he’s bracing himself for your reaction, steeling himself against the inevitability of your displeasure. Fortunately for him, the words are like a match to kindling, a spark that ignites a flame of mischief in your belly. You step closer, your hands coming up to rest on his chest, the supplement bottle forgotten on the counter behind you.

“Various aspects, huh?” you tease, your voice dropping to a sultry whisper. This moment—when he smells of fresh soap, shaving cream, and mint toothpaste before cologne masks his natural scent—is one of many favorites. It’s one of the most arousing forms of Nanami Kento before he slides on his work clothes and gives the world a straight face and measured words. “Care to demonstrate some of these benefits?”

Your fingertips trace the muscles of his chest, slide along his skin with more purpose, your nails dragging lightly over his nipples, a teasing hint of pain that you know drives him wild. He inhales sharply, his muscles tensing beneath your hands, his jaw clenched tight, a reaction that’s as familiar to you as your own heartbeat.

For a moment, you think you have him, that he’ll give in to the desire that darkens his eyes, that he’ll roughly bunch your skirt up around your waist, hike your legs up and around him and make the bathroom mirror knock against your back until you’re gasping out his name as you tighten around his cock.

But then he’s stepping back, his hands coming up to gently catch your wrists, pulling your hands away from his skin.

“We’ll be late for work,” voice strained, conveying his own battling desire. He brings your hands to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to the delicate skin of your wrists, your forehead, your mouth.“Let me make you breakfast instead.”

And then he’s gone, slipping past you and out of the bathroom, leaving you standing alone, frustration and disappointment warring in your chest. Your gaze falls on the supplement bottles, a physical manifestation of his growing hysteria, and for a moment, you’re seized by the urge to sweep them all into the trash, to rid your home of these unwelcome interlopers.

But you resist, drawing in a deep, steadying breath, your fingers pinching the bridge of your nose as you silently repeat the mantra that’s become your lifeline in recent days: I love him. I love him. I love him.

But as you square your shoulders and stalk out of the bathroom to start your day, you can’t shake the feeling that something’s got to give, that this tenuous balance can’t hold forever.

Day seventeen. It feels like an eternity, a cruel and unusual punishment for a crime you didn’t commit. You’re a prisoner in your own home, trapped in a world where the man you love is just out of reach, tantalizingly close but impossibly distant.

Seventeen days too long when you live with a man as loving, kind, and attentive as Nanami Kento. Seventeen excruciating days since the concept of getting dicked down was a given, a pleasure you could indulge in whenever the mood struck. Now, you’re reduced to grasping at sloppy seconds, thirds, fourths—anything for a crumb of cock, a fleeting taste of the intimacy you crave.

You’ve become a connoisseur of stolen moments, of fleeting glances and brushing touches that once held the promise of so much more. A shared look in the bathroom mirror that used to lead to soapy sex in the shower. The brush of his hand against the small of your back as you pass in the hallway, a touch that used to lead to him pulling you flush against his body, his lips claiming yours in a searing kiss. Now, you’re like an addict, desperately chasing the ghost of a high, sucking at nicotine-stained fingers for the essence of a hit.

In a last-ditch effort to reignite the spark to show him just how much he’s overreacting, you’ve taken to wearing his shirts around the house. You leave the top buttons undone, a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage on display, the hem riding high on your thighs to reveal the faint marks that he likes to lick against. But each night when you reach for him, Nanami simply presses a tender kiss to your forehead, his lips trailing a path down your body in a reverent exploration, worshiping you with his mouth and fingers until you’re trembling and spent.

But never with his cock. Never with the part of him you crave most, the part that once made you feel so deliciously full, so utterly claimed.

You feel dramatic when you think about it because it always brings tears to your eyes, hot and stinging with frustration and despair. Like you’re a petulant toddler wanting a cookie that’s been sitting on the counter all morning.

You’ve never been one to let a man dictate your life, to let his whims and insecurities hold sway over your own desires. But Nanami has always been a man to put you above and beyond anything before himself. If the women of the world knew what they were missing, if they could experience even a fraction of the pleasure Nanami Kento can provide, they’d be falling to their knees in supplication, just like you.

How far you’ve fallen.

And how little you care.

Tonight, you vow, will be different. You slip into the silk nightgown he loves, the one that clings to your every curve like a second skin, the baby blue fabric whispering against your heated flesh as you step out of the bathroom. Your heart races with anticipation, your body thrumming with need as you picture his reaction, the way his eyes will darken with desire, the way he’ll pull you into his arms and finally, finally give you what you both so desperately need.

But the bedroom is empty, the sheets still neatly made, mocking you with their pristine perfection. You frown, a sense of unease settling in the pit of your stomach as you pad down the hallway, your bare feet whispering against the cool hardwood. As you approach the kitchen, a pungent, almost medicinal smell hits your senses, growing stronger with each step, mingling with the whir of a blender.

You round the corner and freeze, taking in the scene before you. Nanami stands at the kitchen counter, surrounded by an alchemist’s array of strange-looking roots and powders. The blender in front of him churns away, filled with a murky-greenish-brown liquid that looks more like something out of a horror movie than anything fit for human consumption.

“What are you doing?” you ask, your voice thin and strained, confusion and exasperation warring for dominance in your tone.

He looks up, startled, nearly knocking over a jar of what looks like dried herbs. “It’s…a health shake.”

You want to argue, to shake his shoulders and scream that this has gone too far, that he’s lost sight of what really matters in his quest for some unattainable ideal. But the determination in his eyes, the set of his jaw, the way he grimaces as he chokes down a sip of the vile concoction—it all speaks to a desperation that breaks your heart even as it fuels your frustration.

As he takes another sip, nose twisted to the side to avoid the foul smell, his eyes catch your frame. They roam over you, taking in the nightgown, giving you the exact reaction you pictured before coming out here.

For a moment, you see that flicker of desire in his eyes that you’ve been craving.

But then it’s gone, replaced by something that looks suspiciously like guilt.

“I’ll come to bed soon,” he promises, grimacing through another sip of his vile brew. “Get some rest. I know today was rough at work.”

His words are like a knife to your gut, a reminder of the distance that’s grown between you, the way his obsession has consumed him so completely that he can’t even see the pain it’s causing you both.

All of this, because of one night.

You press your toes into the hardwood, your fingers twisting in the hem of your nightgown as you fight back the tears that burn the corners of your eyes.

“You…you don’t want to come to bed with me?” you whisper, hating the way your voice breaks, the way the hope that once buoyed your words has been replaced by a hollow, aching despair and annoyance.

“I want to finish this and catch up on a few things for work before I come to bed.” His gaze slides away from yours, unable to meet the hurt and frustration in your eyes. Unable to see just how in his head he has become with all of this. “It’ll be a little while. Sleep for me? Please?”

The rejection, however gentle, leaves you feeling exposed and bereft, a physical blow to your gut. You nod, not trusting yourself to speak anymore, and turn to head back to the bedroom, your vision blurring.

There’s so much more to this than just you wanting to have sex. You want to be supportive, to give him time and space to work through whatever this is. But you hate just how disillusioned he has become. His gaze and his touch are tainted now—held back by shame and fear of disappointing you. And you can’t help but feel like this is getting more out of control instead of getting better.

You love him, more than anything. But right now, listening to the distant sounds of him choking down that awful-smelling shake, you’ve never felt further apart.

It all comes to a head on day twenty-five. The day dawns like any other, the sun’s warm rays filtering through the windows of your shared apartment, casting a soft glow on the well-worn furniture and the mementos of your life together. It’s your day off, a rare respite from the chaos of the work week, and you find yourself moving through the space with a sense of purpose, straightening and cleaning, trying to bring order to the disarray that seems to mirror the state of certain parts of your relationship.

As you work, your mind wanders, replaying the events of the past month like a melancholy film reel. The distance, the tension, the way Nanami has been pulling away from you, retreating into himself in a desperate attempt to fix what he perceives as a fundamental flaw in his being. Insisting that he won’t let this happen again even though he won’t actually fuck you.

It’s a weight that’s been bearing down on you both, a shadow that’s slowly suffocating the light and love that once filled every corner of your lives.

Your feet carry you to the bedroom, to the closet you share. As you reach for Nanami’s side, intent on straightening his crisp dress shirts, your hand brushes against something unfamiliar, tucked away in the shadows. Curiosity piqued, you pull it out, revealing a plain, unmarked brown box.

For a moment, your heart stutters in your chest, a cold fear gripping your insides as you lift the lid, praying that it’s nothing that would point your partner in the direction of infidelity. But no, you shake your head, banishing the thought before it can fully form. Nanami would never betray you, never seek solace in the arms of another because there’s only has and ever been you.

It makes complete sense in your head, but lately—

You yank open the lid and gape.

Inside, nestled among crumpled tissue paper, are items you never expected to find in Nanami’s possession. Your fingers tremble slightly as you examine them—a cylindrical pump, clear save for the rubber base, and an orange prescription bottle, its label stark against the translucent plastic.

You stare at the objects, your mind whirling with a chaotic storm of emotions. Shock, disbelief, a rising tide of frustration and despair. This isn’t just Nanami being health-conscious anymore, not just a passing phase or a well-intentioned attempt at self-improvement. This is something deeper, something more desperate, a manifestation of the fear and inadequacy that’s been eating away at him since that fateful night.

Carefully, you replace the items, your movements mechanical, your thoughts a jumbled mess. A part of you wants to laugh, to find the absurdity in the situation, to release the tension that’s been building in your chest like a pressure cooker. But you can’t bring yourself to even stifle a giggle, the weight of your worry too heavy.

You sink down onto the bed, the cool sheets soothing the heat of your legs, and draw in a deep, shuddering breath. The weeks of distance, avoidance, the way Nanami has been retreating further and further into himself, straying more and more from reason. There’s so much more to your relationship than just sex, but it’s a big part, a well-practiced part that you both can be your rawest selves during.

But all of this is a spiral that’s slowly dragging you both down, a vortex of unspoken fears and mounting frustrations on both ends.

And in that moment, surrounded by the remnants of your shared life in your apartment, the photos and trinkets that chronicle your love story, you know that something has to give. And it looks like you’ll have to take matters into your own hands. This ends today.

Tonight, when Nanami gets home, you’ll address this head-on. No more dancing around the issue, no more swallowing your grievances in the name of patience and nonexistent understanding. It’s time to remind him of who he is, of the man you fell in love with, the man who’s always been more than enough for you.

The sound of the front door opening pulls you from your thoughts, the soft shuffle of Nanami’s footsteps echoing down the hallway. “Love, I’m home,” he calls out, his voice weary but warm, a balm to your frayed nerves.

He appears in the doorway, his tie loosened, speckled black on yellow draped over his shoulders, the top buttons of his blue shirt undone. His glasses are gone, discarded in his haste to shed the trappings of the office, to leave the stresses of the day behind. “Look at you,” he murmurs, his eyes softening as they land on you, a reverent smile playing at the corners of his lips. “So beautiful.”

Your heart flutters in your chest at his words, at the love and adoration that shines in his gaze, even though you’re in a ratty t-shirt and shorts, your curls thrown into a careless and messy bun.

“You always speak as if it’s the first time you’ve ever seen me,” you tease, tilting your head back to accept his kiss, a chaste press of his lips that nonetheless ignites a spark of longing in your core.

“Because it’s true,” he replies simply, his fingers brushing a stray curl behind your ear. “I’m going to shower.” He sounds despondent, unbelievably ragged with the weight of the day clinging to him like a second skin.

“Rough day?”

“A very rough day, my love,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair, disrupting the sharp part that he makes every morning. He reaches a hand out to you, an invitation, a plea for your company. “Join me?”

The bathroom is a sanctuary of steam and heat, the air thick with the mingled scents of your body washes—cucumber melon and sandalwood. You perch on the counter, a fluffy towel wrapped around your body, watching as Nanami goes through his post-shower routine, his movements methodical, almost meditative.

Water droplets cling to his skin, tracing tantalizing paths down the planes of his chest, the ridges of his abs. Your mouth goes dry at the sight, your fingers itching to follow those rivulets, to map the contours of his body with your lips and tongue.

“Let me,” you murmur, your voice husky with repressed longing. Your legs spread, the open lapels of your towel exposing a creamy brown thigh that Nanami’s eyes flicker to before he meets your gaze. You reach for him, pulling closer until he’s standing between your parted thighs, the heat of his waist seeping through the thin barrier of your towel.

With gentle fingers, you work through the rest of his skincare routine—toner, serum, smoothing eye cream over the delicate skin beneath his lashes. The domesticity of the moment, the intimacy of caring for him like this in whatever way you can, it’s a way to show him that you’re here—that you’re not going anywhere, no matter how lost he may feel.

Your fingertips glide over his skin, applying the last of the face cream with gentle circular motions. As you finish, your hands move to his damp hair, brushing the strands away from his forehead. The strong line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the subtle crinkles at the corners of his eyes that crease faintly when he smiles.

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you pull him closer, a soft smile playing on your lips. Nanami’s hands come to rest on your waist, his thumbs tracing small circles on your towel-covered skin.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, thickly. His eyes, those warm pools of mahogany, are soft with gratitude and affection.

“Always,” you whisper back, your heart swelling with love for this man.

Nanami leans in, pressing his lips to yours in a gentle kiss. It’s meant to be a simple gesture of gratitude, but something shifts in the air around you. Whether it’s the intimacy of you both so close or the heat on your skin—the kiss deepens, slow and exploratory, as if you’re rediscovering each other after a long absence.

Your fingers thread through his damp hair, tangling in the strands as his hands tighten on your waist. Your tongue slides along his bottom lip, tasting the coffee he must have had on the way home, the hint of want that he wants to crumble into. He returns with equal fervor, pressing closer to you, sliding his tongue against yours, shivering from the soft moan that shakes from your wet lips when you both finally break apart. A gossamer thread of saliva connects you before he pecks your lips one last time. Nanami’s chest rises and falls deeply, coiled masculinity oozing from his pores, tangling with the downy hairs on his chest.

“Kento,” you breathe, your voice barely above a whisper, “we…we need to talk about what’s been going on.”

Your hands train down his chest as you speak, mapping the familiar terrain of his body. Beneath your fingertips, his heart thunders like a trapped bird, betraying the melting calm facade he’s trying to maintain. The defined muscles of his abdomen twitch under your touch, a visceral reaction he can’t control.

“The magazines, the supplements, the smoothies,” you continue, gentle but firm. “This has gone too far. One off night, Kento. That’s all it was. Yet here you are, acting like you’re broken, like every moment we’ve shared before was somehow lacking.”

Nanami tenses, his body coiling like a spring beneath your hands. But you’re not letting him retreat—not like that night—and certainly not right now. Your legs wrap around his waist, the gap of your towel widening as you yank him closer, anchoring him to you, skin to skin.

“You think that I would look at you differently?” you murmur, catching his distressed eyes every time they try to evade your gaze, willing him to understand. “Think I would think of you as a failure? You like logic, Kento and I’m telling you the facts. You were tired, case closed.”

“But I—” he starts, his voice rough with emotion, eyes narrowing in frustration as he tries to defend himself. You silence him with a thumb to the plump skin of his bottom lip, tracing the divots of soft, pink flesh.

“You’re the healthiest man I know, Ken.” Your other hand drifts lower, brushing through the trail of dark golden hair that disappears beneath his towel. “You take such good care of us. And you never, ever fail to satisfy me.”

His breath catches as your fingers ghost over his hipbones, alternating between soft cotton and the sharp cut of his skin. “One night doesn’t change that,” you whisper, the hand on his face sliding to card through his hair, you lean in to press your lips to the strong line of his jaw. His fingers dig into your waist from your touch, Adams apple bobbing against your gliding lips as he swallows the burning desire that’s slowly searing him from the inside out. “It doesn’t make you any less amazing, any less desirable.”

You pull back, meeting his eyes. In their warm depths, you see a swirling mix of vulnerability that makes your heartache.

“I just…I don’t want to disappoint you again. While I know that you don’t care, being unable to provide for you fully is something that I never wanted to experience.” The confession is thick in the air, sloshing with what remains of the steam from the shower, coating your skin.

“Oh, Kento,” you sigh, pressing your forehead to his. The scent of his skin—clean soap and something uniquely him—envelops you, offers that blanket of protection that you couldn’t imagine going away. “The only thing disappointing me is how you’ve been pulling away. I’m tired of you feeling inadequate when you’re anything but.”

You pause, weighing the options in your head before you take a bounding leap, throwing care to the wind. Slowly, deliberately, you slide off the counter, your body brushing against his as you descend. The cool tile of the bathroom floor contrasts sharply with the heat radiating from your skin.

Kneeling before him, you look up, your gaze never leaving his. Hands slide up thick thighs, the hair on his legs brushing against your fingertips as you travel further toward the rigid heat of where you need him most. The hitch in his breath is faint, almost nonexistent when your fingers toy with the towel’s edge around his waist. You only wait a moment, three seconds too many as your hand undoes the tight knot and the towel pools at his feet and your knees on the floor.

He’s just as he always is—thick and heavy from your proximity alone, hard and filled with the blood that pumps wildly in his veins. When you wrap your hand around him, the heft of his cock makes your cunt squeeze. You know exactly what it feels like to have the most intimate part of him carving out your insides, and god do you need it right now.

You give only one stroke and the effect is instant; Nanami hisses, fingers flexing at his sides, extending and then curling in a fist as a means to keep his hands to himself, the head of his mushroom tip red and prickles with a thick gathering of precum. Just the sight makes your mouth water.

“I found those things in your closet, you know,” you purr softly, stroking him at an excruciating pace. “You actually think you need something like that, baby?”

A flush creeps up Nanami’s neck, blooming across his cheeks in rushing embarrassment even though his pupils are dilated from the sight of you on your knees. He opens his mouth to speak, fumbling for words that choke around another hitch with your next stroke.

“You don’t feel like you would need something like that.” And you don’t wait a second longer, opening your mouth, dragging the flat of your tongue up the backside of his cock. Each taste bud slides against rigid bumps of veins, gathering with more spit as he groans from your attention. You offer a gentle kiss to his tip, licking the salty taste of his precum from your lips. “You sure don’t taste like you would need something like that.”

The rise and fall of his chest is quickly leaving the pace of steady, his eyes locked on you and jaw flexing with growing desperation. You squeeze his cock on an upward stroke, your own body beginning to heat up just from watching him fall apart.

“Look at you now,” you tease, widening the gap between your knees, the heat between your legs radiating against your ankles. “You don’t look like you need help. Responding so beautifully to me. Not a hint of hesitation.”

The velvety hardness of him in your palm twitches from your words, hard steel that’s blazing hot, and just the sight of him above you is more than enough for a whine to build in your belly, an innate urge to have any part of him inside of you.

Nanami’s eyes flutter, long lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones as you lean in. When you finally take him into your mouth, your name falls from his lips like a prayer, brown eyes rolling halfway to the back of his head, eyebrows furrowing in equal confusion and pleasure.

You’re too eager to give him time to adjust—tongue swirling around the crown of his head and softening underneath him before building a nice, slobbery rhythm. In and out, in and out. Every stroke of your mouth around his cock makes your mouth water even more and your body relax, the dig of the tile on your knees forgotten.

“Fuck,” he pants, the rare curse slipping from his lips as one hand comes to rest gently on the back of your head. You hum in appreciation—in encouragement—building his confidence to squeeze the curly strands. The vibration of your hum of attention causes Nanami’s hips to buck involuntarily and you let your throat relax without thinking, let him hit the back before you swallow around him. “I-” he bites his lip, groaning from deep in his chest.

The heat of the bathroom is suffocating, your neck covered in curls prickling with sweat, sliding down your clavicle and onto the towel around your breasts that’s quickly loosening. Or maybe it’s your own body burning from the inside out, your blood pounding and surging to your core, swelling with arousal that leaks from you without even touching yourself.

And you’re dripping. The hand not at the base of him—stroking what you can’t swallow—reaches between your thighs, rubbing a clit that’s sopping wet with slick that drips between your fingers and onto the tile floor.

It doesn’t take long for that familiar ache to build in your jaw, a growing reminder of the thick cock between your mouth. But his throaty moans keep you going, keep your cunt pulsing and squeezing around the two fingers that quickly slide inside of you.

Nanami’s eyes, dark with desire, take you in—your messy hand twisting at the base of his cock, the hint of saliva on your chin, the prickle of tears at the corners of your eyes from the way he keeps hitting the back of your throat. Only he gets to see you like this. Only he gets to be with someone who will stop at nothing to make him feel supported and loved over something as trivial as a night of bad luck.

“I…you’re…” he gasps, unable to complete his thoughts when you moan around him. “Please just—just keep…don’t stop…don’t—”

As the tension builds, Nanami’s control begins to slip. His thrusts lose their measured control, the hands in your hair tighten, the quick breath from his mouth becomes tight as he bares his teeth and fucks your mouth. His abs are glistening with sweat, tight and flexing as he fights to stay sane.

You’re ready to burst from the seams, pleasure coiling at the base of your spine with each curl of your fingers inside of you, moans tight and sporadic in a familiar sign of your impending orgasm.

It’s when his eyes catch you fingering yourself that his control snaps in half, setting him off. He’s grabbing at you, yanking you from your knees with a strength that shocks you, your towel finally falling off your body and exposing you to the heat of the bathroom. Before you can protest, Nanami moves in a flourish, the last threads of his control dissolving at the shocked but excited gasp that leaves your lips.

In one fluid motion, he spins you around to face the bathroom mirror. Your breath catches at the sight of you both—flushed, desire-drunk, tanned and freckled muscles pressed against your back. His eyes meet yours in the reflection, a primal hunger burning in their depths, black eating away the warm brown.

The press of his cock against your lower back makes you arch your back, leaning over the counter without a second thought, taking him in through the mirror. His hands roam over your body with renewed confidence, cupping the heaviness of your breasts, sliding down tiger-striped brown skin to grip your hips. His eyes trail over the mess of curls on your sweaty back, the curve of your ass, the glistening of your cunt as it catches in the bathroom light.

He looks focused, almost angry—determined to make sure he does exactly what he’s supposed to do. Your body shivers in anticipation. This is the Nanami you’ve been missing—strong, confident, and utterly, deliciously yours.

Without preamble, you part your legs more, opening yourself up to his leering gaze as he watches you slide two fingers through your sopping folds. “I need you,” you whisper, your other hand kneading the flesh of a breast, pinching the nipple to make you arch your back more into him.

He presses forward at the sound of your voice, a beacon for him to bring you whatever you desire. “You have me.”

You feel him, hot and hard against you, and you can’t stifle the moan that escapes you. “All of you Kento,” you whimper, pushing back against him and stroking your clit faster, your slick sliding down your fingers to the center of your palm. “No more holding back, no more doubts. Show me how much you want me.”

In the mirror, the trepidation in his eyes, the worry between his brows. The disappointment from that night is surely playing in his head, teasing him evilly that he will never be able to make love to you again. But you won’t let him feel that way again, you’ll never let him feel inadequate. So you turn slightly to reach behind you, smooth a hand up the side of his face, caressing his jaw, angling your head to the side to kiss him softly. “You’re perfect,” you breathe, the words barely a whisper between you both, the perfect combination to relax the subtle tension in his shoulders. “So perfect for me, Kento.”

He releases a shaky exhale against your lips from your words, the vibration traveling through your body where you’re pressed together. With one hand braced on your waist, the other guiding himself, his eyes not leaving yours, Nanami pushes into you slowly. Finally. Twenty-five days too late and the feeling of completeness, of absolute rightness, is overwhelming. It’s as if a missing piece of you has been slotted back into place.

You whimper, panting into his mouth, sliding your lips messily against his. Your body stretches to accommodate him, a delicious burn that makes your toes curl and your cunt pulse around him.

“Oh fuck, Kento,” you keen, “you’re so fucking big—fill me so well—” His hips snap forward, cutting you off, a sharp cry punching from your lungs.

“I-I shouldn’t have—” he pants against your lips, ready to apologize from the force but you don’t let him finish.

“Yes,” you encourage, your voice breathy from the delicious zing of pleasure that throbs between your legs. “You feel amazing, Ken. So perfect.”

He shivers from your words and starts a slow, almost tentative rhythm. But your continued praise spurs him on. His thrusts become more confident, more forceful, driving you both higher in the stifling heat of your bathroom.

The room fills with the sounds of sex—the slick smack of skin on skin, breathless moans from his full lips, whispered praises from your mouth.

“So good,” you moan softly. “You feel so good inside me.” The hand on your clit resumes its pace, wanting Nanami to be fully immersed in focusing so he can get past this terrible roadblock in his mind.

“More,” he demands, kissing you deeply, the side of your jaw, nibbling your ear, begging you silently for more love and praise. “I-I have to know I’m doing well. That I’m making you feel good—"

“You are,” you gasp, his name a prayer on your lips as he hits that spot deep inside you that makes white spots blot the edges of your vision. “You are—you are, Kento—shit fuck me harder. Give it to me.”

He bends to your will immediately, the pull of your voice—of your demands as easy as breathing, and he’ll give whatever it takes to make sure he can lay everything at your feet. “Fuck,” he groans, digging his fingers into the meat behind your knee, yanking it up onto the counter and you’re opening more, wider for him to slide in further.

It’s messy and animalistic, a building of sweat between your sliding bodies, a gradual intensifying thrum between your legs with each smack of his balls against you. Your body jerks with each thrust, pleasure scratching down your skin with sharp nails as your mind grows hazy, mouth falling open as the tip of his cock kisses that sweet spot inside of you, over and over and over with each inward stroke. The hand on your clit flies up to grab the sweaty porcelain of the sink in front of you, fingernails digging into the rubbery sealant along the sides. The other hand reaches back to tangle your fingers in his hair.

You’ve gone almost a month without him in the most primal way and your body is struggling to keep up. Your lungs struggle to pull in enough air, your slick-coated fingers slip against the sink, your hips burn from the open angle of one leg up on the counter.

But you can’t bring it in yourself to care, too deep in bliss to worry about your wellbeing, the pressure at the base of your spine building and building, molten pleasure bubbling in your gut as you feel yourself teetering on the edge.

“That’s it, baby,” you gasp as you both climb together, meeting his thrusts as the tension coils tighter in your core. “You’re so strong. Love me so well. Fuck me so well.” Nanami groans harshly, shivering from your praise, reaching down to stroke your neglected clit, and you tense around him, choking at the pleasure that wraps around your throat, your cunt pulsing as it tries to swallow his cock and never let it leave.

You watch in the mirror as Nanami loses himself in the moment, all his doubts and insecurities forgotten. His face is a mask of pleasure and concentration, his body moving with a grace and power that takes your breath away. His hips falter, stuttering briefly to signal his match of mounting pleasure. He leans over you, his face in the crease of your neck, body bowing over to make you press further into the counter, teeth grazing your skin as he groans and pants against you with feral need.

He presses his fingers harder against your clit, rubs with a practiced motion and you’re tensing against the counter, scrambling for purchase on the sink as high-pitched keens shake from your throat. “Fuck right there, Kentooo,” you moan tightly. He moans harshly into the skin of your neck, relishing in the way your hot and wet walls tighten around him, doubling down, the fingers on your waist digging crescent moons into your skin. “Make me cum. Oh fuck, make me cum pleasepleaseplease—”

The hand in his hair tightens around silky strands, your body tenses up, your nose scrunching, pleasure pulsing and building in your cunt as you climb and climb and climb until you shatter.

A cry of his name, loud and primal, rips from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you. Ecstasy floods your system in overwhelming waves, each one threatening to pull you under. Tears gather in the corners of your tightly shut eyes, born from the sheer intensity of your release.

And like always, your pulsing walls are the final push Nanami needs. He thrusts into you harshly with deep punctuating strokes until his balls draw tight, fingers digging deeper, a deep, guttural groan shaking from his body as he finally climbs up that wall of shame and follows you over the edge, his release pulsing hot and deep inside you as your body continues to shudder with aftershocks.

Nanami doesn’t have the energy to pull out, collapsing onto you without grace. The cool counter against your cheek is a balm for your burning skin. As you both come down from your high, trembling and panting, you stroke his scalp with the hand still twisted in his sweaty hair, fading spots behind closed eyelids painting your vision.

After a few moments, Nanami stirs, pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder before carefully withdrawing from your body. You whimper at the loss, but he soothes you with another soft kiss on your temple. You hear the sound of running water, the tub filling slowly as Nanami retrieves a warm, damp washcloth.

With tender care, he cleans you up, the soft cloth gliding over your sensitive skin. His touch is reverent, worshipful, as if he’s handling something precious beyond measure, and you melt further onto the counter. Once you’re clean, he guides your leg down from the counter, massaging the muscles of your hips and thighs to ease any lingering tension.

You let him lead you to the tub, sighing in bliss as you sink in the hot, soothing water. Nanami climbs in behind you, pulling you back against his chest as he settles you between his legs. The heat seeps into your aching muscles, the steam smelling faintly of lavender, the gentle lapping of the water against your skin a soothing lullaby.

For a long moment, you simply rest together, your head tipped back on his shoulder, his arms wrapped securely around your waist as a thumb strokes the skin. The bathroom is quiet, save for the occasional drip of the faucet and your slow, even breathing.

Your mind drifts to the vulnerability you’ve witnessed in Nanami, the raw, unguarded moments he’s bared his deepest fears and insecurities. And only you will be the one to see that. You’ll be the only one to build him back up when he’s stripped down, to remind him of his worth, to love through every storm. Even storms that are as weak and barely damaging as limp dick.

“Thank you,” he finally speaks, rich voice vibrating against your skin, filling you with warmth from the inside out. He nuzzles his nose into your hair, inhaling deeply as if to memorize the smell of your leave-in. “For being patient with me…for being supportive…” You feel the tension drain from his body as he exhales, slowly, as if he’s releasing the last of his worries into the steam-filled air. “I love you. Deeply.”

You smile softly to yourself at the declaration and turn your head to meet his gaze, your eyes sparkling with a mix of adoration and mischief.

“This wasn’t an easy assignment you know,” you tease, your voice lighthearted even as emotion threatens to overwhelm you. “I expect payment for my unwavering devotion.”

Nanami’s eyes, hazy with post-orgasmic bliss, roll playfully, a smile tugging the edges of his lips. “What’s my bill?”

"Moissanite,” you declare matter-of-factly, nestling back against his broad chest with a contented sigh. “The carats are up to you, but—“

“A gold band,” Nanami interjects, warm with affection and certainty. “Emerald cut. I have it memorized, my love.”

He punctuates his words with a tender kiss to your temple, his arms tightening around you as if he never wants to let go. Your heart flutters wildly in your chest, a kaleidoscope of butterflies set free by his words.

“The box in the closet? Throw the penis pump and the Viagra in the trash,” you add, playfully jabbing your elbow into his side. “You won’t be needing those anymore.”

Nanami’s laughter rumbles through you, a deep, satisfying sound that fills the room and washes over your skin like a physical caress. “And if I want to be prepared, just in case?” he counters, his tone light and teasing.

“You’re 28, not 50,” you remind him, your own laughter mingling with his.

“Humor me.”

“I guess I could gather up all the magazines, powders, supplements, and various “aids” and present them to you in a nice box for you to use one day. Of course, you’d be single, so I’m not sure what good they’d do you then.”

Nanami’s body shakes with mirth, his breath puffing warm and sweet against your hair. “In the trash they go.”

You hum in agreement, an eyebrow raised before you tilt your chin. And like always, because you never have to ask, Nanami obliges, his lips slanting over yours in a slow, deep caress that steals your breath and fills your heart all at once.

Thanks for reading!

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simp-ly-writes · 5 months ago

Text

Dreams of Dragons (pt.1)

─────── · · A House of the Dragon FanFic

PAIRING: Daemon Targaryen x Fem!Targaryen!Reader

SUMMARY: It had been centuries since Kings and Dragons ruled over Westeros but in your dreams- they still do. Being a descendant of the Targaryens, your parents told you stories of the great battles your family had fought generations ago that inspire to to become an archeologist determined to dig up more on your families past. So on a opportunity trip to Dragonstone, you are met by an invisible force that appears to have its own plans for you.

TAGS: alternate universe, canon divergence, no use of y/n, second person perspective, female pronouns used, coarse language, depictions of blood and anxiety attacks, emotional hurt/comfort, protective!Daemon, angst, soulmates, time travel, not beta read. MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQUEST | WORDCOUNT: 2,070 | NEXT PART A/N: this is my first time writing something for this fandom, please be kind and I hope you all enjoy!

─────── · ·

EVER SINCE YOU WERE A CHILD, YOU WERE FASCINATED BY DRAGONS. Once night would fall your parents would sit at the foot of your bed, a flickering lamp by your bedside acted as the only illumination of the room and played with the shadows to cast the great tales of your ancestors, the once mighty House Targaryen upon your ceiling.

Eyes feeling heavy and body sore from running about all day, your mind was always active, imagination sparking to life as their stories washed over into your dreams that you often confused with reality. Your dreams always felt too real, as if that distant past was increasingly tangible every time you opened your mind to rest.

You could hear the sounds of battle, the clashing of metal and cries of men fighting amongst ash and blood that seemingly rained down from the skies. You were unflinching to the thunderous roars of dragons above, their wings the wind carrying the smoke over to everyone neighbouring in warning not to mess with the Targaryen's. But it was a dream you woke up from nevertheless as you found yourself back in the waking realm day after day.

Your parents thought nothing of your over-active imagination nor your constant desire to learn more of your ancestry, just taking it to you being a curious child with an ambitious mind for knowledge so they kept telling you stories of the bravest princesses and princes that defended the realm, the tricks and battles they faced, and of course, the dragons they rode above the clouds touching the sun before anyone else could.

But as you grew older and your peers 'matured past fantasies' as your teachers put it, you became distanced from the people of your years and wanted to stuff your face in a book or memorize another historical map than attend any social events or soccer practices.

The walls of your room could not expand like your mind and became increasingly flooded in your illustrations and detailed diagrams of each house crest and dragon you read in your books.

Once the upper years of your secondary school education came, so did your time to shine in your historical, political, and classical studies. With ease you could recite the lineage of the great houses and every battle waged from coast to coast of Westeros that allowed you an early pass into college where your passions could be fully envisioned.

But with every sleepless night that passed you by from being enveloped in your studies, your once vivid dreams of the battlefields faded to staring at the back of your eyelids and waking up to the sound of your alarm.

─────── · ·

You would be one of the earliest graduates from your doctorate program in archeology and history, the slips of paper hung proudly up on your office walls beside your original illustrations that you hoped to inspire the younger generations that stepped foot into your office with a thirst for knowledge just like you were and to some point, still are.

The university you graduated from and now worked at was sending you and a small research team to the remains of Dragonstone and you nearly kissed your department head in thanks as you ran out of the meeting room to pack your bags and equipment.

A heavy backpack, duffle bag, and camera bag were all thrown into the back of your car as you made your way towards the airport for your overnight flight to the coast where it would be a few days of boat travel before you would reach the island.

You fell asleep easily on the flight contradicting the restless excitement you felt and for the first time in years, you didn’t see the back of your eyelids but vines slithering between weathered stones. The bench you sat on was a cold hard stone, porous and rough underneath your palms as you observed the long black dress you wore.

Pinching the material between our fingers, its softness confused you for the garment materials you researched for the lower classes were definitely not so velvety. Hiking up your gown slightly you stared at your polished short heels that confirmed your suspicions. You were a noble woman of some kind in this new dream and by the looks of your hands, had yet to see battle if you ever were.

A cough has your eyes snapping upwards, your skirt dropping as your neck warms and crawls up to your cheeks. “To be scandalized or enthralled by seeing the princesses hiked up skirts, hm,” a tall man with long white hair hums to himself whilst leans against a pillar, hand lazily resting upon the hilt of a sword, their smirk wavering on a grin as they await your response with humour evident not only in their tone but in they violet eyes.

You look away confused, you recognize the man from some place yet cannot place a name to the face as you take in the gardens that surround you in search of an answer. The rain of blood from past dreams is now a small fountain with a swan spraying water in a steady stream from its beak into a porcelain bowl. The flowers that surround you are thriving in various pigmented shades of reds, blues, and yellows; land untrampled and not a single corpse or dragon in sight.

Your distant attitude and lack of response seem to offend the man, his smile sliding off his face as he casts a glare to the foliage for taking your attention away from him. He takes long strides, sword and cape swinging by his sides to stand before you, casting you in his shadow as a gloved hand tucks a strand of your matching white hair behind your ear.

“What troubles your mind?” His voice is tender, all traces of humour left as you turn to look into his eyes. No one had ever spoken to you nevertheless touched you in a dream before… you pinch yourself in an effort to wake the real you up only to see a bruise starting to form against your skin. The silver-haired man before you hisses, separating your hand from your skin with a glare, “why are you punishing yourself? What have you done?”

You watch as the pastel violet fades to a deep purple and look away, mind racing to conjure an explanation but any thoughts are ripped away as a gloved hand grips your chin, forcing your eyes to cast upon his refined features set between a dozen healed scars. “Are you still ill? Do you need me to grab a Maester?”

He uses his teeth to pull the glove off his other hand, leaving it to fall amongst the grass and clovers before resting his knuckles against your forehead to check your temperature, “you don’t feel hot…” his voice a mere murmur in his observation before sharpening, “who has made you this way?”

His grip is unwavering on your chin, bordering on a physical comfort and hurtful as you mistake his growing concern for anger and rush to speak, “It is me! This is all of my doing, your highness.” You swallow deeply and pray that you stated the correct title so as to not lose your physical head. You shake yourself away from his touch before moving to stand.

Yet just as you step around his broad frame his hand reaches for your upper arm, keeping you in place, “Do you forget yourself?” his mouth pressed directly near your near, he feels you still beneath his touch.

“Please, excuse me,” you look straight forwards, peering down the open hallway for an escape.

“I demand you tell-” the man is cut off by a new feminine tone that steps out into the sunlight. She too wears a long dress yet hers is mostly red with gold accents. Her hair braided across the top of her head to form a crown, her stance upright, gaze as violet and piercing as the man who holds you and suddenly it dawns on you.

“Princess Rhaenyra,” you whisper before slowly turning your head to meet the Rogue Prince’s gaze. Your mouth is agape, eyes wide before casting down as you try and bow yet Daemon’s hold on your arm keeps you.

“She is not right in the head,” Dameon calls over his shoulder to his niece who looks between the two people she adores most in concern. You shoot the prince a glare for his choice of words that he chooses to ignore.

“But the Maester promised that once she woke up again she would be herself again,” Rhaenyra frowns. Dameons hand slips down your arm, fingers interlacing with your own before raising your hands to press a lingering kiss to your knuckles. His thumb tracing the sparks leftover from his mouth to your skin.

You open and close your mouth like a fish out of water, breathing starting to become ragged as you feel overwhelmed, not understand why you have yet to wake up, why the royals you to some part idolized in the stories your parents told you were worried over you presently, “It's just not adding up,” and you don’t realize to be speaking your thoughts.

“What does not?” Rhaenyra takes another step forwards, hesitant to give you space, not wanting to overwhelm you further. Your lip quivers and you swear to hear a bee humming in your ears as your body begins to sweat. You start to grip at your bodice that feels too tight against your body, feet wavering on stability before you feel yourself falling back and into an awaiting chest.

“Get the Maesters!” Daemon roars before hearing a dozen rushed feet of servants departing down the hall. He walks you both towards the bench to sit in his lap, pushing your head gently back to rest against his padded shoulder.

Rhaenyra falls to her knees before you both, gripping your hands with tears welling in her eyes, “please,” she squeezes your hands, “stay with me, I cannot do this alone again, I need my-” you fail to catch the rest of her words feeling as your eyes grow heavy with every passing moment. Your breaths begin to even out in contrast to Daemons short panicked ones as his hands rubs up in down your waist in a reassurance for you or himself you will never get to know as sleep overcomes you, the last thing you hear are his pleas, “wake up, I will not live to see you laying lifeless for another day!”

─────── · ·

You find yourself in the waking world and being blinded by artificial lighting as a stewardess politely asks you to place your seat upright and tray up. You hastily comply with an anxious smile as your co-worker in the aisle seat across from you greets you a polite, “good morning.”

But as you deboard the plane, grab your luggage and head for the boats down by the docks, it is as if a presence lingered behind you… watching… waiting, your paranoia growing with every step you took closer towards Dragonstone. You could hear your heartbeat like a drum ringing in your ears with every step you took, connecting to your soul as you were unflinching to the waves coming over the boat, soaking you to the core.

You debated turning back as you were last to leave the boat and step onto rocky terrain yet your body was acting on its own volition, physically keeping you from moving backwards and dragged you to the cliff face as the sun was setting, a pastel painting of hues reflecting across the deep blue sea that you stood before. A town of tents behind you and a fortress awaiting just up the hill.

The cool ocean breeze kissed your skin and blades of grass brushed up against your ankles like the island was comforting you for something you had yet to discover. A call of your name has you snapping from your thoughts, a flash of silver out of the corner of your eye has you ignoring your peers before you squeeze your eyes to shut off the nonsense you were experiencing and join everyone for a communal dinner that you are last to leave from, childish to say you were scared to fall asleep in fear of waking up on the other side again…

─────── · ·

NEXT PART

─ · · A/N: what did you think? and is there anything you want to happen next? 😊

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sorrowedpickle · 4 months ago

Text

Drunk in love.

g!p!Jenna Ortega x fem!reader

Warnings: smut, that’s it. Pure smut

a/n: i was eating sea food while writing this and so was @mommykye and @makncheese12 who were lovely enough to help with editing it so go follow them

Her touch was electric, a frantic exploration that sent shivers down your spine. Her fingers dug into your sides, pulling you closer as her lips remained glued to the sensitive curve of your neck, her breath hot and ragged against your skin making you shiver. The frantic rhythm of your pulse thrummed in your head as you fumbled through your purse to find the key card.

The memories of the Met Gala after-party swam hazily in your mind – the clinking of champagne glasses, the sound of laughter and conversations with so many people and friends of Jenna faint in the back of your mind almost near forgotten as you rush to get inside. The drinks had loosened your will to act right, painting the air between you with desire. Every glance, every accidental brush of skin to skin, had sent sparks flying through your core and even more through Jenna’s.

And now, her pressed against your back in the dimly lit hallway, the carefully constructed facade of polite conversation had shattered as whispers in your ear were said throughout the car ride. Her after-party dress, a shedded down version of her original dress, clung to her curves like a second skin, each movement a tantalizing display. Her hands, emboldened by the unspoken tension, slipped beneath the hem of your own short dress, sending a jolt of heat through you. You gasped as her fingers, insistent and knowing, traced the lace of your panties. Her teeth grazed the shell of your ear, a delicate torment that made you shudder with anticipation.

The fear of being seen, the awareness of the public space, spurred you to action. Your fingers finally closed around the cool metal of the key card. With a surge of adrenaline, you slid it into the lock and stumbled into the darkened sanctuary of the hotel room, Jenna a very close shadow pressed against your back before you turned in her hold as she kicked the door shut, a loud bang shouting out as it clicked.

The urgency intensified. Her hands worked swiftly at the zipper of your dress, a soft growl escaping her lips as the fabric gave way. Simultaneously, your own hands reached behind her, fumbling with the delicate strings of her corset. Your lips crashed against hers, a desperate, hungry kiss that tasted of expensive champagne and her intoxicating Dior perfume, a blend underscored by her own musk that sent your senses reeling.

The sound of tearing fabric filled the small space as she impatiently pulled the expensive dress she had tailored for you down your body, the delicate material pooling at your feet, discarded without a second thought. Her hands, now with uninhibited access, roamed your skin, mapping the contours of your body with a feverish intensity. You, in turn, finally managed to untie the intricate lacework of her corset, releasing her from its structured embrace no thanks to her as she made it much harder for you, more focused on getting you naked than herself.

Before you could fully register the change in atmosphere, you were pushed forward, stumbling onto the plush surface of the bed. She followed, a lack of grace in her movements as she crawled on top of you, her gaze hot and filled with a raw desire that mirrored your own.

Her dark eyes, wide and dilated, raked over you. "You look so pretty like this," she whispered, her voice husky with longing. Your hair fanned out against the pillows, breath catching in your throat as you stared up at her, every nerve ending alight with anticipation. Your own hands reached up, fumbling with the buttons of her silk button up, eager to feel her skin against yours.

Her lips left a trail of fire down your neck. "beautiful," she murmured, her breath hot against your flesh. A shaky laugh escaped your lips. "You're one to talk." The words were barely out before your hands found her waist, pulling her down between your legs, a silent plea for the friction you both craved.

A husky laugh rumbled in her chest, a sound that vibrated through your core, igniting a firestorm of sensation. You felt her hand reach behind you, fumbling and almost struggling with the straps before pulling them apart and quickly discarding the offending fabric joined your dress on the floor. In the next instant, her lips closed over your nipple in a swift motion, a sensation so intense that coherent thought dissolved into a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

you moan quietly, hand reaching to the back of her hand as you hold her there while your other hand works to find the strap of her own bra.

The tug on her bra strap was clumsy but effective. The delicate lace parted, and you finally had the skin-on-skin contact you craved. Jenna shifted above you, her weight a delicious pressure. Her mouth left your breast, trailing kisses down your sternum, each touch sending jolts of electricity through your already heightened senses.

Jenna’s breath hitched as your fingers finally released her bra. The immediate skin-on-skin contact sent a fresh wave of desire crashing over you both. She shifted, her silk shirt falling off completely, revealing the soft swell of her breasts and below the band of her boxers. Her dark eyes locked with yours, a silent, hungry conversation passing between you.

Her hand slid down your stomach, her fingers dipping beneath the elastic of your panties once more, finding the slick heat waiting there. You gasped, your hips lifting instinctively as she explored you with a practiced touch.

“God, you feel so good,” she groaned, her voice thick with lust. Your hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back as she fought to rain kisses down your jawline.

Without warning, she shifted again, her weight pressing you further into the mattress. Her lips found yours once more, a deep, open-mouthed kiss that left you breathless. Her tongue tangled with yours, a frantic dance of desire. You could taste the lingering champagne and something else, something uniquely her, that drove you wild.

She broke the kiss abruptly, her gaze intense. “I want you to taste me,” she rasped, her hand still firmly between your legs, her fingers teasing and probing. Your own hands reached for the hem of her boxers, your desire a tight knot in your belly.

“Then let me,” you managed.

Jenna didn’t hesitate. With a rough tug, she pulled down her boxers, revealing the impressive length and girth of her hard dick. It pulsed visibly, thick and heavy, the head already glistening. She moved, a low growl rumbling in her chest, and lay back against the pillows, her eyes never leaving yours.

Your breath came out ragged. You moved to lay on your stomach and reached out, your fingers trembling slightly as you wrapped them around the shaft. It was hot and solid, filling your hand completely. Jenna groaned, her hands moving to your head to grip your hair tightly as she watched.

You leaned down, your lips brushing against the velvety head. She inhaled sharply, her hips lifting slightly off the mattress. You took her into your mouth, the taste instantly familiar and intoxicating. You sucked deeply, your hands working up and down the length of her dick, relishing the feel of her throbbing against your tongue.

Jenna’s moans grew louder, more desperate. Her hands tangled in your hair, guiding your head, urging her dick deeper down your throat. Her hips bucked against your mouth, a frantic rhythm that mirrored the frantic beat of your own heart. You could feel the tension building in her body, the anticipation radiating off her in waves.

The taste of her was potent, arousing you further. You swirled your tongue around the head, paying special attention to the sensitive underside. A strangled sound escaped her lips, fingers tightened in your hair, a silent plea for more.

After what felt like an eternity, she pulled you back slightly, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her eyes were glazed with lust, her cheeks flushed a deep crimson.

“Fuck, baby,” she groaned, her voice thick and raw. “You feel so good. So fucking good.”

She moved again, her hands gripping your thighs, pulling your legs open. You instinctively parted them further, your own desire a burning ache between your thighs. She positioned herself between your legs, the hard head of her thick dick pressing against your slick, swollen pussy. You gasped, a primal sound of anticipation escaping your lips.

“Please, Jenna,” you whispered, your hands reaching for her hips, guiding her closer, desperate for the connection.

With a guttural groan that seemed to tear from her very core, she thrust forward, her dick sliding deep inside you. You cried out, a sharp intake of breath as she stretched you open, the sensation both intensely pleasurable and momentarily overwhelming.

She paused for a fraction of a second, letting you adjust, her hands gripping your hips tightly, her gaze locked on your face.

Then, she began to move.

Her thrusts were deep and rough, fueled by the alcohol and the raw, desperate need that had been simmering between you all night. The worn bedframe slammed against the headboard with each powerful movement, the rhythmic thudding echoing in the small room like a frantic heartbeat. You wrapped your legs around her waist, meeting her forceful thrusts with your own instinctive movements, your hands gripping her back, digging your nails into her skin, leaving long red marks in there wake.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” she grunted, her breath hot against your ear, the words laced with a desperate edge. “So fucking good.”

You were both slick with sweat, your bodies moving together in a primal, almost violent rhythm. The world outside the hotel room ceased to exist. There was only the intense friction, the deep penetration, the desperate gasps and moans that filled the air, punctuated by the relentless banging of the bed.

Breaking her relentless rhythm, she suddenly flipped you over with surprising strength, manhandling you onto your hands and knees. You barely registered the abrupt change in position, your mind completely consumed by the intense sensations flooding your body. Her hands gripped your hips, lifting you slightly as she slammed into you from behind, her thick dick hitting your deepest point with each forceful thrust.

“Like this, baby?” she growled, her voice thick with lust and a hint of something almost feral.

“Yes,” you gasped, your head thrown back, her hand tangling itself into your hair while her other hand pushes you down between your shoulder blades. “Oh god, yes, Jenna. Fuck me.”

The force of her thrusts was almost brutal, the bed rocking precariously beneath you, threatening to give way entirely. You could hear the wood creak and groan under the immense strain, but neither of you cared. You were both too far gone, lost in the intoxicating, almost violent frenzy of your drunken, desperate coupling.

Jenna’s hands roamed your body, squeezing your waist, pulling you closer and pushing you down, her fingers digging into your skin, leaving faint trails. Her teeth grazed your neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake, a primal claim. So much different than her usual calm public figure.

The rhythmic pounding continued, faster and harder, the urgency escalating until you both teetered on the precipice. You cried out, your body clenching around her thick dick as wave after wave of intense, shuddering pleasure washed over you, stealing your breath. Jenna groaned loudly, a primal sound of release tearing from her throat as she pumped into you one last time, her entire body shuddering with the force of her orgasm before collapsing on top of you, her weight heavy and utterly satisfying.

You both laid there for a moment, taking a moment to breathe and stay in the small embrace.

“More,” Jenna mumbles suddenly, breaking the silence as a sudden burst of energy courses through her.

You moan softly as she yanks you to the end of the bed, legs falling off as she positions herself inside of you again.

~~~~~

The frantic energy of moments before dissolved into a heavy, sated silence after hours of Jenna endlessly pushing both your limits. The only sounds were the shallow, rapid breaths escaping your lips and the deeper, rumbling inhales and exhales of Jenna’s body pressed against yours. Her weight, which had felt electric and demanding just moments ago, now felt comforting, possessive. Her still-hard dick remained buried deep inside you, a lingering reminder of the raw intensity that had just consumed you both.

A small, involuntary whimper escaped your lips as you shifted slightly beneath her. The friction, though dulled, was still undeniably present. You could feel the faint throbbing of her pulse against your inner walls, a subtle echo of the storm that had just passed.

Jenna mumbled something incoherent, eyebrows furrowing before relaxing, her face nuzzling into the crook of your neck, her breath warm and damp against your skin. Her grip on your hips gone, but she remained connected with them wrapped around your torso, her body a dead weight atop yours.

You ran a hand through her sweat-dampened hair, the dark strands clinging to your fingers. The scent of her – the lingering perfume, the musky undertones of exertion, and something uniquely Jenna – filled your senses. A wave of tenderness washed over you, a stark contrast to the almost violent passion of your lovemaking.

A soft snore escaped her lips, a clear indication that exhaustion and the lingering effects of the champagne had finally claimed her. Her body remained intimately joined with yours, a testament to the depth of your shared pleasure.

A wry smile touched your lips. You could only imagine the state of the bed, the rhythmic banging against the headboard echoing in your mind. You made a mental note to discreetly inquire about any potential damage to the furniture upon checkout. The image of the worn frame protesting under your combined frenzy was almost comical now, in the quiet aftermath. not to mention the embarrassment you’ll encounter.

Your gaze drifted to the discarded remnants of your expensive dress and her tailored gown, lying in crumpled heaps on the floor. They were casualties of your mutual desire, ripped and disregarded in your haste to be closer.

A fresh wave of desire stirred within you, a low thrumming in your core. The thought of waking up with her still inside you, the promise of a slow, deliberate awakening filled with lingering touches and whispered promises, sent a shiver of anticipation down your spine. You imagined the lazy stretches, the soft moans as she became aware of your intertwined bodies, the inevitable renewal of your passion.

You shifted again, trying to get more comfortable without fully dislodging her. The slight movement caused a soft groan to rumble in her chest, and she instinctively tightened her grip on you, a possessive reflex even in sleep.

A surge of affection welled up within you. This raw, unguarded intimacy, so different from the carefully curated public persona she presented, was a privilege. You knew, with a certainty that resonated deep within you, that when Jenna woke, still intimately connected to you, the night was far from over. The frantic exploration might give way to a more languid, sensual awakening, but the intensity of her desire would undoubtedly remain. And you would be there, ready to meet it, your own body already anticipating her touch.

—————

Tagslist: @skate-to-breathee @wol-fica @raven-ss @restlessdot @dumb-fvck104 @crazyoffher @rhythm-catsandwine @makncheese12 @jennasslut@t-wylia @pnsteblnme @mar-romanova @ssinfulprayers @hellenheaven @btrizi @furry-monster-trash @je-tts @mokotodenis123 @ajortga @jensortega813 @bluetreecloud20

#jenna ortega x reader #tara carpenter x reader #jenna ortega #wednesday addams x reader #lorraine day x reader #tara carpenter #vada cavell x reader #x fem reader #jenna ortega x y/n #jennaortega #jenna ortega x you #x reader

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assortedvillainvault · 8 months ago

Note

Hello. Can I ask Lord Shen, NOS-4-A2, Horned King and Dr. Facilier with very smart but shy S/O?

Greetings Tumblr citizen, you most certainly can!! Love the variety here! Lowkey this was one of my favourites to write so I hope you like it!

Villains x SmartbutShy!S/O

Lord Shen

Oh? So you do talk.

You pointed out a discrepancy in the cannon’s design vs the quantity of gunpowder needed to shoot the given ammunition without careening backwards and killing the gunwolves – and all he could do was blink at you.

You spend all day hiding from the court, only to sneak in and tell him - to his face - that his weaponry was unfit for purpose, then propose a solution before he has time to open his beak??

...Are you engaged to anyone? Because if not he’s happy to remedy that-

As soon as your genius becomes apparent you go from barely present in Shen’s mind to a pillar of focus. He’s never met anyone so easily able to cut through the mess of mechanical and logistical issues of such vast quantities of metalwork – besides himself of course.

That you fall apart under any form of social pressure is...worrying however. China’s social hierarchy is a vicious thing, and such shyness is a weakness in even the most prosperous of courts – never mind his own.

He’s getting you a tutor. He cannot allow you to make an enemy within his walls when you are so closely intertwined. His word means much now that he’s killed most who would go against it, but he cannot protect you from everyone.

NOS4A2

Oh scrap and damn it all-!

It’s all he can do not to smash the unresponsive controls, and instead whizzes off into the rafters for a sulk to brood.

This ship was fried. It was charged enough to get somewhere, but if he couldn’t pinpoint a heading then he might as well be stranded on a stray asteroid instead of a merchant class vessel, for all the good it would do him.

He rolls his optics and pouts as a crewmember comes rushing in, unaware as he idly sizes them up from his vantage point. Not a droid. Stuck and he can’t even snack. Heinous.

He recognises you. The little one who didn’t talk much. It was a wonder the bigger crew members hadn’t accidentally sat on you for all you seemed able to disappear in to the background.

He all but jolts as you give the console a WHAM and everything comes online again – and gawps delightedly as your little fingers fly over the display, resetting coordinates and triangulating their position in 3D space, manually.

He wasn’t expecting such a solid grasp of intergalactic maps & positioning to come from someone who can barely string a sentence together! What a lovely surprise!!

You turn with an aborted shriek as he swoops down and clamps a hand over your mouth, grinning. The doors short circuit and slam shut with a bang, leaving him to loom over you as he idly tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“Hello dear~” he purrs, chuckling as your eyes go wide. “Fancy being helpful?”

Horned King

A kindred spirit?? Finally.

He abhors unnecessary social interaction, so to find someone else who operates on the same principle is a breath of fresh air in his long, stale existence.

He's spent so long with only beasts, thickwitted huntsmen and Creeper for company that to see someone so clearly intelligent was almost a shock. The quiet, assesing draw in your eyes was what made him stop and consider you as someone of interest.

...Y’know, once he actually managed to speak to you. Crippling shyness on your end, a lack of patience for the living on his…

He perceives everybody in his lands as something to be used, and you are, unfortunately, no different no matter how many soft feelings you insist on wringing out of his dessicated black heart. Such a spark as yours cannot be wasted. But you are not suited for the battlefield.

It seems you might have a knack for statecraft, if the frankly boggling rate at which you read is any indication. You have an ability to catch loopholes and find solutions that actually help him run his ramshackle forces, and keep the castle running smoothly.

It turns out you are invaluable - and prone to making little nooks of book towers and blankets in his library. Which is adorable.

But only when reading. Spoken word renders you so anxious you can miss important details and become a doormat. A pity. But not an insurmountable issue.

Until they rot, his ears and mouth work perfectly well. You can be his sweet little shadow, and he the face of things.

He'd have it no other way, honestly.

Dr. Facilier

Now darlin, why so shy?

He’s watched you scurry away from his table more times than he can count. He gets the feeling that you’d cross over three streets and the river if you could, to avoid catching his eye on the way to work.

And yet… you always pass by. Watching as he shuffles his cards.

He’s mid scam on some hapless tourist, fingers deftly spinning though tricks as he pulls them into a tidy little scheme, when he catches you watching intently from the side.

Your eyes twitch down to his left sleeve. If he’d have been less of a showman he’d have frozen.

You sneaky little card counter – he tries a couple different tricks, catching where your eyes narrow as he slips cards under the table, into pockets and swaps coins out with dazzle enough to bamboozle even the slickest citygoer.

Your eyes track every single one.

Damn. He has GOT to get you on side. Can’t have such a cute clever thing like you out where he can’t see you…

He ignores the fact that his shadow has been leering at you for weeks and already knows where you live. Give a man some leeway if he likes to hear a cute little thing squeak when they trip over ‘nothing’ once in a while.

And it’s even cuter when he steps from the shadows and smoothly slips you under his arm.

After all! He couldn’t help but notice you don’t seem to have many friends, cher. And he can absolutely help you with that…

#thalassa responds #thank you so much for this ask!!#I had a BLAST writing this!!#smart but shy is a favourite self insert theme of mine #x reader #dr facilier #disney villains #disney villains x reader #dr facilier x reader #the horned king #the horned king x reader #nos4a2 #blosc #nos4a2 x reader #lord shen #kfp #kfp lord shen #lord shen x reader #shyness is going to be taken advantage of ruthlessly by any villain and I'm more than happy for them to take it from there

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buckyseternaldoll · 2 months ago

Note

I just wanted to say I loooove your bucky fics you write him so well 🥹🥹 if you are taking requests I have one for a bucky x reader where reader is sent to infiltrate/kill the thunderbolt but falls in love instead...cue the angst 🫢 feel free to ignore if it doesn't spark inspiration!!

Sorry for the delay, anon! Work’s been hectic and I haven’t been getting much sleep lately. But I really hope this was worth the wait. Thank you so much for requesting it!

𝓐 𝓑𝓮𝓪𝓾𝓽𝓲𝓯𝓾𝓵 𝓦𝓪𝔂 𝓽𝓸 𝓓*𝓮

Summary: You were sent to kill the Thunderbolts. One bullet, one order, one clean exit. But you didn’t plan to fall in love with the man meant to die.

Disclaimer: suicidal self-sacrifice, blood/gore (not explicit), gun violence, emotional manipulation, grief, PTSD themes, explosive death, mentions of brainwashing/conditioning, guilt, betrayal, angst, reader is a double agent, team betrayal, final letter reading, quiet emotional breakdown, canon divergent

Word count: 6.3k

Author's Note: This involves multiple drafts being scrapped and me having mental breakdown in the midst of building the story 😔 Skipped formatting and not beta-d since it lags soooo much

They brought you in a few months after the Thunderbolts were formed.

You were no one special to them—just another weapon Valentina dusted off from some covert pile. Quiet, capable. A ghost in well-fitted tactical gear. Your aim was clean, your hand-to-hand record even cleaner. No frills, no baggage. You didn’t complain, didn’t ask questions, didn’t smile unless you needed to.

They didn’t welcome you, not really. But they didn’t reject you either.

You just… slipped in. Like water through cracks in the concrete. Like you were always there, just out of frame. A shadow that learned to cast itself beside theirs.

The team was a mess of personalities and pasts—grudges, trauma, sarcasm used like armor. They weren’t a unit. They were chaos stitched together with fraying thread. Nobody had room to hold anyone else’s weight. Not yours.

That was fine.

You weren’t here to belong.

You were here to finish the mission.

And you were very, very good at missions.

They didn’t know that while you watched their six from rooftops and cleared sniper nests with a single squeeze of your trigger… you were also out there every other night finishing jobs. Assassinations, poisonings, clean headshots behind diplomatic curtains. You slipped from the Watchtower like smoke, killed high-profile names while they slept, and came back just in time to pour yourself coffee and sit across from Bucky like nothing had happened.

Nobody questioned it. Not Valentina. Not Ava. Not even Sentry, with all his golden god perception.

You played emotion like a language. Smiled when needed. Looked tired when appropriate. Let your voice tremble just enough in mission briefs to seem human. It was all curated. Fabricated.

The only thing real was the mission.

Sunset Ops: Infiltrate. Observe. Eliminate. Terminate all Thunderbolts assets. Especially Bob Reynolds. Too unstable. Too dangerous.

So you studied them.

Learned how each one moved, fought, cracked under pressure. Mapped out their body language like pressure points on a doll. Even without the full spectrum of feelings, you could read them. You knew when Bob needed silence, when Yelena needed space, when Bucky needed grounding. Memorized the Watchtower’s layout until you could escape it blindfolded with one foot injured. You knew which rooms had faulty cameras. Which corridors echoed too loud. Which doors creaked.

You logged their weaknesses like you were sketching blueprints for destruction.

But somewhere along the way…

You started noticing the wrong things.

The quiet things.

You watched how Ava always kept one boot on when she slept, her back to the wall. How she blinked a few too many times when someone raised their voice, like her mind flinched faster than her body.

How John’s jaw clenched just slightly whenever someone mentioned Steve Rogers, the name sitting in his spine like a splinter.

How Bob could go full days without speaking, without moving much at all—book in hand, presence barely there. But Bucky always passed him tea. No one told him to. No one asked. He just did.

And Bucky…

You didn’t want to notice him.

Bucky Barnes.

He looked like he’d been tired for a hundred years. Like the world still sat too heavy on his shoulders. But he stood anyway. Always. Steady.

He spoke in short sentences, mostly to Valentina, sometimes to the team. But he spoke to you more than anyone else. Always in a voice softer than the one he used in briefings. Almost low. Almost careful.

He was the only one who’d repeat mission points when the room turned chaotic—when Ava and John argued or when Sentry’s grip on reality wavered. He’d calmly re-brief, every damn time, like he didn’t expect anyone to listen the first time. Like he understood.

He hovered behind the girls during recon. Watched corners others forgot. Subtle, silent coverage. When Ava limped, he adjusted his pace. When Valentina snapped too hard, he’d find a way to redirect the energy without saying much at all.

And then it got worse.

He noticed you.

“You changed your hair,” he said one morning, nonchalant but precise. You had—just shifted your part from left to right.

You blinked. “What?”

He shrugged. Didn’t look up from his gear. “Just looked different today.”

It wasn’t flirtation. It wasn’t even attention. It was just… observation. Like he was tracking you. Like he cared.

And it shouldn’t have made your skin warm like it did. It shouldn’t have made your stomach pull tight.

So you tried harder to ignore it.

You sharpened your knives with more force. You shot straighter. You reported back to your handlers late, but still lied and told them everything was on track. You told yourself it didn’t matter.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Somewhere along the line, it stopped feeling like a mission.

And that scared you more than anything else.

—

You filed daily reports at first.

Detailed. Precise. Flawless.

“Walker has a blind spot on his right after shield recoil. Ava’s new phase control burns more energy than she lets on. Bob’s mental stability slips most severely after missions involving children.”

And Bucky?

You used to write plenty about him too. His reloading patterns. His soft knee from a past break. The way he always checked corners counter-clockwise. You studied him like you were supposed to—like a threat.

But over time… your reports on him thinned.

His name appeared less. Then barely at all.

You didn’t mean to do it. You just… stopped seeing him as an objective. You noticed less of his weaknesses and more of his habits. The way he always smelled faintly like gun oil and cedar soap. The creak of his boots when he walked into the briefing room two minutes early. How he’d look straight at you when he spoke—low voice, never rushed—like his words were meant for you and no one else.

You hadn’t written anything about him for almost three weeks.

And without knowing it… he’d become your weakness.

You just didn’t realize that yet.

—

Your handlers noticed.

They didn’t send questions. They sent silence.

And silence from them always meant danger.

They read your shortened logs like confessions. Words tapering off, softer, lazier. You said less. You felt more. They didn’t like it.

So they decided to act.

Without you.

You didn’t know the countdown had begun.

—

You kept spending time with Bucky.

Accidentally, at first.

The pantry was always cold after midnight, humming soft from overworked fridges and coffee machines. You wandered in for a tea packet and found him there—quietly nursing black coffee, leaning against the counter like he was trying to stay grounded.

He barely looked at you the first time.

Second time, he nodded.

By the fourth, he spoke.

“You always come here this late?”

You shrugged, fingertips brushing the countertop. “I like the silence. And the view’s better from the helipad, but pantry’s warmer.”

He chuckled. Low, quiet, barely there—but it was real.

The next night, he joined you on the helipad.

You told him you liked the way the sky looked from up there. “Makes me feel like I belong,” you’d said, without realizing how honest it sounded.

He didn’t mock you. Didn’t press.

He just sat beside you, thigh brushing yours, both of you watching the stars in silence like the war down below didn’t exist for a few stolen minutes.

After that, he started showing up more.

Lingered in rooms after everyone left. Walked beside you in hallways. Ate slower when you were around. Sat closer during meetings. Spoke softer when he addressed you, voice low enough to catch but not loud enough for anyone else.

And you—without realizing—became his shadow.

You started knowing where he was without needing to ask. If he wasn’t in the debriefing room, you didn’t look lost—you just turned and started walking, already knowing he’d be in the armory, reassembling his sidearm with his brows drawn.

You knew how he took his lunch. How he drank his coffee. You handed him his usual before he even asked. He didn’t comment. Just gave you that look again—a quiet, unreadable one, like he was trying to figure you out but wasn’t sure if he wanted to.

You even started completing his sentences.

Not on purpose. It just happened.

One day in the war room, he said, “We’ll need someone to cover the west corridor if—”

“If Ava’s phasing eats her charge, yeah,” you murmured.

He looked at you. Slightly stunned. The room went quiet.

Alexei, across the table, barked out a laugh. “Is she your translator now, Bucky? Or did you finally clone yourself, huh?”

John snorted. “She’s even got his grunt down.”

You should’ve laughed it off. Should’ve shrugged and played it cool.

But Bucky just stared at you—something unreadable flickering in those tired steel-blue eyes. Not cold. Not suspicious.

Just… aware.

And maybe a little afraid.

Of you.

Or of himself.

—

The mission wasn’t supposed to go south.

Just a recon—clear terrain, tag enemy movement, and get out before anyone noticed you were there. You weren’t expecting the sniper.

No one was.

You’d felt it before you heard it—a shift in air, a crack that split the sky—and then pain. White-hot, slicing past your cheek like fire.

You staggered back, dizzy from the force. Would’ve fallen, exposed, right in the shooter’s path if a wall of metal hadn’t slammed in front of you.

Bucky.

His vibranium arm took the full hit.

You heard him grunt. A second shot followed—this one slicing across his side—but he didn’t move. He stayed in front of you. Stayed.

Return fire crackled across the trees. John and Ava covered the ridge. Alexei roared something in Russian and hurled a metal crate for cover.

But you were still there, pressed to the dirt, cheek wet with blood, staring up at the man who shielded you like you were something precious.

He looked back, breathing hard. “You good?”

You nodded before your voice caught up. “Y-Yeah. I’m—”

You weren’t. Not at all.

—

The extraction was messy. You were all bleeding, but no one died.

Back at the Watchtower, medbay lights hummed above your head as you stood next to Bucky’s cot — your fingers ghosting over gauze, trembling only when he wasn’t looking.

You insisted on treating his side. Brushed off the team medic. You didn’t even realize you were snapping at people until Alexei raised his brows and said, “She’s got it. Let the girl fuss.”

Bucky sat still, legs spread, shirt off. Blood dried across his ribs. His body bore too many scars to count. Some clean. Some jagged. Some that looked like they still whispered at night.

You dabbed the wound in silence, watching how his chest rose with every careful breath. Your fingers pressed gentler than needed, like any extra pressure would break him.

“You always this soft when patching people up?” he asked, voice low.

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because your chest had started to tighten.

Your hands shook as you wrapped the bandage, and when your palm brushed his skin… something squirmed in your stomach. Not pain. Not adrenaline. Something worse.

Guilt.

You were trained to kill. Not to mourn. Not to care.

But here he was. Bleeding because of you. Standing in front of a bullet that should’ve ended you. Still speaking to you like nothing had changed.

You didn’t deserve it.

“Hey,” Bucky murmured, glancing down, his hand catching your wrist mid-wrap. “Don’t do that.”

You blinked. “Do what?”

He held your stare. Not hard. Not scolding. Just steady. Warm.

“Don’t blame yourself. I’d take that shot again if it meant you walked away. That’s what we do.”

He paused. Let his words settle.

“You and me—we’ve got each other’s backs. That’s the team.”

The word team punched straight through your ribcage.

You dropped your eyes, breath catching in your throat. The back of your throat burned. The sting climbed behind your eyes.

A team.

That felt… warm.

Too warm.

You bit your tongue. Nodded. Tried to keep your face blank.

But the corners of your eyes stung anyway, and Bucky saw it. You knew he did. He didn’t say a word about it. Just let go of your wrist slowly, like he was giving you space to choose what came next.

He didn’t need to say anything.

Because for the first time, you understood what that twisting in your chest was.

Guilt.

Real, human, gut-wrenching guilt.

You weren’t supposed to feel it. You were rewired not to. But he—without even meaning to—was fixing you.

Bit by bit. Wound by wound.

And that terrified you more than any bullet ever could.

You left the medbay long after he’d fallen asleep. The sterile scent clung to your hands. The bandage wrap still burned in your memory.

You needed air. Or silence. Or something to stop the noise in your chest.

—

The Watchtower was dead quiet after midnight.

Most of the others had turned in. Ava left her boots by the door again, probably already passed out in the medbay lounge. John grumbled something about ice packs and disappeared. Alexei had made a dramatic exit, demanding “at least ten hours of heroic sleep.”

You stayed behind.

The pantry lights were dim—yellowed, humming, casting long shadows across the metal counters. You sat at the small table by the window, hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long since gone cold. The steam was gone. Your thoughts weren’t.

They were loud tonight.

Bucky had taken a bullet for you.

Not just a graze, not an accident. He saw it coming and threw himself in the way. His blood was still under your nails. His voice still echoed in your head:

“We’ve got each other’s backs. That’s the team.”

The word team kept curling up behind your ribs like a hot, painful knot.

You shouldn’t be here. Not like this.

You should’ve been writing reports. Reassessing targets. Preparing for termination. Instead, you were watching the stars reflect off the window and wondering how long it’d take his wound to close.

Your handlers never gave you a deadline for Sunset Ops. The mission was simple: Terminate all Thunderbolts. Clean. Swift. When ready.

No dates.

Just pressure.

But as far as you could tell, the whole thing had gone off course.

Or maybe it went east.

Because Bucky was sitting on your east side now. He sat close, shoulder angled slightly toward you, his left side—the wounded one—facing you. A quiet show of trust.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed the edge of the bandage peeking beneath his shirt—left side, under the ribs. Healing fast, but it still made you wince.

You hadn’t even heard him come in.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t grunt or ask what you were doing.

He just sat beside you, like he always did lately. Like here was the only place he wanted to be.

You didn’t look at him right away.

You were too afraid the tears still burning behind your eyes would show. So you just stared at your cup, letting the silence stretch.

And he let it.

Like he knew.

Eventually, your gaze shifted. Just slightly. Just enough to study him from the corner of your eye. His side—where you’d dressed the wound—was bare beneath his black tee, the bandages no longer needed. The skin had already begun healing. Faint scar tissue. Bruising. But no open wound.

Super soldier perks.

You exhaled, slow and quiet.

Somehow, that made it worse.

You wanted to be relieved. But all it did was make your chest ache.

He turned his head toward you then, as if sensing you needed it. His eyes were tired, but soft. Kind.

He didn’t ask what was wrong.

Instead, he said, “You ever get so many thoughts running at once, they just… start screaming over each other?”

You blinked, startled by how close he came to naming it.

He kept going. “Like… nothing’s clear. Everything’s loud. And no matter how long you sit with it, the decision just… won’t come. ‘Cause it doesn’t feel like any of the choices are good ones.”

Your throat went tight.

He glanced down, mouth twitching at one corner. “Yeah. I’ve been there.”

The silence that followed felt warmer than it should’ve. He didn’t press. Didn’t look at you like you were a ticking bomb.

Just… let you exist beside him.

Then, gently, almost like an afterthought, he added, “You’re a good person.”

You finally turned to him, stunned.

He didn’t look away.

“A damn good teammate,” he continued. “Reliable. Smart. And you don’t leave anyone behind.” He paused. “I’m… glad you’re with us.”

You swallowed. Your mouth was too dry. Your eyes burned.

“And whatever it is… whatever’s going on in your head,” he said softly, “I know you’ll do what’s right. Not just for you. But for everyone.”

His hand came to your shoulder. Light. Steady. A squeeze that was too short, too innocent, too much.

Then he stood.

“Get some rest,” he murmured. “You think better after sleep.”

And he left.

Just like that.

Left you in the kitchen with a cup of cold tea and a heart that was beating too hard, too fast.

You stared at the door after him, numb and shaking.

And that was when you knew.

You fucking loved him.

Not just wanted. Not just admired.

You loved him.

And there was no mission in the world that could bury that now.

—

Everything changed after that night.

Not in some dramatic, cinematic way.

But in the small ways that mattered.

Your body started betraying you.

The first time Bucky brushed past you in the hallway, your pulse spiked so hard your knees went weak. You recovered instantly—assassin reflexes—but the warmth lingered too long on your skin. A ghost of pressure where his shoulder had bumped yours.

Your hands, steady through sniper fire and open blade fights, now trembled when he entered a room. And you hated it. Hated how your heart wouldn’t obey. How no amount of mental commands could slow its rhythm when he sat too close.

You started avoiding him.

Subtly, at first. Ducking out of briefings early. Choosing the opposite training mat. Sitting two chairs over at meal times. But Bucky noticed.

Of course he did.

He didn’t push. Just watched you more.

And the others noticed too.

Yelena had that way of looking at people like she was five steps ahead in the conversation. Bob tilted his head a little too long during recon drills when you answered Bucky’s questions too fast. Ava kept giving you looks like she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the right shape for it.

Even Alexei, with all his chaotic noise, leaned over one day in the gym and grumbled, “The sexual tension is making my joints stiff. Resolve it before I die of awkward.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Because nothing about this was resolvable.

Until Yelena forced your hand.

—

It was a fake debrief. You realized it too late.

Yelena set the time. “Just you and Bucky,” she said. “Team’s scattered. Intel recon. Blah blah. Just go.” She winked as she walked off. ‘Fix your sexual tension, or I’ll do it for you.’ Classic Yelena.

You didn’t think much of it. Your brain had been foggy for days, caught between the magnetic pull and the dagger in your chest. You walked into the room like you always did—rigid, unreadable. But then you saw the setup.

One table. Two chairs.

No files. No mission board. Just… space.

Bucky was already sitting, one hand loosely curled around a pen. He glanced up at you like he’d been expecting this. Like he knew.

You sat.

Silence hung between you, thick and humming. You couldn’t look at him too long without your chest tightening.

Finally, Bucky spoke. Low. Cautious. “Everyone thinks we fought.”

You gave a quiet, humorless huff. “Let them.”

“Yelena doesn’t believe in letting.”

He wasn’t wrong.

The silence returned for a beat, before you broke it. Your voice was quieter than you meant it to be. “I’ve never felt this before.”

Bucky frowned. “What?”

You lifted your eyes, met his. “Anything. Beyond adrenaline, I mean. I don’t know guilt. I don’t know joy. I didn’t know what warmth felt like until… until I met you. All of you.”

You swallowed. Your throat ached.

“My emotions weren’t brainwashed out of me. I was just… rewired. Hydra called it streamlining. Cut out what made me hesitate. Joy, guilt, love—just noise to them. I was left with precision, and silence. Kept the things that made me efficient. But lately…”

You couldn’t say it. Couldn’t put words to the way your stomach curled when Bucky leaned too close, or how your chest hurt when he took a bullet for you.

Instead, you said, “It’s like my circuits are shorting.”

His eyes softened.

“I used to think it was just me,” he said, voice low, gravel warm. “The way I feel things. Too slow. Too much. Too wrong. But you…”

He leaned back slightly, studying you like you were a mystery he’d started to understand without needing all the clues.

“You feel like… familiarity.”

You looked up, startled.

“I didn’t get it at first. Why I felt calm when you were around. Why I stopped checking exits when you were on mission with me.” He paused. “But now it makes sense.”

His voice dipped.

“You’re like me.”

That hit deeper than you expected. Your heart clenched so hard you thought it might bruise.

“You put your back to the wall when you sit down. You remember who limps and who flinches. You memorize everyone else’s scars, but forget to name your own.”

You stayed quiet, afraid your voice would break.

“I don’t know what this is between us,” Bucky said softly. “But it doesn’t scare me.”

You turned your head away. Your chest felt too full, too raw.

Then you felt it—his hand brushing yours on the table. Not grabbing. Not demanding. Just there.

“You don’t have to fix anything tonight,” he said. “But I hope you stop running. ‘Cause I’m not chasing you. I’m just… here.”

Your fingers curled slightly beneath his. Just enough.

You still couldn’t say the words. Not yet.

But part of you cracked open.

And part of him healed.

—

It started like a blackout.

You were all in the lounge—sore, half-bored, scattered across couches and chairs. Alexei was snoring with his feet on the coffee table, Yelena had commandeered the remote, John was bickering with Bob over something dumb like fuel ratios, and Bucky was sitting near you, shoulders barely brushing, warm and solid.

And then the lights snapped off.

Not flickered. Not dimmed.

Snapped.

The hum of the Watchtower died. Silence folded in on itself. Thick. Too thick.

Everyone stilled.

“Okay,” Alexei muttered, sitting up. “Not funny. Who touch fuse?”

“No one moved,” Ava whispered, already pulling a blade from her boot.

Your stomach dropped.

The silence wasn’t just silence.

It was controlled. Medicated.

You felt it in your teeth. That hum just under hearing. Synthetic.

Then—

thfft.

A whisper.

A bullet.

Glass shattered above Yelena’s head.

Another shot.

John tackled Bob behind the couch. Ava rolled forward into a low crouch. Alexei stood tall, eyes flaring wild.

Chaos.

Gunfire—soft, silenced, precise—sang through the darkness. Not random. Coordinated. Like they knew every hallway. Every blind spot. Every weak point.

And they did.

Your blood went cold.

“No—no, no, no—” you breathed, heart pounding as the pieces snapped together too fast.

You knew this pattern. This kill sequence. This method of entry.

These weren’t just attackers.

They were operatives.

Yours.

“Everyone GET DOWN!” you shouted, drawing your sidearm. “They’re enhanced!”

Bucky pulled you behind the reinforced wall near the stairwell, instinct taking over. “Enhanced? How the hell do you—”

“They’re on serum,” you gasped. “Not ours. Not the government’s. It’s… it’s Barnes-adjacent. It’s your blood.”

Everything froze around you for a second.

Even the storm of bullets.

Bucky’s eyes locked with yours. “What?”

You didn’t get to answer.

“HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT?” Yelena barked across the hall, ducking behind cover. Her voice was razor-sharp. Furious. “How the hell do you know that?!”

You looked at her. Your mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

You couldn’t say it. Not here. Not with blood in the air and Bucky breathing like a loaded weapon beside you.

All you could whisper was:

“I’m sorry.”

You hadn’t meant for it to unravel like this.

You wanted to explain. To beg. To scream that you weren’t who you were anymore.

But the way Yelena looked at you?

Like you were a ghost wearing someone they trusted.

That hurt worse than any bullet.

Ava swore under her breath. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it cut deep—quiet fury wrapped in restraint. She didn’t yell. Ava never did. But her silence hurt more. John looked like he was ready to knock your teeth out.

But you couldn’t afford guilt right now.

Because they were coming in fast.

Bucky grabbed your arm. “Talk later. Move now.”

You nodded. Shoved everything down.

But he didn’t let go of your wrist.

Even as you ducked bullets, even as Sentry finally emerged—Bucky stayed on you.

You knew what he was doing.

He was protecting you.

Still.

Even now.

He didn’t know.

Didn’t know you brought this death to their doorstep. That you’d once been meant to end them. That those enhanced soldiers out there moved like you, because you trained with them.

They were your people.

And now they were going to kill your team.

Unless you killed them first.

—

The base was a war zone now.

Shots echoed off the walls in too-close succession. Bob had gone full Sentry—gold and energy and rage splitting the darkness like lightning. Ava was phasing in and out of walls, striking when she could. John and Alexei moved with brutal force, backs to each other like mismatched chess pieces. Yelena was leading the counter, deadly efficient—graceful and unforgiving.

And you were barely breathing.

Bucky had pulled you into a weapons cache room on the eastern side of the Watchtower. Emergency lighting flickered overhead, casting him in strips of red and shadow. He looked like a man caught between two mirrors—one past, one future.

He didn’t ask if you were okay.

He just looked at you with those piercing, tired eyes and said:

“It’s them, isn’t it?”

You froze. Couldn’t lie.

He already knew.

You nodded once.

Bucky exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that sounded like it came from years ago.

You both moved in sync—sweeping shelves for guns, blades, anything with weight and range. It was instinctive. Familiar. Like you’d trained together for years.

Because in some ways… you had.

Not literally.

But emotionally.

Same pain. Same silence. Same shadows.

“I didn’t want this,” you whispered, voice thin.

“I know,” he said. Soft. Certain.

You turned toward him. “How can you say that?”

He met your gaze without flinching. “Because I see it in your eyes. The same thing I used to see in mine when I started remembering who I was.”

Your throat tightened.

“You’re not like them anymore,” he continued. “You were. But you’re not now.”

You looked down at your shaking hands. “I was supposed to kill you.”

“I figured,” he said, picking up a loaded rifle without pause.

“I studied you. Every breath. Every weakness. I memorized your scars.”

He stepped closer.

“And then you stopped.”

You froze.

“You stopped seeing me as a target. I felt it.”

You looked up at him, heart thudding.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t need to.

“I trusted the wrong people for a long time,” he said. “But this time? I think I got it right.”

Your eyes burned. “Bucky…”

He offered the smallest, saddest smile. “You’re not broken. Just bruised.”

Something inside you cracked.

But before you could speak again—an explosion rocked the east wing.

They were getting closer.

You both turned toward the hallway. The reinforced door rattled under pressure. Gunfire grew louder. Footsteps closing in. The serum-enhanced agents were breaching fast.

Bucky checked the last clip on his belt. “We won’t hold them all.”

You were already thinking three steps ahead.

No escape routes.

Too many incoming.

And they wouldn’t stop until every Thunderbolt was dead.

Unless someone stopped them first.

You looked down at your belt.

Saw the grenade.

Felt the pin.

And something inside you just… clicked.

You turned to him.

“Bucky.”

He turned too—eyes narrowing at the change in your voice.

You stepped forward. Closer than you’d ever dared.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

His brow furrowed. “You already said that.”

“No.” You shook your head. “I mean it now. For everything. For hurting you. For being what I was. For not telling you sooner. For not choosing you faster.”

His eyes flickered—realization starting to settle.

“I never knew what love was,” you said, chest aching with every word. “But I think I’ve been falling into it… every second you looked at me like I was worth saving.”

You reached up—fingers trembling—and touched his cheek. Just once.

He closed his eyes at the contact. Just for a second.

Then you stepped back.

He looked down.

Saw the pin in your fingers.

His breath caught.

“No—wait—”

But it was too late.

You were already walking toward the door. The lock was off. The hallway was crawling with enhanced assassins, heads turning the moment they saw you.

You didn’t raise your gun.

You raised your voice.

“HEY!”

They turned.

Then—

Click.

The pin dropped.

You smiled through the tears.

And you whispered, one last time, only loud enough for Bucky to hear:

“I love you.”

Then light.

And sound.

And silence.

—

You were gone before he could say it back.

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was final.

And then…

[BUCKY POV]

The explosion didn’t sound like the others.

It was too close.

Too sharp.

Too personal.

Bucky’s ears rang as he hit the floor from the shockwave, arm curled over his head, the force punching the air from his lungs.

Smoke. Heat. Screams in the hallway.

And the smell.

Blood.

He didn’t get up right away.

Not because he couldn’t.

Because he knew.

His heart already knew before his mind caught up.

When he finally staggered upright, debris crunched under his boots. The hallway outside the weapons room was scorched. Burnt. Red-lit. Torn apart.

So were the bodies.

The enhanced assassins were in pieces.

And so were you.

Bits of tactical fabric. A smear of blood that didn’t match theirs. A melted commlink. One boot. Nothing whole.

Nothing human left to hold.

Bucky didn’t breathe for several seconds.

He just stood there, staring, like the floor had been yanked out from under time itself.

You were gone.

And all you’d left behind was—

“I love you.”

He heard it in his head again. Not a memory. A scar.

Not just in his ears.

In his chest.

The others came running.

Ava first, phasing through the wall with wide eyes.

Then John, Yelena, Alexei. Sentry stumbling down the hall, Bob’s gold aura flickering wildly as he saw the mess.

No one said anything.

They didn’t need to.

Bucky stood in the middle of it, barely blinking. Smoke curling around his shoulders. Blood drying on his neck. His vibranium arm still clenched, shaking slightly.

“She was one of them,” Yelena said first, breathless. “Wasn’t she?”

A pause.

Bucky didn’t look up.

“She was.”

No one moved.

“She was,” Bucky said again, softer now. “But she chose us.”

Alexei rubbed a hand over his face. “She blew herself up, Bucky.”

“She saved us,” Bucky snapped—his voice like breaking glass. “You all saw those bastards. They wouldn’t have stopped. She ended it.”

Silence.

“She ended herself,” John muttered, not cruel—just stunned. “For us.”

No one could speak after that.

Bucky crouched slowly. Picked up the pin from the grenade. Closed his metal fist around it.

He didn’t cry.

Not yet.

He just stood again—taller this time. Cold. Steady. Determined.

“I’m going to finish it,” he said, eyes locked on the smoldering hallway. “Every one of those fuckers that sent her here? That trained her? That broke her?”

His voice dropped.

“I’ll put them all in the ground.”

He started walking.

“Bucky—where are you going?” Ava called.

He didn’t stop.

“To let her free.”

[END OF POV]

—

The funeral was held three days after the raid.

By then, the Thunderbolts had burned the organization to the ground.

Valentina turned a blind eye when Bucky led the charge—files torn apart, facilities reduced to rubble, scientists and operatives arrested or buried beneath collapsed concrete. She didn’t protest. Just signed the paperwork and moved pieces on her board like it was always part of the plan. The team freed over seventy civilians—stolen from their lives, used for testing, stripped of their names.

They had faces. Families. Futures again.

But none of it made him feel any less hollow.

Because you were still gone.

The grave was symbolic.

There wasn’t much to bury.

A few fragments of armor. A nameplate. A pin.

The others stood in silence as the dirt fell—John with his jaw clenched, Ava still and guarded, Alexei weeping more openly than anyone expected. Bob, back in control of his form, said a few soft words. Yelena whispered a goodbye in Russian, kneeling once before stepping back.

Bucky didn’t move.

He stood at the foot of the grave, fists buried in the pockets of his coat, eyes fixed on the carved letters of your name.

His throat felt too tight to speak.

He hadn’t said anything.

Not during the ceremony. Not after the debrief. Not since you—

God.

He hadn’t even told you.

He hadn’t told you he loved you back.

Hadn’t told you how many times he looked for your face in a crowded room, just to ground himself. How you’d become his anchor without him realizing it.

The world around him kept moving. Soil crunching. People whispering. Wind brushing over forgotten flowers.

But he stayed still. Like grief had nailed his boots to the earth.

Until a quiet step pulled him back.

“Bucky.”

Ava’s voice broke through gently.

He turned his head. She approached with quiet steps, something small in her gloved hand.

“I found this,” she said softly. “Yelena and I were clearing her room. Val sent a few people to box her things, but… we stopped them when we found it.”

She handed him an envelope.

Your handwriting. Sharp. Small. Tilted slightly to the right.

His name.

Just his.

He stared at it for a long time before opening it.

And then, with frozen fingers and a heart breaking open, he read.

—

Bucky,

If you’re reading this… It means I didn’t make it.

And no, I didn’t write that to be dramatic. I wrote it because I knew I was playing with borrowed time.

I was going to tell you everything. I was going to stand in front of all of you, explain who I was—who I used to be—and pray you’d all listen before judging. Before hating me.

I was scared.

Not of dying.

Not even of the mission.

I was scared of what it meant to feel.

Because I never really did before.

But then you came in with your tired eyes and your quiet voice and your kindness that didn’t ask for anything in return… and suddenly I couldn’t stop feeling.

I noticed you first.

Noticed how you always stood with your back to a wall, but left your side open when I entered the room. Like you trusted me.

Noticed how your voice got softer when you talked to me. How you lingered in rooms we shared. How you remembered my schedule better than I did. How you watched the stars when you thought no one was looking.

I watched you, too.

More than I was supposed to.

More than I meant to.

And somewhere between the long nights and the briefings and the bruises and the silences… I fell in love with you.

I think I’ve been in love with you longer than I even knew what it was.

I knew they were growing suspicious. I should’ve said something sooner. But I didn’t—I was selfish. I wanted more time. Time with you, with the Thunderbolts. And I’m sorry. I really am.

And if I was lucky enough to survive long enough to confess, I was going to ask the team to let me do one thing first—I was going to destroy my handlers.

I was going to take everything I knew and burn them from the inside out.

Then come back. Then tell you. All of you.

But mostly you.

Because you deserved the truth.

And you deserved someone who chose you.

So here’s my truth.

I loved you, Bucky Barnes.

Not because you saved me. But because you saw me. And I hope, wherever I am now… I’ll keep watching over you.

Like I always did.

Love,

—Yours

P.S. If I ever get another chance—in this life or the next—please let it be with you.

—

By the time he reached the bottom of the letter, his hand was shaking.

His mouth parted. His chest ached like something had caved in.

He closed his eyes.

And for the first time in years…

He let himself cry.

Not in rage.

Not in shame.

But in grief.

And love.

#by elle.ᐟ #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes one shot #requested fic by elle #bucky barnes angst #mcu!bucky fic #mcu!bucky angst #thunderbolts!bucky

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mcrdvcks · 2 months ago

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big congrats on 2k!!! id like to put in a request for a drabble of bucky x reader where reader is supposed to infiltrate/kill thunderbolts but falls in love instead.. and angst ensues 🤭🤭🤭

fuckkkkk. this isn't fair. i said it before, and i'll say it again, i'm such a plot person that writing a short little drabble about this literally hurt my heart (and i have a tachycardia). and, once again, don't be surprised if this ends up turning into a real fic because i so badly want to write more of this

send an ask for my 2,000 followers celebration!

warnings/tags: thunderbolts, angst, mentions of wilson fisk, protective!bucky, mention of a kill switch (for reader), moral dilemma

You slip through the Watchtower’s ventilation shaft at 0200, pulse steady, mind a razor-edged checklist: map the building, isolate Barnes, place the micro-charges, vanish before dawn.

Three weeks ago Wilson Fisk slid the dossier across your table—Terminate the New Avengers. Your freedom for their lives. Easy math, you told yourself.

Except Bucky Barnes is nothing like the file photos.

Tonight he catches you in the dark of the server room—metal fingers closing around your wrist before you even sense him move. The emergency lights bathe everything in crimson.

“What did they promise you?” he asks, voice low, half-tired, half-sad. No anger yet. That’s worse.

You tear free, knife flashing. He meets it with his vibranium palm, sparks skittering off the blade.

“Y/N, stop.” Your own name hurts coming from him. You’ve spent the last sixteen nights on adjacent rooftops sharing cold coffee and colder jokes, pretending you were just another freelancer running recon for the team. Pretending you didn’t memorize the angle of his smile or the way he tilts his head when he’s listening.

Your ears ring with every reason you can’t have this—Fisk’s collar at your throat, the kill-switch in your bloodstream, the tiny explosives already magnetized to the north support beam.

Bucky’s eyes find the outline of those charges beneath your suit. Realization eclipses the hurt. “You’re here to burn us down.”

Ava phases through the wall behind him, ghost-white and humming with quantum static. Yelena emerges from a hatch overhead, knife twirling, expression unreadable. Alexei’s footsteps drum in distant corridors. You’re surrounded by people who’ve called you teammate for nearly a month.

“Give me one good reason,” Bucky murmurs, stepping between you and the others, “why I shouldn’t radio Walker to pull the alarm.”

You think of the detonator tucked beneath your ribs. Of Fisk’s voice: If you fail, the toxin will liquefy your lungs in sixty seconds.

You also think of Bucky at 3 a.m., half-asleep on the common-room couch, offering you the blanket because “New York radiators never do what they’re told.” You think of how Bob kept setting extra places at dinner so you’d feel welcome.

Give me one good reason…

You press the blade to your own throat. “Because if you stop me, he kills me anyway.” Your hand doesn’t tremble—but your voice does. “And I don’t want to die hating myself.”

Anguish flickers across his face, sharp as shrapnel. He holsters his sidearm, raises his metal hand, and crushes your detonator into glittering shards. “Then we change the math.”

Behind him, Yelena lowers her knife. Ava’s shoulders soften. You can almost hear Alexei mutter a relieved curse down the hallway.

Your comm unit crackles—Fisk’s timer triggering. Forty-five seconds before the toxin releases.

Bucky catches your collapsing form, hoists you into his arms. “Lab’s two floors down,” he rasps to the team. “Ava—phase the doors open. Yelena—anti-serum cabinet. Bob—clear the corridor. And someone warn Walker before he shoots first and asks obnoxious questions later.”

You taste metal, feel your heartbeat stutter, but the last thing you see is Bucky’s jaw set in stubborn determination—like he’s done choosing between what’s right and what’s easy.

The world blurs into darkness, but his voice anchors you: “Stay with me, doll. We’re not letting you go.” And in that breath between torment and mercy, you realize falling in love wasn’t the failure. It was the mission all along.

#2000 followers celebration #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x fem!reader #bucky barnes fluff #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #james bucky barnes #james bucky barnes x reader #thunderbolts*#thunderbolts #thunderbolts fanfic #yelena belova #ava starr #bob reynolds #alexei shostakov #abby's works ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

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fishnapple · 1 year ago

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THE MAP TO YOUR SOUL, YOUR DEEPEST SELF INSIDE

A simple map to help you find who you really are inside. The reading will have 4 parts: the focus, the obstacle, the gift, the guide.

This is a general reading meant for multiple people. Take only what resonates and leave out the rest.

Your feedback is much appreciated. If you find the reading resonated with you, leave a comment, I’d love to know 🎐

About me | Masterpost Book a reading with me - KO-FI (→ personal reading)

CUBE 1

The focus: Balancing opposites

It's very straightforward and direct. Your deepest self yearns to express itself openly, without masks or veils. You will find authenticity through the words you say and the beauty you cultivate. Your identity is not meant to stay in one place, stagnating but to constantly evolve, transform and refine. This can be expressed through your thoughts, your physical appearance, as within so without. Kind words and self-love go a long way. You're here to learn the way of being independent, of self-authority, standing up for yourself without being selfish.

Life's various responsibilities, the burden of being and existing, the confusions of bonds. Those are the forces that pull you in many directions, away from a simple truth: yourself, the one you've built, the one you are, the one you want to be. The moment you can be at peace with yourself will be the moment you've arrived at home, inside you.

The obstacle: You tend to lose yourself in the connections with other people. The sense of self is dissolved by the desire to connect with the other person. You might find yourself morphed into various identities with each connection. You're one person in one relationship, but you're a different person in another relationship. Relationships shape your identities. There would be a point when you're confused about who you really are, without other people. This is a challenge for you, to find your sense of self outside the connections with people. To have a stable core no matter what relationship you're in.

The gift: Your obstacle is also one of your gifts. You have the talent to connect and understand people. Navigating relationship dynamics come naturally for you. Negotiating, harmonising, understanding. So use this gift to understand yourself too. To see yourself, standing alone, independently and connect with that person. You can be with other people without sacrificing your autonomy and independence.

The guide: Find out what can spark your joy and what makes you want to act, what are you wishing for. Write them down and see the pattern, the interconnection between them. The fastest and safest path to your soul is to constantly seek expansion of your mind. If you're feeling lost, trust in your intuition and the signs given to you at the present moment. You heard someone mentioned a book, a movie, a place? You suddenly get a desire to learn something? You might want to note them down and try them for yourself. Hidden treasures of knowledge are always just around the corner. And through these seemingly random encounters, you've already been treading on the path to your soul.

CUBE 2

The focus: Freedom of creativity & uniqueness

You have a powerful presence that can touch people in a subconscious way. There's a light, a force that is constantly swirling, rolling, unfolding. The question is, how can that light exist among the sea of people without blinding others or without dimming itself? A star is bright and blinding when someone looks at it alone and closely, a star is also bright but its light is gentle and it dances on the cosmic tapestry when it exists together with other million stars on the sky. Together, they create a picture of the universe in harmony.

The path to your soul is not a lonely path that you go alone, it's a merry one with people from all different corners of the world going together, some will go away after a while, some will stay with you till the end of the journey. You will find yourself in the crowd, in the people around you, in the distant dream for an ideal world. How do you connect with people without fusing yourself with them? How do you stand apart but still be a part of something? How do you give to the world and grow in the process?

The obstacle: There's a hidden fear inside you. It's about the loss of the self, the disappearing into the mass. Order, stability and the concrete are desired. You have a lot of hidden force within you. If repressed, it can result in general resentment and anger directed at the world at large with no particular target.

Struggling to find motivation can also be a big obstacle. You need to find the roots of that struggle. Is it because it's hard to be motivated when you can't find the meaning for it? It's hard to act when you can't see the direction ahead clearly? Everything needs a meaning and a purpose. Without them, mobilising your incredible pool of energy will be difficult.

The gift: You have the gift of creativity, creating things for the world and creating your own self. You're like a sun that gives life and shines brightly. Expressing your individuality is an impulse that cannot be overridden. So wherever you go, people notice you, they will applaud you light. use this gift to bring light into other's life, help them find the courage to shine brightly like yourself.

The guide: Delve into the realm of your fears and the unknown. The more clearly you see them, the calmer it will feel. Embrace the mystical parts of life. There are certain things that can't be completely understood by just sitting down and thinking about them in practical terms. Sometimes, letting go and just observing is more effective.

There is a connection between the path you choose to go and the influences of the collective. No matter how much you deny those influences, they are still there, lying dormant in your deeper self. It's the force that keeps you connected to everyone, the sense of belonging. If you have the desire to stand apart, to not be drowned in the sea of the collective, understand that you have enough power and strength to swim gracefully alongside others.

CUBE 3

The focus: The lightness and feeling of safety

Building a home for yourself, for your soul, is what you're called to do. I see the image of someone dragging their feet through a storm, they are exhausted, all they're searching for is a shelter, a place for warmth and rest, a place to stop their weary feet. The burdens of life weigh heavily on your shoulders. There might be a time when you want to escape, to let go, that's when you need to grasp at something to anchor yourself back to the reality of life. Life can be heavy and demanding, but you can navigate it in a simple and calm manner. You may have dreams you want to fulfil, aspirations to achieve, big things to expect but at the end of the day, a safe place, a calm mind and a rested body maybe are all you really need. There's a need to strip back to simplicity and find enjoyment in your own world.

The obstacle: You might project a certain assertiveness and a competitive image to the world. But it's a cover to hide your deeper feeling. The more vulnerable you feel, the harder you tend to fight. The more confused you're about your own self, the more likely you're to chase worldly achievements without a real sense of satisfaction. This discrepancy between your inner self and your outer self will hinder your sense of peace. There's a need to find a way to communicate yourself clearer, with more coherence to the story.

The gift: You have the gift of the gab, expressing ideas and convincing other people. Your mind works in a lightning fast manner, gears constantly turning, information flows indefinitely, ideas churned out like a blinking light. You understand things instinctively, sometimes making logical leaps to arrive at the answer, making mental shortcuts. This gift can help you sail through life more smoothly and help you get out of sticky situations, which usually are the results of your expression of assertiveness or anger.

The guide: Taking small steps towards your soul in a slow and steady manner. No need to rush and worry all the time. Everything is built from the culmination of small efforts.

You will find the guiding arrows through listening to your body, to feel the concrete body of yours, the pains that arise in different place, the warmth feeling in the stomach, the hands getting cold, the electricity running through your spine, all those sensations. Don't ignore them. They help you to feel more alive, and they call you to take more care of your body. Without a healthy body, how can you live and go after your goals?

Humility is another guiding arrow. No matter how much knowledge and wisdom you have, there's always something to learn from others, assume the role of a student and try to listen. Challenges might only appear when you refuse to open your mind and learn.

CUBE 4

The focus: the potentials of transformation

I see the image of someone standing from afar, looking tentatively at the vista before them. They want to go towards it, to see for themselves is there a deeper wonder to this life that they haven't known of. The call is ever louder and more tempting each day.

There's still a distance between them and the vista, but they are looking in the right direction. Now, they just need to figure out how to close the distance. They need the courage to take the first step. They can see the rewards, they can also see the hardship. But turning away is not an option anymore. There's so much more to see, so much potential to grow.

The obstacle: I think deep down, you've already figured out the path you need to go, you just need a little nudge because of the uneasiness in knowing what needs to be done to go towards that path. It will require changes, it will require you to discard things you might have held dear in the past but are no longer serving your growth. And it all starts from the mind. You might not like to think too much about the future, the bigger plan for your life, prefer to stay in the details of your surroundings. Maybe you feel that it's never enough, you don't have enough experiences or skill, you don't have enough resources, you don't have enough visions. Which is not true. You are ready to take the plunge, much like the Fool in the Tarot.

The gift: You already have an instinctive understanding of the world around you. Learning comes naturally for you. Your deposit at the bank of knowledge is getting larger everyday and will spill over if you don't use them. The door that can lead you to the path forward is your mind. Use your mental energy to figure out the steps instead of over analysing and excessive worrying.

Putting your voice out into the world, make a statement, make a commitment to your goal, and you will be surprised how far it can take you.

The guide: If you feel overwhelmed by the amount of work that needs to be done in order to have the life you want deep down. Start small and build steadily. The word "transformation" may sound dramatic and scary, but micro-transformations happen at every moment. Grab hold of the visions floating in your heart and mind and hold them steady, study them, don't mystify them, bring them out into the mundane by backtracking the steps leading to them. You see the farthest step, then backtrack until you arrive at where you are now. Start with doable things, and gradually, you will find that a lot more are doable for you.

#pick a card #pac #channeled message #tarotblr #witchblr #crystal reading #lithomancy #tarot reading #divination #pick a pile #astrology #tarot community #spirituality #astrology readings #astro community

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ssa-dado · 9 months ago

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The Metaphysics of Love - SOS

Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: fluffy fluff, sapiosexual fluff and - brace yourself - SOFT SMUT LET'S GO SPICY GOYALS!!! Summary: On a rare day off, you planned a quiet morning for Aaron's birthday. But he surprised you instead, taking over the kitchen revealing one of his hidden talents. Caught between banter and intimate teasing, you both savored the depth of your connection, blending banter and desire. One thing is certain though, luck is never by your side. Warnings: +18 MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, or at least do out of your parents' sight - SEX, ORAL SEX ALLUDED (fem receiving because we live in a patriarchal society, we deserve it), lots of dirty talk. Aaron 'how am I a whore' Hotchner, he's just a whore. Word Count: 8.8k Dado's Corner: So, this is the first remotely sexual thing I've ever written. I love reading some good ol' smut, but for some reason, I cringe a lot while writing it. It took me excruciatingly long. I don't know what I'm doing; I don't even know if it's any good or even half-decent - let me know? AAAAA I'm very insecure about this and on posting it eheheheh life is fun isn't it? Is it even smut? Who knows. I need theraphy after this.

masterlist

Greek philosopher Plato wrote, “If only there were a way to start a city or an army made up of lovers. Theirs would be the best possible system of society, for they would hold back from all that is shameful, and seek honor in each other’s eyes.”

On rare days off, there was one thing you allowed yourself unapologetically: to be entirely unproductive.

You took these days like a blessing, where sleeping in was less a luxury and more a necessity - a chance to let your mind drift, to refuse the call to be anything more than just here, in this restful solitude.

And when Aaron came over the night before, both of you embraced that same ritual.

It felt almost like a paradox that two people so fiercely devoted to the relentless precision of your work - two minds honed to confront humanity’s darkest edges, always willing to answer the call, no matter how ungodly the hour - could find such deep, sweet solace in those private mornings together.

Days when, for once, you weren’t bending yourselves to crises or sacrificing the next moment’s peace to duty.

You and Aaron, who could spend hours in a rare, intellectual love, a bond built on respect, shared virtues, and an admiration for the other’s mind, a connection that didn’t rely on words, but on understanding each other’s essence.

Yet when the door was closed and the world locked out, all that intellectual reverence between you replaced by something untamed, something driven by pure, aching desire.

The slide of his hands over you felt reverent yet urgent, mapping each line and curve as though rediscovering familiar territory for the first time.

Each kiss, each touch held the thrill of exploration, a deliberate pace that turned gentle caresses into an unspoken plea. The way he whispered your name, his breath hot against your ear, sending sparks down your spine as he drew you closer, as if he could never be close enough.

In that bed, the world ceased to exist, its demands fading into oblivion as you lost yourselves in each other’s bodies, moving and meeting in rhythm, a silent language spoken only between you.

You felt his every shift, every unhurried stroke, savoring the taste of his skin, his weight, the feel of his hand tangled in your hair.

Every time his hands began their journey over you, it was as if he were memorizing you anew, mapping each curve with a reverence that made every touch feel essential. The way his lips would trace a languid, heated path down your neck, over your collarbone, and linger to each of your breasts, then lower to your stomach – always precise, always teasing, always patient.

Each time, he would pause with that infuriating, electrifying smirk, glancing up at you just as his mouth left warm, wet trails along the delicate skin of your inner thigh, each mark a whispered claim, each gentle bite igniting a spark of wild, irrational hunger.

Then, he’d slow, letting his touch turn soft, his movements deliberate, every kiss a careful mark of possession as he inched closer, closer, until he hovered right where you burned for him most.

The warmth of his breath brushed against your skin, stirring an ache that felt endless - and yet he always held back, drawing out each second to a tantalizing, almost torturous eternity.

Time itself seemed to dissolve, stretched and redefined by his restraint, bending beneath his control until it became something ungraspable, a vast chasm of unfulfilled need. In that suspended tension, everything beyond the heat of his touch blurred and faded, the world reduced to the exquisite ache of his nearness.

Every nerve felt poised on the brink, strung tight between the agony of waiting and the edge of release. It was an ache that deepened with every restrained second, until every part of you ached for him to finally give in - to end the slow, maddening tease and take you over the edge you so desperately craved, to just let you combust.

Every time, you knew there was no getting out of that bed.

But today, you needed to try.

Today was Aaron’s birthday.

It was his tenth birthday as your partner.

His second as your boss.

His first as… your boyfriend.

The word still felt novel, strange to say aloud, as if acknowledging it might make it slip away. Months in, and it hadn’t yet lost its surreal sweetness. So, despite already knowing he would brush it off, you wanted this day to be special.

Not big, not loud, just enough to quietly tell him how much he meant to you.

And how much you loved him.

He had given up on his own birthdays long ago, weighed down by the memories of being called away, the guilt of leaving pieces of himself with every mile, the reason of the failure of his marriage, the strain of missing out on Jack’s moments he could never relive.

But you knew his aversion went even deeper than guilt and regret.

Because Aaron Hotchner, the man whose presence could command a room with a single look, who possessed a physical authority in his stature, his voice, and his steely gaze, was nothing like that in private.

In his job, he could pull strings in hidden places, command respect from even the most powerful, yet, in private, Aaron Hotchner was anything but the center.

He instinctively yielded that space to others, always giving, forever considering his own worth secondary to his duty. For him, the spotlight was an obligation, a necessity he wore well, but not one he sought.

He instead lived with an unshakable humility that, in his own mind, made him unworthy of the small graces most would take for granted.

He was the center for so many others, to let the world turn around him, even for a day, felt almost undeserved.

This was the man you loved.

The man who, in every part of his life, had chosen to orbit around others rather than himself.

But today, you wanted to change that.

If there was one battle you were determined to win, it was this one: slowly chipping away at Aaron’s stubborn sense of self-denial, proving to him that he deserved the care and quiet adoration he so freely gave everyone else.

You’d make it your mission, spoiling him however you could in those rare, fleeting moments he allowed.

Especially today.

Today, you wanted everything to be about him.

You wanted him to let you give him a birthday that revolved solely around him, a celebration in the purest sense of the word.

So, you concocted a plan.

One of your more mischievous fool-proof “evil” plans, as you’d call them.

You’d set your weekday alarm to go off at an ungodly hour, sacrificing your own precious sleep for a just cause. When the alarm blared, you’d pretend it was a simple mistake, and then, under the guise of getting some water, slip out of bed.

Now, Aaron, being Aaron, would try to keep his eyes open, struggling to wait for you to come back to bed, but you were betting on his recent run of sleepless nights to wear him down. He’d have no choice but to let sleep drag him back under.

And while he slept, you’d slip into the kitchen to bake him a birthday cake, filling the apartment with the warm, sugary smell of freshly baked sweets.

But not just any sweets - because Aaron’s idea of a “sweet tooth” was as delightfully twisted as the man himself.

He liked desserts that weren’t cloying, desserts that had just the right balance of sugar and subtlety. You’d stocked up on his favorite ingredients earlier in the week, quietly stashing them away like a stealthy confectionary hoarder.

You wanted the process to take time, to show him that he was worth the hours of sacrificed sleep, that he was worth the care poured into each meticulous step.

Call it love.

You could picture it perfectly, or at least you thought you could: the early morning quiet, just you in your cozy sanctuary, stealing away precious minutes of peace to bake for the one person who had come to mean more to you than anyone else in the world.

You’d sneak out of bed and create something special, something full of quiet love. That was the plan, the picture you’d carefully composed in your mind.

But reality had other plans.

Because, instead, you woke up alone, which wouldn’t have been unusual months ago, back when solitude was your morning routine. But lately, you’d grown a little too used to waking up next to Aaron, finding him there in those rare, lazy mornings, seeing his face softened by sleep.

So, yes, waking up without him startled you.

And that wasn’t the strangest part.

But what truly threw you off was the unfamiliar noise that filled your apartment – the sounds foreign and unexpected, loud and unmistakably upbeat.

Music.

Not just any music, but the kind that seemed plucked from a pop radio station’s Top 30 - those catchy, bubblegum-sweet songs that played over and over, each one sounding like a new but familiar hit. You recognized the song immediately, a few of its lyrics sneaking into your consciousness.

“Romeo, take me somewhere we can be alone…”

The music filled the entire space, and the distinct melody grew louder as you slowly pulled yourself out of bed. You quickly washed up, threw on Aaron’s shirt - somehow conveniently draped over the chair beside your bed from last night - and crept toward the source, trying to make sense of the scene awaiting you.

The closer you got, the louder the music became, and as you moved down the hall, another noise reached your ears. A full octave lower, slightly offbeat tune, blending into the chorus.

You stopped.

This new melody was unmistakable - a deep, familiar voice humming along.

You rounded the corner, holding your breath as you peeked around the door frame, and there he was: standing at the counter, 6’2” of pure FBI stoicism, humming and even softly singing along to Taylor Swift’s “Love Story” as he flipped pancakes, completely absorbed, almost…at peace.

Aaron, your Aaron, was singing.

And he was singing on key, to a Taylor Swift song, of all things.

This was Aaron “blues and classic rock” Hotchner, the man who’d first revealed he could play the guitar with quiet pride, a piece of his world he’d shown you like an offering.

This was the man who once played you a perfect riff from Eric Clapton’s “Layla” to win a bet, who could talk about the origins of every Beatles riff and knew exactly which blues chord matched which heartbreak.

You’d seen him pour himself into those riffs and solos, even negotiate an occasional strum in exchange for something even as stupid as a kiss or him asking you to sing along. That was thrilling enough, it was something special he shared with you, revealing his private passion for music.

You’d always thought he kept his own voice hidden somewhere deep.

You’d gone a decade without hearing it and almost expected never to, half-convinced he didn’t even know how to sing. If he did, it was probably as flat as his deadpan humor.

Yet here he was, in his element - or maybe in your element - singing along, his voice low and smooth, threading into the melody as if he’d been doing it all his life.

He wasn’t putting on a show, no spoon-as-microphone dramatics, no fake dance moves. Just the smallest tilt of his head in time with the music, his voice like his presence - restrained, yet always intentional. It was almost as if he was singing to keep himself company, like he’d done this a hundred times over, alone.

It was strange, maybe surreal, to see Aaron singing the words to one of the most unabashedly sentimental pop songs, lyrics he’d usually flip the station over without a second thought.

But what truly was more shocking - was the calm, almost methodical way he sang. It wasn’t the typical poppy, upbeat rendition, he was deliberately bending the melody, drawing out the notes, giving it a weight and richness that felt… sincere.

Even thoughtful.

“Romeo, save me,” he murmured, his voice like velvet, layering over the lyrics with that warm, low cadence that made you feel he was singing a ballad rather than a radio hit. “I’ve been feeling so alone” The lower octave turning the song into something more heartfelt, the kind of warmth you’d find in an old love song.

You barely dared to breathe, your hand resting on the doorframe as you took in the scene, each step bringing you closer, yet you stood still, just watching him.

There he was, perfectly at home in your kitchen, flipping pancakes in time with the song, a bowl of batter at his side, and those neatly diced apples - your apples, the ones you’d hidden for the cake, already sliced and ready on the counter.

He moved with this calm certainty, like he knew exactly where every spoon and skillet was, as if he’d done this a hundred times before, like this was his kitchen, his place.

And watching him, the weight of it settled over you, soft and unassuming, like it had always been there, only waiting for you to notice.

You wanted to see this every morning.

This sight - him in your kitchen, in your space, humming along to a cheesy love song.

You could already imagine so many more mornings just like this - waking up to the quiet sounds of him in the kitchen, maybe later to the faint patter of little feet, to quiet laughter, to moments of warmth and ease you hadn’t dared to let yourself picture.

Right there, it hit you, the thought rising naturally, with the same certainty as breathing: you wanted to marry Aaron Hotchner.

You wanted this morning, and every morning, and every rare, precious moment he’d allow you to share, for the rest of your lives.

It was so startling, it almost scared you - the sheer weight and clarity of it, something you’d never even let yourself imagine until now.

And as if he could read your mind, he sang on, unwittingly echoing the thought you’d just had, the words falling from his lips with this surprising tenderness, so soft you barely heard it over the sizzling pan,

"He knelt to the ground and pulled out a ring…”

And in perfect time with the lyrics, he turned, reaching for something on the counter. His gaze met yours, and he froze, his eyes going wide.

Caught.

Caught like he was a kid with his hand in the cookie jar, his cheeks tinged pink as he stammered, “It’s… catchy.”

You couldn’t even form a coherent reply. All you managed to say, a little dazed, was, “Last time I checked, this was my kitchen.” It seemed only fair to mention, because he looked entirely too comfortable, like he belonged there. Which, of course, he did.

Without missing a beat, he smirked, still flushed. “Last time I checked, that was my shirt.” There was a glint of humor in his eye as he nodded at the oversized button-up you were wrapped in.

Touché.

But you couldn’t let him off so easily.

“So, Hotchner’s finally embraced pop?” you teased, moving closer. He gave you a look that was half-fond, half-exasperated.

“Are you going to tell the team?” he asked, lips twitching in a barely suppressed smile.

“Oh, you mean that you know the lyrics to Love Story by heart?” You reached for a piece of apple, savoring the sweetness, both of the fruit and the moment.

He raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter, crossing his arms in a way that was both effortlessly intimidating and disarmingly charming. "And how exactly are you going to tell them?" he countered, his voice low and amused. "Considering we’re still keeping this whole thing," he gestured between the two of you, "a secret?"

You arched an eyebrow at him, a smirk dancing at the corner of your lips. “Oh, don’t worry, I’d find a way to tell them. Especially after finding my plan completely sabotaged.” You gestured toward the crime scene he’d made of your countertop, the diced apples mixed with flour dust and cinnamon smears, reaching out to pick up a perfectly diced slice. “What kind of monster butchers my last apple?”

Aaron chuckled, crossing his arms in that familiar way that made him look both effortlessly intimidating and disarmingly charming. “Well, I got here first, so I have dibs on breakfast duties,” he said, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he leaned in just a bit closer.

“Admit it, you’re just miserable that I’ve now beaten you not only to the office every morning but also in your very own kitchen.” With a playful smirk, he reached out, fingers grazing yours as he took the slice of apple from your hand, popping it into his mouth.

Your hand instinctively reached up, brushing a stray smear of flour from his cheek, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, your fingers lingered against his skin, warm beneath your touch, your thumb brushing over the roughness of his stubble. “Believe me, Aaron,” you murmured, your voice softening, “I’m hardly miserable. But if there was ever a day for you to be spoiled, it’s today.”

A subtle shift crossed his face, he tried to play it off with a shrug, but you caught the way his eyes softened. “Since when are Sundays such a big deal?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper.

You smiled, your voice dropping just as low. “Since a certain FBI Unit Chief turned 43 today.”

He paused, something deeper flickering across his face, gratitude, maybe even a hint of wonder. But his lips curled into a small smile as he teased, “So you’re saying you’re obsessed with me? Is that why today’s circled on the calendar?”

You laughed softly, leaning in until the warmth between you was almost overwhelming. “Maybe I’m just a thorough planner,” you murmured, unable to stop the grin spreading across your face. “Not that you’d know anything about that, Mister Show-Up-Unannounced-To-Ruin-Everything.”

His chuckle was low, rich, and his hand slid from the counter to your waist, pulling you closer, his thumb traced small, warm circles just above your hip, sending a thrill through you that made your pulse quicken. “Oh, so I’m the one to blame now?”

His forehead pressed against yours, his lips only inches away, his voice a warm murmur that made your breath catch. “I thought I’d get some credit. I put my heart into this, you know.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, fingertips brushing gently along the nape of his neck as you closed the space between you. “Maybe a little credit,” you whispered softly in his good ear, your voice low and warm,

“But only if those pancakes are as good as the cake I was going to make for you.” You leaned back just enough to see your reflection in his light chestnut eyes. "Happy birthday, Aaron. I love you."

Six words, and that’s all it took.

Six words and the universe seemed to gather itself, suspended in a moment that transcended language itself.

It was a truth so elemental, it resisted adornment, a declaration distilled to its essence, timeless and immutable.

An affirmation that existed beyond expectation, a vow as ancient and constant as the stars themselves.

There is a metaphysics to love, you realized - it stands outside the linear bounds of time, touches the eternal.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice serious thick with emotion, “I love you, too.”

As he leaned in, his lips met yours with a tenderness that felt timeless, like the merging of two notes in perfect harmony. The kiss was neither hurried nor tentative - it lingered, unbound by time, a communion in which words would only lessen its meaning.

It was as if the essence of all things - of breath, heartbeats, even thought - collapsed into a single, quiet rhythm, a pulse shared between the two of you, steady and enduring.

His hand on the small of your back was grounding, tethering you to the warmth and certainty of his presence, yet it held the weight of something deeper, an invitation to transcend the ordinary, into a realm that felt almost timeless.

His fingers traced gentle paths along your spine, each motion a quiet pledge, a reminder that this moment - this suspended eternity - was as real as anything either of you had ever known.

There was something purely metaphysical about it, a union that philosophy itself would struggle to pin down, though it tried - oh, how it tried!

There were passages in Aristotle, in Plato, that hinted at this feeling, words that beckoned yet somehow fell short of translating this precise depth, this shared infinity.

How perfectly absurd, yet fitting, that the ancient words you’d studied your whole life only now truly resonated, here, in his arms.

It was probably a blessing that he couldn’t read your mind, or he’d surely tease you mercilessly, forever, about finding existential truths in the simplicity of a kiss.

Yet philosophy was the only thing that could try to capture even a fraction of what he made you feel. You would have likely confessed that, at this very moment, he seemed to hold all the secrets of the universe in the softness of his gaze, in the press of his hand.

If he knew, you could already hear him laughing, promising with that faint smirk to remind you every day for the rest of his life: ‘that you were the one waxing poetic, hopelessly undone by his touch.’

But perhaps you’d take that trade-off, if it meant he’d keep looking at you just like this.

Or maybe he already suspected, because as he pulled back slightly, that familiar sparkle was in his eyes. His voice dropped to that low, warm timbre that always seemed to melt you. “You know, I’m the luckiest guy in the world having you as my girlfriend,” he murmured.

You felt your cheeks grow warm, a reaction you couldn’t seem to help, especially when he was the one reminding you of that fact.

He chuckled, clearly enjoying your blush. “I love how you keep doing that every time I call you my girlfriend,” he said, savoring each word, his grin only widening.

“You’re doing that on purpose, aren’t you?” you nudged him playfully, pulling away just long enough to pour yourself a glass of water.

He leaned against the counter, eyes sparkling with a playful glint. “Maybe. It’s the little pleasures in life, you know?” He paused, and you caught the mischievous edge to his voice. “Like watching that blush climb all the way down your neck every time I’m close to you.”

You took a sip of water, trying to keep your cool, but he leaned even closer, his lips just a breath away from your ear. “And I can think of a few more ways to keep you flushed like that,” he whispered, his voice dropping to a sultry murmur.

You nearly choked, sputtering as you looked up at him with a mock glare. “If you say one more word, Aaron Hotchner, I swear I’m dumping this entire glass of water on you.” you warned, pointing to the water for emphasis.

But he didn’t even flinch.

Instead, he raised a playful brow, his smirk only deepening. “Now, that’d just give me an excuse to get closer to you. Which, I’d say, isn’t a bad way to spend my birthday.” He paused, eyes trailing over you in a way that sent warmth radiating from your cheeks down to your very core. “Or… maybe you’d rather see me get out of this shirt? I mean, it’s your call, sweetheart.”

The room suddenly felt too warm, and from the glint in his eyes, you knew he could see how thoroughly flustered you were. You searched for a comeback, determined to give him a taste of his own medicine.

But the words caught in your throat, entirely out of reach, and he noticed - of course he noticed. His grin widened as he leaned back, folding his arms, looking smug and entirely too pleased with himself.

“What’s the matter, Professor?” he continued, a grin playing on his lips. “Don’t tell me the great philosopher herself is speechless?” His voice dropped even lower “No ancient texts to rescue you from this one?”

The challenge in his eyes held you captive, and you knew there was no witty comeback that could save you from the truth: he had completely undone you.

But you managed to pull yourself together just enough to respond, leaning forward as you raised your chin with a defiant smile.

But he didn’t budge, his eyes sparkling with that familiar, infuriating confidence. “Oh, I think I’ll stay right here. Watching you like this?” His smirk grew wider. “This is the best birthday gift I could ask for.”

You raised an eyebrow, refusing to back down, and turned to the fridge, grabbing a cold bottle of water and holding it up with a knowing look. “You know,” you said, a mischievous smile playing on your lips, “there’s a whole bottle of ice-cold water here. Just waiting to be used.”

He chuckled, unfazed, his eyes glinting with challenge. “Judging from that blush,” he murmured, stepping closer, “I think you’re the one who could use the cold water.” He leaned in, his voice a low, seductive whisper. “Or do you want to bet I’ve already got you wet down there?”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips as you took a small step back, pretending to consider his words. “Oh, you’re bold today, aren’t you?” you teased, uncapping the water bottle and tilting it slightly in his direction. “I wouldn’t test me, Hotchner.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied smoothly, though his gaze stayed fixed on you, steady and full of challenge. “But I’d love to see what you’d actually do with that water,” he added, crossing his arms and leaning back with a smirk. “Go on, show me.”

You lifted the bottle just enough to let a single drop slip down, watching as it slid down the bottle’s edge, intentionally drawing it out. “You sure about that?” you asked, your tone daring. “Because once I start, there’s no going back.”

He grinned, holding his ground, eyes dancing with intrigue. “Try me,” he whispered, his voice rough, daring you, his gaze locked on yours.

With a smirk, you tilted the bottle in one swift motion, letting a stream of cold water pour down his neck, catching him completely off-guard. The shock in his eyes was priceless as he gasped, shivering as the icy water spilled over his collar and down his chest, soaking into the fabric of his shirt and clinging to his skin.

You watched, heart pounding, as rivulets of water dripped from his hair, tracing paths down his jaw and across the hollow of his throat.

His breath came shallow, and for a brief moment, he just stared at you, his eyes dark with a mixture of surprise and something else - a heat that went far beyond the playful spark in his gaze moments before.

Slowly, he brushed his fingers through his wet hair, sending droplets flying as he shook his head in mock surrender, chuckling under his breath. “Alright,” he murmured, his voice low and rich, “I’ll give you that one.”

He took a step closer, his eyes never leaving yours, the water still trickling down his neck, clinging to his skin. “But you do realize,” he said softly, a glint of challenge and mischief in his eyes, “now it’s my turn.”

Your fingers threaded into his damp hair, tugging him closer as you pressed your body against his, deepening the kiss with a need that went beyond words.

His mouth moved over yours, hot and unyielding, each kiss more consuming than the last, igniting a fire that pulsed through every inch of you. You let out a soft moan as his hands tightened on your waist, pulling you against him, until the lines between where he ended and you began were blurred.

Without breaking the kiss, he lifted you with ease, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as you steadied yourself, your legs tightening around his waist. He walked with purpose, each step deliberate as he moved you away from the puddle on the floor.

Reaching the counter, he set you down, his hands sliding to your hips to keep you anchored to him. You pulled him closer, wrapping your legs around his waist, feeling his hard bulge pressing against you, right between your legs, sending an excruciating wave of heat that made you ache with need of wanting every inch of him.

His lips trailed down to your neck, finding that sensitive spot that made you gasp, arching your back and tilting your hips against him in response, desperate for more contact through all those unnecessary layers of clothes.

That made him chuckle against your skin, his breath warm and teasing as he pressed his hips forward, letting you feel more of him. His hands roamed over your body, one slipping down between your thighs, his fingers sliding over the fabric of your clothes to press gently against your folds. You let out a shuddering breath as he teased you, feeling your arousal seep through the fabric under his touch.

“Shit Aaron,” you whispered furrowing your brows, the sound escaping as a mix of plea and need. He let out a low, satisfied sigh, his fingers moving in slow, deliberate strokes along your folds, applying just enough pressure to leave you breathless.

"Told you needed that cold water too," he murmured, his voice rough and dark with desire as his fingers continued their slow, teasing movements, each touch lingering longer than the last, setting every nerve in your body on fire. "You’re so wet, love."

His lips found yours again, his kiss searing and consuming, swallowing the soft gasps that escaped you as his hand worked in a steady rhythm that left you trembling, every touch building the ache that spread through you.

Your hands found the hem of his soaked shirt, unable to resist the need to feel more of him. You gripped the fabric, slowly peeling it up over his torso, your fingers tracing over every defined line of his abdomen and chest as the shirt lifted, clinging to his skin, heavier from the water.

He shuddered at your touch, his muscles taut under your fingertips, and his breathing hitched as you struggled to work the fabric up over his shoulders. With a quick, impatient movement, he pulled it the rest of the way off, tossing it carelessly to the floor, where it landed with a wet, heavy thud.

The unexpected sound made you both pause, sharing a breathless, shared chuckle that broke the intensity for only a moment.

Then his gaze met yours, dark and blazing with an almost unrestrained hunger. His pupils were blown wide, breaths shallow and quick, matching your own.

The charged silence between you was almost unbearable, every second weighted with anticipation " Let's cut this shit and just fuck me, Aaron," you said firmly locking eyes with him, your tone was thick with need.

"So eloquent," he replied, his voice so low that it made you even more wet than you already were.

"If you don’t have me quoting Plato," you breathed, voice unsteady, “then it means you’re doing it a good job."

He let out a low, throaty chuckle. "Trust me, that's the last thing I want to hear right now."

False. But he wasn’t about to let you know that just yet.

Keeping his gaze fixed on yours, he dipped down slowly, his hands sliding up your thighs, his grip firm yet gentle, holding you open in a way that left no room for resistance and filled you with a breathless anticipation.

His lips brushed softly over your knee, then trailed upward in maddeningly slow, deliberate kisses along your inner thigh. Each touch of his mouth felt like a spark on your skin, the heat pooling within you growing with every inch he covered.

The roughness of his stubble scraped deliciously over your sensitive skin, heightening the sensation and leaving you craving more with every slow, deliberate movement.

“I could stay here all morning,” he murmured, his voice thick and rough, lips lingering at that spot on your inner thigh that made your head spin. “Fuck, your thighs drive me crazy.” He sucked gently at the sensitive skin, and a dizzying wave of warmth coursed through you, making you clutch the edge of the counter beneath you.

“You sound so much better when you’re talking between my legs,” you managed, your voice a whisper. “Almost makes me want to actually listen to what you’re saying.”

A smirk played on his lips as he moved inward with torturous slowness, each kiss deeper and more lingering than the last, his mouth exploring every inch with an intensity that only stoked the fire inside you. “Can’t wait to eat you out,” he murmured against your skin, his voice a low rumble that made you shiver. “You always taste so damn sweet.”

Just hearing him made your cheeks flush, heat spreading across your skin, and he looked up briefly, catching the blush on your face.

He chuckled softly, his breath warm against your thigh, the vibration sending a shiver through your entire body. “There it is,” he murmured, pressing his mouth to your skin as if savoring every reaction, “and I’m not even close.”

“Fuck you Aaron,” you muttered, rolling your eyes at the nerve he had, but unable to mask the need building inside you.

“Just give me a few minutes,” he whispered, a wicked smile tugging at his lips, “and you won’t be able to say a word.” Without giving you time to respond, he moved his hand, his fingers brushing over your throbbing, clothed core, drawing a soft, needy moan from you.

“Oh, Aaron,” you gasped, the words spilling from your lips as the warmth of his touch sent a shock of pleasure through you.

“Better, but next time just say my name”, he murmured, his voice filled with satisfaction as his mouth continued to explore every sensitive spot, each kiss igniting fresh waves of desire.

He savored every second, each shiver, each breathless sound you made, keeping you on edge and drawing out your need until you were trembling with anticipation, every nerve alive and straining toward him, aching for the moment he’d finally close that last, agonizing bit of distance.

A soft, breathy moan escaped your lips as his mouth reached the very end of your inner thigh, lingering there with maddening intent before, with one swift motion, he slipped his fingers beneath the waistband of your panties and discarded them, leaving you exposed to the cool air that instantly sent a shiver down your spine.

Your hand flew to his, squeezing his left hand resting on your thigh, seeking an anchor amidst the building tension. He intertwined his fingers with yours, holding you there, his grip firm and grounding.

What a gentleman.

As he moved closer to where you ached for him most, the warmth of his breath contrasted with the coolness of the air, sending another wave of heat pooling low in your belly.

Your skin was hypersensitive, every inch of you on edge, the cool air brushing against your slick, exposed core making you tremble with need. You could feel yourself wet, the evidence of your desire trailing down, and he noticed, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes as he took in every reaction.

Slowly, he leaned in, and just when you thought you couldn’t bear the wait, he let out a soft, cool breath against your sensitive center, the contrast making you gasp, your hips instinctively arching toward him.

The sensation was electric, his teasing touch only building the tension to a fever pitch, leaving you breathless and desperate, every nerve alive, craving his next move.

Every inch of you ached for him, and the faint chill of his breath against your heated skin only made you more sensitive, heightening every sensation as you waited, breathless, desperate, for the moment he’d finally close the distance and give you the relief you craved.

And just as you felt yourself entirely lost in the moment, fully immersed in his touch, your phone rang – your work phone.

Aaron, sensing the urgency of your vibrating work phone, let out a reluctant sigh and leaned down, resting his head between your legs for a lingering moment before handing the phone to you.

His hand found yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze before he straightened up and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. He knew it had to be important if you were getting called on your day off - especially since your last case had barely wrapped up a day ago.

With a sigh, you brought the phone to your ear, feeling Aaron’s hand slide down to rest on your thigh, his thumb tracing slow, grounding circles over your skin. “Agent Y/L/N,” you answered, keeping your tone professional despite the unmistakable warmth of Aaron’s presence beside you.

The voice on the other end chirped brightly. “Oh, don’t worry, Teach, this isn’t a case.” It was Garcia, her usual exuberance coming through, immediately putting you at ease.

Aaron’s head shot up, his expression sharpening as he registered Garcia’s voice on the line. His unit chief instincts kicked in immediately, a hint of concern flickering across his face - he knew as well as you did that Garcia wasn’t supposed to make personal calls to your work phone.

His gaze shifted to meet yours, silently questioning, his eyes searching for an explanation.

But you quickly gave him a reassuring nod, your eyes conveying, ‘It’s fine. Just Garcia being Garcia.’

He studied you for a moment, then sighed, the tension easing from his face as he accepted your silent assurance. She was his favorite on the team, after all – you knew he’d let this slide simply because it was her, and only her.

His tense posture softened, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he relaxed. But his hand stayed firmly on your leg, his thumb moving in soothing circles, silently grounding you as you continued the call.

“So… what’s up?” you asked, trying to sound casual.

“Well, I’m just outside your door!” Garcia chirped, and you froze, a sense of dread pooling in your stomach. “I came by to return that umbrella you lent me! And as an apology for taking so long, I brought homemade cookies! But not just any cookies - these are made with your recipe. I had to know your secret, oh wise cookie guru.”

You exchanged a panicked look with Aaron, who widened his eyes, clearly just as surprised as you were. He raised his eyebrows in disbelief, mouthing, ‘What?’

The kitchen was a disaster - a puddle of water glistened a few feet away from where you were, his shirt and your discarded underwear lay crumpled on the floor, and a forgotten stack of pancakes sat on the opposite counters, cold and untouched.

You tried to focus, clearing your throat. “Did you, um, brown the butter?” you asked, forcing a normal tone as Aaron’s lips returned to your cheek, planting feather-light kisses along your jawline. You brought your hand up to his chest, gently pressing to stop him just before he reached your neck.

If he kept going, there was no way you’d keep quiet.

“Oh, obviously, I browned the butter! Gourmet tip of the year, right?” she replied with dramatic flair. “But seriously, why haven’t you opened the door yet? Don’t tell me you’re still in bed!”

“Oh, Penelope, uh,” you hesitated, your voice wavering as you shot Aaron a helpless look. He simply leaned back, crossing his arms with an amused grin, watching you squirm. “I’m… uh… a little tied up right now.”

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line, then she gasped, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “Teach,” she said, drawing out the word as if savoring it. “Did you get laid?”

Your eyes widened, heat creeping up your cheeks, and you avoided Aaron’s gaze. “I, uh…” you stammered, glancing at Aaron, who raised both eyebrows, clearly entertained by the direction the conversation was going. ‘Lost for words, again?’ he mouthed, with a smirk.

“Oh my God!” Garcia squealed. “Spill! Where did you meet them? Was it romantic, thrilling, a slow-burn kind of thing?”

Thinking quickly, you stammered, “Uh… met him at the supermarket, actually.” You glanced over at Aaron, who was watching you with a barely contained grin.

“The supermarket?” Garcia’s tone was incredulous, then turned approving. “Well, look at you, turning errands into escapades! What was it about him? I mean, Teach, this is you we’re talking about, and you have that five-date rule before you even consider any ‘extracurriculars’!”

Aaron barely held back a laugh, his eyes gleaming with amusement. He mouthed, ‘Five dates?’ with an exaggerated look of mock surprise, clearly referencing the fact that it had taken you much fewer than five dates to get there with him.

Grabbing a pen and sticky note from the counter, you quickly scribbled, *It took us ten years, I think we waited enough.*

He read it, his eyes gleaming with a mischievous grin that seemed to say, “Still a win.” He leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead, and you rolled your eyes, fighting back a smile.

“So?” Garcia’s voice came through again, jolting you back. “What made him so special?”

You cleared your throat, keeping your answer vague. “He was… just nice. Nothing too remarkable. We just clicked.”

Garcia paused, as if processing that. “Clicked, huh? Not the most exciting answer, but I guess it’s better than nothing.” Her voice lowered conspiratorially, “Well, Teach, between you and me - how was it?”

You blinked, struggling to keep your composure. You knew answering in detail would only encourage her. Shooting Aaron a quick, apologetic look, you took a deep breath and answered, trying to be as nonchalant as possible “Honestly? Not memorable.”

Aaron’s eyebrows shot up, a look of playful offense crossing his face. You grabbed the pen again, quickly scribbling, ‘She’d have asked for specifics. It was the only way to end it.’

But Aaron wasn’t letting it slide.

He smirked, taking the pen from you and jotting, “If I were you, I’d start writing your incident report now.”

You mouthed a playful “Come on, Aaron,” but he didn’t relent, writing again, ‘You won’t be able to walk when I’m done with you. Trust me on that.’ His eyes gleamed with a mixture of humor and something darker, and he added, ‘Consider it a favor to your Unit Chief.’

The moment he pulled rank - even in jest - you knew he wasn’t kidding. A thrill shot through you, as, you realized: oh, you were fucked.

Meanwhile, Garcia was still on the line, sympathy dripping from her voice. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Teach. I hope the next one is better! But hey love, you’re a catch, you’ll have a line of suitors soon enough.”

Aaron rolled his eyes, grinning as he traced lazy circles along your arm, clearly entertained and waiting to see how you’d handle the situation. Just as you were about to breathe a sigh of relief, thinking the conversation with Garcia might finally be wrapping up, she added, “But one last thing… how big was he?”

Your eyes flew to Aaron, who pressed his lips together, struggling to keep from laughing outright. His brows lifted, an expectant glint in his eyes as he waited to see how you’d handle this new level of interrogation.

You let out a long, exasperated sigh, hiding your face behind your hand for a second before answering.

“Oh, Penelope,” you began, doing your best to keep your voice steady as Aaron’s expression practically sparkled with mischief. “Size… let’s just say he was… more than enough.”

You gave Aaron a pointed look, as if to say, ‘Happy now?’

Aaron raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eye, and picked up the pen to scrawl on a sticky note, “At least you said something true this time.”

He leaned back, crossing his arms with a smirk and that unmistakable, self-satisfied gleam that only made him more infuriatingly irresistible.

You rolled your eyes, resisting the urge to wipe that smug grin off his face. He was lucky you loved him, even when he was this cocky.

Garcia hummed, clearly intrigued. “Alright, alright, keep your secrets! But I’ll be needing a coffee date soon to get all the details. And I’ll make sure to bring a tape measure!”

Aaron’s smirk only widened, thoroughly enjoying every second of your discomfort. Determined to take back some control, you grabbed the pen, furiously scribbling, “If you don’t stop smirking, I’ll make you wait a week.”

He arched an eyebrow, clearly unfazed, and took the pen, writing back with a smug confidence, “I don’t think you’d last a week.”

His eyes sparkled with amusement as he leaned in close, his mouth brushing your ear. “In fact,” he whispered, voice low and challenging, “I’d bet you’d be begging in less than a minute.”

Just as he pulled back, you caught yourself, remembering Garcia was still on the line. You shook yourself out of the daze he’d left you in, quickly bringing the phone back up. “Thanks, Pen. I’ll, uh, catch up with you later. I’ve got a bit of a… mess here to handle.”

“Ohhh, say no more,” she replied with a knowing giggle. “Go handle your ‘mess,’ teach! I’ll swing by later to drop off the cookies.”

“Sure thing,” you replied, hoping to end the call before anything else slipped. “Talk soon!”

Finally, she hung up, and you let out a sigh of relief as you placed the phone back on the counter.

Before you could even process the call, Aaron wrapped his arms around you, pulling you back toward him. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss along your jaw, trailing slowly down to the sensitive spot on your neck, his touch igniting that spark of need all over again.

“‘Not memorable,’ huh?” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin as he pressed his lips along your collarbone, his voice thick with amusement and challenge. “Guess I’ll have to change that.”

You smirked, threading your fingers through his hair, giving it a gentle tug as you met his gaze, your eyes gleaming. “Consider it a challenge,” you whispered, voice heavy with anticipation.

“Oh, I intend to,” he replied, his voice low and filled with a promise that sent a thrill through you. His hands slipped down to your waist, gripping firmly as he lifted you effortlessly back onto the counter.

His fingers traced along your thighs, pulling you close until there was no space left between you, his warmth flooding over you as he leaned in, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was anything but forgettable.

The intensity of his lips left you breathless, his mouth moving with a need that always made you ache for him.

But just as you were melting into the kiss, he pulled back abruptly, leaving you gasping.

Without a word, he turned and walked toward the entry room where he’d left his briefcase the night prior.

You sat there, still dazed, watching as he rummaged through it with purpose. When he returned, he handed you a piece of paper and a pen, his smirk widening as you looked down and realized he’d handed you an incident report form.

You laughed, shaking your head in disbelief. “An incident report, really?”

He grinned, his hands settling on your waist, pulling you flush against him. “You file this,” he said, voice rich with amusement, “and in the meantime, I’ll clean up this kitchen disaster we made. How’s that sound?”

“You’re serious about this?” you asked, trying to keep a straight face as his fingers slid teasingly up and down your sides, his touch setting your skin on fire even through the fabric.

He leaned close, his voice a husky whisper against your ear. “Think of it as a precaution,” he murmured, his breath tickling your skin. “Can’t have you running to HR with ‘not memorable’ complaints, now can we?”

You arched an eyebrow, glancing at the cold pile of pancakes beside you. “Fine. But if I’m filing paperwork, I’m at least entitled to a last meal,” you teased, reaching for one of the now slightly stale pancakes.

He chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, his fingers brushing along your jaw as he looked at you with mock sincerity. “Of course. I’m not heartless,” he said, sliding a hand possessively down your thigh. “Wouldn’t want you complaining that I wasted your ‘last apple.’”

You rolled your eyes, grinning as you took a bite, savoring the taste with exaggerated satisfaction just to get a rise out of him.

As you took a bite, he leaned in, his lips trailing a slow, heated path down your neck, each kiss sending sparks across your skin. “Finish up,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and filled with promise. “You’re going to need a lot of energy later.”

You smirked, picking up a pancake and handing it to him. “I think you’re the one who’ll need it more,” you teased, eyes glinting. “Wouldn’t want you throwing out your back, old man.”

He raised an eyebrow, biting into the pancake you offered, then leaned closer, his breath hot against your ear. “Old man?” he echoed, his tone low and challenging. “We’ll see who’s begging for mercy first.”

You chuckled, unfazed. “Just looking out for you,” you replied innocently. “Can’t have my Unit Chief all sore and out of commission, can I?”

He chuckled, his fingers tightening around your waist. “Sweetheart, by the time I’m through with you, the only thing you’ll be looking out for is a place to catch your breath.”

“Oh?” You leaned in, eyes dancing with mischief. “Big talk. Hope you’re not all bark and no bite.”

He tilted your chin up, his gaze darkening as he smirked. “Oh, you’ll feel the bite.” His lips brushed over yours, slow and teasing. “And trust me,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper, “I’ve got more than enough stamina to keep you… occupied.”

You grinned, meeting his dark gaze with a defiant spark in your eyes. “More than enough stamina? Now that’s a bold claim,” you murmured, your voice laced with playful challenge. “But, if you’re looking to impress, I’d expect nothing less than an all-night performance. Think you can handle that?”

His smirk grew as his hands slid up your sides, pulling you even closer. “Oh, I’m not just handling it, I’m guaranteeing it,” he replied, his voice a low, rumbling promise. He leaned in, brushing his lips over yours, just close enough that you could feel the heat of his breath. “In fact, sweetheart, I don’t plan on letting you sleep at all tonight.”

Your pulse quickened, but you kept up the game. “Guess I’ll have to cancel my morning plans,” you replied, pretending to sound disappointed. “Here I thought I’d be waking up fresh and ready to tackle the day.”

He let out a soft, amused chuckle, his fingers slipping down to grip your hips firmly, pressing you against him. “Oh, you’ll be plenty ready to tackle something,” he teased, his eyes glinting as he tilted his head, giving you a slow, purposeful once-over. “But the day? Probably not. You’ll be too busy trying to remember how to stand.”

You rolled your eyes, though the smirk never left your lips. “Big words, Hotchner. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

He leaned closer, his lips grazing the sensitive spot just below your ear, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Challenge accepted,” he murmured, his tone dripping with intent. “And just so you know,” he added, his mouth ghosting over your skin, “the only thing I’ll need all night… is you begging for more.”

“Confident, aren’t we?” you teased, threading your fingers through his hair, giving it a gentle tug. “But confidence only gets you so far, you know. You’ll have to back up all this talk.”

He smirked, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth, his eyes gleaming with that familiar intensity. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, his lips brushing over yours. “By the time I’m done, the only thing you’ll be able to say is my name.”

“Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet”, Plato.

taglist: @beata1108 ; @cuddleprofiler ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @justyourusualash ; @kyrathekiller ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mxblobby ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24

Hope you liked it :) Happy birthday old man

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