#because... he's lived through this before

[satoblue]

you know those safety precautions women take just to feel a little less vulnerable in their own homes? house alarms or extra locks — even a pair of men’s shoes by the front door?

well, yours are sneakers. slightly scuffed and huge — just enough to pass as believable. like there is a man of the house. and honestly, you’ve never thought twice about it.

that is — until satoru visits your home for the first time.

like always, he’s halfway through teasing you. this time, it is about your adorable entryway rug. the sorcerer is passing through the doorframe, ducking his head slightly due to his towering height when he suddenly halts in his tracks.

the words stutter to a stop on his tongue. the very tip of his right dress shoe hovers in the air above the floor where he stands frozen — paralyzed.

you can sense the shift in the air. it is not hard to miss. after all, satoru never goes quiet just like that. not unless something shakes the man.

and consider him shaken by the sight in front of him.

he spots a pair of men’s sneakers in the corner of his eye. nothing flashy yet glaring. one is upright, the other on its side. as if they had been haphazardly kicked off just recently.

there’s an eerie silence. a pause. a throbbing in his chest.

to be honest, you didn’t think he’d notice. but that’s the thing about him — you always underestimate what he notices. what he sees.

because in a millisecond, those six eyes are scanning for a thousand possibilities — racing with infinite thoughts you can’t read. but you can feel it — the way his whole body has gone absolutely still on reflex.

“what are those?” he questions lowly.

there is no humor. no teasing grin. just a raw, shaky edge in his voice. and for once, he doesn’t even bother with the usual sarcasm to hide the hurt that’s bubbling up in his chest.

it’s not that he doesn’t trust you — it’s that he wasn’t ready to feel this much about the idea of you letting someone else in. of having another man in your life. the very notion makes him sick to his stomach.

you blink, a bit caught off guard by his bothered demeanor and you hurry to explain.

“satoru, it’s not what you think— those aren’t anyone’s. they’re mine… for safety. you know, to make it look like a man lives here.”

soon enough, you watch your words land. you see the way his shoulders shift, the tension breaking only slightly with relief. but then — something darker shifts in his expression. angrier.

but not at you.

at the world.

at the fact that you even have to think that way. that pretending to belong to a man is the easiest shield society gives you.

satoru doesn’t say much after that. he just looks at you for a long, long moment before pretending as though it never even happened.

but the next time he comes over, he comes with a bag. and when you glance by your front door — the old pair is gone.

now, they’re replaced with a pair of his own — some obviously beat up sneakers from his school days. the kind he only kept around for nostalgia.

you lean against the kitchen doorframe, arms crossed as you watch him shuffle through your pantry.

“so…” you start carefully, “are you gonna tell me what happened to my shoes, or should i guess?”

“it’s more convincing if they’re worn,” he huffs back quickly like he rehearsed in the mirror, trying to act nonchalant. but you see the way his eyes dart to the shoes in the front — his shoes now. as if making sure they don’t walk off on their own.

“they weren’t even really yours anyway…” satoru grumbles, acting like an unbothered cat marking its territory as he searches for his favorite chips you always keep stocked up for him.

“seriously didn’t expect to walk in and see another guy’s shoes by the door — off brand by the way.” he notes, continuing to mumble to himself before taking a little peek at you. “kind of a jarring welcome, don’t you think?”

you roll your eyes at his behavior. it’s clear as day — he was jealous. not that he’d admit it. not yet anyway. he’s too proud to admit he had gotten jealous over nothing.

when he finally finds his snack of choice, he shuts the cabinet and closes the distance between you in two lazy steps, arms slipping around your waist like it’s second nature and pulling you in close. your heart skips a beat.

“besides,” he adds, mouth close to your ear, voice dropping low. “you could’ve just told me you needed protection.”

and with that, satoru releases you before plopping onto your couch, big sock clad feet propping up on the coffee table like he owns the place — like he’s the man of the house now.

“my savior…” you mumble sarcastically, watching him open the loud bag of chips before popping one in his mouth and flashing you a charming grin as he chews happily.

but you know him. you know that there is something fierce beneath the casual tone — an unspoken promise.

he’s offering — no — he is telling you that he’ll be your home security system. unlimited plan. premium package. comes with a hot boyfriend as a plus.

because there is no world where he’d ever let anything happen to you. as if anyone could even dare to try.

[theglassofmiddleearth]

Imagine Being Isekai'ed into KPOP DEMON HUNTERS. (part 2)

This chapter is mainly Abby (Abel) oriented!) Each member will get a chapter since you guys showed so much support!

Part 1

Y/N awoke, gasping much needed air into her lungs as she sat up. Clasping one hand to her chest, she panted, reliving all her memories, as the flow of thoughts slowly settled into her mind.

‘Hey, hey. It’s okay, you’re safe.’ A familiar voice whispered, gentle and soft. The owner of the voice had meant for it to be reassuring, but Y/N instantly recognised the voice. It was Jinu, the popstar demon.

But he was dead? All the Saja boys were meant to be dead. If they were still alive, this meant she had transmitigated before they debuted. 

She had time to stop the events of the plot. She could make sure none of the boys died. Maybe she could even…

‘Gwi-ma…’ She whispered, eyes still fixated on the crisp white bed sheets she was sitting on. The sheets wrinkled as she grasped onto them, fists trembling in unspoken anger.

She almost forgot about the demon lord, the one who caused all this. He was the reason the men died. He was the reason so many people had died. All the innocent people who had lost their souls, just because Gwi-ma wanted more than he had.

‘She knows about Gwi-ma?’ Another voice, deep and dry mumbled, from her right side.

Y/N lifted her head slowly, eyes meeting Jinu’s hesitantly, concerned gaze. Wow, he was good at masking his emotions. Her gaze danced between all the men who were standing in the room. Each had a slightly different stance. Yet, each seemed to be leaning towards her, eager to hear her voice. To swallow up whatever noise she would make next.

‘Where am I?’ Y/N’s voice came out, a scarily, even tone. The room was unfamiliar, meaning that she was likely at the Saja boy’s own residence. It wasn’t too bad, it was a pent house too. She could tell by the way the room was almost fully covered in glass window.

In fact…

Wait.

This was the penthouse right next to hers. 

SHE COULD SEE HER OWN MINI STUDIO SET UP, THROUGH THE TALL GLASS WINDOWS FROM HERE.

‘I need to invest in curtains.’ She mumbled, staring at the revealing scene of her apartment. Luckily for her, she had cleaned up just days ago, just after she finished up producing Golden. Otherwise, she couldn't imagine the embarrassment that she would be facing if the men saw her… personal belongings.

‘I hope you don’t mind that we’ve taken up residence near your home. It’s just that much easier for us y’know?’ The buff one smirked, sitting down on the bed, leaning towards Y/N’s face.

‘Alright enough with this pretty boy act. I’m not helping you kill thousands upon thousands of people.’ Y/N swung her legs over the side of the bed to stand.

‘What if-’

‘No matter how painful the memories are.’ Y/N snapped, whirling around, her body flush with rage.

She could see it. The shame, the flash of pain and sudden confusion in Jinu’s eyes. She chose to ignore the pang of regret that rippled through her chest. He dug his grave. He could lay in it for all she cared.

‘How do you-’ Jinu stuttered out before Y/N pushed him out of her way. 

Grabbing a random jacket, she used it to cover her shoulders as she walked out of the bedroom, into the spacious living area. It was decorated with a modern feel, suitable for a seemingly new rising pop band. It looked to be fairly new in its decoration. No one had lived here previously. Y/N remembered this since the apartment before was empty of furniture. At least this meant they hadn’t taken the lives of anyone yet. 

How pretentious.

Finding the front door, she stalked out of the apartment and into the elevator, pulling the jacket around her tight. 

Her notebook.

It wasn’t with her, the guys must have taken it from her whilst she was out cold.

Y/N groaned, slapping a hand onto her forehead as the elevator doors opened.

‘You have some serious talent.’ 

Y/N blinked, as she was met with the view of Abby, waiting at the elevator door entrance.

‘How did you-’

‘Demon, remember?’ He chuckled, moving aside, gesturing for Y/N to pass through. ‘Besides, you left your note book so I thought I’d return it.’ 

Y/N gave Abby a once over, pondering his trustworthiness. She relaxed slightly, as she took back the notebook from Abby’s outstretched hand.

‘Y’know, Jinu’s pretty shaken about what you said.’ He kept talking, walking side by side with her as she walked out of the Saja boy’s apartment building and into the doors of her own building.

‘I stand by what I said. I’m not helping you kill people.’ She whipped around, jabbing a finger into the muscular man's chest.

‘Hey, look. I don’t actually care what happens.’ Abs shrugged, gently placing his palm over Y/N’s accusing finger. His face was soft, eyes sincere in a way Y/N simply couldn’t refute.

‘Then why are you here Abby?’ Y/N swiped her key card and punched in the top level into the elevator panel. To her displeasure, Abby had also slid into the elevator with her.

‘Call me Abel.’ He grinned, leaning back against the handrails, arms crossed. ‘I’m here because I wanted to walk you home. We’re here because Jinu wants to forget. You were right.’ He sighed as the elevator rose higher with a soft hum.

‘And you? The rest of the group?’ Y/N turned, mimicking Abel’s pose.

‘I’m here because Jinu’s my friend. Despite what your friends say about us, we do have feelings. Humans and demons are not all unalike. In fact, I’ve seen humans act more like demons than we do.’ His eyes glazed over, as if stuck in a memory of his own.

‘We feel more than just greed and shame, but you’re not ready for that conversation.’ The grip on his arms was tight. Y/N could see the way his fingertips were turning white.

‘I never said you couldn’t feel anything.’ Y/N turned back to face the opening elevator doors as the elevator happily dinged. 

‘All I said was, I wasn’t going to help you kill thousands of people so Jinu can feel better, about his mistakes.’

‘I get that, and you’re right.’ Abel agreed, as Y/N walked into her apartment, gesturing for him to follow her.

‘But for some reason, I can feel that you’ll be the one to change it. All of it.’ Abel’s eyes trailed on Y/N’s form as she took off her shoes before flipping open her notebook. Y/N didn't take it to heart, yet to Y/N's ignorance, Abel was being genuine.

Y/N frowned, sitting on a bar stool at her marbled kitchen island. Pulling out a pen from her pocket she scribbled something down. The original song was already written in her notebook, the title and almost all the words. It seemed as if, she had written all the backbones of the songs in the movie already.

‘The girls are going to know you’re demons. If I can see the patterns, so can they.’ She pointed her pen at the man who sat down across from her.

‘Huh, you have more than one seat. You have friends?’ He chuckled, dodging Y/N’s thrown pen whilst catching it in one swift movement.

‘You want your stupid song or not.’ She snatched the pen back, grumbling. It seemed like these guys were intent on teasing her. What assholes.

‘I couldn’t care less.’ He grinned, before suddenly clutching at his head. The smile on his face was gone in an instant, replaced with one marred by agony.

‘Ah..’

Y/N stood, her stool being pushed back with an ear wrenching screech. 

‘What, what's wrong?’ Y/N rushed over, hands hovering over Abel’s shivering form. ‘Talk to me!’

‘Ugh, just my head. Gwi-ma wasn’t too happy about that comment.’ Abel chuckled spitefully, pushing into his forehead with his index and middle finger.

‘He can hear your thoughts?’ Y/N frowned, leaning forward to observe the man in front of her. He seemed to be in genuine pain. She gently reached forward to touch Abel’s right temple with her fingers.

‘Yeah, he whispers in our minds. It’s how he controls us-’

A flash of gold and white blue. As if the strings she could see at the concert had suddenly erupted from her fingertips and rippled across Abel’s patterns in an instant.

‘What the.’ Y/N jerked her hand back, as if she had been shocked with static electricity.

A warm hand wrapped around her wrist, gentle yet insistent.

‘What did you do?’ Abel looked up in wonder, his eyes filled with slight suspicion.

‘What do you mean what did I do?’ Y/N blinked, looking between her caught hand and Abel’s glittering eyes.

‘I can’t hear him. Gwi-ma. My head, it’s silent… I can hear myself think.’ He sounded just as shocked as Y/N felt. ‘I haven’t been able to think on my own for years.’

‘I just, I touched your temple. I didn’t even-’ 

‘I have to tell the boys. We have to show them!’ He stood quickly, releasing Y/N’s wrist, taking large strides towards the elevator.

‘But, the song?’ Y/N blinked, waving her notebook.

‘Bring it with you!’

‘Okay but wait. Listen for a second.’ Y/N tugged at Abel’s sleeves. The man turned around, eyebrows raised. His heart thumped as his gaze flitted toward Y/N's hand.

‘Jinu wouldn’t be happy about this. He wants Gwi-ma to win.’ Y/N’s reminder, halted Abel’s excitement quickly. 

‘Damn. I didn’t think about that.’ His eyebrows creased into a deep scowl.

‘Okay look. I’ll write you a debut song. But you have to promise me, you won't take souls.’ Y/N’s grip tightened on Abel’s shirt. He softened his stance and turned back to Y/N.

‘I’ll do my best darlin' ’He hummed, placing a reassuring hand over her fist.

‘Alright. I’ll write your song. Get your boys to come over. I’ll set up my studio.’ 

‘Really?!’

'Really.'

'You're serious? You'll write for us?!'

‘Offer ends in five minutes.’

‘OKAY OKAY.’ 

Y/N rubbed her hand over her weary eyes. Writing the song would take minutes. Recording, mastering and mixing would take hours. Maybe she wasn’t going to sleep tonight.

She heaved a sigh, walking over to her set up, spotting Abel waving his arms frantically around in the apartment next to her.

Wow, he was fast.

She continued watching the interaction between the men, smiling slightly at the sight. If she didn’t know, it almost seemed like a real boy band, rejoicing over finding their new producer. The way each was frantically grabbing phones and note books was actually refreshing. As if they were truly excited about debuting.

Y/N shook her head, sitting down in her gaming chair,  booting up her PC. She still had to be careful. Abel was the only one she had actually spoken to. And who knows, he could also be faking it. 

She failed to see Jinu’s figure, looking through the glass, his face bewildered as he peered at Y/N flitting around, testing all her equipment.

Tag list: @ajunoiseee @silverklaus @thesimppotato11 @devilchicc @imlost-sendhelp @tumblblob @arieslucy @maybeethan69 @t4naiis @6demonica9 @suzieq1948374 @katzline @justyourlocalfriendlydinosaur @1950schick @myjerseygirlblog @sky2lar @itsjustkhaos @nevermorekisses @valeriele3 @yoongi-tunes @reibelhearts @satansdaughter123 @iheartyourgrandpa @justanindiangirl12 @uniquecutie-puffs @xyndyn @akiqvq

[vampmira]

open up what you got in your mind to me. [pt.2 – saja boys.]

they've never met someone like you — a mortal who almost knew them .. better than they knew themselves. for the boys, it's annoyingly intriguing. for the girls, it's comforting.

paring(s): huntrix & saja boys x demon expert!gn!reader

warning(s:) EVERYTHING IN HERE IS A PART TWO TO THIS !! some movie changes, probably effected lore that makes no sense for the sake of the narrative, a little angst at the beginning

request | tags: @blueberrysquire @akariis4snowball @j0ykill

a/n: this is part 2 !! i had sooo many ideas for huntrix that i had to make another part for the saja boys so that it wasn't so long . this part isn't as good but i liked it so ☆☆☆

that night huntrix defeated gwima was a blur. all you remember was the zombie mob of fans, half of the fight, and the use of your aura vision to raise the saja boys above the honmoon before it glimmered in gold. jinu, who gave his newly found soul for rumi, was practically reincarnated through her sword – standing in front of her post-concert, arms open for her to fall into with tears from the both of them. everyone else? well, they felt lost.

the saja boys weren't sure what to do anymore. jinu was overjoyed, of course, but the boys knew nothing more beyond gwima and their mission. they didn't care much about music, nor their fans – which huntrix still couldn't wrap their minds around – and it's not like they had secret human hobbies. they never had time for that. until now.

post-gwima, they stayed in an apartment near the huntrix penthouse, trying to figure out their new lives. for the most part, they spent most of their time under your watch – to make sure they didn't go cause chaos – but also .. under your study.

you were weird to them

they weren't used to someone other than them.. knowing them

their capabilities, their knowledge, their origins.

actually jinu found your extensive understanding of what he is to be kind of comforting

he noticed how you never really drooled over them

you'd stare, sure, but in the same way an art critic would stare at a painted blue canvas with a smeared red dot in the middle

he felt like that red dot – unexplained but you somehow understood

when he told you about his past, it was a lot for him – talking about his cruel choice

but you.. didn't judge him.

in fact, you wrote it down in your notebook immediately, the one you never let the boys get too close to

he accepted you into his life when he entertained your interest in his history

unlike him, however, the other boys were uninterested

at first anyway

thank jinu for getting them to talk to you btw

it took a little bit of convincing – telling them that you wanted to give them something more than just gwima

even though they didn't want it ...

REGARDLESS they hang out around the penthouse

because they're no longer saja boys (uninterested and unsupported by any demon staff anymore)

they really had nothing to do but mildly annoy your personal space

including being the center of your attention when the girls are out

mira gave you one rule, "living room and bathroom. only." and you've succeeded so far. abby and romance were talking by the large scale windows, mystery was playing some game with baby (and obviously winning), and jinu sat in the middle of the couch, watching whatever movie rumi put on for him. you sat beside him, sketching in your one and only personal researcher book. your pencil drew out what you felt like was the final line in mystery's hair ... before you huffed, erasing it, and trying again.

that was... until the littlest demon startled you.

"mystery, they're drawing you." bored of his game, baby peered over your shoulder, only passively curious and really wanting to mess with you. heads turned at your exposure to the room, especially jinu, who looked over your other shoulder at the sketch you did of him earlier.

"you're.. sketching us?" the direct ask made you a bit nervous, especially being under so many eyes. (kind of. mystery was more just.. generally facing your direction.) "'weakness.. chest?' are you taking notes on us?" you stood up, nearly defensive, turning around to face the couch trio.

"if it weren't for your old friends, i wouldn't have to write it all down again." the boys went quiet, remembering the origin of your knowledge and powers. "i'm just.. tired of keeping it all inside. i need to get it out somewhere."

romance, true to his name, leaned over your shoulder, putting you both in a proximity much closer than you've ever had to experience before.

"then why don't we do something.. a little more fun .. to help you get it all out?"

normally sentences like that from him sound way more suggestive than he means them to be

but this time he came up with an actual solution to release your closed up, ready-to-pop-out-of-your-skin knowledge

they gave you a one way trip to infodump station ! an interview !

they wanted to learn more about you anyways

their fellow demons down below were the ones to wipe out your ancestors

not them

and they make sure you know it too

but they can't help but feel .. a little, tiny bit bad that you're now just a living library

a time capsule, holding onto so much information that you're about to burst 24/7

they had never met a researcher honestly

you intrigued them as much as they did for you

how much did you really know ?? did you know anything or is all this antsy behavior a ploy to make it look like you knew everything when you really knew nothing ??

their disguises were perfectly created to make every little fan fall for their attractiveness the second they looked at the boys

but you never drooled at them or had your eyes pop out of your head

you just always... stared. processing. tracing mindfully.

they didn't know what you were really abut. but they were about to find out. and really test your persona.

romance sat relaced in a chair as you circled him, pencil taking note of everything you noticed. how his markings were sharp, not rounded like rivers, how his skin was cooled, not burning hot. all things you already knew, but you found small comfort in knowing not much changed. you took a deep breath around his hair, nose scrunching up. he smiled, taking your cheek in his hand.

"new cologne." his voice was smooth, gentle. traditionally alluring. "just for you. do you like it?" he turned up his flirtatiousness, pulling you in closely, testing the waters of your focus.. before you turned away to start writing, completely uneffected.

"so many generations and you guys still smell like flames.." you mumbled to yourself.

"would you rather we smell like bubblegum?" baby tried to sass you, but you were too focused on the sharpness of his teeth to care. you stepped towards him, eyes widened.

"can demons still tear apart brick with the force of their canines?" you asked, rather close to his face. for a moment, he almost felt like the flustered one.

"yes..? no? i-i don't know." he crossed his arms, childishly. "i don't go around biting bricks." you jot it down still as you move towards abby. he's deeply relaxed, leaning back on the couch, comfortable shirt riding up to expose his famously toned abs. your eyes trail off of your notebook and they think.. they've got you.

"like what you see?" he teases. "you can touch them, you know." a bold move that brings you closer, nails tracing his skin. they're almost disappointed that abby is the one who stole your attention.. before they realize you're attention isn't stolen at all. you're drawing his markings with careful detail.

"where did yours come from? rumi's started forming on her arm when she was a kid, but they haven't reached her stomach yet. they grow with time, right? how old would that make you then..?" you dissolve into mutters they can barely decipher. "oh!! mystery!" he almost jumps behind the couch when you race over to him, making jinu laugh from the sidelines of their attempts to flirt with you. "i've never seen a demon sparkle! that's new.. is that just you? or is there a whole subspecies of sparkling demons? or is it your human disguise..?" your questions nearly overwhelm him, enough to make him forget how he's supposed to flirt with you, but romance pulls you away, whispering in your ear.

"it's not just him." he smiles, hand on your shoulder. "you're sparkling, too, sweetheart." if anyone could fluster anyone, it'd be him, even if it takes two rounds. his thumb runs against your chin. "you look so cute in this lighting, like a rose."

"speaking of which, what's the flora like down there? are there any? do they eat demons or are they like.. regular flowers? we knew more of demons than of gwima's realm. did they smell? i bet they might have.. would it be nostalgic or torturing?"

the boys share a look, and sigh. you went off into high speed muttering again.

you really were everything you said

uninterested in their flirts and more in knowledge

that almost made them like you more..

in the following times after the interview, they greeted you a bit more casually – sometimes cheerfully, asking if you had any new drawings or trivia you wanted to get off your chest

how did you . tame them !? does the whole hard to get thing actually work !?

it confused the girls wildly

but to see them adjusting to being here through someone who actually understood them instead of lying around, empty and lost, was a pick-me-up in the mornings

one morning, after being delivered a coffee, handsigned by the boys, you felt something click in your head, a sensation you had never felt before, and reached to put it in your notebook immediately

"demons, when properly befriended, like to be understood. they brought me coffee. do demons like coffee??"

[rynwrites4fun]

Across The Hall (9) | Michael Robinavitch x Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Michael Robinavitch x F ! Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Summary: You and Michael now live parallel lives—close in distance but distant as strangers. After a school field trip to the zoo, you get injured and are rushed to the Pittsburg Trauma Medical Center, straight to Michaels ER.

Word: 4971

Warnings: Age Gap (Mid 20s/Early 50s), Head Injury (Factured Skull), Bleeding from the ear, and Vomiting

Authors Note: Hello! Thank you for all the love on the last part. Lol I love seeing your guys comments and reactions. They crack me upppp. Couple more parts and this fic with come to a end🥲. Depending on season 2 maybe I'll write a spin off/Continuation of some sort 🤨??? or maybe I'll leave a good thing be. Idk this is all up in the air and just ideas. If I did continue it won't be until next year YIKES. Long way from now. But if you guys want it i'll prob do it lol very much a people pleaser 😭 also determined to finsihed eyes on me lol okay anyway. enjoy!!! - ryn

3 Months Later

Since that day—that morning where it ended—you and Michael had kept your distance. It wasn’t easy. Living across the hall meant you still saw each other constantly. You crossed paths in the elevator, passed in the lobby, caught glimpses through cracked doors. But it was different now. Cautious. Careful. The warmth was gone.

It was like reverting back to how things were in the beginning—only worse. Not acquaintances. Less than that. Strangers.

There were no more lingering glances, no more easy conversations or shared errands. No more moments where he helped you without being asked, like he just knew. Now it was all stiff nods and the occasional muttered “hey” or “hi,” as if everything between never happened or existed.

Your lives—once a single, tangled line—had split. Still running close, still crossing the same thresholds, but no longer connected. Now they moved in parallel. Close enough to feel, never close enough to touch.

You missed him. Not just being around him—but him. The version only you knew. The one who stayed late, who looked out for you, who let his guard down when it was just the two of you.

Now, it was like he barely looked your way. Just quick hellos, if that. And even those felt heavy.

Still, every time you saw him, you wondered if he missed you too.

And maybe—just maybe—you knew he missed you too.

But neither of you said a word.

Michael had been the first person to remind you what it felt like to be truly cared for. Losing that connection hurt deeply. But even without him, you were learning how to stand on your own. You are in a better place

After years stuck in a toxic, neglectful relationship with Aiden, you finally chose yourself. No more waiting to be seen or heard. You were rebuilding, piece by piece—stronger, quieter, more certain.

It was something Michael said the last time you saw him that stayed with you. His voice was calm but firm: “You need to figure yourself out. Really figure it out. What you want, what you feel… why you push people away when they treat you the way you deserve. Because if you don’t, you’re just going to keep hurting the people who care about you.”

Those words gave you the push you needed to walk away.

After breaking up with Aiden, the silence was deafening at first. No shouting, no blame, no empty promises—just quiet. And for once, that quiet felt like space you could breathe in, not suffocate.

You weren’t completely free yet. There were days when memories clawed at you, when loneliness crept in like a shadow. But with each morning you woke up without him, you felt a little stronger. A little more whole.

And Michael? Seeing him after everything—it wasn’t easy. There was a tension, a distance between you that hadn’t been there before. You still felt guilty for how things ended with him. But beneath it all, you knew one thing: his words had helped you find yourself again. Even if your connection had changed, that truth remained.

—

This morning, you had left your apartments at the same time, walking side by side in silence. No words. No eye contact. Just the sound of your footsteps echoing down the hallway—too close, too quiet.

He let you step into the elevator first, then slipped into his usual corner—like always. The space between you felt heavier than it should’ve in such a small box.

And every time you rode the elevator with him now, your mind drifted back to that morning. The one where everything shifted. The one where he had looked at you like he couldn’t wait another second. Where his hands trembled on your skin and nothing else existed. That morning where—for a moment—you both stopped pretending.

Now, you only pretended. Pretended not to miss it. Pretended not to look at him out of the corner of your eye. Pretended he wasn’t right there, close enough to touch, but choosing not to.

Then, suddenly—you don’t know why—you turned your head and glanced at him over your shoulder.

“Good morning,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, a small, uncertain smile on your lips.

Michael stood there, sunglasses on, coffee in hand, AirPods in. He didn’t respond. Didn’t nod. Normally, he’d say hello—or at least acknowledge you—but today wasn’t one of those days.

Maybe he hadn’t heard you.

But he had.

Because the truth was, he missed you. Every time he saw you, felt your presence so close yet unreachable, it tore at something inside him.

But talking—to break the silence—meant opening a door he wasn’t sure he could close. It meant risking everything he’d been trying to hold together.

The silence in that elevator was suffocating.

The doors slid open.

You stepped out first, heart pounding, words caught in your throat. By the time the two of you made it through the lobby and out to the street, you found yourself saying, “Have a good day.”

Still, he ignored you.

Without a word, he turned and walked in the opposite direction.

—--

It had been a good day.

There was a field trip to the Philadelphia Zoo, and the fifth graders had been buzzing with excitement since they got off the bus. They darted from exhibit to exhibit in loose clusters, calling out animal facts they half-remembered from class, pointing at the gorillas, giggling at the flamingos, and dramatically gagging when they passed smelly enclosures. 

You smiled through the chaos, constantly scanning the crowd, reminding them to walk—not run—while answering a steady stream of “Can we go there next?” and “Do we have to stay with our buddy?”

By the time the group began gathering near the exit to prepare for departure, the kids were hot, tired, and still somehow full of energy—trading animal facts, snacks, and complaints about the long walk back to the bus.

You turned to check on one of your students—and your foot caught on a backpack left sprawled across the pavement.

You didn’t even have time to brace yourself.

You went down hard.

Your head hit the ground with a sickening crack.

Everything went black for a moment.

You passed out for a few minutes before slowly waking up. When your eyes opened, your other 5th grade teachers and your students gathered around you, worried. 

A sharp pain pulsed through your head. When you touched the side of your face, your fingers came away wet—your ear was bleeding.

You tried to sit up, but your body felt heavy and unsteady. Panic flickered in your chest.

“Are you okay, Miss?” a student asked, voice trembling.

You forced a small, shaky smile. “I’ll be okay,” you whispered, though you weren’t sure.

One of the teachers noticed the blood coming from your ear when you touched it. They knew something was wrong—you needed to get to the hospital.

You tried to protest, insisting you were fine, but the other teachers wouldn’t hear it. Their concern was firm—they knew you needed medical attention. They called an ambulance, and took care of your kids as you headed to the hospital.

“Okay, we’re headed to PTMC,” the driver said to his partner in the back with you.

Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. No. You didn’t want to go there. Michael worked there.

“What? N-no, can’t you take me to Allegheny?” you asked, your voice shaking as you glanced up at the paramedic trying to stem the bleeding from your ear.

“Miss, PTMC is closer. Allegheny is too far,” the paramedic replied, his tone calm but unyielding.

Suddenly, a wave of nausea hit you hard. Before you could stop it, you threw up—your body reacting to the pain and shock.

The paramedics quickly handed you a bag, their expressions gentle but focused. Your head throbbed fiercely, and the thought of seeing Michael at PTMC made the room feel even more overwhelming.

You swallowed hard, gripping the stretcher tightly as the ambulance doors shut and the vehicle started moving. Outside, the world blurred past the windows, but inside, your mind spun with pain, fear, and an ache far deeper than the injury itself.

—-

It was busy in the ER today—loud, chaotic, the usual blur of motion and noise. Monitors beeped steadily in the background, gurneys rolled down hallways, voices called out orders and vitals in clipped tones. The scent of antiseptic clung to the air, mixing with the sharper tang of adrenaline and urgency.

Michael worked hard and efficiently, his hands steady and his voice calm as he checked charts, issued instructions, and answered questions. Every task was precise and practiced. But despite his focused exterior, his heart wasn’t fully in it today. Beneath the surface, his mind drifted elsewhere.

For some reason, you were heavy on his mind—ever since he saw you that morning in the elevator. Though he went about his work with his usual efficiency, every time he glanced up or caught a quiet moment, his thoughts slipped back to you. That brief encounter stirred something beneath his calm exterior, making it harder than usual to focus.

Even as he moved through the chaos of the ER, you lingered in the corners of his mind—a quiet weight he couldn’t shake. Each task felt automatic, mechanical, like he was running on autopilot 

At the nurses’ station, Dana glanced toward Michael as he passed by, pausing briefly. His eyes scanned the triage monitor for a moment before he continued on his rounds.

“What’s his vibe today?” Dana asked, peering over the top of her glasses as she flipped through a stack of charts.

Jack didn’t look up from the computer. “Full-on rain cloud.”

Dana let out a quiet laugh. “That bad?”

Jack finally glanced up. “Yeah. Barely talking. Just doing his rounds like a ghost.”

Dana frowned slightly. She hadn’t had a real catch-up with Robby in a while.

“I don’t think I’ve heard him say anything beyond patient loads and charts in weeks,” she murmured.

Jack leaned back in his chair. “Yeah. He’s been keeping things tight. You can tell he’s holding something in… and it’s not just stress.”

Dana sighed, looking up from the computer. “It’s been—what? Three months since they stopped talking?”

“Yeah,” Jack said, watching Michael enter an exam room. “He’s doing okay. Better than a few months ago, for sure. But I think today’s one of those days where he’s really missing her.”

Jack added quietly, “It’s hard to tell with him sometimes. He’s always been good at hiding what’s really going on.”

Dana didn’t respond right away, distracted by the faint sound of sirens growing louder in the distance.

“Looks like a bus just pulled up,” she said, glancing toward the ambulance bay.

Jack turned, following her line of sight. Through the glass doors, he spotted the rig backing in, its lights still flashing. The paramedics moved quickly, unloading a gurney from the back, getting ready to wheel someone inside.

“I got it,” he said, already moving toward the doors.

“Alright, what do we got?” 

Jack reached the stretcher as the paramedic began briefing him. 

“Mid-20s female, teacher on a zoo field trip. She tripped over a backpack and hit her head on the pavement. She lost consciousness briefly after the fall. There’s blood coming from her ear. She vomited on the way here and reported dizziness and nausea and is currently somewhat disoriented.”

“Exam Room 13’s open!” Dana called out as she overheard part of the paramedics’ briefing.

The gurney rolled past the nurses’ station in a blur of motion—wheels rattling, footsteps fast. Dana glanced up from her charts and files to get a quick look at the incoming patient… and froze.

Her eyes widened, recognition flickering across her face as she stood up straighter, instinctively stepping out onto the floor. Her heart skipped. Her eyes narrowed, trying to make sure she wasn’t seeing things.

It was you.

You looked pale, out of it—a plastic bag clutched in your hand, vomit on your shirt, and a smear of dried blood trailing from your ear. But it was unmistakably you.

The same woman she’d seen, playing around with Michael in aisle 9 of the grocery store fighting over cookies. 

Jack was already directing the paramedics to Exam Room 13, calling for trauma supplies as he moved alongside the gurney.

Dana stood abruptly, eyes darting around the ER. Looking for Michael.

Shit. Where’s Robby? Which wing did he go? She thought.

“Jack!” she called, rushing after him. She fell into step beside him as they wheeled you. 

“What?” he asked, not slowing.

“It’s her!” she hissed, voice low but urgent.

“Who?”

“The friend-neighbor-almost-something-—her,” Dana said, eyes wide. “Robby’s girl.”

Dana watched as Jack’s head whipped to face her. His expression shifts—from confusion to clarity, then to something dangerously close to dread.

Jack stopped short, turning just in time to see the gurney disappear into Exam Room 13. His expression changed instantly.

He looks at Dana again “That was her? Are you sure?” 

“Yes!”

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath.

“What do we do?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jack didn’t hesitate. “We need to tell him.”

Dana’s brows knit. “Are you sure? After everything… you know how torn up he was…well still is” she trailed off, uncertain. “I mean, do you really think that’s a good idea?”

“Yes,” Jack said firmly. “He still cares about her, still feels things for her. You know he does.”

Dana hesitated, lips pressed into a line.

“He’s not over her, Dana. Not even close. No matter how messy the fallout was, he’d want to know. And if he finds out she was here and we kept it from him…”

“He’d never forgive us,” Dana finished, already nodding.

Jack’s jaw was tight. “Exactly.”

“Look I’ll take care of her, find him as soon as you can and tell him. Okay?” 

“Alright” they quickly went off in different directions. 

—

The harsh fluorescent lights overhead felt like too much—too bright, too sharp—cutting through the fog in your skull. Your stomach churned again, sour and unsettled. You’d already thrown up in the ambulance, the evidence smeared across your shirt, and the nausea still clung to you, heavy and unrelenting. It was like your body couldn’t decide if it was in pain or panic.

The nurse—Princess, according to her badge—helped you onto the exam table from the gurney, guiding you gently as you sat down.

“Let’s get you settled,” she said calmly.

You nodded, though the movement made your head throb and your stomach turn.

Princess moved with calm precision, wrapping a cuff around your arm to check your blood pressure and attaching monitors to track your vitals. She was already prepping the IV, her hands steady, practiced.

“Pressure’s a little low,” she murmured, mostly to herself, then offered you a small, reassuring smile.

You closed your eyes as the needle slid into your arm, trying to focus on her calm voice instead of the pounding in your head.

She grabbed a damp cloth and gently began wiping the vomit from your shirt, doing the best she could to clean you up while keeping you comfortable.

“You’re doing okay,” she said softly. “Just stay with me.”

Princess noticed the shift in your expression—the way your face paled. Without a word, she grabbed a plastic basin and placed it gently in your lap.

“Just in case,” she said softly.

A moment later, the door opened and a man stepped in, wearing navy scrubs and a calm, focused expression.

“I’m Dr. Jack Abbot,” he said as he approached. “I’ll be taking care of you today.”

Jack

The name stood out. Michael’s friend—he’d mentioned him a couple of times. Quick stories, casual references. You never met him, but the name stuck.

Now here he was, standing in front of you. And suddenly, it all felt just a little more real.

To Jack, you were more than just another patient. You were her—the neighbor, the teacher, the one Michael couldn’t stop thinking about. The one who shattered him.

He was torn. Part of him wanted to resent you. Another part couldn’t help but feel sorry—for both you and Michael. It hurt watching Michael suffer in silence, burying his feelings under layers of composure. But there was sadness for you too—because Jack knew you were still clinging to something broken. A relationship that should’ve ended long ago.

But none of that mattered now. He needed to take care of you—not only because it was his job, but for Michael. 

You and Jack locked eyes. Neither of you spoke, but something passed between you—an unspoken recognition. You both knew each other through Michael, even if you’d never met before. And in that silence, there was a quiet acknowledgment of everything that wasn’t being said.

“Let’s get you checked out,” he said gently.

“Can you tell me what happened?” He pulled on a pair of gloves and waited patiently as you gathered your thoughts.

“I tripped over a student’s backpack. I fell… hit my head on the side,” you said, your voice a little shaky.

Princess, at the computer nearby, typed quickly, capturing every detail.

“You passed out? For how long?”

“I don’t know. No more than 5 minutes?”

“And you feel nauseous?” Jack takes notice of the dried blood from your ear. 

“Yes” He brought his hands up, feeling your head, and then he felt it. A squishy part on the side of your head. 

Shit. 

Jack’s eyes narrowed as he gently pressed around the swollen area, careful not to cause more pain. His mind raced—without a CT scan, he knew the injury was serious. How severe, though, remained uncertain.

“Okay, stay still for me,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “We need to get a CT scan to find out exactly what we’re dealing with.” He says to the Princess, but also to you.

You nodded, swallowing hard, the dizziness and nausea pressing harder with every breath.

Princess looked up from her computer. “I’m alerting neurology and radiology now.”

Jack forced a steady breath, trying to stay composed though inside, worry tightened its grip.

Your stomach lurched, and you vomited into the plastic basin Princess had handed you earlier. Jack stepped back slightly, giving you room but keeping his eyes locked on you, watching for any sign of worsening condition.

Princess moved quickly to help, she handed you a clean towel and quietly assured you as you wiped your face.

Princess stepped over, grabbing a pair of gloves and a warm saline wipe.

You flinched as she dabbed gently at the dried blood near your ear, trying not to let it sting. 

“Sorry,” Princess murmured, careful and quiet.

Jack watched closely but because the signs were impossible to ignore. The dried blood near your ear, the squishy spot on the scalp, the nausea and dizziness—they all pointed to something serious. Possibly a skull fracture.

Until the scan came back, there wasn’t much he could confirm. But in his gut, he already knew this wasn’t minor.

He reached for a chart from the counter, flipping it open and beginning to write. His pen scratched quickly across the paper, but he kept looking up every few seconds—checking your breathing, your pallor, the way you struggled to keep your eyes open.

Princess adjusted the bed slightly, propping it up so you could sit comfortably. She hands you a new plastic basin. She takes the used wipes and throws it in the trash along with her gloves and goes to wash her hands. 

You glanced at him, searching. “Did… did Michael send you?”

Princess moved to gather the extra materials they hadn’t used, placing them neatly on the supply rack. Her movements were quiet, efficient, but her attention never strayed far. She listens closely. 

Jack shook his head. “No. Robby doesn’t know you’re here… at least not yet.”

At that, Princess froze for just a moment. She didn’t know the full story, but it was clear you and Michael were connected. Her eyes flicked to Jack, widening slightly. A silent exchange passed between them—brief, but unmistakable.

Jack sighed inwardly. He knew exactly what she was thinking—the bet she and several other staff had made a few weeks ago at the bar about Michael having a girlfriend. Now was not the time.

His eyes locked onto hers, sharp, silently warning: Don’t even think about it. He shook his head slightly.

You hadn’t noticed the exchange. Your eyes closed, feeling dizzy, your head throbbing. The words slipped out before you could stop them. “That’s the last thing I want.”

Princess gave an innocent, almost playful raise of her eyebrows, but beneath it was something calculating. She grabbed a chart out of Jack's hands and scurried out of the room, leaving a faint echo of footsteps behind her.

Jack remained still, watching her retreat. His jaw tightened, mouth pressed into a hard line. In the ER, whispers traveled faster than code blue alarms—money and rumors would be swirling in less than a few minutes. 

Jack exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a brief second. He’ll deal with it later he tells himslef.

Jack leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just studied you—pale, clearly worn down.

You swallowed hard, the dizziness still buzzing faintly at the edges of your mind.

“I don’t want to make things harder for him.”

“He’ll know,” Jack said quietly, his voice flat with certainty. “He’ll come rushing in here once he finds out—I guarantee it.”

“He likes you—a lot, cares for you deeply” he said, matter-of-fact, like it was the plainest truth in the world. “I’ve seen him talk about people before—patients, colleagues, even exes. But never like this.”

Your eyes flicked open. Jack wasn’t looking at you anymore.

You didn’t interrupt. His words caught you off guard—soft but heavy.

“With you… it’s different,” Jack said. “He’s not the guy who makes big declarations. But his actions? Loud as hell.”

He stepped closer, eyes searching yours—not confrontational, just honest.

“That day—after everything fell apart—he barely said a word.”

Jack’s voice dropped. “He didn’t say much. But I’ve known him long enough to read between the lines. Michael’s the silent type. Shove it down, suffer alone. That’s always been his way. He doesn’t fall easily. And he sure as hell doesn’t bounce back quickly.”

And didn’t you know it—you ruined what you two had. You looked down at your hands.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” you said.

Jack finally met your eyes. There wasn’t anger—just a tired kind of clarity. “Maybe not. But it still happened.”

There was no heat in his voice. No judgment. Just the truth.

“He’ll handle it. He always does.”

He backed toward the door.

“My instinct is to tell you to continue stay away from him... keep the distance. To protect him.”

A beat.

“But even with all that… there’s a part of me that still hopes it works out between you two.”

He held your gaze.

“If there’s even a small chance you feel the same—don’t waste it.”

Then, firm again, “But don’t show up in his orbit unless you’re sure.”

“I’ll be back to get you for the CT scan. If you need anything, press the call button.”

And with that, he was gone.

—

Dana had spent the last several minutes searching—looking for Michael. The constant rush of the ER had kept her moving nonstop, priorities shifting by the second as new cases rolled in. Between the noise, the pages, and the demands of back-to-back emergencies, she hadn’t had a spare moment—until now. Finally able to look, she peeked into each exam room as she passed, also scanning for Michael.

Finally, she spotted him. 

Standing in the doorway, she called out, “Dr. Robby?”

Michael was looking up from the chart he was filling out while Victoria Javadi, the med student currently shadowing him, checked the patient under his supervision.

“Can… I talk to you outside?”

Michael glanced at her, then back at Javadi.

“Hold it down here. I’ll be right back,” he said, giving her a nod before stepping out into the ER floor with Dana.

“What’s up?” he asked, arms crossing over his chest.

Dana swallowed. “Robby, she’s here. Exam Room 13.”

“Who’s here?” His brow furrowed, clearly not understanding.

“She’s here,” Dana said again, slower this time, her eyes locking onto him.

Then it hit him.

His stomach dropped.

You’re here.

“W–what?” he said, hard and sharp, disbelief cutting through his voice.

“The bus pulled in a while ago-"

“How long ago?!” His voice rose, sharp.

“Half an hour—she hit her head. Took a fall during the field trip—”

Michael’s heart skipped, then kicked into overdrive. He didn’t wait for the rest.

He turned on his heel and bolted, weaving through the ER, past gurneys, staff, and startled patients.

He barely registered people calling his name.

Didn’t care about the chart he’d left behind, the patient waiting for him at 7 with Victoria, or the conversation he’d been having seconds ago.

All he could hear was Dana’s voice echoing in his head.

She hit her head.

His hands were already trembling. Thoughts circled like vultures—loud, fast, frantic. He didn’t know how bad it was. Was it minor? Maybe. But probably not—Not if the ambulance brought her in.

And then another thought struck—hard and bitter.

He’d ignored you this morning.

You’d smiled at him. Said, “Good morning.” Told him to have a good day.

And he hadn’t said anything back.

He’d brushed past you like you didn’t matter. And now—now this.

His chest felt tight. His feet moved faster.

Room 13. Room 13. Room 13.

Nothing else mattered. Not now.

Because you were here.

And you were hurt.

 He rounded the corner too fast, nearly slipped—caught himself—nearly crashing into Jack as he stepped out of Exam Room 13.

“WOAH!” Jack exclaimed, throwing an arm out to steady them both.

“Robby—”

“I gotta get to her—I” Michael said breathlessly, trying to push past him.

Jack grabbed his shoulders, holding him in place. “Stop, she’s gone.”

Robby froze. His heart plummeted, eyes going wide as the blood drained from his face. He couldn’t breathe—he just stood there, stunned, like the ground had been ripped out from under him.

Jack’s eyes widened as he realized. “Oh—shit—no! Gone as in, not in the room! I took her to her CT scan!”

Michael’s breath shuddered out of him. He stumbled back a step, dragging a hand down his face.

“FUCK, Abbot!” he snapped, voice hoarse. “Next time, maybe lead with that!!!”

Jack winced, “Yeah. Okay. Fair. Sorry!” He says quickly.

Michael looked like he was about to break. Without hesitation, Jack grabbed his elbow and pulled him inside your exam room, closing the door behind them.

Jack softened. “You want to sit for a second?”

Michael shook his head, jaw tight. “No. Just… give me a minute.”

His chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. He turned away from Jack and leaned heavily against the wall, one hand braced flat against it while the other gripped his thigh. For a long moment, he stayed like that—bent slightly at the waist, eyes squeezed shut—trying to catch his breath and slow his racing heart.

Then, with a trembling hand, he reached under his scrub top and T-shirt and pulled out the gold Star of David necklace he always wore—small, worn, and mostly hidden. He rubbed it between his fingers, clutching it tight in his calloused palm like a lifeline.

With his eyes still closed, he drew in a shaky breath, as if trying to summon strength from somewhere deep inside—something steady, unyielding.

Jack said nothing. He didn’t need to. He just watched, quiet and still, letting Michael have the space to come back to himself.

Michael straightened slowly, collecting himself.

“She’s okay?” Michael finally forced out, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jack exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s conscious. Talking. But I’m pretty sure she has a skull fracture—I just don’t know how severe yet. We’re gonna have ro wait on the CT to tell us more.”

Michael’s face went pale. His jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

Jack softened his tone. “Listen, Robby… I know this sucks. It’s scary, but you’re not alone here. We’re doing everything we can, as fast as we can. She’s tough, and she’s got the best care possible.”

He paused, then added, “It’s us. This team, this hospital—we make it work. You know that. You’ve been part of holding it together more times than I can count.”

Michael’s jaw twitched, but his eyes flicked up—just for a second—as Jack continued.

“She’s in good hands. Our hands.”

“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay.” But there was no real conviction in his voice. 

Jack glanced at Michael, his expression firm but not unkind.

“There’s nothing you can do right now, Robby,” he said quietly. “I know that’s the last thing you want to hear, but it’s the truth.”

Michael’s eyes stayed fixed on the floor, jaw still tight, hands flexing at his sides.

Jack’s voice softened. “And as much as I hate to say it… you’ve got to pull it together and do your job. For now. Until she comes back from CT. We’ll know more soon.”

Michael closed his eyes for a beat, breathing through the heaviness in his chest. Then he nodded—barely.

“I know,” he said. “I know.”

Jack glanced around. “It’s busy today. You know how it is—we’ve got to stay on top of everything, keep things moving.”

Michael knew Jack was right. As much as it tore at him, there was nothing more he could do right now.

So he did the only thing he could—he took a deep breath, straightened his spine, and began to shift the panic into focus. Into control.

He would see you when you came back from CT. Until then, he’d do his job. Just like he always had.

Tags: @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere @beebeechaos @antisocialfiore @delicatetrashtree @xxxkat3xxx @homebytheharbor @woodxtock @letstryagaintomorrow @livingavilaloca @elkitot @annabellee88 @hagarsays @emma8895eb @the-goddess-of-mischief-writing @jazzimac1967@lafemme-nk @kmc1989 @whos6claire @harrysgothicbitch @trustme3-13 @qardasngan @silas-aeiou @k3ndallroy @ohmystrawberrycheesecake @ay0nha @404creep @dantemorenatalie @obfuscateyummy @steviebbboi @alliegc28 @catmomstyles3 @ardentistella @madprincessinabox @circumspectre @the-one-with-the-grey-color @thatchickwiththecamera @violetswritingg @valutfromlune @baileythepenguin @galmorizethechaos @capj-1437 @airgoddess @nah2991 @interestellarprincess @laurensfilm @peachjellyy @aj3684 @sorryimstupidrn @escapingjune

Across The Hall | (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9)

[akeaaan]

Change 2

Jinu X fem. reader

part1

word count: 4.7k

a/n: I bless you guys with this, idk why I made it like this and shit but yeah here the last part yall

Synopsis: ╰┈➤You were once a feared demon of the underworld—until you turned your back on that life. Branded a traitor, you escaped to the human world and lived quietly in the shadows, blending in among mortals for years. Peace became your new normal. Routine. Safe. That is, until fate stepped in. A single encounter with Jinu—the sharp-eyed, silver-tongued leader of the rising idol group Saja Boys—shattered your calm existence.

〃✦ ┆ You vaulted over the railing of your penthouse bedroom, landing with a soft thud on the floor below. Sliding the glass door open, you walked in with a tired groan and shook your head, muttering under your breath.

“Why the hell did I do that…” you sighed, pressing your fingers to your temples. “Stupid. So stupid.”

Sealing your father’s voice—the ancient, terrifying weight of Gwi Ma’s presence—into Jinu’s head temporarily? That wasn’t just reckless. That was borderline suicidal.

A low, rumbling growl snapped you out of your spiral.

Your gaze shifted toward the bed, where a massive figure had claimed your mattress.

Not a dog.

A wolf.

No—a demon wolf.

It lay there like it owned the place, sprawled across your bed with limbs stretched out in every direction, completely unbothered by your mental crisis. Its fur shimmered faintly under the moonlight slipping through the windows, black with streaks of silver like ink in motion. Its tail gave a lazy flick.

The demon yawned, glancing at you with glowing amber eyes before settling back down.

You raised an eyebrow. “You're real comfortable, huh?”

In response, the wolf purred—a deep, vibrating sound—and rubbed its fur deeper into your mattress. You plopped down at the edge of the bed with a tired grunt. The wolf shifted without protest, curling around and laying its massive head on your lap.

You stared down at it for a long moment. The gentle rise and fall of its breathing didn’t match the chaos in your mind.

Because really, what the hell had you done?

You sealed Gwi Ma’s voice inside Jinu.

Temporarly

Jinu. Of all people.

Why him?

Was it pity? Guilt?

Or was it something uglier—some selfish instinct to push the curse onto someone who could carry it without tearing your world apart?

You couldn’t even explain it to yourself.

And now, it was done.

The seal was in place. Gwi Ma’s voice echoed in Jinu’s mind, long gone for now. And you could only hope he was strong enough to handle it.

You sighed, hand absentmindedly brushing through the wolf’s thick fur.

Even if you tried to avoid it, your paths were bound to cross again. You were both idols, standing on stages under the same spotlights, your names whispered in the same circles.

Destiny had its own sense of humor.

“Maybe the Huntrix will just finish the job,” you muttered dryly. “Save us both the trouble.”

The wolf let out a sleepy snort.

You weren’t even sure if that was agreement—or mockery.

You stood in front of the mirror in your waiting room, hands braced on the vanity as you tried to calm the racing of your heart. The makeup lights made your skin glow, but your eyes—your eyes told a different story. Focused. Fierce. A little scared.

You inhaled deeply through your nose, held it, then exhaled slowly.

Tonight wasn’t just another comeback. This was the comeback.

Your outfit shimmered under the warm lights—custom, sharp, stage-ready. The mic was clipped to your ear, in-ear monitors already tucked in. Everything was set. This was your newest single’s first live performance on Mnet, and the world was watching.

KNOCK KNOCK.

“Y/N, you're up in five!” called a staff member through the door.

You swallowed hard and forced a reply. “Y-yeah, I’ll be right there.”

Their footsteps faded. Silence returned. You looked back at your reflection and gave yourself a small nod.

You’ve worked too hard to get here. Too many sleepless nights. Too many sacrifices. This stage is yours. Nothing and no one’s going to take it away.

With that thought, you turned and grabbed the door handle.

But the second you opened it, your body froze.

Your breath hitched.

“What the heck are you doing here?” you blurted, eyes narrowing.

“Jinu…”

He stood leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed over his chest, wearing his idol outfit, but there was no mistaking him. Same intense eyes. Same aura that never really let you breathe when he was close.

“We need to talk,” Jinu said calmly, voice low but serious.

You blinked, shaking your head. “Now? Really? I’m about to go on stage.”

You moved past him quickly, boots echoing against the linoleum floor as you headed for the backstage corridor. But of course, you heard him behind you. His quiet, deliberate footsteps.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you snapped, not even glancing back.

“I think there is,” he replied, but his tone wasn’t biting. It was... tired. Hesitant.

You kept walking.

But then you felt it—his hand wrapping gently but firmly around your wrist. You stopped in your tracks. You feel the demon patterns on both of your arms starting to form.

“Y/N,” he said, and this time when you looked back, you saw it—whatever he’d been holding in. The regret. The urgency. The softness he only ever showed you behind closed doors.

You didn’t speak.

Not yet.

But you didn’t pull away either.

“I don’t want to work with him anymore,” Jinu said finally. “With Gwi Ma.”

You blinked. 

He looked straight at you.

“You can help. You’re his daughter.”

You stiffened instantly. The hallway felt colder.

“Don’t say that out loud,” you snapped, stepping forward, eyes darting. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t back off.

“You are,” he said. “You don’t work under him. You were never branded. Never bound like the rest of us. You're the only one who can talk to him without a blade at your throat.”

Your mouth opened—but you didn’t know what to say.

The truth was… he wasn’t wrong.

You hated it. You hated that your blood had ties to a name like Gwi Ma’s. You hated that even after cutting every tie, leaving the underworld, his rule, everything behind, people like Jinu still found you. Still needed something from you that only he could give.

But beneath the tension, the unspoken history, and all the things you left unsaid... You and Jinu shared one undeniable truth— Freedom.

You both craved it. From the shadows. From the blood-soaked contracts. From the underworld that shaped you and broke you in the same breath.

You weren’t just performers. You were survivors. Bound by the same cursed fate that ran deeper than fame, deeper than music. You both wanted out.

Jinu’s grip on your wrist loosened slightly, like he didn’t want to force you—like he hoped you’d choose him on your own.

And you did.

You closed your eyes, the weight of everything catching up to you for just a second. 

“…Fine.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper. Tired. Resigned. But resolute.

You opened your eyes, lifting your gaze to meet his. Jinu’s expression had softened, the usual cool edge in his stare melting into something vulnerable. Something real.

“I’ll help you,” you said quietly.

His hand didn’t let go—but it didn’t tighten either. It just stayed. Solid. Grounding. A silent thank you.

The stage was calling, but now… so was the war you swore you'd never fight again

Your legs dangled over the balcony railing, swaying slightly above a dizzying drop—hundreds of feet from the ground. One wrong movement and it would be over in an instant. But the danger didn’t faze you. Not tonight.

The city glowed beneath you—alive, unaware. Neon signs blinked in rhythm with traffic. A breeze rustled your hair, cool against your skin.

“You’re a terrible sneaker, you know that?” you said casually, not even turning your head.

A low chuckle answered you before a soft thud followed. You glanced sideways to see Jinu, landing on your balcony with the grace of someone who’d done it a thousand times.

“What gave it away?” he asked, brows raised as he pulled back his hood.

You turned your eyes back to the skyline. “I can feel your energy. It always gives you away.”

A dim glow started to pulse along your arm—faint, curling demon marks slowly forming like ink soaking through your skin. You studied them with no urgency, just resignation.

Jinu leaned beside you on the railing, hands in his pockets. He didn’t interrupt the silence.

“My father…” you began, voice low, “is the worst man alive.”

That caught Jinu’s attention. He turned slightly toward you, waiting.

You gave a bitter laugh. “And I’m his favorite daughter. Funny, right? The one he loved most… is the one who betrayed him.”

Jinu didn’t speak, but his silence felt like encouragement. You continued.

“I don’t even know how I survived all these years.” He tilted his head. “Then how did you?” he asked softly.

You finally looked at him, eyes tired but calm. “I fed,” you said bluntly. “On corrupted souls. I hunted them myself, quietly. It was the only way I knew how to live without becoming what he wanted.”

Jinu's expression darkened, but he remained quiet.

“When I was a child,” you continued, “he started sending me here… slipping me through cracks between realms like I was nothing. Just a spy. A pawn.” You exhaled sharply. “He didn’t care how small I was. He just wanted information. Souls. Obedience.”

Your hands clenched the railing. “But every time I crossed over… I felt something. Peace. Even if it was brief.”

You smiled faintly, eyes softening with the memory.

“A young couple found me once. Took me in. They thought I was just a lost child.” You paused, your voice nearly breaking. “They were kind. They raised me. Loved me. And when my father found out—he forced me to take their souls.”

Jinu finally looked at you fully. You didn’t meet his eyes.

“That was the moment I knew,” you whispered, “it was all wrong. Everything. I ran. I hid. I started using my power in secret—helping the Hunters. Sealing the honmoon. Destroying demons that slipped through.”

“…And killing your own kind,” Jinu finished for you, voice steady.

You nodded.

“I killed them because they were hurting innocents. Because they didn’t care who they destroyed. But I’m no hero either… I’ve taken souls too, even after I swore I wouldn’t.”

Your voice cracked as you added, “I know this world isn’t perfect. It’s full of pain and selfishness. But it’s still better than the never-ending torment of the underworld.”

Jinu didn’t speak right away. The wind rustled your hair again. Then he said, barely above a whisper:

"Sounds to me like you saved yourself."

You blinked slowly, letting his words sink in like a knife dulled by time but still sharp enough to hit where it hurts.

Then, quieter, gentler—his voice barely above a breath:

“And maybe… there’s still more worth saving.”

Your gaze met his, locked—daring, vulnerable, charged with something you didn’t want to name.

"You..." you whispered.

In a swift motion, you leapt from the railing, boots landing soundlessly against the cold rooftop tiles. Jinu pushed himself off the opposite side, standing tall as he faced you—chest rising with every slow inhale.

Then, it began.

Your patterns awakened first—slowly crawling up your arms like living ink, pulsing with familiar power, before consuming you entirely. Your eyes burned with a fierce, glowing violet hue. This was the real you. The form you didn’t show just anyone.

Your demon form stood bare before him.

Jinu's breath caught in his throat. His lips parted. He couldn’t look away. Something primal stirred in him as he lowered his gaze—his own markings responding instinctively. They crawled across his skin like heat rising beneath the surface, until his yellow eyes locked with yours—burning to match.

You stepped toward him, silent, slow, dangerous. Your hand rose, fingertips barely grazing his jaw before your palms gently cupped his face—like you’d done the last time you were alone. Back when everything was simpler... or maybe just easier to ignore.

Jinu didn’t move. He stood there, eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes. You leaned in slightly, almost ready to speak the chant pulsing at the back of your throat.

But his voice stopped you.

“You never noticed me…” he murmured, barely audible—like a secret spilling from a locked place in his chest.

You froze, the words anchoring you in place.

“What?” you breathed.

He smiled faintly. Not out of happiness—out of resignation.

“I kept seeing you with Gwi Ma… I wanted to talk to you, I did. But I always got cold feet.” His laugh was soft, bitter. “Back then, I was barely holding it together. Newly turned, still figuring out how to control the patterns. But you...”

His voice trailed as the memory pulled him back. His gaze softened.

“You stood there, with your head high, commanding the space like you were born for it. Gwi Ma gave you orders, and you didn’t even flinch. You looked untouchable.”

You remembered that moment. The spy meetings. The night before everything shifted.

Jinu’s voice broke the silence again, quiet and aching:

“Ever since that day…” his voice was low, smoky, just above a whisper. “I couldn’t stop watching you.”

Jinu stepped forward—slow, deliberate. The kind of step that didn’t just close distance, it claimed it. His golden eyes flickered under the moonlight like burning embers behind smoke, catching every unsteady breath you took.

“And then you disappeared,” he murmured, now just inches away.

His words ghosted over your lips, and though he hadn't touched you yet, you could taste him in the air—warm, wild, and aching with something unsaid.

“Without a word,” he added, almost accusing. But his tone was soft. Hurt, maybe. Or worse—longing.

You couldn’t answer. Not really. Not with how your chest tightened. Not with how his presence filled the air like a storm.

“Until now.”

Your breath hitched. You hated how much he still affected you. How he always had. Since the first time he saw you—really saw you—backstage during Play Games With Us.

He told himself you just looked like her. Just a random idol with a familiar face. But when your paths crossed… when your shoulders brushed and he felt that undeniable pattern in his soul unlock—he knew.

It was you.

The girl he never had the courage to speak to in the demon world.

The one who haunted him across dimensions.

Your heartbeat thundered in your chest, deafening in your ears. It was too loud. Too fast. And somehow, Jinu heard it anyway.

“I see it now…” he whispered, his hand rising slowly to cup your cheek. His touch was impossibly gentle. No trace of the coldness your kind were known for. Just warmth—steady, real.

“The real you.”

You didn’t dare speak. The moment was too fragile, like it would shatter if you so much as breathed wrong.

Only the tension. The breath you both held. The weight of everything unsaid.

The ghost of hands that had hovered close but never touched.

Lips that once looked but never dared.

Not until now.

When his lips pressed against yours, your eyes widened. It was slow. Searching. Testing a boundary he’d waited years to cross.

You didn’t pull away.

You melted.

Your eyes closed.

Your lips parted—inviting him in without knowing why. Needing him like oxygen.

His hand moved to your hip, firm and possessive, pulling you against him as he deepened the kiss. His tongue slipped past your lips, and the kiss turned hungry, urgent, electric.

And all you could think was:

Finally.

Your heels hit the floor with each backward step, heartbeat pounding loud enough to drown everything else out—except him.

Jinu followed without hesitation, lips crashing into yours, his breath hot and uneven as he kissed you like he’d been starving. His hands were everywhere, gripping your waist, sliding up your sides, pulling you closer like the space between you two offended him.

Your back hit the cool glass of the sliding door. The contact made you gasp into his mouth, your hand still cupping his cheek while your other reached behind blindly, fingers fumbling until the door slid open. You stepped backward again, drawing him in, and he didn’t even pause—just kicked the door shut behind you.

The room was colder than expected, but neither of you noticed.

Not really.

Jinu broke the kiss, panting, his forehead leaning against yours as he stared at you—eyes blown wide, dark with something primal.

"You're so beautiful..." he breathed, but it wasn’t just admiration. It was a whimper. A confession. A breaking point.

Then he kissed you again—messier, harder, almost frantic. Desperate hands pulled you forward as he guided you to the edge of the bed, gripping your hips to keep you from falling too fast.

You shivered, but not from the cold.

He laid you down with care that contrasted the hunger in his touch. One hand slipped under your shirt, palm splaying over your stomach, fingers dragging up—slow and teasing—until they reached the curve of your chest. The other hand slid down, rougher now, grabbing your thigh and lifting it up, anchoring you to him.

You wrapped your leg around his waist instinctively, pulling him in, grinding into the pressure.

He groaned low in his throat, redirecting the kiss—his lips trailed from your mouth to your chin, along your jaw, then lower. His mouth attacked your neck—biting, sucking, leaving a trail of heat and bruises and sin. Your hands tangled in his hair, nails scraping his scalp as your hips arched into him.

You turned your head to the side, offering more, wanting more.

And he took it. Eagerly.

His lips found the spot behind your ear and when his tongue flicked against the skin, you nearly lost it. His knees shifted between your thighs and when one of them brushed there—through the fabric, right against your already wet slit—

You moaned.

You tried to stop it. Bit your lip. But it slipped out, raw and breathy and broken.

Jinu froze for just a second—just long enough to hear it, feel it—and when he looked back down at you, eyes dark and wild and locked on yours, it was clear.

He wanted to ruin you.

And God—you were going to let him.

Jinu’s hand slid slowly up your thigh, fingers trailing fire beneath your skin. He brushed against the edge of your shorts, and his smirk deepened the moment he felt it—the telltale dampness soaked through the fabric.

“Mm,” he hummed lowly, eyes locked on yours. “You’re already wet for me.”

The way he said it, voice all gravel and dark delight, made your breath catch. You propped yourself up on your elbows, looking down where his fingers teased, hovering but never touching where you needed him most. Your lips parted—maybe to protest, maybe to pretend you weren’t so shamelessly worked up already.

But you couldn’t lie. Not to him.

Not when your body betrayed you so easily.

Jinu's eyes gleamed. "No need to hide it, baby."

He gripped the waistband of your shorts and underwear, tugging them down in one slow, deliberate motion. You lifted your hips for him, heart pounding, heat pooling low in your belly. He peeled the fabric away, baring you completely, and let it drop to the floor with a quiet thud.

You turned your head, shame rising despite the arousal surging through you.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice softer now—dangerous in another way.

His hand left your waist, slipped under your shirt and up to your chin, coaxing your face back toward his. “Didn’t I say all eyes on me?” His thumb brushed over your lips, slow and intimate, like he owned every inch of you already.

You met his gaze.

His smile was pure sin. “That’s my good girl…”

You clenched around nothing, heat flooding you all over again from just those three words.

Jinu dropped to his knees between your thighs like he belonged there. He slid one of your legs over his shoulder, positioning you exactly how he wanted, spreading you open like a gift he couldn’t wait to unwrap.

He looked down at you, then back up—his eyes dark, pupils blown wide, jaw tight with restraint.

“I want you to watch,” he said, voice like velvet and vice. “Don’t look away. Just keep your eyes on me… while I make this pretty pussy forget how to breathe.” 

He didn’t hesitate—not even for a second.

Jinu dropped to his knees like he was born to worship you there, hands gripping the backs of your thighs as he dove in without mercy. His long, eager tongue plunged deep into your soaked cunt, and you nearly lost your balance right then and there.

The obscene sound of him slurping at your core filled the room, his mouth messy with your slick as he groaned into you like a man starved.

“Mmf…, you taste like heaven,” he muttered between licks, his voice thick with hunger.

He didn’t stop—he��devoured you. Tongue flicking wildly against your swollen cunt, then sucking on it like it owed him something. Your legs shook as you tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, guiding his mouth right where you needed him.

“Jinu—ah—don’t stop, fuck—”

You watched through half-lidded eyes as he kissed every part of your slit like it was sacred. His gaze flicked up, dark and locked on yours, and it only made the heat in your belly coil tighter.

Then—just when you thought you couldn’t take more—you felt it.

A sudden stretch inside. His fingers.

Two of them, sliding into your dripping hole with ease, curling upward with wicked precision as he pumped them in and out, his mouth never once leaving your clit.

The combination made you choke on a gasp.

“Oh my god—”

His growl sent a hot vibration through your core, and your hips bucked instinctively.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he rasped, breath hot against you, “All for me, huh?”

Your stomach clenched.

That knot—tight and burning—started building fast. Too fast.

He sucked your clit hard, fingers driving deeper, faster, and your body gave in with a cry. The knot snapped.

You came undone on his face with a moan so raw, it echoed around the room. Your body trembled as the waves hit, one after another, and he didn’t let up—didn’t stop—until you were shaking, until your thighs were twitching around his head.

And when you finally looked down at him…

He was smiling.

Lips glistening, tongue darting out to lick up your release, shamelessly savoring it.

Then slowly—deliberately—he slid his fingers out of you and held them up between you both, watching you.

And without breaking eye contact, he brought those fingers to his lips and sucked them clean.

“Tastes like fucking addiction,” Jinu growled against your lips, his voice a low, sinful drawl that sent heat straight between your legs.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and pupils blown wide, then leaned in again—claiming your mouth in a kiss that was messy and hungry. You gasped as you tasted yourself on him, the tang of your arousal still wet on his tongue as he licked deep into your mouth, slow and deliberate. His tongue curled behind your teeth, exploring like he owned every inch of you—and he did. Tonight, he fucking did.

When he finally pulled away, your lips were swollen and your lungs desperate for air. You let your head fall back against the pillow, dragging yourself up the headboard, legs still spread and trembling slightly.

Jinu just smirked at the sight—your wrecked expression, flushed skin, the way your chest rose and fell like you were trying to keep it together.

“You okay?” he asked, low and husky, with just a flicker of concern under all that cocky heat.

You nodded, breathless. “Yeah…”

“Good.” His voice dropped another octave as he reached down and peeled his hoodie off in one slow motion, tossing it to the floor without a care. It left him in nothing but those black pants, the fabric hugging his hips in the most unfair way.

Your eyes dropped immediately. Down the hard line of his torso—past the chiseled abs, the demon marks curling over his skin like some kind of dark prophecy etched into his flesh. Down to the sharp cut of his hips, the V-line so defined it made your mouth go dry.

And then there it was—his cock, thick and hard and pressing against the fabric.

He caught you staring, and that smug, lazy smirk spread across his face.

“I knew I’m hot,” he said, already unbuckling his pants with one hand, the metallic clink echoing in the quiet room.

“You’ve been looking like you want to fuck me all night, baby.”

And honestly?

You did.

you tossed your own shirt leaving you on your bra and nothing else. once jinu took off his pants he went back kissing your neck sucking on it giving marks, his cock pressed against your bare cunt, one of his hand moved its way on your back

clicked 

His fingers made quick work of your bra, the clasp undone like second nature. He didn’t even hesitate—he just pressed himself closer, his lips catching your gasp as your bra was flung somewhere into the shadows of the dim bedroom.

You felt him roll his hips against you, and your breath hitched. You could feel him—hard, needy, pressed right where you were pulsing for friction. A desperate sound escaped your throat, something between a moan and a plea.

Jinu’s breath was hot against your neck, but his voice? Low, strained, laced with restraint he was barely holding on to.

“Can I?” he asked, forehead resting against yours, his eyes searching—burning with both desire and something softer. Need.

You nodded, not trusting your voice. It was more than consent. It was surrender.

He slid his boxers down, and his cock pressed right against your entrance—hot, heavy, and aching. When he pushed in slowly, the stretch burned in the best way, making your legs tremble.

“A-ah—” you hissed through clenched teeth, your back arching slightly.

Jinu let out a rough groan, fingers flexing around your waist as he buried himself deeper. You could feel how he shook with the effort of holding still, breathing ragged. He reached up, brushing your hair gently from your damp forehead, voice soft—soothing.

“Hey… I got you, yeah? You’re doing so good for me already.”

When he was fully seated inside you, he didn’t move. He waited—only moving when you gave a shaky nod of approval.

Then he started.

At first it was slow. Tender. Every thrust deliberate, like he was savoring every second inside you. You whimpered, your body adjusting around him, pain melting into something slick and molten.

Then his rhythm shifted—slowly, gradually—until his hips snapped into yours with growing force. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, messy and obscene, your moans rising in pitch with every stroke.

He grunted as he braced himself against the headboard, hand digging into the wood for leverage. The pace was rough now—cock, relentless—and then with a sharp snap, the headboard cracked beneath his grip.

But neither of you cared.

Not when you were moaning his name like a prayer, not when his voice dropped to a low growl in your ear:

“Damm—you feel so fucking good. So tight—like you’re made for me.”

He slammed back into you, chasing deeper. “Say it. Say you want it.”

Your voice broke, breathless and wrecked, “I—want it —Jinu, please, don’t stop.”

And he didn’t.

He didn’t slow down—not even when the bedframe gave a harsh crack beneath you. His pace only grew rougher, more punishing, as if chasing something deep inside you. Each thrust dragged a broken sound from your throat, and the knot in your belly twisted tighter, sharper.

“Fuck.. you’re so tight,” Jinu hissed between clenched teeth, his voice guttural as he felt you start to clamp down on him. “You’re about to—aren’t you?”

You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t form anything but a moan that pitched higher with every slam of his hips. Your nails raked down his back, leaving angry red marks that made him groan—not from pain, but pride.

“Just like that,” he growled, his breath hot against your skin. “Fucking take it.”

And you did. You took all of him—deeper, harder—until your body couldn’t take anymore. You shattered around him, crying out his name, spine arching off the mattress as your orgasm crashed into you.

That was all it took.

He cursed under his breath as his rhythm faltered—then stilled—burying himself to the hilt as heat flooded inside you. You felt it, that warm pulse of cum, and the way he trembled slightly above you as he rode the high with you.

Both of you were gasping, the room thick with the scent of sweat, sex, and something heavier. Jinu leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours, still inside you.

Neither of you moved. Not yet.

“I can’t hear him anymore,” he murmured against your lips—eyes fluttering shut, voice almost... relieved.

You closed your eyes too, pulling him even closer. His skin was warm against yours, heartbeat steady, chest rising and falling in sync with your own. There were no more walls. No more distance. Just the quiet rhythm of breath and the lingering fire of everything unspoken now laid bare between you.

You stayed like that for a while—bodies tangled, souls unwinding.

Jinu opened his eyes first.

He looked at you—really looked at you. And this time, there was nothing but love swimming in his gaze. Relief. Longing. The kind that had waited too long and held on too tight.

He exhaled softly, brushing a thumb along your jaw.

“…The bed broke,” he murmured, almost like he just realized it.

You blinked slowly, and then let out a breathy laugh. “It’s the demon strength,” you whispered back, voice tired but laced with affection.

He smiled—lazy, genuine, and rare.

“Guess I owe you a new frame.”

You rested your forehead against his. “Guess you do.”

Neither of you moved to get up. The world outside could wait a little longer.

For once… there was no hunt. No stage. No pressure.

Just you, and Jinu, and the quiet in between.

a/n: ITS SO BADDD OMGGG STOPPP it's my first time writing full-on smut yall don't judge :( also idk how to end it so here your food Jinu was a bit ooc during the smexy scene lol

taglist: @miffysoo @akariis4snowball @zhentheraven @nisarelle @aise-30 @pjs-gf-foreal @22carolina08 @violetraccoon-4

[mooningningg]

notes, this was so fun to make especially adding more characters ty anon!

★ Roommate!Sukuna hosts a party in the house.

“This is the stupidest idea you’ve ever had,” you said flatly, eyeing the crowd gathering in your once-peaceful living room.

Sukuna cracked open a beer and leaned against the kitchen counter like a menace with arms. “Shut up. My house. My rules.”

“Our house,” you corrected.

“My name’s on the lease.”

You opened your mouth — and then Gojo physically kicked open the front door.

“THE PARTY GOD HAS ARRIVED!”

You groaned. “I’m locking myself in my room.”

“No, you’re not.” Sukuna grabbed the back of your hoodie before you could escape. “You’re gonna stand here and make sure no one breaks shit. Especially not that one—”

“Choso?” you guessed.

“No. That thing behind him.”

You looked over and saw Yuuji sprinting through the hallway with a Nerf gun, followed by Megumi, who had the calm murderous energy of a cat ready to swipe at a toddler.

Toji appeared behind them holding a case of beer. “Your kids are feral.”

Sukuna threw up a middle finger. “They’re not my fucking kids.”

“They’re kinda your responsibility,” Geto said smoothly from the couch. “Since you’re the one who invited all of us and insisted on not hiring a DJ.”

“I am the DJ,” Sukuna said, walking to the speaker and violently pressing buttons until something bass-heavy and borderline unlistenable filled the room.

“Christ,” Nanami muttered from a corner. “This is not music. This is a hate crime.”

You leaned on the fridge and whispered, “I told him to make a playlist.”

“He made one,” Nanami said. “It’s all angry gym edits and songs titled ‘murder breakfast.’”

Meanwhile, Choso had discovered your cabinet of snacks and was handing out bags of chips like a stoned camp counselor. “You want spicy or sweet?” he asked you sweetly. “I sorted them by vibe.”

Sukuna walked by, narrowed his eyes, and muttered, “Stop touching my shit.”

“It’s her shit,” Choso replied without fear.

“Yeah, Sukuna,” you echoed smugly. “My kitchen.”

He turned to you with a scowl. “Don’t push me, brat.”

Just then, Nobara stomped into the kitchen holding an empty Solo cup.

“Why is there no alcohol left?” she demanded.

“Because Gojo made a jungle juice bucket in the fucking bathtub,” Toji said, cracking open a beer.

“...He what?”

“It’s got blue Gatorade, Everclear, Sprite, and six Warheads.”

Sukuna pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m going to kill him.”

Gojo popped his head in like a cartoon ghost. “No murder before midnight! That’s the rule!”

“You’re the reason I have rules, you white-haired freak.”

Geto sauntered by with your Bluetooth speaker in hand. “Can I use this for my playlist? I promise it’s all R&B.”

“You touch it and I’ll cut your fingers off,” Sukuna replied calmly, sipping his beer.

“Jesus,” you said. “Why did you even invite them?”

“Because I was drunk,” Sukuna growled, glancing around the chaotic room. “And it was funny at the time.”

Someone suddenly crashed into a chair.

“I’M OKAY,” Yuuji shouted from the floor.

“I’M GONNA KILL HIM,” Sukuna shouted louder.

“You can’t kill him,” Megumi muttered from beside you, arms crossed. “He’s literally built like a golden retriever. You’d feel bad.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Bet.”

You grinned at the sight: your angry, cursed-energy-free roommate about three seconds away from strangling half the room while you just… stood there sipping punch out of a vase.

Then, as if summoned by chaos, Gojo slung an arm around your shoulders.

“So. On a scale of 1 to ‘my next therapy session,’ how’s living with Sukuna?”

You glanced at the walking red flag beside you — now trying to chase Yuuji with a spatula for sitting on his dumbbells.

“Somewhere between insanity and a sitcom,” you replied.

Sukuna stopped mid-step. “Why the fuck are you smiling?”

“Because this is the best decision you never made.”

His eye twitched. “I’m never doing this again.”

“Sure,” Geto called from the couch. “You say that now — until she asks you to host her birthday and you agree like a whipped little bitch.”

Sukuna whirled around. “Say that again, Suguru. I dare you.”

Geto smirked. “You heard me. Whipped. Soft. Domesticated.”

Sukuna lunged. Gojo dove into the hallway with a bottle of tequila. Megumi muttered something about going feral. Nobara lit a candle just because.

You stood in the middle of it all, grinning to yourself.

Yep.

Best party ever.

Taglist, @humeysaga @williamafton26 @aranisbaee @probablynotleahhhh @probablynotleahhhh. @beaniesayshi @levifiance @rinofcike @fushiguroooozzz @gojoscumslut @bellsoftheball @kunascutie.

[sunday-bug]

The Celibacy Challenge

Pairing: New Avenger!Bucky x New Avenger!Female!Reader

Word Count: 3k

18+ Minors DNI (NSFW)

Synopsis: You decide you want to try a celibacy challenge with your boyfriend, Bucky. Who caves first? The New Avengers place their bets.

A/N: Is this based off a challenge that I failed with my husband? Hehe. Also, shoutout to my girls for betting against me - @soelstress @buckybarnes82 @buckybarnesfic / yes, it was ME, you were right.

“Why though? I just don’t get it, honey,” Bucky sighs, shaking his head.

“It’s supposed to be a challenge, baby! It’ll be fun.” You’d just gotten through a poor explanation of a sex experiment you wanted to try with Bucky, and he was less than enthused.

You show him the article you have pulled up on your laptop - 30 Day Abstinence Challenge: A Battle of Wills - and smile. “It’s meant to be hard… no pun intended. And at the end when we can finally have at it, it’s apparently explosive.”

Bucky furrows his brow, clearly unimpressed with the idea, and lowers his voice, his expression growing more serious. “Is it not explosive enough for you?” He blushes, looking around the empty common room before he continues more quietly, “Because It is for me.” 

“Oh stop, it’s amazing, baby. You’re amazing. That’s not what I’m saying. Just try it with me? It’ll be good for us! And there’s this optional part that people add where they do yoga together at night. It’s supposed to help you relax and loosen your muscles.” You look up at him with a hopeful gaze, nearly begging.

He rolls his eyes. “I know how to help you relax and loosen you up already. We don’t need a sun salutation for that.” 

You cock your eyebrow at him. “Didn’t know you were a yoga man, Buck.” 

“I’ve dabbled… it was a long time ago - anyway, if you really want to try this, then I’ll do it with you.” 

“Yay!” You squeal. “Let’s start fresh tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? So are you saying… ?” Bucky winks at you.

“Yes, Sarge. Take me to bed.”

DAY ONE

Bucky walks into the kitchen the next morning to you and Yelena at the breakfast bar nursing two coffees. 

“So, yeah, it’s supposed to help you feel centered and then at the end, it’s apparently incredible.”

Bucky stops short and looks at you, “Really? You’re telling everyone about it?”

You shrug and smile, “I mean, yeah? Why not? It’s not like they don’t know we have sex, Buck. We’ve been dating for a while now.”

“Yeah, and we hear you sometimes. It will be nice to have silence for a month,” Yelena quips, sipping her coffee and eyeing Bucky.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair and preparing his own cup. “Fine.”

By the end of the day, everyone in the Watchtower knows about you and Bucky’s little challenge. John gave Bucky a nod and flexed his bicep as Bucky walked into the gym that afternoon - a silent show of support. Bucky sighed and popped his headphones in. As he’s doing squats, a large body appears behind him and waves in the mirror. Bucky grunts and hangs up the bar, taking out an earphone. 

“What do you want?” He asks gruffly.

“Winter Soldier… I hear it’s going to be dry month for you! No snow in forecast,” Alexei jokes, his face turning red from holding back laughter.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Bucky groans, returning to his workout.

“You can do it. You are strong - resilient. You survive Hydra. You can survive no lovemaking for month, eh?” Alexei elbows Bucky in the ribs.

Bucky glares daggers at Alexei and he finally takes a hint, walking off.

Meanwhile, you are working out on the opposite end of the gym, chatting through your jog.

“You’ll do great,” Ava says, running on the treadmill next to you. “It’ll go by fast. Plus, if we get called to a mission, it’s not like you’ll have time anyway.”

“You’re right. Honestly, though, I just love the thought of making him squirm,” you tease.

“You would,” she laughs. “You guys are cute together.”

DAY TWO

After dinner you walk into the living room to find everyone crouched down around the coffee table. Bucky had gone out to get more snacks for your movie night. As soon as you walk into the room everyone stiffens and Bob swallows as his eyes dart back and forth between the coffee table and you.

“What’s going on, you guys?” You ask suspiciously, walking quickly to the table to find any evidence. John puts a small notebook with writing you can’t make out in his back pocket and Yelena scrapes some coins into her hand. “Oh, hi girl,” she says, an attempt at nonchalance. “What movie should we watch tonight?” 

You narrow your eyes at them all - your teammates, your friends - and cross your arms. “Bob, what’s going on?” 

“Uh,” he stammers, looking around at everyone. “We were, uh, just… uh, making a list of movies we haven’t seen yet.” 

“Really?” You ask, putting your hand out and looking at John. “Give me the notebook.” John stands up quickly and backs away. 

“No,” he scoffs, backing into a wall. “It’s just a list of movies. I swear.” 

You see Alexei’s body shaking with laughter out of the corner of your eye and turn toward him. “What’s so funny?” 

“I cannot say,” he chuckles, running a hand through his beard. 

“Alexei Shostakov, tell me now,” you demand, walking over to him. Bucky walks in at that moment, two grocery bags of snacks in hand and assesses the room. 

“Is everything ok?” He asks, putting the bags down on the kitchen island.

“No!” You whine. “They are up to something!” You gesture to the team. 

“You mean the bets?” Bucky asks casually as he starts to unpack the bags.

Your skin heats and you crane your neck to look at him. “What bets?”

“The bets on our challenge,” he explains, and Yelena and Ava groan. John throws the tiny notebook on the coffee table. “What the hell, Bucky? She wasn’t supposed to know!” 

Bucky rolls his eyes, “Doesn’t matter anyway. She’s gonna lose.” 

Your heart skips a furious beat and you march over to him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” You demand. 

“Our challenge. You’re going to cave first,” he explains calmly, handing you an Oreo.

“We place bets,” Alexei says, walking over to grab a bag of Twizzlers. “We all agree that you cave first. You lose.”

“Are you kidding me?!” You shout, looking at everyone. “Glad to know you all think so highly of me. I’m going to win just to spite you all.” The team laughs, knowing you aren’t truly upset. 

You turn toward Bucky and stand on your tiptoes to whisper in his ear. “Prepare for the worst 30 days of your life.” Bucky chuckles, but you notice the hair on his forearm stand on end.

“I look forward to winning,” he quips back, his lips brushing your ear.

DAY THREE

Tonight you and Bucky head to the gym to do your new nightly yoga routine. You changed into shorts and a sports bra - your red set that he loves - and set your mats up. He saunters in, gym shorts slung dangerously low on his hips and no shirt. 

“Ready to get all stretched out?” He asks, dimming the lights. 

You scoff at his suggestive comment and settle onto your mat. “Yep,” you answer quickly, still annoyed about the bets.

“Good, I’ve been looking forward to this all day,” he mutters, sitting on the mat across from you. “Take it away, sweetheart.”

You lead, talking about each position and how to breathe through them. You glance over at Bucky during downward facing dog and see him checking out your ass in your yoga shorts. 

“Next up is called the happy baby pose,” you say, lying on your back. “You bring your legs up and grab your feet with your hands, like this.” You demonstrate, spreading your legs and grabbing your feet. Bucky’s throat bobs as he watches you model the pose and then he clears his throat.

“I know what you’re doing. You’re not slick,” he groans. “I’m not falling for your tricks.”

“You’re right. It’s not like you haven’t seen me in this position before. Many times,” you say with a wink. Bucky grabs his feet and follows your lead, stretching into the pose. His eyes find their way to you again.

“Enjoying the view?” You ask, looking over at him. 

“Fuck yeah I am,” he growls before shutting his eyes. “But I’m winning this damn thing.”

You groan and sit up. “Fine.”

Bucky chuckles and you finish your last few poses before rolling up your mats. There’s a light sheen of sweat covering his back and you lick your lips. Fuck - look away.

DAY FOUR

Bed sharing was not without its difficulties. Cuddling was second nature at this point in your relationship, and many times the spooning and soft snuggles led to more. But not this month. You were not going to break first. Bucky pulled you into his chest, still half asleep, and nuzzled into your neck as morning light filtered into your shared bedroom. His breath on your skin sent an immediate jolt of pleasure between your legs and you knew you were in the Danger Zone. 

“Time to get up!” You announce more loudly than normal, squirming out of his arms. You turn to look at him, and damn if he wasn’t a God among men. “Fuck,” you whisper, knowing this was going to be a lot harder than you thought. But it would all be worth it. Right?

You walk down to breakfast and see Yelena and John sitting at the table, while Bob is in the kitchen cutting up some fruit. 

“Morning,” they all three say in unison, and John stealthily removes his tiny notebook from his pocket. You see the movement from the corner of your eye and glare at him. “Really, John?” 

“Well?” Yelena asks, waiting for details. 

“Jesus, guys. Nothing happened,” you say, reaching into the pantry for a box of Cheerios. “Sorry to disappoint. We’re still holding strong.”

DAY FIVE

“You’re doing a hell of a job rearranging furniture,” Bucky quips from the office off of the living room. 

“I’m trying a new arrangement - the feng shui is off in here,” you mutter, pushing the couch a few inches to the left. “Everyone else will like it, too. Don’t worry,” you say. 

“Oh, I’m not worried, doll - I’m just watching,” he leans back in his desk chair and winks. “Maybe it’s not the feng shui that’s off. Maybe you’re just missing something.”

Just a wink - just that little smirk sends heat flooding to your core. Fucking Bucky. Well, you wish you were. But here you are, arranging furniture just to feel something. 

“Try moving the coffee table a little to the right,” he quips, fully watching you now, his legs spread in his chair, his arousal obvious. You want to pounce on him. 

“Stop teasing me, you prick,” you whine, turning your back to him. 

“Stop teasing me in those fucking leggings, then,” he says gruffly, walking out to you, eyes dark.

He looks feral. Like a wild animal - a hungry wild animal. A hungry, horny wild animal. Jesus. Your thighs clench together as he stands behind you, barely touching you. “You need some help with this?” 

“Yes,” you admit. “Thank you. And stop breathing so close to me.”

He smiles and walks to the other side of the coffee table, helping you lift it with ease. “Where to?” 

You groan under the weight of the table and nod your head to the right, “Just this way.” You let out a sigh as you both set down the table and Bucky’s lips twitch into a smirk. “I’ve been missing that sound.”

“What sound?” You ask, confused. Bucky walks to you and gets in your personal space without laying a hand on you. 

“All your little sighs, your groans and moans, your fucking whimpers, you saying my name… Hell, you not being able to say anything because your mouth is full. I need to hear it.” He tilts your chin up to meet his gaze. His dark blue eyes are stormy and full of want.

“Are you breaking first, then?” You tease, leaning up to softly kiss his lips.

“Never,” he whispers into your mouth before breaking away. He chuckles and adjusts himself before walking back to the office, leaving you there aching and full of need. Asshole.

DAY SIX

You walk to the garage to find Bucky working on his bike - tight black t-shirt, rag slung over his shoulder, and the smell of sweat and grease in the air. Nope. Nope nope nope. You turn back around, knowing you won’t be able to take this view without jumping on him. 

“Where you off to, baby?” He asks before you get back to the door, wiping his hands on the rag. 

“I was just looking for… a paintbrush. It’s not here,” you say, hand on the doorknob, eager to escape this honey trap.

“Could you bring me some water please? It’s getting hot out here,” he asks sweetly, and you now notice the sweat dripping down his temples and neck, pooling into the hollow of his throat.

“Uh huh,” you squeak out, rushing back into the compound to get you both some water. Your throat felt so dry all of a sudden - so thirsty. You steel yourself before walking back into the garage, and when you open the door you find your precious, evil man standing over his motorcycle, wiping his sweaty face clean with his t-shirt. His abs and biceps glisten in the sun shining through the open garage door. 

“Thank you,” he says gruffly, reaching for the water bottle. He takes the cap off slowly, eyes never leaving yours, and takes a long drink, humming quietly as the cool water goes down his throat. 

“You’re welcome baby,” you say, sitting down on an overturned bucket, feeling your knees getting weaker with each passing second.

“Would you hand me that wrench?” He asks, gesturing to the workbench covered in tools. You move your hand to what you think he’s asking for and he shakes his head. “The one to the left. There ya go. Good girl.” You pick up the wrench and promptly drop it on the floor at his praise.

“You okay?” He asks with a smirk. This motherfucker.

“Honestly?” You ask, about to combust.

“Honestly,” he encourages you with a wink.

“I need you to bend me over and make me forget my name,” you admit confidently.

He laughs and bites his lip. “You caving?” 

“I’m caving,” you say with a shrug. “I need you.”

“Get your ass upstairs, then. I’ll be up in a second,” he growls.

“But I can’t lose! Everyone was betting that I’d cave first!” You whine, standing up and kicking the bucket like a child.

“Then we’ll tell them I caved first,” he says quietly, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“You’d do that?” You ask in amazement, ready to let him have you however he wanted.

“I just want to hear you sigh my name into my neck, baby. I could give a shit about some bets… Now, get upstairs. Take off that pretty dress. Lay on the bed. I’ll be there in five.”

You fly back inside and run upstairs to your bedroom, the ache building between your legs. You strip off your dress and get under the covers to wait for Bucky.

Bucky walks inside the compound calmly and washes the grease and grime from his hands. His dick is already hard, and frankly, he’s a bit pissed at the days that went to waste when he could have been buried inside you. He makes his way to your room and passes John.

“You look like a man on a mission,” John jokes, taking in Bucky’s focused saunter and dark eyes.

“I am,” he mutters, walking past John to your bedroom.

He walks through the door and closes it abruptly behind him.

“I’m sorry. This challenge was a dumb idea,” you admit, pulling the covers up to your chin. “I need you. I miss you.”

“It was a strange idea, love. I’ll agree, but the yoga has been nice. I love seeing you in all those positions,” he whispers, getting on the bed with you and pinning your wrists above your head.

“You’re not going to go easy on me, are you?” You ask, biting your lip and trembling. 

“Not even a little bit,” he growls.

–

After you both thoroughly and completely fail the challenge (twice to be exact), you head downstairs for dinner with the team. John already has his notebook on the dining table propped open with a pen. You try your best not to make eye contact with anyone. 

“You guys do anything fun this afternoon?” Yelena asks, raising a brow.

“Just watched a TV show together,” you answer almost too quickly. 

“What show?” Bob asks genuinely.

“Golden Girls,” Bucky says at the exact moment you say “The West Wing”. You clear your throat and correct yourself, “Golden Girls”, just as Bucky says “The West Wing”.

“We watched both,” you say with a nervous laugh, putting some green beans on your plate.

Yelena walks over to get a plate and looks at Bucky. “James, your shirt is on inside out.”

John snorts from the dining table and you look at him warily, then to Bucky. 

“Oh, yeah, it is,” Bucky looks down and shrugs, filling his plate and walking to the table. “What’s so funny, Walker?” 

“You guys obviously caved. We just need to know who,” Ava says quietly, rolling her eyes.

Bucky scoffs. “It was me. She’s just too cute. Couldn’t help myself,” he says as he plants a kiss on your head. “Everyone happy?” 

Bob’s eyes light up from the end of the table and he shouts excitedly, “I was right!” 

Your eyes flit up to meet him. “You believed in me, Bob? That’s so nice actually.”

“Of course I did. Barnes never shuts the hell up about you. I knew he’d cave first. I’m surprised he hasn’t asked you to-”

“That’s enough,” Bucky interjects. “I caved first. Let’s move on and enjoy dinner.” He looks at you slyly and winks before leaning down to whisper in your ear, “I’ll always take the blame for you, sweetheart. But you’re going to pay me back later with your mouth.”

Your thighs constrict and you gasp quietly. Poor Bob. Awful at placing bets, but he’d never have to know.

[baepsays]

Musician Geto Suguru and his never-ending beef with his bandmates over your attention.

The thing is, as their main producer and just a very sought-after producer in the industry, he's barely able to leave his studio. Things were different before the scandal, before he was reintroduced to you, and before you two went official. His schedule was simple then—studio, recordings, shows, parties and clubs he was a regular at, getting high out of his mind on coke and weed, and going back to his studio. He barely saw any light, and his apartment felt foreign; hotel rooms were more homely than his apartment. Now it's lived in, with traces of you and the life he is building with you. Your—and now also his—scoundrel cat's claw marks are everywhere; there are stains on the couch, and all the smooth and shiny furniture is now matted. He also prefers his home studio, which he never came around to using, much better than the one at the company.

To simply say, things are mundane in the best way possible. Having lunches and dinners with his bandmates and just talking about things other than work or how he's losing himself was much more fun, he has to say. Especially when no one is throwing punches at him backstage, ahem—Sukuna—ahem. Of course it took more effort to carve out this new usual than how he used to just live off of drugs, caffeine, burning through cigarettes, and barely any food. He much prefers the boring days where he just goes from work to home to see you only at the end of the day, of course, not more than when you come to their shows. But he'll take anything, just to have you around for more than the mornings before and nights after work; it's a privilege. Even having you for more than just 3 shows for a tour is a blessing, due to the vast difference in your schedules.

Which is why he truly looks forward to days when you drop by to have lunch with him. Those weekdays are always a highlight of his week. So when he has to compete with his own bandmates for your attention or the home-cooked lunch you make for him to eat with him in the privacy of his studio, preferably sitting on his lap.

He wants to fight his own bandmates as violently as he used to. Choso, he gets; after all, Choso is the sweetest of them all; it sometimes does not make any sense to him how he ended up in this edgy rock band. But then again, where was Suguru going to find a vocalist and guitarist of Choso’s caliber? Yet still, Suguru does not appreciate it when he takes up your time when you two exchange recipes. Then there is Toji, always barging in to steal the precious food you made for Suguru, eating up most of the food while always making excuses about just one small bite. Suguru would have made Shiu (their CEO) kick Toji out of the company itself, just because of this petty reason, if there was anyone else better on the drums than him. 

Then there is Sukuna. Probably the one who pisses him off the most. Because why is the broody, scary, and one of the quietest men that Suguru knows like a social butterfly around you? Sure, you legally represent their band, but why is he so chatty around you about everything and anything? Is it not enough that he has to deal with one social butterfly, aka the nation's most desirable man and industry's favorite actor, Gojo Satoru, snitching out Suguru to you? There's now also Sukuna, snitching to you about how Suguru skipped meals to hole himself up in his studio for days or smoked more than two cigarettes a day. The worst part is when you drop by, you text in the group chat you are in with them to see if they would be at work that day. And you bring extra food for them or invite them sometimes to eat out with you two (and yet Toji still manages to steal off of Suguru's plate), and if it's just a you and Suguru kind of day, you still see them before or after your boyfriend locks you up in his studio with him.

Just like today, when you dropped by with a packed lunchbox for him and got roped up, yet again, with his bandmates. He got your text at exactly 13:34 PM that you entered the building, and sure, his studio was on the 19th floor, but it took only 5 minutes or so to get there. Unfortunately for him, he had to wait more than 30 minutes for you because you texted him you were just a floor below, in their practice room with his bandmates. And when 40 minutes were about to pass, Suguru had to essentially go down and abduct you by carrying you on his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and making a run for it with your bag in his other hand. He could hear Sukuna yelling his name from behind, but he made it just in time to the elevator to get away with you.

“The only reason why I will ever go fully solo is because of your little fan club.” He walked into his studio while grumbling and with you still dangling on his shoulder.

“Issok, I will replace you.” He threw you on the black leather couch and lay on top of you, like he just fought an army of hungry coyotes and ran a marathon at the same time. “Hmm, I see you guys are scheming behind my back now.” He looked up at you from where he buried his face in your chest.

“I say it's very up front.” You giggled and pushed away the loose strands of his hair covering his face, and he didn't reply. Instead, he lifted himself off of you to hover and then moved up to kiss you. It was sweet, smiling, warm faces basically pressed together. Everything still feels surreal, how mundane life is right now for him considering even just two years ago the kind of mess he got himself into. That how his life looked doomed after that moment, and yet here he was.

“I have this new track in the works.” He broke off the kiss and hovered over you with his hooded eyes and a smirk so sleazy, it always made you wonder about your life choices. “Oh, am I hearing it?” You raised your brows at him, and his smirk only widened into a half smile.

“Nope. You're getting on it.” Which basically translates to, ‘I am about to make you moan, and the recording is going into the track.’ You threw your head back into the couch as you tried to push him away and groaned in annoyance. Which was not much avail to you when, despite your efforts, he nuzzled his face in your neck and started leaving a trail of kisses from the base of your neck to your jaw, then up to your lips. And when his lips met yours, a small moan just absentmindedly left your lips as his lips slotted with yours. Suguru’s lips stretched into a big smile while his eyes remained closed, and he continued kissing you until he stopped to murmur into your mouth.

“Ooh. Save all of that for the track.”

FIND MORE OF MY WORKS HERE II FIND MORE ABOUT MUSICIAN GETO

a/n: dividers by @/hyuneskkami

you can think about this as the epilogue to the musician geto au :3c which will take time. I have not graduated yet lol fuck lab exams and i am brainrotted by prince geto soooooo. you can assume what the scandal may beeeee you will be finding that and more band dynamics in the fic!

[deepspace-scenarios]

Hi! I just saw a girl do this on tiktok on her actual husband so I thought, what about the Lads men’s reactions too lol. Mc wearing a backless nightgown (it’s like just straps in the back so your ass would be fully exposed but it’s a normal nightgown infront so it’s kind of unexpected when you turn around)

[scenario/drabble] less = more

Summary: LIs react when you surprise them with a spicy nightgown. Some are flustered, some take it in stride, but all of them love it (a bit too much).

Genre: fluff, TW: Suggestiveness (spicy but still borderline sfw)

SYLUS

You slip into the nightgown, the silk soft and cool against your front as you wait in the dim bedroom, purposely angling yourself slightly away from the door so he'd have a glimpse of your back when he enters the room.

Well, probably more than a glimpse since the nightgown has a total of five spaghetti straps making up the entire fabric of the back panel.

Sylus steps inside, leather jacket in the crook of his elbow. Then he freezes, his crimson eyes dragging down your body slowly. "Ah. This is why you texted me about ‘going to bed early’."

He prowls closer, tracing a finger along the straps at your back, from the top of your spine slowly downwards. His smirk grows when he hears your breath hitch, and his hand doesn't stop trailing down until he reaches the hem of the dress.

"Saw the transaction on my card. Thought you’d bought some jewellery, but this is a far more interesting choice."

His palm settles on your waist, possessive yet still. "Do you want me to ruin you in this?"

His low voice sends a hot, sharp curl of desire through you, and you fight the instinct to let out a whimper.

“Hm,” You say with faux bravado as you run a finger along the collar of his shirt, knowing full well that he can see right through your act. But you know he'll gladly play along, so you slide your finger down his chest. “You can surprise me, Mr Boss-Man,”

He chuckles as he leans down. When his teeth graze your shoulder, you finally, finally let out a shaky gasp.

"Good. Because I will."

_____

XAVIER

The fight sequence in the movie is still playing in the background when you return from your "bathroom break”, now in a gauzy blue nightgown instead of your loungewear.

“Xavi, look!” You twirl around, turning to strut to the end of the living room like a model would. You pause at the curtains, turning to face him again.

Xavier blinks, his blue eyes widening at the barely-there back of your nightgown.

"That’s… not fair," he breathes, setting the remote down with shaky hands.

You wink playfully at him, ducking behind the curtains- but you see him surge up before the heavy fabric blocks your view. In less than a blink, he's right in front of you and backing you against the window.

"Hiding from me now? I thought you wanted something from me," His voice is rough, lips skimming your jaw.

"Do you want the whole city to see?" He asks, hands bracketing your hips. The glass is cool against your back, his body searing in contrast.

He nips your earlobe, then presses his lips the pulse point along your neck.

“Xavi-” you gasp, gripping his arms.

"Choose. Or else I'm not going to wait any longer."

_____

ZAYNE

Zayne steps out of the shower, towel wrapped around his waist.

He almost jumps when he sees you sitting on the edge of the bed, back turned towards him with the flimsy, open back of the nightgown on full display.

"I-" He turns abruptly, clearing his throat. "My love, I thought the surprise you mentioned was about the dinner reservation."

You turn to look at him, letting the straps catch the light.

"A harmless misunderstanding, Zaynie,” you tease, kicking your feet almost innocently as you take in his flushed complexion. “To make it even… it's your turn to surprise me,"

For a heartbeat, he hesitates. Then he crosses the room in a few quick strides and pulls you up against his chest, his mouth crashing onto yours.

"Your invitation," he growls, pressing his forehead on yours as he shuts his eyes, grappling with composure that's already slipping away fast. "Is dangerous."

You melt against him when his hand skims up from the back of your thighs, all the way up to your back.

“Exclusively for you,” you murmur, reaching up to brush your thumb across his pink cheek and feeling him groan softly.

“I can't believe a few strings makes you even harder to resist,” he breathes, holding you close as he toys with the narrow straps.

“Then don't,”

The words barely leave your lips before he shifts, lowering you onto the mattress as he eyes you with unmasked hunger. "Now. I won't let this invitation go to waste,”

_____

RAFAYEL

Rafayel, being engrossed in sketching his draft, almost doesn't notice the change of your clothes. When he hears you pad closer, he looks up.

"Wha-? What is this?!" He leaps from his stool, circling you like a curator appraising a statue.

“Surprised?” You ask, twirling for him.

His eyes darken the moment he sees the back of the dress. "Come closer, cutie," He says, the playfulness gone from his voice.

He studies you with a gaze intense enough to make you squirm. His fingers glide along the straps, and he hums in approval.

"Mm. Though I’d prefer it pooled at your feet." When you swat his hand, he grins.

"What? An artist appreciates his muse." His arms wrap around you, holding you against him.

“That defeats the point of this dress!” You pout.

“I don't know, cutie,” he says, leaning in to nip at your ear. “Is this a ploy to torture me by making me paint you dressed like this for hours, instead of doing what I want?”

“I had this dress on for less than five minutes,” you protest, gasping when his hands slide down to your hips before squeezing. “Raf!”

“Just showing you what I wanna do, cutie,” he smirks. “And-”

He carries you to his sofa, easily caging you in with his body on top of yours. "-I reaaally don't mind if you wanna keep the dress on.”

_____

CALEB

The tweezers almost crush the tail of Caleb’s model plane when he looks up.

"Huh- what-" His purple eyes are wide as he struggles to process the scene before him- you, clad in a patch of fabric barely qualifying as a nightgown.

You sashay to the sofa, trailing a finger down his chest. "Do you like it?"

He exhales sharply, then hauls you onto his lap, a kiss branding your lips.

“Who else knows you bought this?” He questions, voice rough as he watches you, eyes dark with desire.

“Caleb-”

“Answer me,” he pulls you closer to him, your hips slotting against his. You gasp when he pushes the hem of the dress up, fingers circling your skin tenderly, the sudden change in pressure maddening.

“Nobody,” you breathe, “Just- just you,”

“Good. Good girl,” he drawls, shifting to hold you tighter. His lips slide against yours again, the kiss deeper this time, and you feel him press up against you between your thighs.

“God, pips, I'm gonna lose it because of this dress,” His hands fist the flimsy fabric. "Off. Now."

Edit/note: Ty for the prompt from the anon this was so fun to write!! First post thats a little more spicier than the prev posts hehe alsooo loved writing Xavier's bc I could finally write something adjacent to nightly rendevous hehe AND THANKS FOR READING!!! <33 Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated as always

✨️

[awrkive]

NEIGHBOR BLUNDER, pt. 6 — JJK (m.)

in hindsight, you should have seen it coming. had always known your luck – or lack of it, thereof – and the universe's meticulous plan of your downfall made it easy for you to get tangled up in a series of unfortunate events, which presents itself as the neighbor that lives across from you, jeon jungkook.

PAIRING jungkook x (fem) reader

GENRE r18+ (fluff, angst, smut) MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

CHAPTER WORD COUNT 14.6k

CHAPTER WARNINGS/MISC neighbor!jk, bsf!jimin, accountant!oc, software engineer!jk, jk and jimin are chaebols lol, minjoon boyfriends <<<<3, as usual, super dreamy jk 😞 arguments,, lowkey,, emotional constipation like always, kinda angsty if u squint. Also jungkook kinda abuses the fuck out of 23278648 pet names available in the world even eye laughed... SPOILER AHEAD DONT READ IF U DONT WANNA KNOW [ explicit sexual content: mature language, very indulgent bl*wjob scene lmfao, a teeny tiny bit of c*mplay, fing*ring, c*nniling*s, penetr*tive s*x (p in v), c*wgirl s*x, protected s*x, multiple org*sms, jungkook has a filthy mouth 🫤😑😑 ]

NOTES i dont have anything to say except enjoyyy!! let me know your thoughts in my inbox gimme ur theories gimme ur keeb smashes gimme ur 2746th "i want nb jk so bad" 🤓☝🏼💓💓

[ SERIES MASTERLIST ] // [ MAIN MASTERLIST ]

You like to think of yourself as a reasonable person. You make okay decisions, even though it takes you a few weeks and a thousand debriefs. You can’t buy something off the rack without going through 10-year-old posts on Reddit, and you certainly are very keen with people you let into your life – given your two to three friends. 

The point is, while you may be a bit of a klutz, you take your adult life kind of seriously, and especially your relationships.

You were so sure that what happened back at the motel with Jungkook when you were stranded was going to be this whole… one-time-thing. That you both were just horny, stuck in a weird situation, just heat-of-the-moment lapse in judgment, and afterwards he would tell you to forget about it. And if he did, you’d accept it. It might crush you a little bit inside, but you know you’ll be fine to keep going on with your life even though that might have been the best orgasm you’ve had since forever and you’d like to experience it again.

What surprised you the most wasn’t that it happened. It was how you felt the next morning. 

There was no regret. 

When you opened your eyes – bleary and barely awake because of the little hours you got in – Jungkook wasn’t in bed. He was coming back through the door with a bag of pastries and coffee from what you assumed was the local bakery. He told you everything was handled, his car and your stuff, and you could take your time getting ready. You’d head back once you were set.

You fell asleep again on the ride home. Jungkook walked you to your apartment and bid you a kind smile when you said goodbye. 

And nothing happened after. No awkward texts. No slow fade. And you were just so ready for the worst thing to happen. Like him suddenly going MIA on you or something… 

But now it’s the day after, and you’re together again in his car after he texted you to ride with him on the way home after work – cramped up in the driver’s seat with you on his lap.

Frantically making out. 

“Oh,” you let out a soft moan, carding your fingers through Jungkook’s hair, not even caring about how you’re messing up his hairdo.

A needy, impatient sort of heat builds between you two. His mouth is on yours, hands exploring like he couldn’t decide where to start. Another moan slips out from you he cups the swell of your ass through your trousers, and a rush of frustration bubbles up in your chest.  

God, why didn’t you wear a skirt?

“You smell good,” Jungkook murmurs into your neck, kissing a slow trail up to your jaw before groaning as you rock against him, grinding against the growing bulge pressing up through his slacks. 

“Y-yeah?” you mumble, tugging at his tie and popping open the first three buttons of his shirt. Your fingers graze his chest, warm and solid and stupidly inviting. 

“This is the scent you wore back at the party.” He untucks your blouse from your waistband, his warm hands sending shivers down your spine when they travel across the span of your back.

Yeah. And also the scent you exclusively use for special, big occasions. Because in the true broke girl tradition, there’s always that unreasonably priced perfume you keep in your vanity while you spritz the hell out of the cheap one. You’ve only used it a total of ten times ever since you bought it a month ago, the eleventh time being now… which is just a regular day in the office.

But being in Jungkook’s lap and making out with him in his car is not regular day in the office. So maybe you lucked out on spraying that expensive perfume �� totally because it was just there on your vanity, by the way – and not because you were expecting something to happen today.

Totally.

“Uh, yeah,” you shift on his lap. “It was on sale.” 

Which is probably information he did not need and a total bald-faced lie. 

He hums, kisses dropping down to your sternum, hands getting heavier under your clothes. You take his face in your hands again to press your mouth on him, your moan getting swallowed by his eager reciprocity, both in the movement of his tongue inside your mouth and his erection that’s making you wet your panties as you rock your hips against him. 

Jungkook’s fingers trace the cups of your bra. “Can I?” He asks, mouth agape. You don’t even know what he meant, you just nod. A second later and he’s squeezing your breasts in his palms.

“S-so you wanted to drive me home for this?” you arch your brow at him playfully, grinding against his lap and relishing in the warmth of his hands on your chest. God, you wish he’d do something about your bra soon. 

Jungkook chuckles, nipping your jaw. “No. I wanted to ask you to come over to my place to have dinner.”

As if that triggered your intestines, your stomach suddenly growls – quite loudly in the confined space of his car and around the quiet parking lot of the building. 

Jungkook freezes, staring at you. 

You shut your eyes close in embarrassment, groaning. “Ugh, sorry. I haven’t eaten at all today and you mentioning dinner is making me remember that.” 

“Oh…”

Jungkook reluctantly watches you as you carefully leave his lap, completely halting your previous activity. He grips your hand as he helps you transfer to the passenger’s seat, looking at you as you put your hair up and tuck your shirt.

He adjusts uncomfortably in his seat, clearing his throat. You can’t help but eye the very obvious outline of his dick in his pants, and it’s very huge, alright, making you grin. 

“I hope that’s not gonna be a problem.” 

Jungkook takes in the mischief in your eyes and scoffs playfully, shaking his head as he starts the ignition to drive. 

You spend about thirty minutes in the shower – which is definitely not at all your usual routine – but it did the job. You smell like raspberries now, and the outfit you pulled on afterwards looks casual enough for Jungkook not to suspect what’s going on underneath. Just an oversized shirt and pajama pants. Innocent. Normal. 

But you have on a lacy pair of white thong… just in case something does happen tonight. At least you’re the least bit prepared… 

When you look at your phone, it’s already 10:15pm, and Jungkook told you to be over at his place at 10:20. You check yourself in the mirror one last time and head straight to the kitchen where you grab the plastic container of a batch of choco-chip cookies you baked the second he dropped you off earlier.

You’ve perfected the recipe now, you’re sure of it. 

But just as you make a beeline for your door, a sudden warmth gushes between your thighs.

An all too familiar feeling by now. 

Oh no.

You dash to the bathroom, tug your pajama pants down, slide off your panties and – yep. There it is. A bright red stain against the flimsy white fabric that went right through the pants.

“Goddamn it,” you mutter, frowning. Of all the nights to get your period, of course it had to be this one.

You had showered. Prepped. Put on the g-string. And you were this close to maybe – possibly – having sex with Jungkook. You hadn’t said anything about it, not outright, but come on. That impulsive make-out session in the car earlier? The way he kept adjusting himself? The tension practically humming between you?

Yeah, something was definitely going to happen.

Well, probably not anymore.

Grumbling, you toss your pants into the laundry and rummage through your cabinet for a pad. You move like you’re trudging through emotional mud, begrudgingly pulling on a clean pair of a less sexier granny panties and fresh bottoms.

So much for that.

It’s not like you had any of this figured out anyway. No “so, what happened” talk, no conversations about the night at the motel or whatever is… happening now. And now your uterus has decided to sabotage you. Amazing. 

Still, cookies in hand and spirits only mildly deflated, you head out of your apartment and make your way to Jungkook’s porch. 

He opens the door on the second buzz, greeting you with a grin that makes your stomach flip. Even more so when you realize he’s wearing sweatpants. Grey sweatpants. Ugh. This man.

“Hi.” 

“Hey, come in,” Jungkook says, eyeing the plastic in your hand. “What’s that?” 

“Cookies.” you bring it up to your chest. “I made them real quick so it’s not a lot. But I can assure you it’s better now and you definitely won’t get food poison.” 

He chuckles, leading the way to his living area. “You say that as if I got food poisoning the first time.” 

“Maybe you did and you just didn’t tell me.” 

He shakes his head, still smiling. “You know you didn’t have to bring something, right?” 

“Uh-huh.,” you mutter, following him in, “but since you’re making dinner, I thought I could take care of dessert.” 

The moment the words leave your mouth, your face scrunch up. 

Jungkook pauses just long enough to glance back at you, amused, before shaking his head again with another soft laugh. 

What? What did he think you meant by that? Geez… 

Comfortable silence settles between you, the soft clinking of wine glasses and the distant narration of some random BBC documentary filling the space. You teased Jungkook again about his massive TV – said the faces look so big that it’s just kind of funny – but really, it’s kind of cute the way his ears flush red when he gets shy talking about his stuff. 

You talk. About work, mostly. Jungkook’s been pulling longer shifts, taking on more than usual. You tell him about your days have been the same lately, just mindless repetition. He compliments the cookies you brought, and after a bit of coaxing, admits the first batch you made for him weeks ago were kind of bad. You laugh and pretend to be offended.

It was nice. 

Somehow, you talk about everything and nothing. Not once either of you mentioned the motel. Not the kiss in the parking lot. Not even a vague nod to the tension that’s been following you around like a ghost. 

And maybe that’s the problem.

It feels like Jungkook’s waiting for you to jump the gun first. But how the hell are you supposed to do that? How do you casually bring up the fact that he kissed you like he meant it? How exactly are you going to talk about the night you shared a kiss with the man you think you’ve liked for so many weeks now? How are you going to talk about how he made you orgasm to sleep because it was the best you've ever had since and it was so much better than the scenarios you’ve made up in your head? And god, those scenarios didn’t even live up to the very real thing. 

You want to bring it up. God, you need to. Not because you’re hopeful that this night would lead to something – but because you just need to know if he would want to do that again sometime.

But something in you is scared that Jungkook will suddenly speak up and tell you the night was a mistake and you both should get over it.

But you also know that kiss in the parking lot must’ve meant something. The way you just jumped at each other like you weren't in a public space and Jungkook not minding one bit must’ve meant that he wanted it too.

That maybe, just like you, he can’t help but notice the thick tension up in the air as you sit on the couch so close to each other, his familiar scent overwhelming your senses, and the way he looks so cozy in his white shirt and… grey sweatpants. Ugh. You swear you weren’t going to pay any attention to it as soon as he opened that door, but how could you not when he just looks way too effortlessly good and you know exactly what it's hiding–

“You want some more?” 

Your thoughts are cut short when Jungkook suddenly speaks, looking at your wine glass. 

“Uh…” you glance at the clock. “No, I should probably get going. It’s almost 11. I have work tomorrow– we have work tomorrow,” you chuckle awkwardly, glancing at the wall clock across the room. 

Just like that, you go back to your shell again, overwhelmed by your anxiety and fear of rejection. 

But for a brief second, Jungkook looks disappointed by your response, although he’s quick to wipe that off with a smile. 

“Okay. I’ll walk you out.”

Okay. Well maybe you didn’t really want him to say that at all. 

Hiding your disappointment this time, you stand up from the seat and let Jungkook talk you into leaving the wine glasses on the coffee table as opposed to bringing it to the kitchen yourself, as Jungkook insisted he’ll take care of it once you leave. 

Jungkook’s hand lingers on your lower back as you stand by his door, ready to say goodbye. 

“Thanks for the dinner.” you say quietly.

“You’re welcome,” Jungkook smiles. “We can do this again sometime.” 

“Sure. Why not?” 

“Alright. See you tomorrow, then?” 

You halt your steps, lips curling into a half-smile. “That flatters me.” 

Jungkook leans on the doorframe, crossing his arms across his chest. “I was hoping so.” 

You bite back a grin, nod, turning to leave. But…

“__—”

“Jungkook—”

Your head snaps quickly to his direction, and you both stare at each other in surprise. Jungkook’s gaze melts into a soft look.

“You first.” 

“No, you first.” 

“___,” he says with a chuckle, coaxing. 

You take a deep breath, bracing yourself. 

Just take the chance, something in your head tells you. 

And you took the bait. 

“This is going to sound incredibly stupid,” you start, voice low and hesitant. “but what happened back at the motel — I’m not sure if we’re allowed to talk about that again — but we kind of kissed this afternoon and I… I don’t know what that meant. I guess what I’m trying to say is… I wanna do it again sometime. If you’re willing,” you voice wavers, trying to look into his eyes but the weight of your words crawl deep in your skin it makes you scared to even make eye contact. “But if you’re not, then that’s totally fine. We can forget it happened.” 

Silence stretched for a beat too long. Panic starts to rise in your chest – until Jungkook steps forward.

“If I’m willing?” He echoes, blinking like he’s not sure he heard you right. 

You nod, wary. “Y-yeah…?” 

He steps closer, and your breath catches. 

“Do you know how much I’ve thought about you since then?” He takes a tentative touch to your hips, and when you don’t say a thing or make a move to pry him off, Jungkook takes a hold of you to pull you closer, making you gasp quietly. “Everytime I close my eyes, all I can think about is how I’ve held these hips as I licked you, kissed you, and touched you. I’ve never been one to give in to my wants as easy as the way you made me when we walked back to my car this afternoon because all I wanted to do was to have a taste of you again, even though I would’ve liked for us to talk first. That means I can’t have enough,” Jungkook studies your face as he leans down, gaze so full of want, but there’s a certain control under his hold. It makes your breath hitch.

“And you want to know if I’m willing?” Jungkook tacks on, lifting his hand to caress your cheek, gaze dropping from your eyes to your lips. You anticipate his next words, but when he presses you closer – that’s when you feel it. The hard-on he’s sporting under the grey sweatpants you’ve been fantasizing about ever since you walked in on his apartment.  

“Oh…” you gasp, reaching for his shoulder as you feel your knees slightly buckling. 

Then, Jungkook chuckles, amused. But it’s dark and rich, and his boner is still very much pressing to your stomach. 

In the heat of the moment, you stand on your tippy toes and kiss Jungkook. 

He seems to be surprised at it first, but his arms slowly make their way around you to hold you as you tighten yours around his neck, letting out a soft moan when his tongue prods in. 

You stumble inside, Jungkook walking you back inside his apartment all the while not breaking the kiss, and the next thing you know, he’s kicking off the door shut, hands travelling down to your legs to carry you across his apartment. 

You yelp at the sudden way your feet get lifted off the ground, but Jungkook carries you with a certain grace as if you’re nothing but paperweight – hot tongue swirling around your mouth like kissing you was a lifeline. 

He lays you down gently on the couch, trailing kisses along your jaw. When you grab at the hem of his shirt, he sits back to quickly rid himself off the material. 

You bite on your bottom lip as soon as you see what’s on display. Wide chest, narrow waist, toned abdomen, and sculpted arms with ink. You would’ve liked to admire it more but Jungkook quickly goes back to kissing you after taking off his shirt, hands roaming all over your body as if he can’t quite decide where to put it at all. Then, he kneels in between your spread legs, slowly settling himself down on the floorboards. You watch with half-lidded eyes as his lips leave trail kisses down your neck to your sternum, until his hands slide your top off your stomach, kissing the exposed skin. 

Your hands settle on his soft locks, where you admire the way he moves down your body, huge hands splayed on your skin, making you ache in between your legs.

Your eyes blow out as you remember exactly what’s in between your legs. 

Fuck. 

Before Jungkook can kiss you there, you grab at his shoulders. “Jungkook,” 

He looks up quickly, fringe going in different directions, biceps unconsciously flexing at your touch. “Hm?” 

Even though it pains you, you tell him, “We can’t tonight…” 

“Ah, that’s alright,” He looks up at you in genuine concern. “You’re not feeling okay tonight?” 

You shake your head. “No… that’s not it,” You make a face, feeling annoyed all over again. God. Hot sex was on the table. And your period just ruined it. “I got my period. My cycle usually starts at the end of the month.” 

Jungkook nods in realization, squeezing your hips in understanding.

“Sorry, then. Should I get you something? I think I may have ice cream in the fridge.” He raises a brow, eyes drifting off to his kitchen. 

You take his cheek, grabbing his jaw gently to make him look at you. 

“Actually… I was thinking we don’t have to stop.” 

His eyes may have lightened up, and Jungkook takes your wrist to press a kiss to the side of your hand. 

“Yeah, I don’t really mind as long as you’re comfortable with it. We’ll put on a towel— okay, I can see on your face that’s not what you meant.” 

“No…? I was thinking I’ll give you a blowjob instead.” 

“Ah…” Jungkook nods again. “Are you sure? Don’t you have cramps?” 

You chuckle. “Not yet. It’ll kick in on the second day,” You nudge him with your foot. “Come on up here.” 

“You’re sure? We don’t need to do anything, baby,” 

Baby. God. That nickname had always been so generic but there’s something about the way it rolls off Jungkook's tongue. 

“I’m sure.” 

Jungkook gives you one of his million dollar smiles and kisses his way back up until your lips meet again. 

“Can I?” You nod when Jungkook tugs at your shirt. With your permission, he slides your top off, hissing at the sight of your bra-cladded chest. 

He goes down to lick your nipple through the material, and you grab his hair when you feel him give you a slightly harsh nip. He licks it again, as if offering some sort of silent apology. 

When he pulls the cups down, that’s when you push him to the side making him fall to the couch, and you take that time to kneel down this time in between his spread legs. 

“Put this on your knees first.” Jungkook hands you the throw pillow on the couch. You take them and fluff them under your knees, and when you finish doing that, you attend to Jungkook’s very taunting grey sweatpants, tugging it off him. He helps you slide the pants off together with his boxers – and you have to fight the urge to take it slow when his hard cock springs free. 

You’ve seen it before, have held it – but those moments felt so brief that they almost didn’t feel real. So when you see it up-close, so girthy and standing tall against his abdomen with the angry red tip slightly leaking, your breath gets caught up in your throat. 

“Fuck,” Jungkook lets out a low groan when you begin teasing kisses to his thighs.

His gorgeous, thick thighs.

God… you wonder how it would tense up with your feet resting on them as you bounce up and down on his huge cock. 

But you watch the way they clench when your lips get nearer to where he aches; watch as they tense under your touch when you place your hands there. And you watch Jungkook – most especially – as he looks down at you with hooded eyes, dark with want, his chest heaving under the tension. 

“Is this what you want?” You ask, blinking at him meekly. His mouth opens to speak, but you don’t let him say another word as you let a glob of saliva fall down to the crown of his cock. You adjust your position in between his thighs, getting more comfortable but also pushing your ass out as you wrap your hand around the base. 

Jungkook hisses when you twist your hand, gingerly spreading the wetness of your saliva around him. He lets his back fall to the back of the couch with a light thud, and you smirk when you see his abs clench. 

“You’re killing me here, __. Don’t tease.” 

You give him a non-committal hum. You meant to tease, but touching him like this feels like all your thoughts have suddenly gone to mush, and you’re left with only want – the want to pleasure him, to get him to let out those little huffs and grunts like when you two kissed…

You languidly move your hand around his shaft, humming at the way his tip oozes out more wetness which makes it easier for you to stroke him. You can’t help but watch in fascination as he seems to continue to grow around you. So hard and veiny… almost needy, the way he breathes heavily above you.

“Baby, fuck… you’re so pretty, god—” Jungkook’s words get cut off when you lean down to close your lips around the head, sucking at the softer tip before you take more of his length. “F-fuck…” Jungkook rasps, fingers gathering your hair in a makeshift ponytail when you start bobbing your head up and down.

He feels big. Warm. But you smile to yourself when Jungkook shifts on the couch at the sensation. It felt good to have him squirming like that beneath your touch, to have him keening like this. 

Gripping the base, you twist your fingers around the remaining length you couldn’t put in your mouth, jacking him off. From there, you start picking up your pace until Jungkook’s a panting mess. You’ve never pegged him as the type to be so… vocal. But it felt good, and at this point, you just want to see him let go of himself, even as he grips your hair tighter by every second that passes. It didn’t hurt enough to be uncomfortable, the force was just right – and it felt like he’s holding on to every muscle of his to not use too much force on your head by the way you can feel his other hand hovering over your hair. 

“Ah, __… baby, shit. Yeah, you’re taking my cock so well– shit…”

You pump him faster, and every now and then, you would suck at the tip gingerly, kiss the veins around his rock hard dick, roam with your tongue, and test the waters and massage his balls. Soft groans escape past his lips, hips arching off the couch.

“Shit— baby, fuck,” 

You hum, pleased with that. Your tongue teases the underside of his cock with every downstroke, just to hear him swear. You lick off the glistening juice off the head, lick around the ridge, and tighten your grip around the base, sinking your mouth up and down faster.

“God, your mouth is–aghh– Jesus fuck baby I’m gonna–” 

You slurp noisily around his cock as you try to take him deeper – and at one point you actually feel him hitting the back of your throat but you were careful enough to adjust your angle and continue to suck him up and down. Jungkook’s gasps increase in speed and pitch, and you can feel him trying to get you off him when he tries to pull your face away from his lap. 

“Baby, you gotta–” 

But you don’t even let him finish that thought when you grip his thigh with your other hand, sucking his head that gets him keening again.

“Shit, shit, shit __ I’m going to– f-fuuuck,”

Jungkook shoots his hot cum in your mouth, and you didn’t really expect it to be so… much. The first wave felt heavy, but as his thighs spasm, his dick continues to squirt some more, and you open your mouth to catch them all. 

“Fuck.” 

You pull back with a wet pop, opening your eyes to meet Jungkook’s stare. Your fingers are still around his length when you lick around your lips, noting the way his eyes darken at the sight of you in front of him like this – kneeling in between his legs and licking his cum. 

His chest heaves up and down, and he looks like he was about to say something when you suddenly slack your jaw to present your mouth to him – your mouth that’s now painted white with his cum. He watches you carefully as you close your eyes and swallow.

“Jesus.” 

“Didn’t know you were religious like that.” you say as soon as everything’s gone in your mouth, giving him a cheeky smile. It’s a bit salty, not terrible, though you kind of expected that.

When you look at Jungkook, his mouth opens and closes like fish in water. You beat him to it when you rise, crawling up on his chest to press your lips to his. 

You realize he might be one of those guys who didn't like it very much when their partners kissed them on the mouth right after giving them a blowjob – but Jungkook only slides his arm around your waist, deepening the kiss, dipping his tongue in your mouth until you’re settled on his lap again. 

“You’re a fucking dream.” Jungkook says before kissing you again. 

You giggle in his mouth, pushing him away slightly. His eyebrows knit in confusion, but he doesn't really look like he’s processing anything. 

“You know I realized something about you,” you plant a sweet kiss on the side of his lips. “You don’t cuss at all, but you do it a lot during sex.” 

Jungkook’s expression contorts into a frown, as if that was news to him. “Do I?” 

You chuckle. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t know that–” then as if cutting off his own thoughts, he dives in for a kiss again. He pulls away for a second, caressing your cheek and thumbing your jaw before staring at you. “God, you’re gorgeous. Pretty girl.” 

“Thanks.” 

“I think my brain’s broken right now. I don’t have coherent thoughts.” 

That makes you laugh. You pat his chest and notice the way Jungkook reluctantly lets you get off his lap, watching with hooded eyes as you rise to your feet. 

“Well, I’ll have to get going. It’s—” you glance at the wall clock. “almost 12.”

Jungkook takes your wrist, and you have to be very brave to not look at his lap because he still hasn’t pulled up his pants yet and his dick is still very much on display. And you weren’t really kidding about having to go because you do have an early day tomorrow. 

“Do you really have to go?” 

You pout. “I have to.” 

He sighs as if that disappointed him. “Okay… let me walk you out.” 

Jungkook – finally – pulls his pants up, brushing his fingers through his hair as he rises to his feet. He doesn’t bother putting on his shirt, though, and you don’t comment on it, figuring he’d stay inside anyway.

But when you see him slipping into his slides to follow you out, you press a hand lightly to his bare abdomen and laugh. “Hey, it’s literally, like five steps away. Go back inside.”

He pauses, brows furrowing in slight confusion before glancing down at himself. “Let me just grab my shirt, then—”

That makes you giggle. “Brain still broken?” 

“I think so…” he trails off then looks at you. “Hey, come here,” he doesn’t wait for you to do so though, just reaches for you to pull you by the waist, pressing you close to him. He leans down and gives you a slow kiss. You could actually feel air being taken away from you when he pulls away, his smile as gentle as the hand that rubs your back. “Thank you, and good night. See you tomorrow?” 

You nod, feeling your cheeks flush. 

“Okay. Night. And see you tomorrow.” 

With a small wave, you turn toward your apartment, not daring to glance back as you head to the door. But you can feel his gaze on you, watching as you slip inside. 

It felt like Jungkook wanted you to stay longer…

But the ache in between your thighs was starting to get uncomfortable, and honestly, you really needed to change your pad. 

Because the wetness there? Yeah, it definitely wasn’t just your period.

“So… is my laptop dying or…?” 

“For the third time; no, your laptop is not dying,” Jungkook gives you a playful shake of his head. “It’s just laggy because you watch a lot of porn on it and you turned off your antivirus for some reason.” 

You gasp. A dramatic one. 

You give Jungkook a scandalous look before sitting down on the couch with him, peeking over what he’s doing on your device. Frankly, you don’t like it when people touch your things – especially your gadgets – because you had a lot of private stuff in them. But thirty minutes ago, your laptop randomly shut down while you had been doing some excel spreadsheets. In a weird coincidence, Jungkook called you the same time it happened. So you told him about it, and he offered to swing by and take a look. He was a tech guy, after all… and anyway, getting it fixed at some shop would have been expensive. 

“I don’t watch porn!” you protest, glaring at him. 

Jungkook just blinks at you, looking unconvinced. Then he shrugs. “Okay.” 

“And what do you mean antivirus? I don’t even know I have one,” you mumble, placing the bowl of freshly cut watermelon on the coffee table. You fold your legs underneath you and inch closer to see what he’s actually doing. He’s been at it for a few minutes now, but all you see are lines of text and windows you can’t even pretend to understand.

“Yes, you do. And you did turn it off,” he says, gesturing at the screen. It’s full of stuff that might as well be in a foreign language. “These are malware. See this? Classic spyware script. You probably clicked on one of those fake play buttons with a hot singles ad or something.”

You give him a baleful look. He snorts.

“You’re not funny. And I watch porn on twitter like a normal person– okay sometimes maybe I do watch on shady websites but why do you even know that? And why are you interested in my porn.” 

“You watch porn on twitter?”

“Mostly, yeah.”

“Hm. Interesting,” he nods and turns to the screen again. “Well, I wanna know what you like.” 

You almost fall off the sofa. “Like you want me to give you a list of porn accounts?” 

Jungkook actually laughs at that. “What? No. I mean, I'm interested in the porn you like.” 

Oh.

“Uhm, I don’t particularly like anything,” you say, although maybe you immediately think of those videos where the woman is on the guy’s lap and he fingers her hard in front of the camera – but other than that, not really. You aren’t some freakazoid about porn. Most of the time, you were fine getting off with pure imagination. “I don’t like BDSM though, I think.” 

Jungkook nods, but his eyes are not really on you and instead focused on your laptop as he does things. “Hmm.” 

Your head snaps in his direction. “What do you mean, hmm?” 

Jungkook meets your stare. “What?” 

You study his face, narrowing your eyes. But he just looks at you in confusion, although there’s a little smile tugging at his lips. You drop it anyway, reaching for the watermelon cuts on the coffee table and start eating them as you watch whatever magic Jungkook is doing on your device.

“Anyway, I pirate a lot of movies so there’s that.” You thought that would be helpful to share. Those sites do have a lot of those pop-up ads, and you’d really rather endure that than have some big fuckass streaming corporation steal from you every month. 

“I know, I’m just teasing about the porn websites,” Jungkook chuckles when you glare at him. “I could share my streaming accounts with you. I think I have everything.” 

Your eyes light up almost instantly, but then you manage to catch yourself. 

“Uh, no, you don’t really need to do that…” 

He hums, goes back to your laptop. You don’t think about it too much when you pick up a watermelon and hover it over his mouth. Jungkook doesn’t hesitate to eat it off your finger, and you don’t  expect the way he sucks the juices off, tongue swirling around your digit while looking into your eyes. It feels like the whole moment took a minute, but in reality it was really only a few seconds, and Jungkook’s back to doing his thing on your laptop. 

Oh. 

Oh… okay. Well. 

You feel the blood rush to your cheeks as you drop your hand to your side, absentmindedly eating your watermelon bites.

Ugh. When will your period end?! Given, it’s only really day two, and you probably have two or three more days to go but ugh… 

Your thoughts are interrupted when Jungkook suddenly speaks, rising to his feet. 

“All done. I installed a better antivirus, and I logged in my streaming accounts so you don’t get malware again. Also turned off some useless background programs because you had too many running– and I recovered your excel file,” he says, and you give him a grateful smile as you take your laptop and bring it to your chest like it’s your baby. Jungkook chuckles at the sight. “I have to go to the toilet, though. Want to order in and watch something when I’m back?”

“Yeah, sure! Toilet’s over there,” you point to the far right direction of the apartment and watch Jungkook disappear into view to enter the bathroom. 

You’re hacking away on your laptop when a phone starts buzzing on the coffee table. 

Jungkook’s phone. 

You hesitate. You don’t want to knock on the bathroom door just to hand it to him, but you don’t feel right ignoring it either. 

The buzzing stops, and you feel relieved for all of one second when it suddenly starts again. 

You lean slightly over – not really reaching, just peeking – to see who it is. What if it’s work? What if it’s important? You could tell him about it when he comes back… 

The screen lights up with a name: Dad.

You gasp. Just a little.

The bathroom door creaks open behind you and you straighten up like you weren’t doing anything. Jungkook walks out, toweling his hands on his jeans.

“Oh, hey, someone's calling you.” 

He gives you a curious look before he crosses the room. You try not to watch too closely as he picks up his phone, but you see it; the way his brows knit together, the way his stance and tone shift when he looks back at you. 

“I need to take this real quick” He gestures to the phone. You nod.

He walks far enough that you can’t really make out the conversation, but when you take a peek to look at him, he looks so serious. You’ve only ever seen serious Jungkook when he was at work. 

A few seconds later, he returns – apologetic eyes, hand rubbing the back of his neck.

“Hey, I got called into work just now. I’m sorry we can’t have dinner tonight.” 

Oh, so you were right! It was a work thing. Still… you wonder why his dad was the one calling.

“No, it’s fine! It must be super important,” you say quickly. “Maybe we can have dinner tomorrow instead?” You say, smiling up at him brightly. 

Jungkook breaks into a smile. Then, out of nowhere, he steps closer and leans down to press a kiss to your lips. 

You’ve been doing a lot of that lately. Kissing, that is. Just this morning, he drove you to work and you made out before he even started the engine. Then later. After parking, his hands wandered a little too much before you swatted him off, gently reminding him that your breasts were feeling tender from your period.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Then just like that, Jungkook makes his way out of the apartment, and you don’t even know that you’ve been smiling like crazy until the black screen of your laptop catches your silly expression. 

You miss Jungkook. 

Okay— well. It’s just been two days, really. Well, more like today is day two. So it’s actually just been a full day. But there were no texts yesterday, and there were certainly no calls either. You haven’t seen him come out of his apartment, and you hate that you’re starting to worry. 

You were debating whether to send him a message or not when suddenly, your doorbell rings. You weren’t expecting any visitors, especially not today when it was still so early in the morning and you have to go to work soon! But maybe it was your landlord, complaining about something again…

You groan at that, snatching your bag from the counter, planning to head straight to work after dealing with whoever it is. You slide your shoes on, ready for that condescending landlord tone only to freeze when you open the door.

“Jungkook,” you gasp, acting like you’ve just seen a ghost. And he seems to think so as well, cocking his head to the side at the unusual greeting. “You’re here.” you blurt out. 

“Yeah, I went back to my place last night but only for awhile. We launched a system yesterday and something broke in production. QA didn’t catch it, so now we had to roll it—” as if he thought he was sparing you with some boring talk, he cuts himself off and smiles at you instead. “I had to work overtime. I’m sorry I missed dinner last night.”

“Eh, don’t worry. It’s not that serious. I know you're extra busy these days. Anyway, are you on the way to work?” Jungkook nods. “We should go together, then.” 

“I was just going to say that.” 

You step out of your apartment, and Jungkook waits for you to lock up before you both walk side by side down the stairs. You don’t know why but somehow, having seen him today and walking with him to his car where you’re gonna be riding in together to go to work was giving you a sense of contentment that you missed yesterday. Okay, so maybe this was a thing that was starting to grow on you. And maybe being with Jungkook genuinely makes you feel happy – giddy, for the most part. But it felt silly to have missed him when it was only really a day…

But you didn’t really want to dwell on that. It wasn’t Jungkook’s obligation to drive you to work everyday, and you certainly aren’t entitled to his undivided attention when you know exactly just how hectic his work schedule is. You couldn’t ask him to make time for you, even though you would like that.

“Oh!” Jungkook startles beside you when you suddenly halt. You look at him, wide-eyed. “Jungkook, it’s September first today!” 

Jungkook checks his phone, brows furrowed. “Yes…?” 

You eye him incredulously. “It’s your birthday!” 

At first, the words didn’t seem to register, but Jungkook slowly nods. “Ah yeah, it’s my birthday today.”

“Why do you sound so unexcited?” You pout. 

He chuckles, stepping closer to brush away a stray of hair you hadn’t even noticed had fallen across your face.

“Baby, it’s just another day.” 

You feeze at the word. It’s the first time he called you that outside of you two… fooling around. It slips naturally from his mouth in that situation, but hearing it in this very non-sexual context was kind of throwing you off-balance – because this moment wasn’t supposed to feel intimate. Not like that, anyway.

Looking away, you say, “Still. You should do something to celebrate. Oh! I think… oh…” your eyes widen at the thought of throwing him a mini-party tonight. Obviously, Jungkook doesn't make a big deal of his birthdays, based on his response. But you thought about baking him a cake. And cookies! He liked the cookies you made last time! And you were practicing cakes these days so maybe it’d be nice to make him a small one. You turn to him with hopeful eyes. “Are you free tonight?” 

Jungkook hesitates, but he smiles down at you. “Yeah, I’m free tonight. Why?” 

You grin. “You’ll have to come to my place to find out! Oh, it’s gonna be fun. Ugh, I wish we can invite Jimin…”   

You’re honestly proud of yourself for not breaking down when the piping tip you bought turns out to be the wrong one. The blue icing on your apron now looks like abstract art, and there’s enough sugar on your kitchen floor to summon an army of rants.

You just wanted the cake to be perfect. The cookies already were – but the cake, maybe not so much. And it was fine! It tasted fine! But the decorating sucked and at this point you just kind of wish Jungkook would look past the awkward lettering and appreciate the effort behind all these. 

You didn’t have much time. He texted you after work that he couldn’t drive you home. He had to stay late, which actually worked out because it gave you the extra time you needed to prepare. 

Although for the record, this wasn’t even a real surprise. You just made baked goods. And you cooked some food. And by cook you scratched off the chicken shop’s label and put it in the microwave to heat it up by the time you finished cleaning up your place since Jungkook was gonna be here by 11pm. 

Which is why, at 10:40, you rush to the shower.

When you’re done, you step in front of the mirror to check yourself out. You’ve rummaged through your closet and found an old lingerie you don’t remember ever putting on. You remember it as one of those “feel-good” purchases awhile ago. 

It’s nothing special, really. Just your usual black lace two-piece. The bra’s light and sheer, made of floral lace with thin straps that sat neatly on your shoulders. There are little pink bows too on them, which kind of made it cute. It didn’t offer much coverage, what with your nipples poking through the fabric – but that seemed to be the point. Meanwhile the panties are just as bold; crotchless, cut daringly open in the center, but softened by the same delicate lace. The set originally had garter straps and thigh-high stockings, but you thought that would be an overkill so you opted out of it. 

You cover it up with a casual white dress, spritzing on the La Belle perfume Jungkook always seems to like a little too much. 

There, everything’s done. Your period’s gone too, obviously, (day four, thank god) almost as if it knew not to ruin this night for you. 

When you head out of your bedroom, you pick your phone up from the kitchen counter to dial Jungkook’s phone. 

He usually answers on the first or second ring, but this time, he doesn’t. Wasn’t unusual or anything, given how busy he is… but you do frown when the ringing ends and there’s nothing that comes next but his voicemail.

Your frown deepens. You shift from one foot to the other, glancing at the clock. It’s past eleven now. Fifteen minutes past, to be exact. 

Jungkook’s not usually late to things.

You sigh, trudging to one of the chairs in the dining area where you prepared the food and cake for him. You also bought wine and lit up a candle.

You stare at your phone for a solid minute before you pick it up again, deciding to send Jungkook a text. 

You [11:16pm]: hey!! are you running late :> 

You chose to add the emoticon in the end so the text doesn’t feel too mysterious or broody or serious. Really, you aren’t mad, maybe a little upset now – but maybe Jungkook’s just in the middle of something… what was that again? Someone breaking in production, whatever that meant…

But the clock turns 11:25, and there is still no sign of Jungkook on your phone – and even more so on your door. 

You [11:25pm]: are you busy? sorry if im bothering you! 

Then on second thought, you added:

You [11:26pm]: oh no pls dont tell me you forgot.. 🙁

Maybe he did forget. You hadn’t reminded him of it when you talked earlier. Did you have to? He said he was free tonight, so you kind of assumed… 

You sigh again. 

The chicken was turning cold and so was the other food on the table. 

You pick up a cookie to nibble on it, thinking of why Jungkook would forget. Or why he wouldn’t text you back or return your call. 

At eleven thirty, you stand up from your seat, suddenly feeling so… so silly. Silly about the food. Silly about the cake. Silly about your dress. And most especially, you feel silly about the lingerie that’s hidden underneath. 

How silly. To plan all these in expectation of what… Jungkook’s company? 

But it was his birthday. And you wanted to throw him a party, thought it would mean something to him, even though it’s not that much. But you did go through a lot of trouble to put this all out… but he also didn’t ask you either. So really, you have no right to feel upset over him not making good on his promise. 

Wait, did he promise anything though? No, he didn’t. Not really. He just said he was free tonight. No promises. Maybe his schedule changed again and he needed to work overtime. 

You start putting away the food in the fridge, not even having the energy to eat something for dinner. You go back to your room, stripping yourself off and changing into some comfortable pajamas before throwing yourself on the bed. 

Still no texts.

It’s 11:42pm when it comes. 

You hate how fast your body reaches for your phone to see who it was, lighting up when you see Jungkook (Unit 446) on the caller ID, even more so when you answer it. 

“Hey, I got your texts. I’m so sorry, __—”

“It’s fine!” you nibble on your bottom lip as you try to contain your excitement. “Are you coming soon?” 

“I– no, ba—” you flinch involuntarily when you hear him cut himself off. You were so sure he was going to call you baby, but he corrected himself quickly. “You remember the thing I mentioned this morning? The rollback didn’t go as planned. I’m working overtime tonight again so I can’t really go…” 

“Oh…” 

“Did you plan something? It’s just my birthday, __. Maybe we can go somewhere tomorrow?” Jungkook chuckles on the other end of the line, and for the first time it didn’t make you feel giddy or whatever. 

You pick on the bed sheet before answering. “Uh, no. It’s not anything big, actually. I just made you some cookies. And ordered some food. But anyway I just ate dinner first because you took so long,” the lie rolls off your tongue easier than you expected. His laugh made you feel shitty. You know he didn’t mean anything by it – but it just made you feel so… so unimportant.

And suddenly, you want to downplay the whole thing. Because clearly, he thinks it’s no big deal.

“Hey, are you upset?” His tone shifts — gentler now.

“Ah, no. Sorry. I’m so tired and sleepy,” you fake a yawn and snuggle on the bed. “Maybe we can talk tomorrow when you’re here?” 

Tomorrow is now your least favorite word. You’ve heard it too many times from him lately. 

Jungkook doesn’t say anything for a few seconds.

Then you hear him sigh. 

“I’m sorry again, I swear I’ll make it up to you.” 

“No need to!” you tell him, making sure to say that as cheerfully as possible. Jungkook doesn’t need to. It’s not like you were dating or something for you to be upset over him bailing on you. “Really, it’s fine. Hey, I’m really, really sleepy now. Good night?” 

“Okay, sorry. Sleep well, __. Tomorrow, okay?” 

You hum, not sure if you believe that. Maybe tomorrow he’s going to have to do overtime again. Maybe tomorrow he won’t be here again.

Whatever. 

It wasn’t a big deal. 

You end the call, but before you can drop your phone onto the nightstand, you type out one last message.

You [11:45pm]: happy birthday! 

You didn’t get much sleep last night. Not like your body clock has ever been particularly reliable, 

This morning, you didn’t really think that much about it when you put the cake in a container and dropped it off at Jungkook’s door on your way down the stairs. You figured you could’ve eaten it, but you made it for him and anyway… it was his birthday and you still think he deserves a cake. He didn’t exactly seem like he was celebrating last night.

You took the bus to work. Nothing unusual, nothing exciting. Just another day dragging your limbs through the same monotonous rhythm. Your brain feels like it’s moving on autopilot by the time you tap your company ID at the building entrance and wait in line for the elevator. 

Slipping inside, you wedge yourself into a spare corner, arms crossed as the lift fills and empties floor by floor. Eventually, it’s just you and one other woman left. She steps out when the elevator dings, cradling her phone against her shoulder as she barks something stressed into the line.

Instinctively, you lean forward and press the hold button, stepping onto the side when you take notice of someone going in, only to realize it was Jungkook. 

It’s funny, really. Somehow, he only ever seems to appear when he’s the last person you’re ready to see. 

“Oh– good morning, Mr. Jeon,” you say, dipping your head in a polite little nod. The words sound awkward even to your own ears, stiff. You’ve never had to think about how to interact with him in the workplace.

Judging by the slight flicker on Jungkook’s face, he thinks it sounds weird too. But he recovers quickly, offering a faint smile as he steps in. 

You return his smile, just as polite, and inch a little further to the side – so far that your back nearly presses to the elevator wall, creating an unnecessary gap between you.

The silence is noticeable. Tense, but it’s civil at least. You glance at the floor numbers blinking overhead, half-hoping this ride doesn’t last long.

Then Jungkook shifts in your periphery. 

“Hey, about last night—”

The elevator dings. 

It’s your floor.

You step out quickly, almost too quickly, heart tapping a little faster than it should.

You don’t look back.

You didn’t expect to get a text from Jungkook that night. 

Jungkook (Unit 446) [9:37pm]: Do you wanna drive home together? 

You made a mental note to give him a reply but it’s thirty minutes later that you remembered about it.

You [10:11pm]: hey sorry I just got home

Jungkook (Unit 446) [10:14pm]: Okay Jungkook (Unit 446) [10:14pm]: Please come over tonight? I’m cooking 

You [10:16pm]: i'm not sure if I can You [10:17pm]: i’ll try to. I brought home some work :/

He doesn’t give a reply after that.

And maybe that – weirdly – made you irritated. He’d texted first, and he’d asked you over. You gave a soft no, not even a hard one, and he didn’t even try again? Just left it like that?

You sigh and close the lid of your laptop. For once, you hadn’t lied about being busy with work. It was just a few reports you figured you could finish now to make tomorrow lighter and easier. It was nothing really urgent. 

But you do feel sort of guilty about it.

Your door buzzes, and you have second thoughts whether or not you ordered dinner. 

When you open the door, it felt like deja vu.

“Jungkook.” you say, blinking.

“Are you still working?” He’s in his work clothes, though the sleeves of his button-up are slightly rolled now. It looks like he just got home not long ago.

You glance at the laptop on the coffee table. “No, I just finished…” 

“Okay, then I have a question,” Jungkook steps inside, and you unconsciously take a step back at that, looking at him curiously. He watches you carefully. “Are we okay?”

Caught off guard, you stammer when you say, “I– yeah! Sure, why wouldn’t we be?” 

He doesn’t say anything for a beat, then, “You seemed a little off this morning. I thought maybe it was about last night.” 

You try to wave it off, suddenly nervous about Jungkook being so straight-forward. Usually, men were so emotionally stunted as you are and never faced their problems head-on.

“No, I mean, it’s fine. You were probably so busy. It wasn’t a big deal.” 

“But it did kind of matter.” 

You exhale, shifting uncomfortably. “Okay, maybe I was a little upset. But it’s not like I’m mad mad.” 

“I figured,” Jungkook says, voice soft. “And I get it if you don’t want to hang out tonight, but I still wanted to try. I know I’ve flaked twice now, but I meant what I said, about making it up to you.” 

You shift your weight from one foot to the other. “With food?”

He smiles faintly. “With food. Amongst other things.” 

That earns a chuckle from you. You’re not over it – unfortunately – but something about the way he’s standing there, almost cautious, makes it hard to keep your walls all the way up. 

“So,” he asks gently. “Will you come?”

Taking a deep breath, you unintentionally look down at your socks. 

“Only if there’s wine…” you say softly. 

Jungkook’s smile spreads. “There’s wine.” 

You sigh and start toeing your slippers off. “If it’s terrible, I’m leaving in five minutes.” 

“I can live with that.” 

Inside Jungkook’s place, the lights are unusually dim, the apartment warm with the scent of garlic and something buttery. A jazz record plays at the far corner, and you only noticed then that Jungkook owned a vinyl player – which you kind of didn’t expect – you sort of pegged him as the type to not have time to listen to music. 

Meanwhile, he goes straight to the kitchen counter, where you watch him by the stove, plating food like a professional. You realized he had been cooking, and that’s why his tie was a little loose and his hair kind of a muss. 

You don’t really know what to say, so you try to break the silence with, “Uhm, wow.” 

Jungkook glances at you, mouth lifting at the corner. “I try sometimes.” 

The obvious faux humility makes you laugh. You know exactly that he knows you’re impressed by the whole thing. 

And you haven’t even eaten his food yet.

Walking in slowly to the dining area, your eyes skim over the table where there are real wine glasses, cloth napkins, and a lit candle.

“So what’s the occasion?” You ask, sitting on the chair, watching Jungkook as he heads towards your direction, bringing in the food he was preparing. You smile up at him. “Guilt?” 

He chuckles under his breath, and you’re almost glad that the joke lands.

“Maybe. Also I figured you deserve a proper dinner, made by me. Since someone went out of their way to make me one.”

You hum. “Can’t believe you stood me up on your own birthday.” 

He brings the plates over and sits across from you. “I cooked,” he says. “Try it before you decide if I’m forgiven.” 

You eye the food, a little surprise at how he mustered up a risotto with seared scallops, and of course perfectly plated. Like he’s just so good at everything he does… wait, did Jungkook go to culinary school? You’re starting to think that.

“You know how to make risotto?” 

“I know how to do a lot of things,” he meets her gaze.

Yeah, you know that was a hundred percent true…

You take a bite, careful not to let any expression slip while Jungkook watches closely, not really digging in on his own plate.

And as expected, the risotto’s annoyingly good. You didn’t doubt it from Jungkook, though. Being good at cooking was just one of the many qualities that made him so… so whatever. 

“Okay, fine. I’m mildly impressed,” you comment, sipping on the wine to hide the small smile tugging at your mouth. Your very expression contradicts your words, and you know Jungkook can see through you.

He leans back in his chair, obviously satisfied. “Mildly?”

“You still missed your birthday dinner. That knocks off some points.”

He gives you a small smile. “I really didn’t expect it to be a birthday dinner, baby.” 

You shrug off the nickname by having more bites of the risotto. You wonder if Jungkook was being deliberate when he said that, or if it was just going to be a thing between you now. 

“You didn’t ask… and well, I was going to surprise you.” Now you pout at the memories of last night again. “There was chicken.” 

Jungkook looks at you in surprise. “You cooked?”

You eye him. “Yeah, I scratched the tapes off the takeout boxes and put it in the microwave.” Jungkook laughs, the crinkles on the sides of his eyes showing. It makes you smile to see him like that. “Well,” you say eventually, “you’ve redeemed yourself a little.” 

Jungkook leans in again, riding along, “Only a little?” 

“We’ll see if there’s dessert.” 

Jungkook smirks, and you both continue to eat. 

After awhile, he glances at you. “You’re not mad,” he says, as if treading softly. “But… you were disappointed, right?” 

You shake your head. “No. I just—” You see Jungkook raising a brow. “I just thought it’d be nice. I don’t want to make a big deal about it, it was your birthday! Now I feel bad ‘cause it’s like I’m making this all about me.” you chuckle at the realization.

You look at Jungkook when you realize he’s not really laughing with you. 

You flinch a little when his hand reaches out to yours. His thumb caresses your knuckles as he tells you softly, “Hey, I know it would’ve been nice. I’m really sorry I missed it.” 

“It’s fine…” it’s a good thing Jungkook lets go immediately.

But you find yourself wanting to share with him that you baked him a cake too. About the lingerie… but that felt stupid now. Wait, did he even get the cake you left at his porch this morning? 

As if he read your mind, Jungkook suddenly rises up from his chair.

“Wait a second,” he walks past you, disappearing into the kitchen. He opens the fridge and comes back into view with a single slice of cake.

Your cake. The one you made for him. 

You stare. “Is that—?”

“You left it outside my door this morning,” he says, placing it on the table. You blink up at him, mouth slightly open. “I thought I’d save it, you know? In case you ever stopped pretending you didn’t care.” 

It felt a little pointed, but with the smile on his face you’re not really sure. 

“You really don’t play fair.” 

“Not trying to.” he says simply with a small smile before sitting again. 

“So. Is this your apology routine? Fancy dinner, smooth jazz, and then hoping I forget you bailed?” 

He smiles into his own glass of wine. “If I wanted you to forget, I wouldn’t have brought out the cake.”

You raise a brow. “You brought that out to make a point.” 

“I did.”

“You’re kind of smug about it.”

“I’m good at making points,” he says, “Especially when someone keeps insisting nothing’s wrong.” 

You frown, somehow not really liking the confirmation that he does think you’re making a big deal about this. 

“I said I was fine.” 

“You keep saying that,” his voice is quieter now, but a little edged. “But you’ve been smiling like it’s your job since you got here. And I know it’s not real.” 

You recoil at that, not expecting to be called out. The sudden shift of the atmosphere is palpable as you lean back on the couch. 

“What do you want me to say?” you let out a humorless chuckle. “That I was upset? You hurt my feelings?” 

Jungkook’s expression changes, but his voice doesn’t falter. “I wanna know how you feel.” 

You look away. “Do you want me to admit that maybe I cared more than I should?” 

“I didn’t say that.” 

“But you mean it.”

He leans forward, "I mean,” he starts, “that it wasn’t nothing. You made me dinner. You planned something for me. That’s not small. And I want you to know that I want to apologize when I make these mistakes.” 

You don’t really think it through when you say, “It’s not like we’re together, Jungkook.” 

That makes him pause. You can’t find it in you to take it back, because… it was true, right? The whole thing felt like… like you were a couple in a fight. And you aren’t.

“Still not an excuse.” he says after awhile. 

You let out a breath, almost a laugh, frustrated. You wish Jungkook hadn’t brought it up, and you wish you aren’t reacting the way you are right now.

“You know, you didn’t seem bothered about it when we talked on the phone.” 

“Because I thought you were okay.”

“Well, surprise,” you flash him a tight smile. “Turns out I’m not as chill as I thought.” 

His voice lowers. “I never thought you were chill.” You can’t help but glance at him sharply. “I thought you were trying really hard to seem like you didn’t care, because maybe you thought I might not care back.”

That lands harder than it should, and you feel your throat tighten.

“I should go,” you stand up, not wanting to have any more of this conversation. You wish Jungkook would just drop it. You told him, you were upset – but he’s making a big deal about it. 

Jungkook stands up too, stepping closer to you. His height looms over you, but his presence feels calm and collected. 

“You could,” he says in that deep voice. “But you won’t.” 

You take in a sharp breath when he presses until you can feel the heat of his body. You’re confused about the sudden turn of events, but there’s something about Jungkook right now, his voice dropping low, his gaze… almost as if…

“Oh?” you decide to challenge him, not wanting to waver.

“You stayed. And now you’re standing this close,” he says, gaze dropping to your mouth. “Looking like you want me to make you forget why you were upset in the first place.” 

You swallow, suddenly feeling heated in that other way. 

“A-and if I do?” 

One hand brushes past your hip, and you stand there grounded, unconsciously holding your breath. 

“Then you let me.” 

You kiss him first – not really sure why and how it happened – but you do, on instinct. Wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your lips to his. It’s fast, and there’s frustration from you bubbling under, heat blooming behind your ribs like a fuse finally lit. 

Jungkook kisses you back harder though, catching you on time – always catching you on time – walking you backwards into the living room where he lays you down on the couch, hovering over you.

His voice is rough against your skin when he breaks away to whisper, “Are you still upset?” 

Your hands grip his shirt. “I would be if you don’t continue kissing me.” 

That makes him smile, murmuring, “You’re a brat.” 

“Do you like it?” 

He inhales a sharp breath against your jaw, nipping. “I really do.” 

In an instant, his hands were around your waist, your back pressed against the back of the sofa. Your breath hitches when his mouth drops to your ear, making your knees weaken slightly.

“Do you– do you kiss everyone you disappoint like this?” you mutter, hands sliding under his shirt where you feel his abs clench.

“No,” he says, lips peppering kisses down your neck, voice low. It sends shivers down your spine and makes your thighs clench together. “Just the ones who microwave chicken for me.”

It earns a chuckle from you – sharp, breathless – and tug the collar of his shirt, starting to undo his buttons until sculpted chest is revealed. You’re about to pull the material off him when Jungkook catches your wrist.

“Still upset?” he asks.

You click your tongue. “Maybe.” 

He grins. “Good.” 

He kisses you again. Slow this time, like he knows you’d let him now. And you do. Your fingers dig into his shoulder as he deepens it, tongue brushing yours in a way that makes your head fog over. He tastes like wine and smugness… but you find you like it. Jungkook moves in such a way that screams he knows exactly what he’s doing. 

His shirt is off in a second, leaving him in his slacks and belt, mouth moving lower over your throat, your collarbone, until they reach your cleavage made easily accessible with the neckline of your camisole. You arch into the touch without much thinking, and when Jungkook whispers against the peak of your nipple if he could take your shirt off, you nod. 

“Sorry, this isn’t my proudest bra ever,” you tell him, fingers slipping through his hair. 

Jungkook chuckles. “I’m gonna take it off, anyway.” 

He lifts you up effortlessly, squeezing your ass as you yelp but helping you wrap your legs around his waist. Before you can say anything, he shuts up with a searing hot kiss, and you let him carry you to the bedroom with ginger steps, like he’d done it a hundred times before in his head. God, you hope he did just like you do. 

You don’t know how exactly it happened but your bra is off the moment he lowers you down on the bed, tugging the cups off your chest and letting his hand take reign on one boob while he licks the other one with his hot tongue, swirling it around your nipple that makes you gasp and shift on the bed. 

“Oh, Jungkook…”

Crawling over you, you meet his heavy gaze as he asks, “Are you sure about this?” 

If the heat in between your thighs is any more indication of how sure you are, he can check. But you tug him down by the waistband of his slacks to tell him, “I’ve been sure.” 

“Just checking, because once we start…” he murmurs, gaze dropping on your lips. As if he can’t help it, he closes his mouth around yours. Then his hand slides down, feathery touch causing goosebumps all over your skin. It stops on your inner thigh where you take a sharp breath because he was so close to where you wanted him to be. 

“I want you now,” you say, a bit irritated. 

He chuckles, dark. Low. He retracts his hand and smirks when you give him a glare. 

“I wanna take my time with you, sweetheart. Don’t rush me.” 

To prove his point, he kisses you again – hot and passionate, but also aguishly slow like he’s savoring every brush of your tongue and he has all the time in the world for it. 

You’re flushed beneath him, breathless as his hands wander all over your body. He nips the skin of your neck, obviously teasing, leaving goosebumps on his trail. When his hand cups the heat in between your legs, your hips unconsciously buck, your grip on his shoulders tightening at the contact. 

“I should’ve come to dinner,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth. 

“Y-yeah,” you manage, “you should’ve.” 

“I can’t believe I missed this yesterday.”

You gasp when his thumb presses on your mound, feeling like you’ve been electrocuted by the touch. Jungkook seems to take note of your oversensitivity, as he watches you with your mouth hanging slightly open.  

“Don’t worry, baby. I plan to make it up to you real good,” he leans back for a second to tug the waistband of your pants, and you don’t hesitate to lift yourself up a little to help him slide it off your legs together with your panties. You bite your bottom lip as you observe him watching the way the material clings to your pussy at the slickness. A smirk tugs at his lips. “I guess I’ve made you wait too long, didn’t I?” 

Your reply dissolves into a sharp inhale as he puts two of his fingers in his mouth and wedges them in between your folds, leaning down to plant a kiss on your parted mouth. His fingers move inside you, curling in slow rhythm, his thumb teasing just enough to keep your hips lifting off the bed.

“You’re so soaked, and I haven’t even touched you properly yet,” he slowly slides them out, smirking when you whimper at the loss of contact. He inserts them again, this time taking on a steady pace. His fingers make you feel so full, just like they did back at the motel – and you wouldn’t dare lie to yourself and say you haven’t been looking forward to this again. By the way you can’t keep the soft moans escaping past your lips, Jungkook must’ve known too. 

Slick sounds bounce off the wall, and you try to keep it to a minimum by minimizing your moans and pressing the back of your hand to your mouth but Jungkook catches your wrist quickly, as if he knew what you were about to do.

“No, baby, let me hear you,” he says, pinning your hand up against the headboard. “I want to know how much you want this, how much you like my fingers fitting right in your pussy,” he looks down, then unexpectedly, he brings his soaked digits up to your face. Your cheeks flush in embarrassment when you see how wet they are with your juices, whimpering when he inserts them in his mouth with no second thoughts, licking them obscenely. You whimper when he shuts his eyes close, looking intoxicated. 

“Shit,” he hisses, “Tastes just as good as I remember it.” 

“J-jungkook,” you whine, wanting him to do something already. 

“I know,” he smirks, a little smug. “Should I go faster? Is that what you like?” 

“Please…” you cry out, holding on to his wrist.

He chuckles darkly and just as when you were about to say something else again, he curls the same fingers in you, but this time he plunges them in and out at a faster pace. At that, you don’t hold back the moans you’ve been keeping trapped in your throat. 

Legs tensing, Jungkook continues to fuck you with his fingers, moving like an expert; determined to make you fall apart – and you’re nothing but soft cries, heated, fingers tightening around his wrist as your orgasm creeps up your toes to your spine. 

“F-fuck…” you sigh when Jungkook dives in your chest again, nipping and sucking at the flesh you were sure he was going to leave marks. “Feels so good, Koo…” 

He hums against your skin, curling his fingers and digging in deep that your thighs shake uncontrollably. But Jungkook’s hold on your hip is firm, not enough to hurt, but enough to keep you from thrashing underneath him at the overwhelming pleasure. 

“Yeah? You’re making such a mess on my hand, baby,” he husks out.

“S-sorry.”

He chuckles. “You’re beautiful,” He breaks away from your tits to stare at you. Moving away some of the hair that has gotten on your face, he says, “Are you close?” 

“Yes, god, yes. Please, I’m so close…” 

You can feel yourself about to reach your climax, so you move your hand to seek relief to your clit. But Jungkook catches you off-guard when he moves further down your body. You let out a lewd moan when he licks along your slit, sucking in your folds – your juices making a wet, spongy sound as he slurps. When he closes his mouth around your clit, you cry out and grab his hair quite harshly. 

But Jungkook only hums against your pussy, the vibration only making you drip more. He ravishes your nub with his tongue, quick and steady, and so are his fingers in and out of your pussy. 

“Oh my god,” you moan, body convulsing at your impending orgasm, shutting your eyes close and focusing on the way his tongue tugs at your clit. “Kook, I’m coming, fuck, I’m gonna cum—” 

He pulls off with a smack only to tell you “in my mouth” before going back to business again. You listen to his small grunts, his hums, and until then, you feel your body spasming when the coil at your stomach breaks.  

Jungkook puts his hand on your lower stomach, pressing you down as you wriggle underneath him, thighs shaking at your orgasm. He licks until you’re pulling his head out of your mound. He takes his fingers out of your spongy walls, spreading your wetness instead around your folds, as if calming you down from your high.

“Good, baby, good…” he murmurs, gripping your thighs to steady you. Then he leans down and presses kisses over them.

You let your back relax on the mattress, shutting your eyes close and catching your breath.

You hear a drawer pull open, and when you finally open your eyes, you see Jungkook with a condom pinched in between his fingers.

“I’m not done with you yet,” Jungkook skates his fingers through his hair, and you suddenly got the urge to jump him right then and there when you saw the sheer wetness on his jaw, his sculpted chest and the abdominal muscles that sit perfectly on his stomach, his tattoo sleeve – he looked like an absolute dream then, but you knew you were in for a ride when your eyes cast a look at the erection inside his slacks. Jungkook makes quick work of unbuckling his leather belt, and the way the metal clink with each other scratches a part of your brain that screams want, want, want and maybe Jungkook caught on, because he follows your gaze to the belt, clicking his tongue when he throws the leather away somewhere on the floor.

“Next time, sweet girl,” he says, sounding like he meant it. You can feel your cheeks heating under his gaze and the implication of his words, chest pounding as he unbuttons and unzips his pants together with his boxers. 

“I…” You watch in quiet fascination when his rock hard dick slaps against his lower abdomen, biting your lip at the sight. It was just as long and girthy as you remember it.

He hums. “You want to play next time, we’ll do that. But eyes up here first,” Jungkook instructs, and you do look at him when he says so, feeling your legs clamping together at his slightly commanding tone. He tugs your legs to pull you closer to the edge of the bed, and so you lift off the mattress slightly and rest your elbows against the soft sheets. Jungkook smiles at you as he kneels between your spread legs, “You look beautiful like this, baby. Do you know how much I’ve been wanting to do this?” he asks as he rips open the condom, pinching the tip and putting it over his cock in quick succession. 

“I’ve been waiting for you…” you say, not really sure what you mean, touching his chest because you can. He’s so warm and so big, and your pussy aches at the thought of him finally entering you.

It felt greedy, to want to cum again when you just did not even a full minute ago.

“I know,” he strokes his cock for good measure, and you let out a soft gasp when he hikes your leg over his hip, nudging your other leg to the side. He inserts a finger in your pussy, hissing at your wetness. “Fuck, you are soaked, baby…” 

“Put it in,” You whine, chest heaving up and down as you watch Jungkook with half-lidded eyes. His hand wraps around his dick, strokes it for a moment before gripping near the tip and bringing it closer to your aching heat. 

You moan when the first inch of his cock goes in, mouth gaping at the intrusion. Jungkook’s eyebrows knit as he adjusts your leg higher on his hip, pushing deeper. 

“Look at me,” he instructs, “You can take it, right, baby? You’re so wet, so pretty…” 

“I– yes, yes– shit,” you let out a shaky breath, “you’re s-so big, fuck,”

“You’re taking it so well,” he murmurs, voice low and dripping with honey. He gives a gentle, almost subtle thrust that almost knocks you out of the bed.

“Yes, yes, fuck… give it to me, Kook, I want you so bad…”

“Yeah? I’m gonna move in a sec, angel, play with your tits for me.”

You nod your head and do as told, letting your hands wander all over your body before fondling your breasts, moaning instantly at the pleasure. 

“Tell me if it hurts,” is what he says before he slips an arm beneath your waist, holding you up, a shudder escaping past his lips when he slowly pushes more past your tight walls. You choke out a moan, a broken sob coming out of it when he finally bottoms out inside of you.

“Ah…” 

He hisses, fingers digging at your waist as he withdraws from your heat and only the tip of his cock is in you, the scene with it sitting on your soaked pussy enough to send him into an overdrive. 

“You’re so fucking tight holy fuck,” he seethes, forcefully snapping his hips back into you and finally picking up a pace that makes you whimper and cry out pathetic little moans, mind becoming fuzzy at the thrusts of his cock in your entrance. 

Your walls clench at the glide of his cock against you, feeling him falter at the little stunt. But you can’t help it. Your body is on fire as Jungkook lets out a guttural groan, pulling you flush against his cock until the thin hairs around the base of his dick are tickling your skin. Your elbow shake as it loses balance, but Jungkook is quick to catch you just on time, leaning down to hover over your body, but it only makes the angle of his fuck deeper, and maybe he meant to do that too. 

Your hands are quick to wrap around his shoulders as you feel the tip of his cock prodding against your cervix like he’s going all out, your hips jumping as he rams back inside. 

He repeats the movement like a graceful dancer, thrusts deep and purposeful, pulling out wailing sounds from you you begin to worry if the neighbors could hear. He tucks his head against your neck and presses a kiss on the junction between your neck and shoulder, rocking his hips into you, pistoning into your squelching heat. His body is so close, so warm, sweaty skin gliding against yours.

“Fuck, fucking hell, baby – fuck, you feel so good,” Jungkook growls, finding your mouth and kissing you again. His hips snaps back into you once again, and you both swallow each other’s moans at the contact, letting your bodies rock to the sound of your fucking. His hand is on your chest immediately, squeezing everywhere until it settles on pinching your nipple between his fingers. 

“Jungkook– ah, baby— fuckkkkk,” You shudder, feeling your pussy quiver at every snap and every withdrawal, and when he brings his hand to your clit and rubs it in quick circles, you screw your eyes shut, feeling that familiar wave again for the second time that night. 

“Jungkook–” 

“You’re gonna be a good girl and come for me, sweet girl?” Jungkook rasps out, sweaty forehead coming into view as he jackhammers into your pussy with ease, welcomed by your never-ending slick. You never thought you’d see Jungkook like that, fucking like a crazed caveman, looking like he can’t get enough but also straining himself a bit to not hurt you – because of course he wouldn’t. 

“Fuck me harder, Kook, I need it– need you to… need you to—”

“Yeah?” he rocks harder, faster just like you said, and you can honestly start to feel the slight pain on your chest as they bounce at the speed, your hand flying to grab at your chest. 

“I’m so close,” you cry out, unconsciously reaching for him and feeling like you’re on edge. Jungkook takes your hand and encloses it around his, thrusting into you once again before whispering against your skin to let go. 

As if that was a magic phrase, you feel something inside you snap. 

“Good girl, I knew you’d come for me, you always do,” Jungkook slurs. You could feel your cum dribbling out of your pussy, creaming his cock, but Jungkook continues ramming himself past your clenched lips and into your spasming hole, grunting against your skin, mouth leaving random, open-mouthed kisses. 

He drills on, and his cock still feels so achingly hard, seemingly not anywhere near completion yet. You’re nearly mush beneath him from your current release, but you push through it as you press your hands to his chest, forceful enough to send him tumbling a little. He’s caught off-guard by that, and you take that to your advantage as you maneuver yourself to push him completely on his back, his cock sliding out of you. 

He bounces off the mattress a little, looking at you curiously as you straddle his waist. Your sensitive pussy shudders at the cold of the AC in his room, and you feel like your bones have been liquefied, but you don’t let that deter you from taking ahold of his still, indeed, hard cock and sitting on it. 

Jungkook inhales a sharp breath as he watches you bounce on his cock, the head disappearing and appearing in your entrance, like a show he would want to replay over and over again. And you’re determined, stretching your body and leaning back to rest your palms on his thighs for support as you take his dick, switching to a back and forth motion.

“Oh, Jungkook, god – oh my god,” and although it was supposed to be for him – for him to cum – you can honestly feel yourself about to snap again, especially when Jungkook reaches forward to rub your tit, caressing your tattoo underneath with that hungry look in his eyes, and settling on your hips like he’s enjoying the little show you’re putting up for him. 

“That’s it baby, bounce on my cock – you’re doing so we…ll,” he encourages, but there’s a slight break to his tone at the end. “Shit, keep going – fuck. I’m so fucking close– you look so good,” 

You swallow the saliva trapped in your throat to pick up your pace, feeling lightheaded at the overwhelming feeling of his cock prodding against your cervix everytime you go forth. His dick brushes past your clit everytime you move, and you throw your head back when you feel him starting to thrust upward. 

“Are you close again, baby?” Jungkook asks, gripping your hips tight as he meets your ministration. You bite your lip at the question, only whimpering when Jungkook bucks his hips harshly. “Cum for me a third time, pretty girl. Cum with me.” 

“Jungkook, I can’t, I’m so sensitive. I–”

“You can, angel. And you will.”

You mewl when Jungkook reaches for your pussy with his other hand, quickly finding your clit to rub against it again, and that pushes you to the edge quickly – orgasm snapping on an instant just like that. 

Jungkook’s hips stutter, breath caught in between a curse and your name, like the sound of you undid him completely. It was a sound that you heard three days ago when he came in your mouth.

“Fucking hell,” he hisses, hips faltering at his orgasm. “Shit…” 

You drop your body unceremoniously onto him, the exhaustion hitting you all at once.

Wrapping his hands around your body very gently, you feel Jungkook kissing the side of your head, making you shut your eyes close. 

“Jesus.” you blurt out, whole body spent.

“Didn’t know you were religious like that…” He says with a chuckle, caressing your hair mindlessly.

You snap your head quickly to look at him at the familiar words, narrowing your eyes. Jungkook only presses a kiss to your shoulder as if that was some sort of apology, and you let it go with a playful shake of your head.

“Do you still feel bad about missing dinner?” You ask with a smile on your face. 

He let out a low laugh, and the vibration through his chest feels warm against your skin. 

“I’m working on making it up to you.” 

“Does it really involve making me cum three times in a single night?” you arch your brow. “I think you’re overcompensating.” 

Jungkoo gives you a nonchalant shrug. “Maybe.”

And before you can say anything, he flips you over and kisses you again, which makes you giggle into his mouth.  

all right reserved © awrkive, 2025. no reposts, modification, translations, and copying allowed. if you enjoy my work/s and have the extra means, please consider supporting me on ko-fi <3

[chromehoney]

“AT THE SAME DAMN TIME.”, chap one, chapt two, chap three.

synopsis; After a messy, short-lived situationship with Stack—reckless, flirtatious, and all the wrong kinds of possessive—you swear you’re done with hood boys who can’t keep up. But when you drop something off at his mother’s store and find both Stack and his older twin brother Smoke inside, something shifts.

“Don’t let me walk out this house lookin’ basic.”

You sat in Sevyn’s bathroom, your legs crossed under you while she dipped into edge control and eyed her parts in the mirror. A pile of synthetic hair bundles sat between y’all like some kind of offering. You’d been braiding each other’s hair for years, but today? It felt different. Intentional. A little…competitive.

Because Smoke and Stack were gonna be at that party. And like Sevyn said earlier—this had to be bitch-you-lost-me loud. Your hair was already halfway done—soft, loose boho knotless braids with curly ends that framed your face like silk. Sevyn’s would match. You told everyone it was so y’all could be twins for the summer.

By the time y’all were finished, the sun was getting low, casting that golden hour light on your skin as you both stood in the mirror, checking your angles. Sevyn wore a lime green swimsuit with clear heels. You chose the cherry-red bikini—the one Mary would’ve killed to fit the way you did. You tied a mesh skirt around your waist, hoop earrings in, clear gloss shined up, gold anklet catching the light.

“You look like a damn problem,” Sevyn said, snapping a photo. “Good,” you smirked. “I wanna ruin somebody’s night.”

•several hours later,

The bass from the backyard speakers was deep enough to vibrate through your chest. The crowd was thick—bodies half-drunk, glittering in oil and chlorine. You and Sevyn walked in side-by-side, braids swinging, skin glowing, confidence high.

Y’all mingled with a few people you knew from high school, laughed over plastic cups, and dipped your feet in the pool before finally slipping in waist-deep. The water was warm from the sun, and for a moment—you almost forgot about the real reason you were here. Until you saw him.

Smoke.

Fresh cut, black tee stuck to his chest, chain resting against his collarbone. He wasn’t in the pool, just standing to the side with a drink in his hand, cigar tucked behind his ear, eyes locked on you like you were the only thing worth watching.

But then—him.

Stack.

Leaning back in one of the patio chairs, shirtless, glistening, laughing with his head tilted back. And sitting next to him? Mary. Long-legged. Bikini too small. Hair damp from the pool. And she was giggling like she’d never heard a joke that funny in her life. Your smile dropped. Your stomach twisted. Ugly and mean. You didn’t even notice the way your lips pushed into a pout until Sevyn whispered, “Bitch, relax.”

You inhaled once. Smoothed your expression. Then let a slow smirk spread across your face. “Nah,” you said, wading toward the steps. “I’m good.” You walked up to Smoke, water still dripping from your thighs, mesh skirt clinging to your curves. His eyes followed the drops. Then rose—slow and hooded—to meet yours. “You always watch this hard, or is it just me?”He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. “It’s you,” he said simply.

You stepped closer, real close. Chin tilted up. The music slowed into something bass-heavy and slick, and suddenly you didn’t care who was watching. “And what you gon’ do about it?” Smoke set his drink down. Palmed the back of your waist, warm and confident, drawing you into him with quiet heat. “Come here,” he said low.

And you did.

The kiss hit different. Slow. Warm. Wet. His lips moved like he already knew how you tasted. Like he was just confirming what he imagined. Your fingers gripped the front of his shirt, lips parting, and he kissed you again, deeper—his hand sliding down to the small of your back like he’d claimed it.

You didn’t know how long it lasted. But you knew when it ended. Because suddenly, a voice snapped from behind you.“Man, what the fuck?!” You pulled back, blinking. Stack was standing there, arms wide, face twisted up. Mary was beside him, eyes darting from you to Smoke to Stack like she couldn’t believe what was happening. “What is your problem?” she snapped at Stack.

“Why do you care if she’s over there with Smoke?!” “Because!” he barked, hands dropping. “Because it’s her! You don’t get it.”People had turned by now. Faces watching. Eyes wide. Mary threw her hands up. “No, you don’t get it! You been flirting with me, making me think—!” “Man, I don’t owe you nothin’,” Stack spat.

And right there, in front of everyone, they were yelling. Mary’s voice sharp, Stack’s louder. Your name came up once—“You was just tryna get back at her!”—but you stopped listening. Your stomach was tight. Your face hot. Smoke’s arm was still around your waist, but the moment had died. Sevyn found you quick. “We gotta go,” she whispered, already tugging your hand. “They just killed the whole damn mood.”

You nodded numbly. Turned to leave.

But before you did—you looked at Smoke. Reached in your purse. Pulled out a pen and slid it across his hand. Your number. “For when the mess dies down,” you said. You didn’t say it was to get back at Stack.You didn’t say you actually liked that kiss. You just walked off. Braids swinging Heart racing.And Smoke?

Smoke watched you go.

[salemrph]

Salt on your Skin

Summary: You’ve lived your whole life in a sleepy coastal village where nothing ever changes until he arrives. A stranger with silver hair. He shouldn’t matter. He’s just another tourist, just another passing face. But the way he looks you, the way he listens… it makes you feel seen in a way that terrifies you. Between the salt air, the mango-sweet afternoons, and his voice whispering promises you’re not ready to believe, you start to wonder: what if this forgotten place isn’t where your story ends, but where it begins?

Character: Sylus x f!reader / you

Gender — ☆ AU, romantic, fluff, intimacy, slow burn, slice of life, summer romance, sexual content (nsfw), smut with feelings, light angst, Hurt & Comfort

Word count: 19.7k | Reading Time: 77 min | AO3 Sorry that this thing is so fucking long.

🎧 "Salt on your Skin" Spotify Playlist -> A/N: You’ve waited long enough, I won’t keep you. I’ll be hinting at songs I listened to while writing certain scenes. If you don’t feel like pausing to click on each one, no worries—just hit play and enjoy. Sorry that it got so fucking long. It was my intention to create such long fanfic. *In this story, the character referred as "Reader" or "You" is from an unnamed cost village, the specific location isn't relevant to the story. While Spanish is the character's native language, and they mainly will speak it in the story, most of the dialogue will be presented in English for ease of reading. I just display thing in Spanish with translation, for funny moments and relevant emotional dialogue. Also I tried my best to catch the grammatical errors. (＞﹏＜)

Taglist: @blessdunrest @xxsyluslittlecrowxx @voidsylus @thechaoticarchivist @leftpoetrymoon @madam8 @stxrrielle @terriblesoup @mansonofmadness @leftpoetrymoon @jadeloverxd @nutshellera @zaynessdarling @sylusgirlie7 @mothlillies @deathrye @mansonofmadness @peascribbles @pdacex @eolivy

Salt on your Skin

🎧 "Salt on your Skin" Spotify Playlist

You grow up in a small fisherman village, south, nothing spectacular, nothing loud. Sun kissing your skin, salt tangled in your hair, the smell of the ocean was your everyday. Palms swayed lazily in the wind. Cactus grew wild by the roadside. The earth was dry, cracked in places, but always warm. Sand found its way into everything: your shoes, your sheets, your soul. Nothing ever really happened here. Nothing special, at least. Not many people cross this place, just the occasional wanderer and backpacker, drawn in by the silence, the stillness, the illusion of escape.

And it is beautiful. To the outsider, it’s paradise. A hidden postcard painted in blues and golds, for all who pass by and leave, carrying the souvenirs, the sand, and probably a peeling sunburn back to wherever they came from. But you? You never left. Maybe for college and for short trips not far away. You picked a degree because someone said it was practical—but what’s practical in a place where everything moves slowly and nothing ever changes? So you came back with a diploma in hand, a broken heart from some idiot and little by little, you buried your dreams. Right there beside the notebooks you used to fill with sketches of faraway cities and impossible futures. Right beside the plans you whispered under your breath when you still believed your life could unfold somewhere else.

Now you help your parents at the store or your work at the beach bar. You tell yourself it’s not so bad because it isn’t. This place raised you and cradled you. But sometimes… When the sun dips low and the air turns heavy with memory… You wonder what else your life could’ve been. You try not to want too much. Having dreams, in a place like this, is the first way you start to go crazy if they're too big. It feels so difficult to find the right way to break free. 

Your days follow the rhythm of the tide. You wake with the sun, light slipping through the shutters in pale golden stripes, warming the terracotta tiles before your bare feet even touch the floor. Coffee first, always strong, slightly bitter, brewed in a tinny bialetti older than you. You sip it slowly in the kitchen where the radio was always on. The village is small enough that everyone knows your name, your business, and what you looked like in every awkward stage of growing up. You can’t walk five steps without a nod, a wave, or someone shouting: 

“¡Dile a tu mamá que tengo listo su pedido” (“Tell your mom I have her order ready.”)

You smile and keep walking. You help out at the family store during the hotter hours. Selling sunscreen, postcards, cold drinks, cheap towels for tourists who forgot theirs. Sometimes you sit in the doorway fanning yourself with an magazine while your father tries to fix the old A/C and your mother swears in the background. And then there was your second job, unofficial but necessary. Since you've returned, you've been saving, for that eventual emergency plan, if your heart finally found the courage to leave. So you stand in that beach bar almost every day during the high season. 

Plastic chairs half-buried in sand, a fridge that hums louder than the music, and drinks poured from memory. You know who likes extra lime. Who never tips. Who only comes to watch the sunset alone. It’s simple. Predictable. There’s comfort in that. But sometimes, when you’re rinsing out glasses or wiping sand off tables, you catch yourself watching the horizon. Something out there is calling you, something that still believes in the girl who once drew maps of cities she’s never seen. But then you shake it off. Because this is home. This is yours and if nothing ever changes…

Until that one afternoon. 

Is hot like always, so you are wearing shorts and your bikini under the top. Ready to cool off whenever you need. Preparing some drinks, getting ice cubes and cleaning tables. That’s when you notice him. A tall man with sunglasses sitting at one table with an umbrella. He’s definitely going to get roasted with that skin color, you think. You know how tourists are so, you sigh but still you approach with cold iced water and place it in front of him. “If you stay long, please don't forget to use sunscreen. We have some here if you need.”

He just lifts his head slowly behind the lenses. And somehow, you feel like you’re the one under the sun now. He lifts the glass slowly, takes a sip, and sets it down and keeps watching the ocean. A moment later, you hear a soft, almost too quiet “Thank you”. That’s it. 

Weird. You shrug it off. Tourists are strange sometimes. Some just want peace. Others… are well yeah just strange. You go back to refill the drinks fridge and emptying trash cans. Around this time of the year it can be a bit busy, but mostly on the weekends.

A breeze sweeps through, bringing the scent of seaweed and coconut sunscreen. You hum a little, a tune only half-formed, and focus on your tasks. Sometimes you dance behind the bar to some songs. Is a easy way to make the hours pass by and keep yourself busy. But today, a strange feeling doesn’t leave. That sensation that someone’s watching you. Not in a creepy way but more out of… curious. 

Later, you bring drinks to another table, and when you glance back toward him, he’s still there. A notebook sits on this lap in front of him, he’s sketching or writing. You can’t quite tell. Odd choice for this heat. You observe him a bit longer, taking in the silver hair, the shape of his nose, the sharp jawline. The defined muscles along his arms; clearly a sporty guy. In the heat of the day, he’s wearing a black linen button-down shirt and long white pants. The view of him sinks deeper into your mind. One of the fancy tourists, no doubt. But… What does he do here?

A small smile appears on his face. Did he write something funny? You pause mid-step, pretending to adjust the tray in your hands, but your eyes flick toward him again. The pen in his hand stills for a heartbeat. It stirs something in you. Curiosity takes over you with persistent. You wonder what kind of thoughts live in that notebook. You’re about to turn back when he lifts his eyes from the paper and shifts slightly toward you, propping one elbow on the table and resting his head against his hand.

“¿Creciste aquí?” (“You grew up here?”)

It catches you off guard. Did he just speak your language? 

“Sí” (“Yeah, I do,”) you reply, the words came out slow, drawn out by your confusion.

He closes the notebook, the pen slipping between the pages. His sunglasses stay on, but you can feel the weight of his gaze.

“Debe ser genial” (“Must be nice,”) he says, almost wistful. “Crecer con el océano como tu patio trasero.” (“To grow up with the ocean as your backyard.”)

The comment was harmless but… your eyes were still on him, searching for an accent you don’t hear. No, there wasn’t any. It was like he’d lived here his whole life, like he’d sat on these plastic chairs a hundred times, melting under the sun, playing cards with the elders, gossiping with the ladies, and running barefoot through the sand as a child. But you’ve never seen him before.

The air shifts. There’s something about him you can’t place. Maybe you should take a break and get some water. You cross your arms, standing your ground. “Are you just passing through?”

He smiles “Something like that.”

That wasn't an answer, definitely not a straight one. 

“Honestly, you look more like someone who belongs at a luxury resort than in a remote place like this.” Ups… That was a bit too direct. You tilt your head, trying to be a bit more polite this time. “Well, there is not much to see here. I hope you enjoy the quietness though.”

He laughed, and finally takes off his sunglasses. You get lost in his eyes: red, deep, impossible. Like twilight caught in glass. The world seems to slow. The wind rises slightly, brushing against your skin like a whisper, stirring the salt and sunlight around you. You got trapped for a moment that felt more like an eternity. The intensity of his eyes. You blink a few times. You decide to ignore whatever is fluttering in your chest. Your shift just got a hell of a lot more interesting.

“You got a name?” you ask with an arrogant tone, your chin tilted just enough to make it a challenge.

He smirks. “Depends who's asking.”

You roll your eyes. Of course he’s flirting. You know how this goes, always some smooth-talking tourist thinking the local girl is part of the experience: “Wild, free and exotic women.” You could throw up.

Not going to insist if he is that kind of guy…

You huff and turn away as the manager calls you, yelling for more napkins or limes or whatever crisis the little storage shed has today. By the time you come back, the man is gone. A bit irritated, you finished your shift. You wanted to know his name, because those eyes will be hard to forget. But in the end, it's another tourist that comes and goes, so who cares? 

Only… The next day, he’s there again. Same chair. Same sunglasses. Same notebook.

You try not to react. Just grab a tray of drinks and keep your head down. But you feel it, the burn of his attention. The strange, steady way he watches you without saying a word, like he’s reading a story only he can see written on your skin. You can’t exactly kick him out. To be fair, he’s not doing anything wrong. Just sitting there, quiet and scribbling in a worn leather-bound notebook. He never bothered you with more words than necessary, just with his simple order. 

He returns the day after, and the next one too. Day after day. 

You’d notice another group of girls, tourists with their bright bikinis and confident smiles, approach his table once more. Was it already the third time today? They'd lean in, their voices a little too loud, trying to flirt, trying to get his number.

Bored behind the bar, the clinking of glasses and the distant murmur of waves providing a dull backdrop, you'd watch the scene unfold. You'd find yourself absentmindedly munching on some salty peanuts, watching how the girls creatively or rather uncreatively tried to get from him some kind of reaction. But he never paid them much attention. He'd just offer a polite, almost distant smile, and then his gaze would drift past them, straight across the sunlit space, directly to you. It was as if he knew you were enjoying the theater.

This time, he finally gets up, placing the exact amount for his drinks on the counter. He could at least tip me… Asshole. With a casual wave, he said, “See you tomorrow,” before disappearing into the shimmering heat of the afternoon. You hate how that makes something flicker in your chest.

By the fifth day, it’s getting under your skin. You don't even know why it bothers you so much. More than one tourist has spent several days in a row at this bar, but he's different somehow. They can call you crazy, but you have the distinct feeling that he's coming to see you.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself after drying off your arms behind the bar. “What’s your deal, big guy?” you turn around to him. He catches your eyes. Notebook in hand walking toward you.

“I'm just enjoying the sunshine. Is that a crime, sweetie? ” His voice is smooth, playful. He’s testing you.

You straighten your back. “Don’t call me that.”

He grins, tilting his head. “Then tell me your name.”

You don’t blink. “No.”

He chuckles and shrugs, like that settles it. “Sweetie, it stays.”

“Does that line usually work on all girls?”

He raises a brow, leaning one elbow casually on the bar. “Which girls?”

“Like the ones from yesterday,” you scoff. “Bet you tell all of them they’re special.”

His smile falters for half a second.

“I don’t like wasting my time,” he states, a hint of challenge in his tone. “Are you jealous?” 

You want to roll your eyes so hard they might get stuck. You want to mock his question. But the unexpected flutter in your gut throws you off. Instead, with a frustrated sigh, you toss a dish towel onto the counter and turn away. Organizing the glasses on the shelf. “Order something or move, I’ve stuff to do.”

“You always talk to your clients like that?” he asked casually.

You pause for a moment. Damn him. “Well, you don’t have to flirt with me to get your coffee.” You muttered, your tone as flat as you could manage. There’s a beat of silence. Then, you hear the faintest scoff, more breath than sound. You glance over your shoulder, just enough to catch the slow curve of his mouth. His eyes glint with amusement.

“Who said it was flirting?” He tilts his head. You were already regretting giving him a reaction.. “But…” His voice dips lower, velvet and sin. “...would you like to see the difference, sweetie?” 

Your heart stutters. You scoffed and you pretended not to hear the pet name. And marched off to clean a nonexistent stain on the espresso machine before he could see the flush climbing up your checks. For the rest of the day, you cursed him. And cursed yourself most of all for almost wanting to ask what the difference would feel like.

On your day off, you try not to think about him. Really. You swear you don’t care. You’re just… curious. That’s all. Wondering, maybe, if he showed up again. You imagine him sitting there, legs crossed, sunglasses on, notebook open like always. Maybe he’s gone. Maybe he finally got bored of this sleepy place and your uneven service. That would be good, right? Maybe that means your brain can shut up now. 

I shouldn't care.

You grab your towel, a bottle of cold water, and your favourite pair of flip-flops and head out. Not to the main beach where the kids yell and the old ladies gossip under their hats. No. You take the winding dirt trail, sun on your back, cactus needles lining the path like prickly guards. You duck under hanging branches and hop down the rocky slope, slipping once like always and catching yourself just in time. It's a longer walk, but getting there is...

...is, your little secret. The cove. Small, quiet, framed by cliffs and half-hidden by palms. It feels like a pool but big enough to swim. The ocean is glass today, turquoise and endless. You drop your towel on the warm rock, kick off your flip flops and remove your clothes. This… this is yours. No tourists. No bosses. No strange men with sharp smiles and too many secrets. You dive in, the water cold and perfect, wrapping around you like silk. You swim out until the world goes quiet. Just the splash of your limbs and the lull of the tide.

You turn toward the shore, slick hair clinging to your neck, water dripping down your back. You’re just about to wade out... You freeze. There he is. Sitting on the rocks, on your rocks. You grip the edge of a stone, still in the water. You can't be serious. Of all the places in this world, on this piece of earth, exactly at the same moment as you're here…

“How?” you demand, brows furrowed.

He barely moves, still perched like a damn king on your favourite spot, one leg stretched out, the other bent. White T-shirt and shorts this time, sea breeze tugging at the hem. Of course he looks good. Too good. Effortless.

“How what?” he asks, tilting his head just slightly so the sun hits the curve of his jaw. He doesn’t even take the sunglasses off.

“This place,” you snap. “How do you know about this place?”

“It’s easy when you can talk to people or…” He pulls out his phone and waves it lightly. “You know, you use social media.”

You click your tongue, annoyed. Probably some old tagged picture from a local, maybe even one of yours. Is it really just coincidence and bad luck?

“Fuck you,” you mutter, more at yourself than him. You can’t blame him. But gods, it stings. You embarrassed yourself yesterday, thinking he was flirting with you and now you have to see his face on your day-off. This is a punishment. 

He grins. “I could leave, if it bothers you but you’ll have to say please.”

“You’re such an asshole.” You say without hesitation.

He laughed lazily. “I have heard that a few times.”

You climb out of the water, dripping and fierce, and march right past him, snatching your towel. Drying off your face. “You’re ruining my sacred space,” you declare.

“Sacred, huh?” he murmurs, still watching you. “Didn’t mean to trespass on holy ground. Either way, since I’m here…” He flips open the notebook. “Mind that I stay a bit more? It was a long walk.”

You pause. Half wrapped in irritation and a very dangerous, very inconvenient curiosity. In all the years finding a tourist here, in your place was extremely rare. Some of your friends and people of the village used this place as well. But in the end, most of the time, you're alone here. 

“Do whatever you want,” you mutter, turning your back on him as you dig through your bag for your diver goggles. You don’t look at him again.

You slip the goggles over your head, adjust the strap, and wade back into the water. As soon as you dive, the world changes. The sun dims, the sea hums around you, and everything slows. Fish dart between rocks, flashes of silver and blue. You follow them deeper into the cove, letting the water strip away the heat of his gaze, the smugness of his voice. Down here, it’s just you. Every so often, you surface for air, and he’s still there. Legs stretched out, notebook resting on his knee, watching you like you’re some rare creature he stumbled across and hasn’t figured out if he should leave alone or chase.

The coral shimmered beneath you like a dream, sunbeams piercing the water in long, golden threads. Tiny silver fish darted between sea fans, and swaying anemones moved in slow, hypnotic rhythms. You floated there, suspended in the hush, arms outstretched, breath held tight in your lungs, letting the stillness soak into your bones. Being in the water makes you feel free. All these creatures can swim, leave, and be wherever they want. They migrate without fear, camouflaging themselves with the seabed. You are jealous of such a level of freedom.

Distracted by your own thoughts, you didn't notice the shadow approaching. You turned your head, and there, gliding just a few meters away, was a massive stingray. Its wings undulated as it passed, alarmingly close. You gasped for air. Big mistake.

Saltwater rushed in, burning your throat. You kicked upward, desperate for air, but your limbs felt slow, heavy, panic clawing at your chest. A strong hand wrapped around your arm. You broke the surface with a choking gasp, coughing hard as you ripped your goggles off. You barely noticed you were trembling, clinging to whoever had you, water spilling from your lips.

“Are you okay?” His voice was close.

You nodded through the coughing, breathing in hard, rough gulps. “Y-Yeah… yeah.”

When you finally look up, you don’t find the lazy smirk he always wears. Concern, drawn across his face like a shadow. His brows are furrowed, mouth slightly parted, as if he wants to say something but doesn’t know where to start. His gaze searched your face.

Your mouth parted, breath still shaky, and for a moment, you forgot how to form words. He tilted his head slightly, still holding your arm. You were too close. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath on your lips. Close enough to see the drop of seawater sliding down his neck, tracing the sharp line of his collarbone. You almost lean in, just a little. The impulse hits you fast and stupid, heat rising too quick. You squirm in his arms, suddenly aware of every inch between you. 

You clear your throat and pull away. He lets go without a word, and you swim back toward the rocky entrance with the energy left you had. You haul yourself out, grabbing your towel and slipping on your shorts. Your heart’s pounding, angry and confused. You want to leave. Double strike. Not only did you embarrass yourself, but he had also saved your life from drowning. If he hadn't showed up… You stopped. 

Fuck… I owe him my life.  

That makes you turn in the exact moment when the sun catches his skin as he walks out of the sea. He runs a hand through his wet hair, squeezing the water out with a slow drag of his fingers. In his other hand, he holds a pair of diving goggles. You were damn right, gods, were you right. Now that he’s standing there in nothing but swim shorts, there’s no doubt about it. His body is sculpted.

Shoulders broad, chest defined, muscles honed from more than just casual swimming. The drops trace delicate lines down his torso, catching the light, glinting like it’s showing off for you. You blink. Your eyes shamelessly are scanning him. He has such a big ass and if that's big, what about his...? You glaze dropped briefly over his crotch. Just a glimpse and then you drag your eyes back up to somewhere safe, somewhere less dangerous at least. 

“Thank you,” you say almost too low “For helping me...” You hesitate.

“No need to thank me.” You started coughing again. He made you sit down and handed you your bottle of water. Having him so close, you realized he looked worried. So you hadn't imagined it before. You should worry about yourself, but your eyes couldn't stop scanning his features. Yes, his nose really was beautiful. The length of his eyelashes, the faint dark circles under his eyes. Was it because he didn't sleep well, or were they natural? What did he even do? Was he some kind of businessman? No, he looked more like a model. Thousands of questions crossed your mind…

It's not your business.

But still...

“How can I compensate you?” you asked, finally recovered.

He paused, then took his own towel, draping it around his neck. “Help me explore this place.”

“The village?” you asked surprised by such an absurd request. “There’s nothing to explore.”

“There is,” he replies, calm as ever.

You frowned. “What would that be? This place has like… three alleys and a very enthusiastic goat.”

“Sweetie, isn’t exploration what you do when you don’t know what you’re looking for?” There it was again, that smug little note in his voice. 

“You always talk like that?”

His smirk sharpened, eyes glinting with mischief. “Do you always look at someone’s crotch?”

Your mouth fell open, he noticed. You straightened, refusing to give him the satisfaction to admit that you did it. “Fine, I’ll be your guide.”

He smirked, unabashedly pleased. “Good. So, should I stick with Sweetie or start to calling you Miss Guide now?”

You shot him a dry look, already turning away. “Try it, and I’ll kick you off a cliff.”

He laughed, unbothered. A beat passed, your steps crunching against the sand. “How should I call you?”

“Sylus,” he said simply.

You nod, repeating it silently in your head. 

Sylus.

And for some reason, hearing it made something shift—this is like the opening page of a fresh new book. And you’ve never been great at turning down a good story.

Days pass like waves and a little too easy to get lost in.

At first, you meant to show him the typical tourist stops—the scenic overlook, the main plaza, that one beach every guidebook lists first. But after the second spot, he leaned close and said, “I’ve seen all of these before. Try harder, sweetie.” So you started to improvise.

You showed him the old boat wreck tucked behind the rocks, half-sunken, forgotten by time, but not by you. The kind of place only someone who’s grown up here would know. Then came the spot with the best grilled fish and amazing fresh fruit juice, and the owner who winked at you every time like she knew something you didn’t. You take him to the cliffs no one climbs but you, another one of your secret places to scream into the wind and feel free. He stands at the edge, hands in pockets, peering down like he’s measuring how far he’d fall. Asking if you were really going to kick off the cliff. “It’s still an option,” you muttered, but your lips betrayed you with a smile. 

Both walked down to the pier, where the old fishermen had already settled in for the morning, as they always were, lined up with their tattered hats and leathery skin, smoking, drinking cheap beer, swapping stories that blurred the line between memory and myth. It was also one of the best spots to jump into the water when the tide was right.

Sylus seemed genuinely interested in their fishing; leaning in, asking questions, even tossing out a few jokes that made one of the men laugh. You watched him exchange words with ease. If he was one of those rich types, shouldn’t he have more expensive hobbies? Golf, yachts, or something with polished marble and champagne? One of the old men turned toward you suddenly, his voice rough with years and sea air.

“Me agrada tu amigo” (I like your friend!) he shouted, grinning through missing teeth and raising his beer in salute.

Sylus, just slips into your days without ever asking to. It was stupid how easily he fit into the cracks of your life. He starts waiting until your shift ends, arms crossed, a lazy smile on his lips like this is normal. It's definitely making your days more entertaining, if it weren't for the fact that the neighborhood is starting to notice. Of course they do; someone always does. You ignore the comments as best you can.

“¿Quién es ese muchacho tan guapo con el que anda?” (Who is that handsome boy you are walking with?)”

“He’s paying me to be his guide.” You said to the people every now and then. It’s not a lie. It’s also not the truth. You don’t explain more. You don’t want to. This town is small and whatever this is between you and him, it’s yours. Reacting too much to the gossip spreading like gunpowder, would only lead to more of them. You really don't want to start a fire.

“Who said I'm paying you?” he leaned closer, an amused murmur in your ear as he caught your quiet deflection.

“Be quiet and let me handle the gossip,” you hissed back, not breaking your stride.

“I'm fine with that, but under one condition.” You stopped mid-stride, your heart giving a nervous jump. He smiled and tugged you a bit closer. “You can't lie to me.”

“Why would I do that?” You tried for nonchalance, but your voice felt thin.

“Well, if you lie…” He stopped, turning dramatically toward the group of old ladies playing cards. They were perfectly set up in the shade in front of one of their houses, colorful hand fans fluttering against the heat, their eyes already on you.

Oh no.

“¡Señoras, soy su nov—!” (Ladies, I'm his boyf—)

“Shut up!” You lunged, grabbing his shirt, the fabric bunching in your fist. Panic flared in your chest. You could see your entire calm world shatter, crackling into chaos, if he blurted out something like that. “Fine, fine! I won't lie to you.”

“Smart decision, sweetie.” His smile widened, all innocent charm, but his eyes held a glint of triumph.

You let go. “Asshole,” you murmured back. 

You pretended not to notice but it’s the little things. The flutter moments that sneak past your defenses and settle under your skin. The way he always calls you sweetie. He knows it annoys you, but says it anyway, just to watch that fire light in your eyes. How he's always too close. A finger under your chin, forcing your gaze when you try to escape his. You tell yourself it's annoying. You tell yourself you don't enjoy it.

You reminded yourself, every time he brushed against you “by accident,” every time he leaned just a little too close to whisper something entirely unnecessary. You reminded yourself of it especially when your heart started beating too fast in his presence, when your body began to crave that warmth. You were just enjoying the game while it lasted. A little spark. A little summer mischief. That was all this was. Because people like him… They didn’t stay. He was a tourist, and the charming ones always knew how to play his cards. They were all promises but vanished at the end of summer. And you? You wouldn’t be stupid about this. You weren’t going to fall. 

...Right?

One night, you're sitting on the sand, barefoot, toes buried, only a small flame between you, driftwood fire crackling soft, heat licking your knees. The stars are bright, the kind of sky you only get in places forgotten by noise. You tilt your head and catch him watching you. The shadows from the fire dance across his face, making it harder to read his expression.

“Do I have something on my face?” you ask.

His lips twitch. “Yeah. Starlight.”

“Sure...” You shift a bit. “Are you ever going to tell me what you’re doing here?”

He exhales, slow, like he’s been waiting for that question. But instead of answering, he says:

“What do you dream about?”

It doesn’t surprise you. He always does this, twisting the conversation back to you. You stare into the fire. You think about it and somehow he has this calm way to let you pour out your heart. Without judgement, he listens or asks how you feel about everything. About how you wanted to leave, once. How you almost did. About books you read and lifes you imagined. About how sometimes peace tastes like salt… And sometimes, it tastes like regret. 

You could talk with him for hours, discuss thousands of scenarios like you've never done with anyone before. It feels like the dirty gears of those buried dreams are being dusted off with each word he said. Sylus tells you some stories about what he has seen, eaten and experienced already. He points out the things you would like, places he would show you. The collection of vinyl he has, how he enjoys playing the piano. The familiarity he has with you is overwhelming. He teases you, makes you angry, he flickers his finger against your forehead when you say something stupid. He has been even helping you with everyday chores like the other day:

The market is buzzing. Colorful umbrellas flapping in the breeze, baskets full of delicious fruits and vegetables stacked in uneven towers, the scent of grilled spices and fish so rich it makes you hungry on the spot. You weave through it like you always do, with a tote bag swinging at your side. Sylus is less graceful, dodging kids with sticky fingers and getting bumped more than once by old ladies with strong elbows. He clearly doesn't like to be in the crowd. 

“You sure you know where you’re going?” he teases, glancing at your bag. “Or are we just wandering until you collect enough mangoes for a year?”

“I always know where I’m going,” you reply smugly. “And don’t judge my mango obsession. They're better than whatever bitter fruit you probably grew up with.”

“I prefer oranges.” He plucks one mango from a pile and holds it up, golden and soft. “This one’s bruised.”

“Don't be so picky. That means it’s perfect,” you snatch it from his hand. “Bruised fruits are sweeter. You know nothing.”

He laughed. “Teach me, then.” He buys one cup with fresh cut fruit at the same stall and spears a piece with a toothpick. He chews, then nods thoughtfully. “You’re right. They are perfect.” Your stomach growls, loud enough to make you wince. 

Sylus glances at you, then casually offers the cup, holding it out. “Do you want some?”

You hesitate for a second, somehow it feels more intimate than it should. But then you take the offered bite. Your fingers brush his and his gaze lingers, just a moment too long.

“You like it?” he asks, voice softer now.

You nod, chewing. You try not to smile as you pay for the mangoes. Before your hand even reaches your wallet, Sylus slips in, handing over the change to the vendor. You narrow your eyes, but he’s already walking. By the time you're heading back toward home, your tote is filled with groceries, the fruit cup now shared between you, and the sun is heavy over your shoulders. Sylus walks beside you, glancing at his phone for a moment, then back at you.

“I need a moment,” he says, stepping under the awning of a closed stall, voice already lowering as he answers a call. You nod and wait a few steps ahead, settling into the shade of a tree with a sigh, adjusting the straps on your bag. 

Minutes later a tourist approaches, clearly lost, holding a map and trying to look confident.

“Hi! Sorry… Em… do you know how to get to Playa Baja?”

“Yeah,” you say, automatically switching into your helpful voice. “Go back to the main road. Take the bus from there, near the bakery. Is a 20 minutes ride.”

He grins. “Thanks! You’re local, huh? Makes sense, only locals are this kind.”

You laugh politely. “Sure.”

But before he could say more, the tourist glanced over your shoulder, and he caught Sylus’s stare. He backed off quickly with a smile faltering, then cleared his throat and stepped back. “Enjoy your day.” And disappears as quickly as it appeared.

Sylus stands there, phone now tucked away. 

“Huh. That was fast,” you say.

He shrugs. “Wasn’t important.”

You finally reached your house and the family store below it, the familiar babble of domestic chaos greeted you before the front door even opened.

“Just buy another one, you stubborn old man!” your mother’s voice echoed from the back.

“No, this one’s fine!” your father snapped, followed by a loud Clank Clank, as he smacked the side of the ancient A/C unit again.

You sighed and pushed the door open. “Really? Still fighting over that thing?”

The store was warm, stuffy, and smelled faintly of dust and cleaning spray. You dropped the bags on the kitchen table with a loud thud before stepping into the shop. Sylus follows you silently, scanning the familiar chaos with calm eyes.

“¡No puedo más!” (“I can’t take it anymore!”) your mother snapped from behind the counter, wiping sweat from her forehead with a dish towel. “Tell your father to buy a new one before he sets the store on fire.”

You sighed. At the sound of another figure entering with you, both of your parents looked up. Your mother’s gaze immediately fixed on Sylus. She blinked, surprised, eyes traveling from his silver hair down to his clean, fancy clothes, pausing on his calm expression. A stranger in her home and he comes with you? Not common. But as always, she gathered herself fast. Her tone shifted. 

“Excuse us for the shouting,” she said quickly, brushing her hair back. “Can I get you something to drink?”

Her eyes met Sylus’s, just for a moment, and something changed in her face. A flicker of quiet recognition, curiosity… Then she turned to you, wandered over with a little smile playing on her lips. 

Oh no, she's already imagining things.

You rub your eyes. That mother smile. The one that knew too much and said nothing for now. Sylus very politely and kindly declined your mother's invitation, then he stepped closer to where your father stood grumbling beside the A/C unit.

“Mind if I take a look?” he offered casually, nodding toward the old machine.

Your father blinked at him, thrown off, giving space and the screwdriver. “¿De dónde sacaste a este muchacho?” (“Where did you get this boy?”) he whispered to you.

You smirked. “Me ha estado siguiendo como gato callejero. Creo que me ha cogido cariño.” (“He's been following me around like a stray cat. I think he likes me.”)

Your dad huffed a laugh, still eyeing Sylus like he wasn’t sure whether to be suspicious or impressed. He stays by your side, arms crossed, ready to judge every move Sylus made. The machine was old, rusted at the edges, and had a habit of rattling like it was possessed by a ghost. Most people wouldn’t dare touch it without at least cursing first. He knelt beside it, examined the wires and casing with quiet concentration, then reached into the toolbox without asking where anything was.

There was a soft click, a sharp spark, and then the hum. Not the loud, wheezing death-rattle it usually made. A smooth, low vibration and cool air drifted out. Everyone froze. Your father blinked and moved to press his hand to the front of the unit like he couldn’t believe it was real.

Sylus stood, brushing dust from his hands. “It’ll work for now,” he said casually, glancing at your dad. “But you should definitely buy a new one.”

Your father opened his mouth, probably to argue but stopped.

“¿Una cerveza, muchacho?” (“A beer, boy?”) he asked, already moving toward the fridge. “Por lo menos para agradecerte.” (“At least to thank you.”)

“And you’re staying for dinner,” your mother added before Sylus could respond, her voice final, already thinking about the menu she would display tonight. “Is there anything you don't like to eat?” 

“Mamá…” you said in a tired tone, shaking your head. 

“We need to thank him properly,” she chirped.

Sylus hesitated, looking between them, then over at you, as if silently pleading for a way out. But you just smiled, leaning against the counter with one eyebrow raised, thoroughly enjoying the moment. Your father was already asking for a detailed explanation of how the miracle worked. And if he also knew how to fix cars.

“Looks like you’ve been adopted,” you said sweetly. “Good luck.”

He narrowed his eyes at you, but there was a flicker of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You expected him to fumble—thought he’d slip up on the names, or get awkward answering your dad��s too-bold questions. You wanted him to flinch a little, if only for your own petty satisfaction. But somehow, he didn’t. He was smooth and polite. Your mother was enchanted in less than ten minutes, practically glowing every time he addressed her with a soft “señora.” And when he mentioned liking fishing? Your father lit up like it was Christmas morning.

You sat there in quiet horror as your dad leaned back in his chair, nodding thoughtfully. “Lo quiero como yerno.” (“I want him as a son-in-law.”) You nearly choked on your water. Your soul left your body. 

“Papá…!” 

Sylus set his glass down gently and said, perfectly composed, “We don’t have that kind of relationship” Then, with the faintest trace of dry amusement, he added, “She actually threatened to push me off a cliff earlier.”

Your dad let out a booming laugh. “That’s love!”

Your mother gasped and you slumped in your chair, face in hands, absolutely done.

Later, when the plates were cleared and your parents had gone off to debate which neighbour had the best tomatoes this year, you tugged Sylus out onto the back porch. The sky was a soft indigo now, stars starting to blink awake. Crickets chirped. The kind of summer night that made everything feel special. 

You leaned against the railing, arms crossed. “Don’t listen to anything my dad said.”

Sylus leaned next to you, hands in his pockets, lips twitching with amusement. “What, about wanting me as a son-in-law?”

“Yes, that.” You groaned. “I’m so sorry.”

“It was... funny” His voice softened. “And... nice. Being around that much love. The way he looks at you. The way your mom knew you were lying about not being hungry.” He smiled faintly. “It’s loud, chaotic—and kind of wonderful.”

You glanced up at him, and something in his eyes made your chest ache.

“They raised you well,” he added quietly.

You tried to brush it off, but your voice cracked slightly. “How was your childhood?”

“Different.” He looked out into the trees. “I struggled to survive.”

You nodded, unsure what to say. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

"Don’t be." He patted you head, his voice was strangely comforting. 

“Well, you can always come back,” you offered, suddenly nervous, removing his hand embarrassed. “They’ll be happy to see you again.”

He turned, eyes finding yours.

“And you?” he asked.

“Eh?” 

“If I leave… would you be sad?” Your stomach flipped. But instinct kicked in, and you played it off with a shrug. True... He will leave... 

“Not unless you start tipping me at the bar.”

He chuckled. “Is that so?”

“And also, you shouldn’t drink every day either. You’ll die young.”

He turned to fully face you now, clearly amused. “Oh? So now you’re worried about me?”

You tried to hide your smile. Sylus laughed softly, but you could still see the warmth in his eyes.

Under all that tension. Your feeling is accumulating points of reward each time he leans in too close. When he hands you over a bottle of cold water. When he pulls out the chair before you sit in the restaurant or when he lets you use his lap as pillows to sleep on the beach. And in those moments when you see his smile, like now, under the flicking bonfire and his features are so soft as clouds drifting over the sky. You wish you had never met him because one day, probably soon… he’ll be gone. You should’ve known better. 

The ache in your chest is already blooming. Not sure if you won’t be able to bury it after he leaves, you choose the only thing you can. Make the moment yours before it’s gone. You stand, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt, peeling off layers of doubt with every piece of clothing. The air is warm, soft against your exposed skin. The flame crackles behind you, but the sea calls louder.

“I’m going to swim,” you say, calm, even if your pulse isn’t. You glance back over your shoulder, half naked by now. “Coming?”

He blinks, just once, surprised. But that smirk; god, that infuriating smirk; returns quickly.

“You’re bold,” he says, shacking his head but his hand catches your arm gently, his glowing red eyes hold you in place. “Are you sure?”

You raise an eyebrow. “About swimming? Yeah.” You know he is not asking about that. 

The last piece of clothing drops to the sand. You walk into the water, until it's covert over your naked body and you submerge yourself entirely. He follows, doing the same. You can feel him behind you before you even turn. His fingers, tracing the curve of your back, a feather light touch that sends shivers up your spine.

“What is your deepest desire?” You hesitate. You could lie. You’ve lied before but somehow, with him, it feels… pointless. He sees through it already. “Sweetie,” he says, his breath hot against your neck. “Don’t lie to me.”

“…I want to leave this place,” you admit. His hand holds yours beneath the water, while his arm wraps around your waist. 

“Why haven’t you?” he asks.

You stare out at the horizon, the darkness of the night merge with the ocean, and the stars shimmer almost on the water. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m afraid.”

“What would you do?” His voice is closer now. Lips brushing your wet hair.

“I want to see the world,” you whisper, lifting your free hand toward the sky as if you could touch the stars. “I want to know what it feels like to really live.”

He presses his lips on your shoulder. “I can give you that.”

You huff, half a laugh, half a shield. “Yeah, sure. Is that a promise… or just another pick-up line?”

His fingers tilt your chin gently toward him. His lips graze your cheek, your ear. You close your eyes briefly enjoying the prickling sensations of him, of your feeling surfing over your skin. 

“Don’t lie to me,” you echo back.

“I’m not,” he whispers, his thumb brushing your cheek, lingering as it slides over your lower lip with the faintest pressure. Your mouth parts instinctively, you feel the urge to chase his thumb with your tongue, but you hold back. His gaze locks onto yours. “I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”

His thumb rests there a heartbeat longer, then trails down, tracing your jaw, your neck. You turn toward him slowly, pulse climbing, not sure if you're bracing for something or hoping for it. Sylus just pulls you a touch closer, fingertips resting at your waist, holding you steady. He leaned in, slowly, giving you a few agonizing seconds to pull away. You could still stop this. He’s giving you the chance.

The kiss it’s not like in the stories. It’s not gentle. It’s every unsaid thing burning behind your ribs. You melt into it before you even realize. Fingers gripping his shoulders, heart racing like it’s trying to escape your chest. You didn’t want this. You didn’t mean to want him. But his mouth fits too easily, and your resolve slips, undone by the sheer gravity of wanting. And your soul be damned, suddenly, all the rules you'd set for yourself over years: no feelings, no attachments, no hopes… Shatter with the fire inside your chest. Fuck. You don’t want him to leave and that terrifies you more than anything.

Sylus was hungry for you, that much was clear. He kissed you then with an intensity that doesn't match what you were expecting. You’ve met selfish lovers before. Men who touched you like a reward, a prize, like they earned your body just by showing up. Sylus let you lead. And when you kissed him deeper, testing limits, pressing your bare body against him in the water, feeling how hard he was. His grip tightened at your waist, drawing you closer until there’s no space left. Yet he still didn’t cross the line. He wanted to, you felt it. You reached out, your fingers brushing against his hard cock pressing on your belly, and your body burned with desire. Your hand wrapped around him, the impressive length and thickness of him filling your palm, even through the water. A soft gasp escaped your lips as you stroked him, pulling him further into the kiss. Your tongues met with a urgent dance as they swirled and tangled, exploring every curve of each other's mouths. His hand, now tangled in your wet hair, pulled your head back slightly, deepening the angle of the kiss even further.

Then, with a soft, ragged breath escaping him, he broke the kiss. His eyes were heavy with unspoken longing. “As much as I desire you. I want to give you more than just this…” His voice was low, aching with restraint, as he gently removed your hand from his length. Then he kissed you—deeply—like he needed you to know how much he wanted you, how much he was holding back. Yet, he still made you dress and walked you home in silence and left you at the door. He kissed your hands, then pressed another, lingering kiss on your temple, and whispered a soft “Good night”. 

The ceiling fan carved the silence in soft, slow turns. Outside, the ocean whispered secrets to the rocks. A dog barked once, far off, then silence settled again. The air carried the scent of sea and distant charcoal fires into his room.

Sylus sat on the edge of the bed in his rented apartment, your kiss still ghosting his lips. The notebook lay open in his lap, pages filled with observations only he would understand. His handwriting wound through sketches, your fingers curled around a drink, the curve of your smile when you weren’t watching, the weightless joy that flickered in your laugh. He stared for a while at the half-finished line, heart heavy with a feeling he hadn’t expected to grow so fast, so deep.

“You kissed me with your whole heart trembling in your chest, and I felt every piece of it trying to crawl into mine.”

Sylus hadn’t meant to kiss you tonight. His fingers dragged slowly across his lower lip. He closed his eyes, replaying the moment in silence. Your skin against his, the sound you made when his hand slid to your waist. The way you leaned in, offering more than kisses. You would’ve given him everything if he’d let you. But he stopped it. He breathed through the tightness in his throat. He wanted more than just the heat of a passionate night. More than a fleeting moment tangled in sheets and whispers. He wanted your yes in daylight. He wanted your smile with no hesitation behind it. 

The pen hovered. He turned to a fresh page.

“I wanted to give in. To drown in you, in that moment, in everything we both tried to silence. But if I touch you like that… if I let go… I want it to mean something neither of us can take back.”

His jaw clenched. His heartbeat had yet to settle.

“I don’t want to be a moment you regret. You deserve love that doesn’t ask you to run. So I’ll wait. Even if my hands ache from not holding you. I’ll wait, because I already know what I want. I want you.”

He set the pen down gently, running his thumb along the notebook’s inner spine. The ceiling fan is still slicing the dark above him. And though the bed was empty, every part of him was still holding you, still feeling the shape of your body against his. Sylus leaned back, letting the notebook rest against his chest. 

[Notebook]

“You called me arrogant today but your face was all red. Later, you walked closer. Closer than you usually do. You’re so cute.”

[pressed hard into the paper]

“If I ever could taste the salt of your skin on my lips…” 

[Margin note, stained with coffee]

“I tried not to watch your mouth when you called my name.”

[With a small cat sketch]

“Sometimes you act like a cat… Probably I can lure you with mangos and a feather. I should start to call you Kitten.”

He hadn’t planned to stay this long in your town. But his soul was already settled down to your side. He came here for a reason… Something he hasn't told you yet but he hopes to do soon. For now, you made the days longer in the best way. And the nights? They stretched on without you. His gaze drifted toward the dark window, where the reflection of his own silhouette blurred with the night beyond. How long could he stay here? Another week? Maybe two weeks? Could he pretend, just a little longer?

The phone buzzed softly against the table. Its glow carved a cold line through the room.

Kieran.

Work never stayed quiet for long. He looked down at the page again, absently tapping the pen against the margin. The light of the phone blinked again. He turned it face down. Let the darkness swallow it.

“Not tonight,” he murmured.

Tonight, Sylus wants to stay in the dream a little longer.

You didn’t sleep much that night. Your mind was racing, what a strange man. No, Sylus isn’t like other men. Since that night, not much has changed. He still shows up at the bar. He still ordered his usual, except that the amount of alcohol had decreased. He walks you to your home after your shift and takes you to some new corner of this forgotten coastline. Some days it’s a long lunch in a neighbouring village, sharing fried fish and watching old fishermen untangle their nets. Other days it’s a walk through ruins or abandoned train tracks where he tells you stories that feel like lies but you can’t quite call him out on them.

You'd spent afternoons together where he’d saved your life, snorkeling together in the cove. You'd watched fish drift by, swum alongside turtles. But beneath the surface of those moments, the intensity between you had grown, a horrible static electricity building, filled with desire and agonising restraint. Yet, you haven't kissed again or he hasn't tried it either. You really want to taste that fire once more on his lips, desperately, but the fear of getting hooked overwhelms you in those moments and yet, amidst all the tension, he keeps your close. 

A few days later, just after you’d flipped the last chair onto the table and wiped your hands on a dish towel, you found him leaning against the counter. “I need to head into the city tomorrow,” he said, voice casual, but something in his tone tugged at your attention. “Just some business. A couple of hours' drive. 

You look to the sides, confused. 

“Do you need my bless to leave?” you joke.

“No. You said last time you haven’t been there for a while.”

“Yes, I did...” you say still moving from side to side, cleaning up. He takes out his phone and pulls up an image of a poster he saved from who knows where. Then he slides his phone over to me. You stopped what you were doing, and you look at the picture even more confused than before. “Looks interesting. That kind of vintage bookshop really suits you. Would love to see it.”

Then, after a beat, his voice dropped a little, almost hesitant:

“I’d really like your company...” he stopped. He didn’t look at you right away. Just tapped his fingers lightly against the counter, like maybe he wasn’t sure what you’d say. And for a second, your heart stuttered, wondering why that small invitation suddenly felt so big. “I want to ask you out.” You stopped what you were doing, and you look at him even more confused than before. You opened your mouth, searching for words. Are he...?

“I— We’d stay the night,” he added quickly, almost stumbling over the words. “Would be a shame not to enjoy the city.”

You didn’t answer. Can that be a good idea? Going alone with him somewhere else? Spending a night... together? Wait... You're not sure about anything right now. Did he asked your for a date? 

“Can I think about it?” you ask, your voice softer than you intended. Your heart was beating a frantic thousand times per hour.

He nods once, a small smile tugging at his lips, as if he understands more than you’re saying. “I’ll be waiting for you here in the morning,” he replies.

You brought it up to your mother later that night, expecting a lecture, maybe a little Catholic guilt or dramatic sighing, or even a heartfelt monologue about reputation. Instead, she practically threw you out of the house. By morning, she’d stormed into your room, yanked the curtains and told you to get in the shower. Breakfast was already waiting, and by the time you were dressed. Your backpack was packed and waiting by the door. You stood there, speechless.

“Go,” she said, waving her hand like she was shooting a fly. “My beautiful and intelligent daughter… You’re a grown woman.” Then she gave you that nostalgic mom-look. The one that makes you feel like she’s seeing your five-year-old self and not the woman standing in front of her. “I’ve seen you around him. You light up.”

You gawked at her. She kissed your cheek and shoved two lunch boxes into your hands. “Just… be smart, okay? And use protection.”

“Mamá!” You laughed, heart pounding in that strange mix of nerves and excitement. 

She winked, shoved you toward the door, and muttered, “And if he hurts you, I will find him.”

He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the open window, sunglasses hiding his eyes, hair tousled from the coastal breeze. The warm air rolls through, that kind of afternoon that tasted like freedom. You tapped through his playlist, surprised to find a mix of old ballads and moody instrumentals, jazz and classic. An old soul. 

“This is tragic,” you exhale. “Do you only listen this kind of music? Who are you, the Godfather?”

He shrugged. “It helps me think,” he said smoothly, as if brooding jazz was a requirement for plotting international deals or crimes.

With a small grin, you scrolled until you found something upbeat—something from your childhood that made your shoulders instinctively roll. The rhythm of the village, the kind of song that dragged you out of your chair whether you wanted to dance or not.

♫ Bachata en Fukuoka ♫

“You know this one?” you asked, teasing.

He didn’t answer. He sang. Badly. You burst out laughing because his voice was deep, slightly offbeat, and he only knew every third word. But gods, he was trying. Your chest ached in the strangest way.

“Please stop,” you gasped between laughs.

“I’m giving it soul,” he argued. “And you’re not any better.” You stick out your tongue and turn the volume up, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. 

When he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, grinning, you caught it—that angle of his jaw in the sunlight, the muscles of his forearm flexed against the wheel, veins drawn like rivers under skin. The line of his throat as he tilted his head back slightly, mouth curved around the chorus. His lips… again you felt your breath catch. Shit. You turned toward the window quickly, letting the wind cool the heat rising up your core and mind.

The city rose out of the horizon hours later. You hadn’t been here in a long while. You shifted in your seat, suddenly hyper aware of everything. Sylus pulled up to the hotel. You stepped out of the car and instantly felt underdressed. Marble floors. Velvet armchairs. Staff in suits. And the chandeliers were huge, golden things that looked like they belonged in a ballroom, not in a lobby. You wrapped your arms around yourself slightly as Sylus handed over the keys to the valet. At the reception desk, the woman behind the counter lit up the second she saw him.

“Mr. Qin. Welcome back.”

Welcome back? You glanced at him, but his expression was unreadable. Then she turned to you with a professional smile. “And welcome to you as well, Missus Qin.”

Your breath hitched. Missus Qin? You opened your mouth to correct her, but Sylus just smiled, clearly amused about your flustered expression with silent satisfaction. He didn’t correct her. Instead, he took the room key, slid your bag over his shoulder, and placed a gentle hand on your back, guiding you toward the elevator.

“Why did she call me that?” you muttered, trying to sound nonchalant. You weren’t sure if it worked. He didn’t answer. “Sylus?”

“Must’ve been a mistake, sweetie,” he said, voice rich with mischief. You gave him a look. 

The suite was stunning. High ceilings, city view, modern decor with soft touches of luxury, everything immaculate. 

“We’re staying in the same room?” you asked, half amused, half testing him.

“Since you’re Missus Qin today,” he said with a smirk, pulling off his sunglasses and setting them neatly on the table, “it’s only logical you stay here with me.” He gestured to the sofa, far too expensive to actually be comfortable. “I can sleep there, if it makes you more comfortable.” Then, almost teasingly, “Or I could book another room… if you’d prefer distance.”

You rolled your eyes, but the way your pulse stuttered was entirely unfair. “I will survive one night. Also you’re paying for the room.” Then, to break the tension threatening to tighten your chest, you added with a smirk of your own, “If you snore, I swear I’ll kick you off the bed.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “I’d expect nothing less.”

You turned away before he could see your grin. He checked his watch as you lounged near the window, sipping from the complimentary bottle of water. The city shimmered below, heat caught in the glass.

“I need to head to a meeting soon,” he said, checking his phone. “It won’t take long…” You looked up at him. “Would you like to accompany me?

Your brows lifted. “Why? Isn’t it a business thing? Nop. I’m not dressed for that.”

“That shouldn't be a problem.” Then, with a glint in his eye. “We can go shopping.”

Your mouth opened slightly. “I… I don’t—”

He stepped closer. “I asked you to come with me. Let me spoil you a bit.”

You blinked. “This feels like Pretty Woman… The rice guy who—” you avoid finishing the sentence, while you blush… You’re reading too much into it. He laughed but still he flicked his finger gently against your forehead.

“Hey!” you protested, rubbing the spot with a scowl that didn’t reach your eyes. “For what was that?” 

“Don't overthink it.” He smirked. “Come on. Follow me.”

The hotel’s boutique was quiet and elegant, tucked just off the main lobby. Every item looked carefully chosen. Every mannequin poised. Every price tag… conspicuously absent. You picked a dress—fluid fabric, a cut that hugged you just right, something that made you feel both effortless and elegant. He plucked a pair of heels from a nearby display, held them up with a faint smile, and nodded once, like it was obvious they were yours. Even if you had insisted, even if your hand had reached for your wallet, you both knew it was pointless. The dress, the heels, probably cost more than your savings account held. At the counter, while the attendant folded the items with gloved hands, Sylus leaned in, the heat of his breath grazing your ear. 

“Being Missus Qin,” he murmured, voice velvet-smooth, “means being more greedy. Can you handle it, my love?” That last word just rolled off his lips, and your cheeks instantly flared. You had to practically twist away to try and mask the grin threatening to take over your face. He chuckled softly, clearly pleased by your reaction. He carried the bag himself as you walked out, your heart still trying to recover from that one line.

“Go change,” he said, gesturing toward the elevator. “I’ll be waiting.”

By the time you returned, dressed and flustered, Sylus was already deep in conversation with two well dressed young men. His sentence slowed mid-syllable the second you stepped into view.

“You look…” His voice dipped lower. “…beautiful.”

The two men turned to look at you with perfectly timed curiosity. They introduced themselves as Luke and Kieran—identical down to the sharpness of their suits and the easy confidence in their smiles. But it didn’t take long to notice the difference: Luke had a warmer gaze and Kieran was quick-witted, his charm more playful, layered beneath sarcasm and quick glances exchanged between them.

Despite your confusion about who they were or what kind of business was Sylus doing with them. They treated you with quiet respect, never once making you feel out of place. Their ease around Sylus said more than their words, they trusted him. Completely. Which made you wonder again: what kind of man was Sylus really?

You sat together in a private business lounge. You stayed silent, hands folded in your lap, unsure where exactly to place yourself in their conversation. But Sylus didn’t miss a beat. Even while talking about contracts and acquisitions; about someone needing to sign off on a property, timelines, numbers that blurred together. And still, his attention didn’t drift far from you.

Without glancing, he reached out and pulled your drink a little closer, as if sensing you hadn’t touched it. A minute later while still speaking, something about closing dates and a stubborn signature, his hand slid the menu toward you with a gentle nudge. You looked up but he was still mid-sentence. The way his pinky brushed yours briefly. How, when your posture tensed just slightly, he shifted his knee until it touched yours. You weren’t sure if it made you feel more comfortable or more exposed.

At some point, a set of blueprints and renderings were spread across the table; floor plans, materials, and elegant, dark-toned interior designs. You leaned forward, tilting your head. It was sleek, yes. Sophisticated, expensive. But also… cold.

“Too much black marble,” you said, nose scrunching slightly. “Is it an apartment or a villain’s lair? Who is going to live there?”

The conversation paused for a breath. Sylus blinked, lips parting faintly. A beat later, Luke chuckled. Kieran raised a brow in amusement. Sylus turned his head slowly to look at you and the faintest smile ghosted across his lips. 

He adjusted one of the pages, letting you see the whole layout again. “How would you distribute it?”

And after maybe other two hours, Luke and Kieran stood up, gathering their documents with ease and that lingering air of familiarity.

“When will you come back, boss—?” Luke started to ask, but was promptly elbowed by Kieran, who gave him a look.

“Dude! Don’t you check the situation?” Kieran hissed under his breath, nodding slightly in your direction with an exaggerated arch of his brow.

Luke blinked, then followed the gesture, finally catching on. “Oh. Oh. Ooooh…”

Sylus exhaled through his nose then replied with that measured calm that somehow still carried authority. “I still have a few things to take care of.”

Kieran bit back a smirk. Luke straightened, saluted poorly, and muttered, “Message received.”

The way they deferred to him made it obvious, they weren’t just associates. They were his employees. Loyal ones. And the way he held their respect without needing to raise his voice or assert control told you everything about the kind of leader he was.

And just like that, they were gone.

♫ Grecia ♫

You smile “I like them.”

Sylus laughed, already loosening his collar as he sank into the seat beside you, his shoulder brushing yours.

“That’s good” he said, with that familiar glint in his eye. He tilted his head, voice low and easy. “Now... what do you want to do?”

You didn’t have a plan, but Sylus seemed to know how to make the hours stretch. The city buzzed around you, alive but not rushed, soaked in golden light as the sun melted behind the towers. You’d already walked for hours, through markets full of spice and music, narrow alleys lined with vines and hidden bookstores, quiet plazas where street musicians played like they didn’t care if anyone listened. He bought you a tiny ring from a vendor who didn’t even take cards, “just to see if it fit”. 

At a corner café, he ordered two lemon sodas and claimed the tiny mosaic table beneath a jacaranda tree. The breeze carried soft music from someone’s open window, and for a moment, everything slowed down. He tapped his glass to yours, watching you over the rim with a look that made your skin feel warmer than the sun. You laughed at something he said—something dumb and half-flirty. He leaned back with a smug grin, the corner of his mouth tugged higher with every note of your laughter. His eyes sparkled.

“Are you flirting with me, Sylus?” you asked, aiming for teasing but missing the mark. 

His smile widened, then he tilted his head, one brow arched, a flicker of something triumphant in his gaze. “I told you you’d notice the difference,” he said softly.

Your heart jumped in your chest, as it had tripped over itself trying to catch up with the moment. You looked down, suddenly fascinated by the edge of your napkin. The heat in your cheeks gave you away, the quick breath you took, the smile tugging at the corner of your lips no matter how hard you tried to keep it in check. You felt embarrassed but also happy. So many emotions rushed through you at once it was hard to name them all. Something was clear as day, you wanted to hold onto this moment for a bit longer.

Sylus brought you to that small bookstore from the poster, and stepping inside, its quiet atmosphere and crooked rows of worn shelves immediately embraced you like a sanctuary. Dust floated in lazy golden stripes through the high windows, and the smell of old paper settled in your lungs. You wandered aimlessly, fingers brushing spines, pretending to read while your thoughts raced. You found Sylus in the poetry section. He hadn’t said a word, just stood there, back to you, his frame relaxed and strangely at home among the faded covers and soft silence. When he sensed your presence, he turned. His finger was pressed against the page, underlining a single verse in the middle of the poem.

“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,”

“in secret, between the shadow and the soul.*”

You swallowed, something catching in your throat. Sylus finally met your eyes, reading the short poem in calm voice.

“So close, that your hand on my chest is my hand…”

“So close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.*”

*(Pablo Neruda - 100 Love Sonnets) 

The book stayed open between you two, but everything else, the shelves, the world blurred around the edges. And then he added, softer still, “That’s what it feels like. With you.”

A few stray cats lounged on stone benches, and small paper lanterns had already begun to glow in anticipation of evening. You walked along the edge of a garden square after that. He slowed his steps to match yours. His fingers brushed yours once… then again… until, without ceremony, he reached down and took your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. Your heart feels relieved when you feel his warmth.

A loud, unmistakable growl echoed between you, making you freeze. Your stomach betrayed you. “Dinner’s on me.” he said, thumb stroking across your knuckles in a quiet rhythm.

The restaurant he chose was tucked away, elegant without trying. Dim lights, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the city’s slow descent into night. The staff greeted him with too much familiarity, calling him Mr. Qin with polite bows and smiles that told you this wasn’t his first time here. You looked around. Velvet booths. Every guest was a portrait of tailored wealth. But across the table, Sylus didn’t blink at the opulence. The waiter poured wine, announcing its origin with elegance. Sylus barely acknowledged him. 

You didn’t know how to hold yourself here. How to sip the wine without second-guessing the angle of your wrist, how to sit without wondering if you were taking up too much space. What am I doing here? The thought came uninvited. This wasn’t your world. You never imagined sharing a table with someone who ordered without glancing at the prices. 

“Do you want to leave?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Umm?”

He leaned in slightly, elbows resting against the tablecloth, eyes still locked on yours. “You’ve gone quiet,” he said. “You always get quiet when you’re overthinking.”

You hesitated, then offered a small, breathy laugh. “Is that so obvious?”

“To me? Yeah.”

“No, it’s fine,” you said, lifting your glass. “It’s just new. That’s all.” You took a sip, then smiled, a little crooked but warming. “And you did said you were going to spoil me… so I’m taking advantage. I plan on eating a lot of dessert.”

That finally made him smile. 

The food was exquisite. The wine had begun to soften the edges of your nerves. He made you laugh and in that moment, you let your guard down. You reached for your glass, felt the soft weight of his gaze settle over you, and let yourself believe it was okay. If you can stay in this fantasy a little longer, so be it. You've spent too much time avoiding long-term love affairs. Only short encounters with those who weren't going to call you when they left. After college, that jerk broke you into a thousand pieces, and since then, your heart has become an icy shell. Yet, Sylus had found a way to chip at it, digging into the ice and creating a space within the cracks where he'd slipped through.

Yes, maybe it was time to let down all the defenses, and let someone like him... really in.

And then she walked in. A woman who looked like she belonged on a billboard: long hair, perfect lashes, crimson lips, and the kind of curves sculpted by some cruel god. She paused near the bar, eyes scanning, and landed too long on Sylus. Your heart twisted, a sharp, unwelcome knot of something you refused to name. She didn’t glance at you once. Why would she? You could still feel the ocean in your hair, the faint scent of sunscreen still on your skin from earlier. You felt small. Ordinary. Like a summer girl dragged into a winter party.

Sylus was… He was someone in this world. You were someone who worked at a beach bar. Who folded towels. Who knew every corner of a sleepy coastline but had never walked in shoes like hers. You knew it was stupid to feel that way. You knew it. But that didn’t stop the doubts from crawling into your mind. Or the whisper in your ear that said: You don’t belong in this story. You’re not special.

If he wanted to be with someone else, you knew he'd just do it. He was too honest, too direct for anything less. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t made a mistake with you. Even if he had asked you to come with him. Planned this trip. Bought you a dress. Treated you like you were someone important to him.

You forced a smile and took a slow sip of wine. Pretended like nothing inside you was shifting and unraveling. Keep it together, you told yourself. Don’t let him see it. But deep down, the quiet part of your heart was already breaking off into questions you didn’t want the answers to.

What if I’m just temporary? What if I’m not enough?

And across the table, Sylus’s gaze lingered on you. That scared you even more. Because if he saw all that insecurity in your eyes and chose to walk away… You weren’t sure you could blame him.

Sylus noticed it the moment your smile shifted. The way your shoulders dipped just slightly, the flicker behind your eyes as you reached for your glass. He followed your gaze and found her. The woman at the bar.

When you stood and excused yourself, your smile polite but paper-thin, he waited only a moment before rising too and walked over. The woman blinked up at him as he approached, lips already parting in a smile. She clearly thought she’d won. After all, a man like him didn’t just glance at someone like her and do nothing. In her mind, men like Sylus always fall for her.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said smoothly, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to be polite. She offered her name like a gift, tilting her chin, lashes fluttering with well-practiced charm. Sylus was already typing with one hand in his pocket. A quick search. That’s all it took. Her name wasn’t just a pretty label wrapped in lipstick and entitlement. It came with strings. Connections. Family ties woven through business and media. An old-money name known for its reach, and also its scandals.

He nodded once. “Let me get straight to the point,” he said, his tone smooth but sharpened at the edges, “I find it hard to enjoy my dinner when someone is making my wife very uncomfortable.”

Her eyes widened, then narrowed and with a scoff masked as a laugh, she tilted her head toward your empty seat. “That little thing is—”

“I’ll say this once,” he said, still polite but his eyes were already burning with a cold fury. “Don’t ever look at me… or my wife, again. If you want to keep your status intact.”

She adjusted her hair so that it fell over her back, and grimaced in disgust. “Who do you think you are?”

Sylus stepped in slightly, just enough to tower, casting a shadow that wasn’t there before. The soft light caught in his eyes, turning them darker. Crimson heat cooled into something unholy. His stare sharpened, he changed to a wolf, ready to kill. “I’m someone you don’t want to challenge,” he said quietly.

And in that silence, she took a step back. Sylus walked away and sat back down, sending a quick message to Luke. He replied with a thumbs-up emoji and an Already on it, boss.  

But when you returned, something in you was still pulled taut. And so the rest of the evening unraveled almost in silence. Now, walking through the winding streets back to the hotel, the heat of the day had faded into a softer warmth. The city hushed beneath golden streetlights. A tinny vendor’s radio spilled music into the night.

♫ Qué se siente que me gustes tanto? ♫

The lyrics landed first in the air, then in your chest. Sylus didn't wait long to bring up the subject. He couldn't leave it like that.

“You really think I’d look at other women when you’re across from me?” His voice was low. 

You stiffened. You kept your gaze fixed forward, on the uneven cobblestones, refusing to meet his eyes. “Don’t know what you mean.”

Silence stretched, and it made you squirm. You didn’t want to admit it, that spark of fear, the ache of never being enough. You were proud. You’d never ask to be chosen. 

His voice dropped even lower, “My beloved…” he called you, the words were softer than the fading music and gentler than the evening breeze that just barely stirred your hair. The sound wrapped around you, and made your heart be even more confused. You stopped walking, rooted to the spot. This was bad. Really, really bad. If you let yourself fall for him now, truly fall, there’d be no way for you to untangle yourself from his beautiful, complicated world.

And yet, when he reached for your hand, you didn’t resist. He pulled you into his arms, and pressed your face into his shirt, soft cotton that smelled like a special mix of wood, spices and leather. Is the first time you really noticed it. Is intoxicating. The music still played behind you. Your eyes stung. Sylus felt your breath against his chest, the tension running through your spine, so he pulled back just enough to look at you. 

“Dance with me,” he said, not really asking.

“Now?”

“Why not?” he murmured. His hands found your waist, pulling you close as you swayed in place gently with the rhythm. The world around you blurred. 

Warmth settled between your rips, your hands finding his with ease. For a moment, there was no one else. Just the hush between lyrics and the quiet longing. His thumb moved in lazy circles against your lower back. He could feel the tremble in your body and he held you tighter. You didn't know where to pour all the overflowing feelings. You wanted to lean in, to taste the comfort of his lips again. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then shot back to yours, holding you captive. In that moment, you wondered if, behind those intense crimson eyes, he also carried his own silent insecurities. And if he, like you, knew the fear of giving his heart away.

Sylus leaned in, hummed low with the melody, his mouth brushing near your ear. The verse slid back in, whispering as he echoed the lyric:

“¿Y si te doy mi vida?” (What if I give you my life?)

The words melted into your skin, and with them, the fear grew bigger. What if, for a moment, you put your fear aside? What if, for a moment, you dared to give in to all your emotions?

Please...

What would it feel like if your feelings were reciprocated? Your heart were hammering in your ears, beating so fast you hadn't felt like this in years.

Don't hurt me...

The moment stretched. You stepped a breath closer, and his hand pressed you more firmly against him. You had stopped dancing. Your eyes darted all over his face, searching for an opening.

Kiss me...

His phone buzzed loudly in his jacket pocket, shattering the moment. He didn’t move at first, his forehead nearly touching yours, but then he sighed and stepped back with a quiet, frustrated sound. The sudden space between you felt colder than it should have.

“Give me a moment,” he murmured. 

You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly chilled despite the warmth of the night. Your mind is a mess. Even with the overwhelming urge to kiss him, your mind, predictably, had already strayed, lost in its own labyrinth of thoughts. Tonight was beautiful, but what did it mean tomorrow? And what if—what if this was just how he made any girl feel special? That thought struck harder than you expected.

By the time you reached the hotel, your mood had changed. The heat between you had been replaced with the chill of doubt, creeping in from all sides. You stand in the middle of the room. Barefoot, feeling small. You look over to the bedroom, then to him. You see your reflection and notice how the joy you felt this morning just disappeared with the day. You feel pathetic. 

“Are you upset?” You shake your head. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t lie to me.” he said softly, removing his watch, and placing down his phone on the table then opening a few buttons of his shirt. “Say whatever's on your mind.”

Your heartbeat echoed in your ears, louder than the silence between you. The distance wasn’t physical space; it was the weight of all the words that still hung, unspoken, in your chest.

“¿Y si te doy mi vida?”

His hand brushes yours. Your fingers twitched, desperate to reach for him. Your throat feels tight, as if you were suffocating. You're actually terrified. Because you want him, desperately. Not just the heat of his kisses, not just the easy laughter or the wild, thrilling mystery that he is. You want to actually love someone for once, truly. And it’s him. Fucking God, it’s him. But if he leaves… If he goes back to wherever he came from, with his smirk, his rich laugh and silver hair… Your heart will shatter and go straight back to that frozen, numb place. And you’ve only just started to thaw. You flinch. You meet his gaze in the low light. His expression is serious, no, even worse…  Disappointment, sadness or something in between. 

“I’m not… lying.” You lie.

He watches you a second longer, then slowly moves even closer to you. His movements are careful. His fingers wrap gently around your wrist, and he guides your hand to his chest, on his warm skin. A fast, steady rhythm beneath. His parted lips hover just above yours. The same lips you kissed a few nights ago, when you told yourself not to care. When you whispered: Let’s just have fun. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

But now…

Now, your thoughts are overflowing with him. Mornings, nights, in the quiet moments between customers, between dreams, you think of him. In his presence, somehow, you found the courage to admit out loud that you want to leave your home. The paradise with its palms and sleepy routines. That you want more. To go somewhere, do something, be someone. And still… even if he’s offered you all that, you’re terrified. Terrified he could simply use you. Terrified that things won't work out between you, and you'll be back to square one, heartbroken again. 

“What do you really want?” he murmurs. His gaze is piercing you, you want to avoid him. If you let him… if you let yourself. The knot in your chest seems to struggle your heart to death. It hurts so much. You blink fast, trying to clear the sudden blur in your vision. Your throat tightens, making it impossible to swallow. “Why aren't you saying anything?”

“I—” You take a deep breath, trying to reduce the growing anxiety in your chest. “We should sleep,” you whisper, you’re one breath away from breaking. 

“Don’t—” he starts, his voice rough, as if he’s about to say something that might shatter the last bit of distance between you but he stops. He swallows whatever it was, a visible effort, and just hugs you for a long time. 

The silence settles again, but this time it’s louder, pressing in on you. And for a long while, neither of you sleeps. You want to cry out all the pain, and ironically, let him comfort you, wipe the tears from your face, and promise you that everything will be okay. The bed feels too big and far too small at the same time. You close your eyes, trying to ignore how closer Sylus was. 

After that, every passing day carves the question deeper into your mind: What happens when he finally leaves? It gnaws at you more with each sunset. You keep telling yourself not to get attached. You’ve had flings before. Summer heat, wandering hands, promises made in the dark that vanish with the morning sun. You’re not new to that rhythm. 

However, Sylus remembers the way you like your coffee. That you hate papaya. That your first kiss wasn’t anything magical, just wet and awkward behind a middle school building. That you used to get bullied for being too loud, too intense, too weird. He knows that you chew your straw when you're nervous. That you hold your breath during horror movies. He knows you have a birthmark between your shoulder blades you pretend to hate but secretly hope someone finds beautiful. That you’ve never told anyone the exact moment you stopped believing love was safe. 

By now, it’s been fifteen days since you met him and in that time he knows more than you ever told anyone. Tonight, he’s sitting on his usual spot, sleeves rolled to his elbows as he skims a finger across the rim of his whiskey glass, he hasn't touched. You’re closing the bar tonight. There isn't anyone left on the beach. You join him wordlessly, sinking into the chair in front of him. You glance over. His eyes are fixed on the ocean, jaw tight. Something’s off. 

“…Sylus?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just exhales through his nose. 

“I’m leaving…” he finally says. There it is. Your stomach knots. You knew this was coming, didn’t you? You swallow hard. 

“When?”

He looks at you then, and his eyes, those burning red eyes, look tired. No, they look unexpectedly sad. “Tomorrow afternoon.”

The silence that follows carries the heavy weight of all the unsaid things. You nod, pretending it’s fine. You’re fine. This is how it should be, how it always ends. You swallowed the bitterness of the coming farewell, the pain that had flooded your entire body, and the crushing sadness of never seeing him again. Maybe you'd screwed up. 

“At least I have one less customer to serve,” you quip, a thin attempt at humor.

He huffs a breath, a sound that's a tired mix of amusement and resignation. “I… didn't expect to stay so long.”

You nod again. He reaches for your hand, his fingers wrap around yours. 

“I told you I’d give you everything,” he says, and his voice is serious.

“What does that even mean, Sylus?”

Why me? Who are you really? What happens after this?

He lifts your hand, presses a kiss to your knuckles. 

“It means,” he says slowly, his eyes holding yours, “if you want to leave this place. If you want to see the world, say it.”

You stare, breath caught in your throat. “You’re asking me to just… go with you?”

“I’m offering you a way out.” He smiles then, soft and utterly unreadable. “Your choice.”

The smell of herbs and something baking fills the air. You hear the soft clatter of your mother’s steps as she moves from counter to stove. You sit there in the dim light of the kitchen, elbows resting on the table, the ghost of Sylus’s offer still echoing in your chest. You want to ask her, but you can’t put your words together.

She passes behind you, then stops. Set something down gently on the table. You glance at it. A photograph. Slightly bent at the corners, colors a little faded with time. You are in a yellow swimsuit with flowers, front tooth missing, two uneven braids. One hand gripping a tiny shovel, the other clutching the hand of a boy, frowning, clearly not thrilled to be holding yours.

“Do you remember that summer?” your mother says, her voice light, amused. You don’t answer. Just stare at the photo like it might rearrange itself if you look long enough.

“You met that boy,” she continues, “and I remember you told everyone you were going to travel the world with him.” She chuckles under her breath. “You always wanted to go beyond the horizon. I don’t know what happened to that dream but…” she pauses, and her voice softens. “You know... Your father and I—we can live alone.”

You look up. She’s already turned her back again, kneading something, hands working like they always do. You huff. You even haven’t said anything but she already knows what is oppressing your heart.

“I just thought it was cute, how serious you were,” she adds. Then, quieter—like she’s saying it to the dough. “Who knew he’d grow up to be so handsome…”

Your breath catches. You look down at the photo again. At the boy. You hadn’t made the connection. Same frown. Same eyes. That stubborn, restless energy in his bones. 

Sylus. 

No wonder he could speak your language so well. You stare at the picture, fingers tracing the edges. Was that why he was here? If you have forgotten about that, has he too? Could it be...?  

You lay on your bed, eyes wide open, ceiling fan spinning slowly above you, offering no peace. How did you forget him? How did he slip through the cracks of your memory? You remember the summer, vaguely. You remember falling, scraping your knee, building sandcastles. But him? Not really. Maybe your brain, like your heart, had tucked it away for safekeeping.

You throw off the sheet when the first rays of sunlight appear behind your curtain. You take the photo and slip it into your pocket and walk out. The path is still etched into your bones, even after all these years. Past the old mango tree, down the narrow stretch of dirt between fences, and through the tall grass that tickles your legs until the world opens up. 

The beach. You find the spot. The place where your little hand held his. You sit down in the sand, cool grains sticking to your legs. The sky is bruised with the first light of morning, deep pinks and soft golds stretching across the horizon. The ocean glitters just for you. You pull the photo out, staring at it again. 

You don’t hear his footsteps at first. 

“I wondered if you’d remember.” You look over your shoulder. “You kept the picture,” he says, sitting beside you.

You hold it up. “Why didn’t you tell me?” The ocean murmurs beside you, waves licking the rocks with that slow, lazy rhythm that feels almost too intimate for this moment.

“Would you have looked at me the same way, if I’d said it on day one?” His gaze lingers on the horizon. His thumb brushes over his knee, slow and distracted. “You didn't seem to remember me at all.” He paused. “I thought… if I added more weight to all of this, you'd pull away.”

You stare at him, lips parted, heartbeat louder than the sea.

“I didn’t want to overwhelm you,” he finishes, finally turning to face you. “But I think I might have, anyway.”

You look down at the photo in your hand then at the man beside you. Maybe you stayed because some part of you was waiting. Hoping. Hoping he'd come back. And then it clicks. Like a lock turning after all these years. You did make a promise. You both did. You remember the salty wind in your hair, the scraped knees, the laughter. The little boy frowning at the sun, then reaching for your hand and whispering something like:

“When we’re older, let’s explore the world. You and me. I’ll came back.”

You huff. Then laugh, low and disbelieving.

“So you came here to find me?” you ask, glancing at him.

“No,” he says, eyes still fixed on the horizon.

You squint at him. “Then what was it?”

He’s silent for a moment. 

“I’ll tell you. But first… I want to here your decision.”

“Does my choice change your secret?”

“No,” he repeats.

You press your lips into a fine line. A choice. Yours. The word echoes through your chest. Panic rises in your throat, a quiet flutter of fear. You’re not sure what you’re waiting for, some sign or burst of clarity, but maybe the truth has been there all along. Leaving because of some old promise would be stupid, but... you had waited for an excuse, for something that would finally pull you out of your comfort zone. You’ve been scared. Of leaving, of staying. Of wanting something too much. But this… him. It hasn’t felt temporary in a long time. You exhale. The nerves are still there, fluttering like butterflies wings under your skin. But somewhere deeper inside of you, already knows the answer. 

“I want to leave and see the world,” you squeeze his hand. “But also... I want to be with you.”

His head turns slowly, and he looks at you with tenderness. His hand closes over yours. With the sun rising and the sea singing low beside you, you realize you’re choosing something that feels like destiny.

“I'm glad to hear that.”

“Now…” you whisper, “your—”

Sylus laughs under his breath, then draws you in. His mouth meets yours with a softness that steals the air from your lungs. You feel the tremble in his exhale, the way his fingers tighten slightly. Your hands find his chest. The world narrows to the taste of him, familiar, new and everything at once. He barely parts from you, his forehead brushing yours, his nose nudging yours.

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “All these years. I wanted to find you.” A pause. “Coming here wasn’t planned, I almost gave up,” he admits. “I was just taking a few days off. And then… I found you.”

There’s a softness in his expression, an openness that makes your soul leave your body. For you, he’s not just a visitor anymore. Not just a beautiful man passing through. He’s the ache in your chest that finally has a name. He’s the silence that felt full instead of empty. You grip his shirt, holding onto him like he might vanish if you let go.

The sun crowns him in gold, dawn spilling across his skin, catching in his lashes, turning him into something you could never explain to anyone else. You kiss him again, this time with everything you’ve been holding back. He answers with equal fervor, hands cradling your face. The world tilts, and for a moment it’s just breath and warmth and the ache of something too big for words. The kind of kiss that means yes. He breaks the kiss with a soft, disbelieving laugh, eyes impossibly bright as if he can’t quite believe this was happening. Without warning, he rises, sweeping you into his arms effortlessly. Your laughter bubbles up, wild and breathless, muffled against the curve of his neck as he spins you around. 

The door barely clicks shut before you’re on him again, tangled in each other. Clothes fall in a trail behind you. His fingers slide under your shirt, tugging it over your head as his lips find your neck, dragging a sigh from your lips. The trail of clothes grows behind you, scattered and forgotten, urgency pulsing beneath every touch.

The relentless desire for the feel of your bare skin against his, already warm and damp with your rising heat, was getting both of you into an intoxicating high. A thirst as overwhelming as hours without water in the desert.

You kiss him slowly. First his lips, a deep, soft sigh shared between you, then lower, down the sharp line of his jaw. Your mouth drifts to the curve of his neck, tasting the warmth there. His breath hitches,when your tongue traces the hollow of his throat. You can feel the tension building, a taut wire humming through his body, every muscle pulled tight…

Sylus tilt your head, eyes burning in desire. You just smiled, making him sit on the bed. You knelt before him. He exhaled sharply. You kept going, placing soft, wet kisses down his chest, over each ridge of muscle, pausing to press your mouth against the places that made him twitch, and made him whisper your name. 

“You don’t need to…” he started, his voice thick with unspent lust, but your lips had already closed around his leaking cock. His head fell back with a low groan. Your mouth moved with intention. You wanted to savor this—him. You hollowed your cheeks just enough, letting your tongue glide along his length, feeling every small shudder ripple through him. His hand drifted to your hair only holding, enough to ground him as he unraveled.

“S-sweetie…” he murmured, his voice roughened, broken open by pleasure.

You didn’t stop. You owned this moment, every agonizing, beautiful second. The taste of him was rich, musky, utterly intoxicating, a flavor that filled your mouth and settled deep in your throat. The way he fought to keep control and still offered it to you completely, without reservation. He was yours like this—silent except for the sounds you pulled from him, the way his hips shifted with restraint beneath your hands.

Your lips wrap around his thick cock, feeling the slick heat. You split over him, taking him deeper in. Tears pricked at your eyes, because of the sheer effort and the overwhelming sensation. Yet you enjoyed it so much, you wanted more. 

Sylus can barely breathe, every nerve ending screaming. He feels his control fraying, a thin thread about to snap. His hips twitch, wanting to thrust into your mouth, but he holds himself rigid, a strangled sound catching in his throat as the pleasure threatens to overwhelm him entirely. You pull back, and a thin line of breathless laughter escapes him, as if he can’t believe what you were doing to him.

You wiped your mouth delicately, lingering for a moment to lick away his taste still on your lips. Then you kissed your way back up his body, over his taut stomach, up his chest, hovering just above his lips.

“Still think I’m not greedy enough?” you whispered, your voice husky. He looked like he wanted to worship you and surrender at the same time. His answer was a kiss that made the whole room spin.

He didn't give you time to continue. Sylus made you lay down on the bed, his knee nudging between your legs, creating a space just for him. His eyes, dark with fervent hunger, scorched your flushed skin as he leaned in. He kissed your collarbone, then the hollow of your throat, his lips playing with your breath, before his mouth drifted lower. He took your nipple between his lips sucking on them, making your back arch and a gasp in response to that. You felt the sudden gush of your own wetness, a hot, insistent tide rising, your whole body with a pulsing need to have him. 

“Let me... return the favor,” he murmured and then he disappeared between your legs. 

Your eyes rolled back in your head. His hot tongue danced over your swollen, damp pussy. The taste of you, sweet and musky, filled his mouth, a heady rush he craved more than air. It felt so terribly, impossibly good. “So wet...” he purred, the words vibrating against your sensitive skin. Your whole body tensed, an electric current shooting through you. He gorged himself on your wetness, every lick, every suck deepening his own hunger.

He kept you firmly in place, his hands on your thighs, devouring you with an intensity that stole your breath. Your moans grew louder, and uncontrollable sounds ripping from you. You grabbed fistfuls of his hair while your other hand clenched the sheets, twisting the fabric. “Sy— Fuck...!” Your breath was a mess, short-circuited, ragged gasps. You were going crazy, right on the edge, especially when he pressed his tongue deep inside you.

“Sy— I'm… aahh… mm…” Your words were broken sounds, lost in pleasure.

The vibration of his own moan against your dripping pussy was the cherry on top. You were about to cum on his face when he pulled back. You let out a small, frustrated whine.

“What…” he murmured, his tongue flicking hard against your clit. “...Do you…” again, a deeper, swirling lick that made your hips arch instinctively. “...Need..?” You couldn't form coherent thoughts; how could one man be so impossibly good at this? “Tell me.” He pressed a hot, claiming kiss to your inner thigh, sending a shockwave through your entire body. You couldn't even articulate if you wanted him inside you, or if you simply needed more of his impossibly talented tongue.

“Be honest,” he whispered, the words punctuated by tiny, insistent bites on your inner thigh. His nose then brushed against your clit, drawing a sharp gasp from your throat. "You smell so good," he purred.

He kept you on the edge, pushing you further with every lick, every suck. You writhed beneath him, your fingers twisting in the sheets, desperate to articulate the overwhelming need. Sylus continued to feast, drawing out your pleasure until your pussy screamed for something more, for him.

“I... want.. you…” The admission ripped through you.

“As you wish” he breathed, and the certainty in his tone was an aphrodisiac, sealing your fate.

Every breath, every motion feels etched in starlight. When he finally thrusts into you, the wet, full slide of him ignites a deeper fire, driving even further, lost in the vast extent of your desire. A whimper tears from your throat, your nails drag burning trails down his back, and then, without quite thinking, you sink your teeth gently into his shoulder, desperate, loving bites that pull a gasp from him. You murmur something incoherent against his damp skin, something silly that dies on your tongue. He chuckles, breathless. 

His entire body is on fire with the profound pleasure of being inside you, feeling you stretch around him, so wet, so impossibly tight. Sylus pressed harder, deeper inside you, with the urge to bury himself completely, never wanting to let go. His warmth floods you, mingling with your own burgeoning sweat, dissolving the last threads of hesitation. “Fuck,” he rasps, a rough, breathless sound against your ear, his voice full with his own spiralling pleasure, "you feel so incredible.” 

You feel every inch of him: solid muscle, steady breath, the faint shiver that betrays his own restraint. Letting out a long breath, you fully surrender to his embrace. Your legs wrap around him almost instinctively, drawing him in tighter. His mouth devoured yours, tongues tangling, wet and insistent, mixing tastes of hunger and the lingering salt from his skin, a flavour of absolut, undeniable devotion. You move together, slow at first, building a rhythm that pulls you both under.

He moans your name against your ear. The world narrows as the heat of his skin grows. The sound of your breathing tangled together is getting louder, and the steady rhythm he finds between your hips makes your vision blur. He feels you clenching around him, demanding more. His thrusts are smooth, sensual, purposeful. He’s trying to memorize the shape of your body from the inside out, imprinting himself onto you. 

Each movement sends sparks up your body, makes your chest arch, your breath catch, your thoughts dissolve into nothing more than him. “Sylus…” you whimper against his neck. Sweat glistened and rolled over the planes of his chest, catching in the silver hair that trailed down his lower stomach to the base of his cock.

The wet slap of skin echoed the deep, rhythmic thwack of his hips meeting yours, and the raw longing burning in his eyes is almost too much to bear. You cling to him, your hair sticky against your own body, as well as the weight of all your feelings: your fear, your yearning, your surrender, everything coiling tighter into every powerful roll of his hips.

His mouth brushes your ear as he promises you things you can’t quite hold yet, but desperately want to believe. “Please…” you gasp, the word lost in the rising tide of climax. “Sylus…”

“If… you keep saying my name like that...” he moaned, so shaky and broken it barely sounded like him. “I’m not… ah… going to last long.”

The desire rised between your bodies like a storm about to break. You couldn't hold back; the dam of all your emotions was seconds from bursting. And with a few more relentless movements, you came, shuddering violently over his cock, gasping for breath as if you’d been drowning. You cried out with a wild, untamed sound you'd never made before, a full-body surrender that spilled into a rush of shared liquid.

Your body trembled beneath him, and still he didn’t let go, maintaining the rhythm, anchoring you both in the eye of the storm. He presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard, his fingers brushing your cheek with tenderness. He could feel every tremor in your frame, hear the racing beat of your heart, echoing his own.

Sylus pulled back slightly, only to thrust in harder. His cock, already thick, hardened further, pulsing with a fierce demand inside you. He needed more. His own climax, so close just moments ago, was now a conscious chase. Each powerful plunge was a desperate claim, a primal need to consume and be consumed. 

He felt the nails of your fingers digging into his back and it only drove him further. The way your face twisting in pleasure, of your body arching in that first, explosive climax coursed through him, intensifying his own need. He hadn't expected to go so fierce with you the first time. But your tongue, your hands, your raw surrender had provoked him beyond anything he’d anticipated. He sighed. He needed to come. You were pushing him past every limit. 

You felt him hit your sweet spot, driving you wild again. Your body arched up to meet his every brutal, perfect demand, instinctively answering the raw desire in his every thrust.

“Sylus...” You cried out, and the sound of his name on your lips was a direct path to his soul.

“Relax. You can handle it,” he choked out, his hips driving relentlessly. The wet, furious slap of skin against skin became the only sound in the universe. Your legs clamping again around his waist. His muscles bunched and flexed beneath your fingers, shimmering with sweat, as he hammered into you, faster, harder...

Just as his body tensed for release, he pulled back a fraction, you hear his choked question against your ear: “Can I come inside you?”

“Mmm-hmm... yes!” you whimpered, your body arching. “ ’m taking... the pill...”

His body tensed with renewed power, and he slammed into you, picking up a new tempo with a desperate urgency. He was rock-hard inside you, pushing you toward a second climax even as your head spun with the intensity.

Until a desperate moan tearing from his chest as he poured himself into you, filling your core. You let out a load moan, your own climax exploding through you, pulling you violently with him into the sweet oblivion. He collapsed against you, heavy and spent, his breath ragged against your neck, his fingers digging into your hips, still clutching you. 

After, your bodies remained impossibly tangled, bathed in the hush of the room, slick with shared heat. You felt weightless and pinned at the same time, his leg tangled with yours, Your heart still raced a frantic rhythm barely believing what just happened. The sheets are a mess, but neither of you moves. His arm is heavy across your waist. His breath fans gently against your temple. You stare at the ceiling, too full of feeling to speak.

Then, his fingers found your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek with feather-light care, he turned you toward him. You looked at him and found no trace of the usual smugness in his face but rather a profound softness you hadn't seen.

“I hope you know…” he said, his eyes flickering side to side, almost vulnerable. “…this wasn’t just for fun.”

You stared at him, the unexpected softness in his gaze disarmed you. The overwhelming tide of emotion swelled within you, a chaotic mix of the shattering intimacy you'd just shared, the fierce longing that had coiled inside you since that trip to the city, and the startling realisation that Sylus had been holding back too. You felt it now, in every inch of your body, lingering on your lips…

“Yes, I know, but—” you blurt, your thoughts instantly slipping out in a rush. “But I’m also a disaster! I overthink everything, and I say stupid things. I’m going to ruin this, I know it, even though I don’t want to. I’ll probably just cry and then analyse every breath we’ve shared because I can’t stop myself—and I won't be enough!”

Sylus blinks once, then twice, clearly caught off guard by the sudden rush of words.

“And maybe I’ll run or say something stupid because that’s what always happens when something actually matters and this...  You... You matter so much I can’t even breathe right and I— I love you so much…” Sylus’s eyes widened, freezing on your face. You haven't realised what you just said. “...and it’s terrifying because if you leave I won’t know how to be okay again. And I don’t think I’ll even know how to want anything else after this... after you... and, and...”

Then, his hand finds yours beneath the sheets, firm but gentle. He laces your fingers together and pulls you slightly closer, grounding you with his gaze.

“Leaving me is not an option,” he says, eyes steady. “I won’t accept that.” The intensity in his gaze sends your heart stumbling all over again. You feel your face heat up so fast it’s like someone struck a match across your skin. “After all,” he murmurs, and there’s the faintest ghost of a smile on his lips, “you love me…”

You froze. Did you say that…? The words echoed, loud and clear in your mind, burning with the fresh memory of the confession torn from you just moments before. Mortified, you yanked the covers up and over your head like a kid hiding from a nightmare. “God, why am I like this?” you mutter from underneath.

He laughs softly, leaning over the mound you’ve become. “Don’t hide under the blanket, Kitten,” he murmurs, leaning over the mess of linen you’ve become. “I remember everything you said.”

“I’m not hiding,” you protest, voice muffled and absolutely unconvincing.

“Oh?” His tone tilts into that familiar, playfully smug edge. “You’re not hiding. Enlightened me then…” his fingers pinch a corner of the blanket. “What exactly are you doing?” He gives the covers a tug, but you cling to them tighter.

“And why are you calling me Kitten, now?” you protest, struggling with him.

“It suit you” he laughed. 

A brief, silly struggle ensues and before you know it, he’s won. He slips beneath the blanket with you, pinning you down, his bare chest warm against yours. You yelp as his mouth finds yours again in the dark, laughter caught between kisses.

“Don’t be so fussy, Kitten,” he murmurs against your lips, smug and soft all at once. “You already said it.” You turn into his chest, breathing in his scent, your hand clutching the fabric of the sheets between you. He wraps his arms around you tighter. “Now let me show you what that means to me.” He murmurs, and before you can respond, his lips find yours.

A kiss that speaks in quiet declarations: I heard you. I see you. I’m not going anywhere. His mouth brushes over yours once, then again, softer, slower. His hand cradles your jaw, thumb tracing your cheek, and you melt into him, the warmth of his chest, the strength of his arms, the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your palm. The moment stretches between heartbeats, soft and suspended. Then you sigh, the weight of reality pressing lightly on your chest.

“It’s a shame we can’t stay like this too long.”

“We have plenty of time” he said, pressing his again hard cock against you. 

“You’re not leaving today?” You lift an eyebrow, already suspicious. He keeps kissing your neck. “Sylus…” you warn, your tone dropping.

He pulled back, hovering over you. “I guess you can say I lied.”

“What?”

“Leaving today was… an option.”

Your mouth falls open in disbelief, you push him from you, scandalized. “Liar!”

“But,” he drawls, he caught your wrist effortlessly, tugging you back against the bed with ease. “I still need to get on a plane this week. Which means, my beloved…” he kisses your knuckles with infuriating calm, “we have the whole day to ourselves. And enough time to pack your things.”

Your heart skips, a flustered mess between outrage and joy. “You’re assho—”

“I know,” he smirks, utterly shameless, pulling you into a kiss that tastes like victory and sweet devotion. 

The days after, the sun rose just like it always did—but everything felt different. You packed quietly, folding memories between cotton shirts and worn-out sandals, tucking away pieces of your old life with a strange sense of calm. Your mother hugged Sylus tightly at the door, laughing as she told him, “You always were handsome, even back then as a boy.” He smiled, a little shy for once. Your father gave him a few heavy pats on the shoulder, nodding solemnly. Take care of her.”

And just like that, you left. With nothing more than a suitcase, enough to pack everything important to you. You had always known this place wouldn’t hold you forever. Your heart had been beating against its walls for years, aching for something just out of reach. But it was also a cage, painted in soft colours and built from everything you loved and yet couldn’t stay for.

Sylus didn’t rescue you. He gave you a reason, an option to leave. Before your courage could shrink back into doubt, before the weight of comfort could drag you into settling. He was a spark, and you were dry wood pretending not to be waiting for the flame.

You found out later, that the blueprint you once saw, the one that made you wrinkle your nose and tease him over his terrible taste in dark interiors… was a real apartment. A place he had already bought. For both of you. Just in case you said yes. He had designed it with the quiet precision only he possessed. Room for you to make it yours. 

You slowly began to accept every piece of him. His shadows. His impossible expectations. His infuriating smirk. His softest silences. And he, in turn, accepted yours. Your doubts. Your fear. Your stubborn heart that had always longed to run.

Months passed. Then years. And with each one, your love with Sylus deepened. He never tried to clip your wings, instead, he helped you build them stronger. He stood by you, through every new city, every strange adventure, every late-night doubt. He pushed you when you forgot how powerful you were. With him, you became the woman you were always meant to be: strong, radiant, free.

One day, when you were ready—truly ready—he knelt before you, eyes bright with unshed tears. You said yes, the word trembling from your lips like a vow the universe had always been waiting to hear.

The bell of the church rang across your small village, echoing through palm trees and sun. Rice flew through the air, laughter danced on the breeze, and petals rained down on two people irrevocably in love. You stepped out in white, hand in hand, heart in heart. When he kissed you under the sun, tears mixed with sweat and ocean memory, and he whispered against your lips: “I love you.”

A/N: If you’ve reached this part — congrats! I hope you enjoyed the story. I did my best to portray Sylus as true to character as possible in this scenario. It’s quite a challenge to take him out of the whole LADS universe.

Depending on how The Taste of Apple and Pomegranate evolves, I’d love to write an epilogue. I honestly feel like this story could easily have two parts.

But, well… work and life exist, so we’ll see.

Still — I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comment section, and I hope to see you in future stories!

What If "Salt on your skin" were a movie?

Want more Sylus in your life >> MASTERLIST

[himasgod]

Would it be to soon to ask for a "where you suddenly stop giving them attention" part with the third years?

THIRD YEARS X READER

Where you suddenly stop giving them attention

Cater was living for your affection.

Seriously, you were his favorite notification. You always knew how to brighten his day, a kiss on the cheek before class, selfies together, random “thinking of you~” texts that made his heart skip. He acted all chill about it, but inside?

He was twirling his hair, giggling and kicking his feet like a teen in love.

So when you stopped? When your texts slowed down to dry busy rn, when you walked past him without that sparkle, when you skipped Magicam photos for days? Cater noticed. At first, he played it off with humor.

"Whoa, my number one fan vanished! Was I canceled and no one told me~?"

He scrolls back through your message thread at night, wondering if he said something wrong. Tries to post a cute story hoping you’ll react. Even sneaks by your class to “casually” spot you.

And when he sees you — head down on the desk, dark circles under your eyes, shoulders trembling, it hits him. You didn’t stop caring. You just stopped having the energy.

He walks right in, pulls you up from your chair, and takes your hand. You barely react, exhausted, letting him lead you. He brings you to the empty pop music club room, shuts the door, and wraps you in his arms.

"You don’t have to smile for me, kay? You don’t have to be “on.” Just be real with me, babe. I’m not going anywhere."

You finally let go and cry a little, muttering “I’m sorry” into his hoodie. He hugs you tighter.

"Nah, none of that. You gave me real love, and I’m keeping it. So if you need a break, I’ll be your filter. I gotchu."

Leona had long since decided that affection wasn’t something he needed. Or wanted. Or deserved.

But then you came along. With your sleepy kisses. Your hands in his hair. Your little “I missed you, lazybones” messages. Your way of plopping down beside him like you belonged there. It made him soft. He hated it. He loved it.

So when it disappears, when you stop curling up next to him during naps, when you barely say “hi” in the hallways, when the only messages you send are “Sorry, can’t today. Too tired”, Leona’s first instinct is annoyance. He’s gruff. Snappy. Sulking like a big cat who’s been denied his favorite sunspot.

"So that’s it? Done spoiling your prince, herbivore?"

But he doesn’t press it. Not yet. Not until he finds you passed out in the botanical garden, curled under a tree with your bag still slung on one shoulder. You don’t wake up when he calls your name.

He kneels beside you, frowning, brushing your hair out of your face. Your skin is warm. Your body limp with exhaustion. And suddenly he sees it, the sleepless nights in your eyes, the way you’ve been dragging your feet through the week. This wasn’t you ignoring him. This was you falling apart.

When you finally blink awake he doesn’t let you speak. He just pulls you against his chest, sighing into your shoulder.

"You idiot. You think I need all your attention if it costs you this much?"

You try to explain, apologize, but Leona tightens his hold and cuts you off.

"You gave me something warm for the first time in a long damn time. You think I’m gonna throw that away because you forgot to say “good morning” a few days?"

"Next time, just tell me you’re burning out. I’ll carry you if I have to. I’ll drag your overworked ass into bed myself."

And he does. He carries you to his room like it’s nothing, tucks you under his thickest blanket, and curls around you.

"You spoiled me rotten, herbivore. Let me spoil you back."

Vil took note the second it started.

The first time you didn’t compliment him. The first time you didn’t send your good morning text. The first time you passed him in the hallway, eyes on your phone, and didn’t so much as glance up. He noticed. He always noticed. But he didn’t act on it immediately. He gave you space, told himself you were probably dealing with something. That it was just a phase. He wasn’t going to be the clingy insecure type. And yet…

"Why haven’t they noticed my new look? They always say something…"

"They haven’t visited the dorm in over a week. Why?"

The questions start to pile up in his mind, and with them, a tightness in his chest he hates admitting is worry. When he finally seeks you out, you’re in the library, fast asleep over books, dark circles under your eyes, your lunch untouched beside you. And everything clicks. It wasn’t about him. It was about you. Pushing yourself too hard again. Giving too much and leaving nothing for yourself.

Vil lets out a sigh and gently wakes you. You blink at him, confused, guilty, already trying to explain. But he stops you with a finger pressed to your lips.

"Enough. You don’t owe me affection when your body is falling apart."

He takes your hands, helps you stand, and brushes the hair out of your face.

"You’ve been overworking yourself again. Look at your complexion. Look at your posture. Have you even slept properly this week?"

You shake your head, ready to apologize again, but Vil frowns and holds your face with both hands.

"You showered me in love when I needed it. Now let me return the favor."

That evening, he takes you to Pomefiore. Runs you a bath with herbs for your fatigue. Makes you a skin treatment himself. Feeds you something warm, nothing fancy, just what you need. And when you lie down, eyes drooping, he sits beside you with a book and reads aloud until you drift off.

The next morning, when you wake up and whisper, “Sorry for worrying you,” he only scoffs.

"You’re lucky I love you… Because darling, letting yourself fall apart is never a good look. So next time, tell me. You don’t have to be perfect — just let me in."

You were his safe place. That’s it.

Idia had never, ever been good with people, but somehow, you slipped through him like a virus. You installed yourself into every part of his daily life: calling him nicknames, hugging him out of nowhere, holding his hand even when he flinched like a malfunctioning Chatgpt.

So when you stop showing up to his room after class, when your daily “I love you, you nerd” texts vanish into silence, Idia panics. But he doesn’t know how to confront you. Not directly. So he goes through his mental folders.

"Did I say something cringe? Did I scare them off? Oh no. Oh fuck—what if they’re ghosting me?!"

He pings you in-game. No reply. He messages you on Magicam. Nothing. Eventually, he decides to do something terrifying: he leaves his room. He finds you half-asleep in a corner booth, head down on your arms, a tray of snacks beside you. You look pale. Tired. Your phone buzzes with unread messages, mostly from group projects. And his. He shuffles over, hoodie up, hands in sleeves.

"Hey… hey… you okay?"

You lift your head, dazed. When you realize it’s him, you try to smile, but it comes out cracked. “I’m sorry, I just… forgot to reply. I’m so tired.”

Idia sits beside you. He just pulls his sleeve over your hand and gives it a squeeze. "You’re running out of stamina, huh? You chuckle weakly. “That’s one way to put it.”

"You don’t have to be good all the time just for me. But next time, let me know, okay? I can carry the team for a while."

Then he gently drapes his oversized jacket over your shoulders.

Lilia always used to tease you a little about how much you pampered him.

"Another treat? You’re going to spoil me rotten, little one. I might start expecting this every day~"

He would laugh, flutter his lashes, feign dramatic swoons every time you brought fixed his hair without warning, or clung to his arm calling him “old man.” But the truth? He loved it. Every second of it.

So when all that stops? When you start pulling away with tired excuses and absent eyes, when your touch disappears, your laughter fades, and your texts become “sorry, I’m busy” Lilia notices. Of course he does. He notices everything. At first, he jokes about it, as usual.

"Ara~ have I lost my most devoted fan? Say it isn’t so"

But you just smile weakly, wave him off, and walk past him. And Lilia stays behind, lips still curved, but eyes narrowed. Concerned.

He doesn’t chase after you, he waits. Watches. He sees how you stumble over your steps in class, how you barely eat. And suddenly, everything makes sense. You weren’t ignoring him. You were burning out.

The next time he sees you, you're dozing off, a stack of notes on your lap and your pen still in hand. He crouches beside you, brushes a strand of hair from your face, and whispers. "Silly human… You give and give until there’s nothing left. And now you’re forgetting to take care of yourself."

He doesn’t wake you. Instead, he scoops you up in his arms and takes you to his room. He sets you on the bed, tucks you in, and sits beside you. Humming something low. And when you finally stir awake, blinking at him with confusion, he just smiles.

"You stopped spoiling me… so I’ll spoil you now. Rest, darling. I’ll watch over you."

Malleus had never known what it was like to be loved in the small ways.

Not just respected or fond like Lilia, Silver or Sebek, But openly loved, with warm hands brushing his hair, with nicknames whispered, with kisses on the cheek followed by playful grins and “did you miss me prince?”

That’s why, when it suddenly stops, he doesn’t know how to process it. You no longer greet him with your usual bright voice. You stop reaching for his hand. You avoid going to Diasomnia. He doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t even speak of it at first. He just watches.

"Have I displeased you?" He asks himself this more times than he’d ever admit.

At first, he assumes it's distance — that perhaps your heart had grown bored of him. But then he begins to see the truth, your slowed pace, the way you rub your eyes and mumble apologies without reason. You weren’t pushing him away, you were exhausted. So one night, he appears outside Ramshackle, as he used to do in the beginning when your bond was still new. You hear the gentle knock, and when you open the door, there he is.

"May I come in, child of man?"

You nod tiredly, and let him sit beside you on the edge of the bed. You try to explain. Try to apologize. But Malleus just shakes his head, placing a hand over yours.

"You gifted me a kind of love I never imagined I’d have. You do not need to apologize for needing to rest. But I ask you this. Do not shut me out. Let me carry some of your burdens, if only a little. Let me stay beside you, even in silence.·

You feel tears sting your eyes, but Malleus simply leans forward, pressing his lips to your shoulder.

"Even if you have no strength left to call me “my prince,” I will still be yours."

Trey never asked for much.

He wasn’t the kind of guy to expect grand displays or dramatic affection. But ever since you started spoiling him, slipping love notes into his apron pocket, kissing his temple while he baked, calling him “sweetheart” when you thought no one was listening, he’d gotten used to it. Too used to it.

So when you suddenly go quiet, when your touches vanish and your little “I brought this just for you” moments dry up, Trey pretends not to mind. At first.

"Everything alright? You’ve been… quiet lately. Busy?"

You nod. Tell him not to worry. That you’re just tired, that homwork's overwhelming you a bit. He doesn’t push. But it nags at him. He watches how your shoulders slump, how you chew your lower lip while working through assignments, how your phone lights up with unread messages you don’t even glance at.

And one afternoon, when he sees you curled up, asleep with a half-eaten snack and your notebook clutched to your chest, something in him clicks. He sighs softly, kneels beside you, and gently takes the notebook from your arms. He sits down pulling out a small container from his bag. Inside is your favorite treat. One you once made together. He leaves a note beside it:

“For when you wake up. You don’t have to do everything alone. I’m here too.”

When you wake up hours later, groggy, you find Trey still sitting across from you, reading calmly, as if nothing ever happened. But when your eyes meet, he smiles, the kind of smile that says “You don’t owe me anything, but I’m not going anywhere.”

And later, as he walks you back to your dorm, he gently bumps your shoulder.

"Next time you feel like the world’s too heavy, tell me. You’ve always been sweet to me… Let me return the favor, yeah?"

Rook noticed the change before anyone else in all the 3 parts.

He always noticed you. The way your eyes lit up when you saw him. The rhythm of your voice when you called him, the tender way you touched his arm when you thought no one was looking. Your affection was art. And he had memorized every stroke of it.

So when your energy faded, when your “good mornings” dulled to distracted nods, when your hands stopped reaching for his, Rook didn’t need an explanation. He read your body like poetry. At first, he gave you space. Like a hunter watching from a distance. But Rook isn’t passive. He’s passion incarnate. And watching the light fade from you? It ached.

So one afternoon, when you sat alone in the library, head heavy in your arms, unmoving, he couldn’t stay silent. He approached quietly.

"Mon cherie… what burden weighs your wings so deeply?"

You flinch and try to sit up, but he kneels beside your chair, taking your hand gently. You open your mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a tired whisper. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ignore you.” Rook kisses your knuckles.

"Ah, no. Do not apologize for enduring. You have not ignored me. You have simply... forgotten to care for yourself."

You shake your head, tears building, shame rising, but he hushes you with a finger to your lips.

"You who gave me such beauty, such devotion, how could I abandon you now, in this moment? Let me cherish you now, ma lumière. Let me carry you."

He lifts you as if you’re made of petals and takes you somewhere quiet. He wraps you in blankets, brings you tea, brushes your hair.

"Rest, my treasure. You gave your light to so many — now let me be the one to shine for you."

[reidmarieprentiss]

Life With Spencer

Part Three

Summary: Living life with Spencer, ups, downs, firsts, and hopefully -- lasts.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, smut (18+)

Warnings/Includes: smut (18+), sooo in love, awkward/real-life scenarios, no real timeline - they been dating for like almost three years…, talks of pregnancy, reader feeling insecure -- having a hard time getting ready, boyband spencer yummm, Ethan (warning in itself), spencer's migraines, spencer snaps at reader, fights, being distant

Word count: 21.2k

a/n: hi…. this has been sitting in my drafts since april ahahahah 🫣 please don’t throw tomatoes at me i got a new job and it’s been A LOT!! this is not proof read by the way,, LOVE YOU ALL

main masterlist part one part two

Fuck.

That was the only word in your brain. Not even a full thought. Just that single syllable, echoing over and over like a heartbeat pounding in your ears.

You sat frozen on the edge of the bathtub, phone in hand, the screen still glowing from the period tracker app that now mocked you with its sterile little message: 4 days late.

You hadn’t missed a dose. Not one. You’d been on birth control for years, religiously punctual. You and Spencer were so careful—condoms every time, plan B once, after a minor scare. But it never came to anything. You were careful. Smart. Responsible.

So why the hell were you late?

You weren’t someone with irregular cycles. Since you’d started birth control, your period came like clockwork, so predictable you could plan around it down to the hour. And now?

Nothing. Not a cramp. Not a twinge. Just… a silence in your body that was starting to feel deafening.

You buried your face in your hands, dragging your palms down your cheeks before letting your head fall back against the tiled wall behind you.

Spencer.

You hadn’t told him yet. You hadn’t even tested yet.

Because if you told Spencer, it would be real. And you weren’t ready for real. You were barely holding it together through hypothetical.

You closed your eyes, trying to breathe through the rising panic.

You imagined his face—how he’d blink a few too many times, how he’d tell you about the statistical failure rate of your specific birth control pill, how his hands might tremble just a little. But you also imagined how quickly he’d steady himself. How he’d run every possible calculation in his head and then choose you anyway.

Still. None of that changed the fact that you were four days late. That your stomach had felt vaguely wrong for days, that your breasts were sore in a way they hadn’t been before, that your body felt foreign and too aware of itself.

Fuck.

You stared down at your phone again. 

4 days late.

The screen blurred as you blinked too hard.

You were going to have to buy a test. You were going to have to take a test. And maybe you were going to have to tell Spencer something that would change both of your lives.

You exhaled, long and shaky.

Okay.

But you didn’t want to do this alone.

Even though you could have. Could have walked to the pharmacy with your hood up and sunglasses on like you were buying contraband. Could have stared at the tiny pink boxes until your eyes blurred. Could have peed on a stick and stared at the result in solitary silence.

But that wasn’t you. And more importantly—this wasn’t something you wanted to keep from him.

You hated secrets. And Spencer? Spencer was the last person in the world you’d ever want to shut out.

So you called him.

“Hello, darling, what’s up?” he answered in that sweet, soft, distracted tone he always had when he was flipping through files or bent over a book.

“Hi, Spence,” you replied, trying to sound casual. You tried to keep your voice steady like your heart wasn’t in your throat, but he clocked it. Instantly.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, suddenly more alert. “Are you okay? Is it your period? Do you need anything? I can run to the store right now—”

Your heart clenched in your chest at how quickly he switched into action, how tuned in he was to even the slightest variation in your tone. “No, well… not exactly,” you said, voice soft. “But thank you, baby.”

There was a pause. “Okay…” he said cautiously. “What is it then?”

You pressed the heel of your hand to your forehead, taking a deep breath. “Can you promise not to freak out?”

“Well, no,” he replied without hesitation. “I can’t promise that.”

“Okay, fair,” you laughed, the sound small but genuine. “Can you promise to keep an open mind until you get to my apartment and we talk?”

There was a beat of silence. Then: “Yes. Can you promise you aren’t going to break up with me?”

Your heart squeezed. You sat up straighter, gripping the phone tighter. “That sounds an awful lot like a marriage proposal,” you teased, hoping to lighten the sudden weight in his voice.

“Y/N,” Spencer said firmly, “I’m being serious.”

And in that moment, you matched him. Matched his seriousness. Matched his heart.

“I would rather climb aboard the Death Star than ever break up with you, Spencer Reid.”

A breath. Then a groan. “God,” he huffed. “That’s hot and romantic.”

You burst out laughing—loud and unrestrained.

“So, Spence…” you said, once your giggles died down.

“Yes?”

“Can you stop at the store, actually?”

There was a pause, curious. “Yeah, of course. What do you need?”

You hesitated, but only for a second. “A pregnancy test.”

Silence.

Dead silence.

“…Spencer?”

Another second. Then: “I’ll be there in thirty.”

And he hung up.

You stared at your phone, heart thudding, lips parted in something between a gasp and a smile.

Because he didn’t yell. He didn’t ask a thousand questions. He didn’t panic. He was just… coming.

Spencer Reid was on his way. With a pregnancy test.

…

The lock clicked open in that hurried, unmistakable way that told you Spencer wasn’t bothering with social graces today. You barely had time to lift your head before the door creaked open with purpose.

“Y/N?” he called, voice carrying the weight of a man on a mission.

“In here!” you called back, your voice echoing faintly through the hallway as you lay sprawled on your bed, phone held loosely in one hand, eyes glazed over from doom scrolling through every what-if scenario the internet could provide.

A beat passed. Then footsteps—quick, determined, and absolutely not the shuffle of someone easing into a sensitive conversation.

Spencer burst into the doorway like a man with a PowerPoint and a plan. In one hand, he held a crisp brown pharmacy bag. In the other, he held a plastic-wrapped box aloft like a holy artifact.

“I hope you’re hydrated,” he said without preamble, eyes wide and voice tight, “because you need to pee on a stick right now.”

You blinked at him, one brow raised slowly as you lowered your phone. “Well, hello to you, too, Doctor Reid.”

He was already unboxing the test. “Sorry,” he said, breathless. “Hi. Hello. Love you. I panicked. I bought multiple different brands.”

Your lips twitched. “Multiple?”

“Each with varying levels of sensitivity and accuracy across different testing windows,” he muttered, holding out the first one like he was presenting evidence to a jury. “I figured a data set would be more reliable… and I didn’t have time to do proper research.”

You pushed yourself off the bed, taking the box from his hand gently. “Spencer,” you said, trying not to laugh, “you know you can’t cross-compare at-home pregnancy tests like it’s a peer-reviewed study, right?”

He blinked at you. “But I can try.”

You kissed his cheek and whispered, “You're ridiculous,” before making your way toward the bathroom.

And behind you, Spencer followed. Not quietly, not subtly—he trailed you with all the tense energy of a scientist monitoring a volatile experiment.

He wasn’t breathing properly. You could hear it—those tight little inhales and uneven exhales like his brain was juggling statistics and possible outcomes in real time. You opened the bathroom door, turned to shut it, and there he was—standing in the hallway like he absolutely planned on coming in with you.

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you coming?” you asked, somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

Spencer blinked at you. “Yeah?” he replied, wide-eyed and completely earnest, like you’d asked him if he planned on inhaling oxygen today.

“Why?” you asked, stepping back just slightly, toothbrush still sitting in its cup on the counter like it was silently judging both of you.

He blinked again, totally baffled by the question. “Because… we’re doing this together?”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

You crossed your arms. “Spencer, I have to pee.”

“I know,” he said, nodding helpfully. “On the stick.”

“Right,” you deadpanned. “The pee stick. The extremely private, slightly undignified part of the pregnancy test process.”

“But I helped select the variables,” he gestured toward the box like this was a lab study and not your actual bladder. “I should be there to observe.”

“Spencer,” you said, struggling not to smile. “This isn’t a longitudinal field study, this is me trying not to pee on my hand.”

He faltered. You could see the flicker of Oh, right, humans have modesty settle in his eyes. Then his shoulders dropped slightly. “Oh. Right. Sorry. I’ll just… I’ll wait outside.”

You softened immediately, stepping forward to brush your hand down his arm. “Thank you for being here, Spence. Truly.” You kissed his cheek gently. “I just draw the line at having an audience while I hover over a stick.”

“Completely fair,” he nodded, still holding the instruction insert like he was preparing to proctor an exam. “I’ll wait right here. I’ll set a timer.”

“Wait!” you exclaimed, pausing with your hand on the bathroom door.

Spencer jolted, eyes wide, already halfway into what looked like a thousand-yard stare. “What? What happened? Are you cramping? Is your bladder okay? Did the test break—”

“I have an idea,” you cut in quickly, raising a hand to calm his spiraling.

He blinked. “Okay. Hit me.”

“I need a cup.”

Spencer stared at you. “What…?”

You nodded, expression completely serious now. “Can you pretty please go get me one of the disposable cups from the last time we had game night here?”

“The Solo cups?”

“Yes.”

“From under the sink?”

“Yes.”

“For… pee?”

“Yes, Spencer. For pee,” you confirmed with a smirk. “You want repeatable data, right? Control of aim, no user error? Let me pee in the damn cup and dip it like a normal, emotionally stable person.”

He looked utterly stunned. Like you’d just solved a riddle he didn’t know was in play. “Oh my god,” he breathed. “That makes so much sense. Why doesn’t everyone do that?”

You shrugged. “Because not everyone lives with a hyper-rational genius who buys five brands of pregnancy tests and wants to take notes on hormone absorption timing.”

Spencer, already halfway down the hallway, called back, “Six brands actually! I bought a digital one too!”

You laughed, shutting the bathroom door behind you. God, you loved him. Even when you were peeing in a Solo cup.

On the other side of the door, Spencer stood perfectly still—extra Solo cup in hand, timer app open on his phone, a box with its unnecessarily convoluted instructions tucked under his arm—and all he could think about was how ridiculously, profoundly, absurdly in love he was with you.

There were nerves, of course. A thousand little flutters in his chest. A low, persistent hum of what if, what now, what next? But underneath it all, grounding him like bedrock, was you.

You, who asked for a Solo cup like it was part of a science fair project. You, who teased him for his obsession with test variables but still made sure to pee with clean aim for accuracy. You, who could be carrying the most life-altering news either of you had ever received—and were still making him laugh.

He leaned his forehead gently against the cool wall beside the door and exhaled slowly, a quiet little smile spreading across his face.

It should have been terrifying. Statistically, biologically, logistically—it was terrifying.

But it wasn’t. Not really. Not with you.

Because somehow—even now, with urine samples and packaging and potential futures swirling all around him—this was fun. This was you.

And that made it beautiful. Maybe even a little sexy, in that weird, brainy, wildly specific way that only Spencer Reid could feel: That his brilliant, hilarious, grounded, radiant girlfriend was helping him conduct the most emotional, chaotic, messy, real-life experiment of his life.

He adjusted the timer. Straightened the box. And whispered to himself, barely audible—“I’m the luckiest man alive.”

“‘Kay, I’m done peeing in a cup,” you called with a laugh, voice echoing off the bathroom tile. “Start the timer!”

Spencer chuckled from the other side of the door, already reaching for his phone. “Three minutes, starting now.” He heard the water running, the soft clink of soap against the sink, and then the squeak of the door hinges as you opened it and peeked out—eyes bright, hands drying on a towel, entirely casual despite the gravity of the moment.

And that’s when it hit him.

Like a slow, warm wave breaking across his chest, flooding every part of him from his ribcage out.

This was it. This was the rest of his life.

You. In the bathroom. Laughing about pee. And somehow still managing to look like the most radiant, grounding thing in the universe.

And no matter what the test said—no matter what came next—Spencer realized he would be over the moon as long as it was with you. He’d known he wanted forever with you for a long time, but this moment… it carved it into his bones. Into his soul.

He was still staring at you when you tilted your head. “What?” you asked with a grin, towel draped over your shoulder as if this were all normal Tuesday.

Spencer blinked, mouth parting slightly. “Um… can I see the tests?”

You arched a brow. “You mean the tests soaking in my urine?”

He flushed instantly, ears pink, hand flapping in half-hearted defense. “Uh, yup. For science.”

You cackled, tossing the towel at him as you turned back toward the bathroom. “You are so weird, Spencer Reid.”

And he just smiled, deeply, hopelessly, because all he could think was: 

God, I hope our kid gets your laugh.

“Wow,” Spencer said, leaning over the sink, peering at the plastic sticks with far too much clinical curiosity.

You stepped in behind him, arms crossed, eyebrow already lifted. “Wow, what?”

He didn’t even look up, still squinting at the control lines. “You’re really hydrated.”

You blinked. “That’s what you’re taking from this moment?”

“Well,” he said, finally glancing at you with the most serious expression imaginable, “the urine is unusually clear. That’s textbook optimal hydration. It’s… honestly kind of impressive.”

You stared at him for a beat before bursting into laughter, covering your face with both hands. “Spencer, I’m possibly pregnant, and you’re out here praising my pee clarity.”

Spencer smiled sheepishly, reaching out to gently touch your elbow. “I’m nervous,” he confessed.

You dropped your hands and leaned into him, letting your forehead rest against his chest. “Me too.”

“Still,” he murmured into your hair, “ten out of ten for urine quality.”

You groaned into his shirt, and he held you closer, both of you laughing—but holding on just a little tighter.

The timer went off with a sharp, chirping beep!—far too loud, far too real—and you screamed. Just a bit. A quick, startled squeak that echoed off the bathroom walls.

Spencer jumped, nearly smacking his elbow on the counter. “Jesus,” he muttered, clutching his chest with wide eyes. “You scared me!”

You blinked rapidly, heart hammering in your ears, and looked at him with a shaky laugh. “You scared me!”

You both froze, still staring at each other, caught in the moment where possibility was still suspended in the air—just for a few seconds longer.

Spencer reached out and steadied the first test with two fingers. “Together?” he asked, voice low, trying to keep it calm, like his pulse wasn’t racing.

You nodded, swallowing hard. “One… two… three.”

You both leaned in. You tilted the test toward the light. Spencer adjusted his glasses. And—

Negative.

You blinked. “Wait. That’s… one line, right?”

“Yeah,” Spencer said, eyes already scanning for the legend on the box. “One line. Definitely one. That’s negative.”

Your stomach fluttered, a weird combination of panic and relief and disbelief. “Okay—okay, next one.”

And like scientists on the verge of a breakthrough, the two of you tore through every single test—all six of them—analyzing, comparing, lining them up like a chemistry exhibit.

Negative.

Negative.

Negative.

Every last one.

You leaned against the bathroom counter, your knees nearly giving out beneath the sheer wave of relief that rolled through you. Not because you didn’t love Spencer. Not because the idea of a family with him wasn’t beautiful in its own right.

But because you weren’t ready. Not financially. Not emotionally. Not physically. Not yet.

You were relieved because you could still breathe.

Spencer looked over at you, brows furrowed, searching your face like he was trying to interpret a result of his own. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice so gentle it made your throat tighten.

You nodded slowly, a hand pressed over your chest. “Yeah. I think so.”

And then—because it needed to be said—you looked up at him and smiled through the haze of adrenaline.

“I want your kids someday, Spencer,” you whispered. “Just… not today.”

He stepped forward, arms wrapping around you instantly, pulling you into his chest. “Not today,” he murmured into your hair, kissing the crown of your head. “But when the day comes… I’ll be ready.”

—

The invitation from Penelope had come a week ago—sparkly, pink, and slightly glittery, even though it had been sent via email. She was pulling out all the stops. A home-cooked, themed dinner for her “favorite humans in the galaxy,” complete with handmade place cards and “mood-boosting cocktails.” The kind of night you knew would be warm, heartfelt, and filled with laughter.

And you wanted to be excited—really. You had been looking forward to it all week, but today? Today was not your day.

You stood in front of the mirror with the fourth outfit of the evening clutched in your hands, your shoulders sagging. Everything you put on felt like a betrayal. Too tight, too loose, too bland, too loud. Your reflection stared back at you with tired eyes, frizzy hair that refused to lay flat no matter how many products you threw at it, and makeup that only seemed to exaggerate every flaw you’d tried to cover.

"Jesus Christ," you muttered, tossing the outfit onto the bed like it had offended you.

You sat down at the edge of your mattress, hands in your lap, heart pounding with frustration. 

You (thought you) knew how this looked: dramatic, shallow, selfish. You were already spiraling; now guilt joined the spiral like it paid rent.

Why are you making this about you? Penelope worked so hard. Everyone's going to be in good spirits, and you’re gonna show up like a storm cloud. Maybe don’t go. They’ll understand. You’ll just say you’re sick. Or busy. Or tired. Anything.

But even that idea felt hollow. Because you wanted to be there. You wanted to laugh at Derek’s jokes and listen to JJ’s stories. You wanted to help Penelope in the kitchen and let Spencer go on one of his tangents that no one else would ever interrupt, even if they didn’t fully follow along. You wanted to belong tonight.

You just didn’t feel like you deserved to belong right now.

Your cheeks were flushed, not from blush, but from frustration. You were hot, your eyes glossy with unshed tears, and suddenly everything—your face, your skin, your clothes—felt tight.

You dropped your face into your hands, willing yourself to breathe, to calm down. But your brain wasn’t in logic mode. It wasn’t in anything mode. It was stuck.

You reached for your phone, thumb hovering over Penelope’s name.

Should you cancel?

You stand frozen in the middle of the room, hands gripping the hem of your shirt so tightly that your knuckles have gone white. The soft sound of keys jingling, the gentle creak of the front door, the quiet thud of shoes being taken off—it all hits your ears like warning bells. Spencer is home.

And your heart drops.

You hear him moving around, probably setting down his messenger bag, probably thinking everything is fine. That you’re just down the hall getting ready. That the two of you are going to head to Penelope’s in a few minutes, and everything will go exactly as planned.

But nothing feels okay. You look and feel like a mess. Not in the cute, slightly disheveled way people in rom-coms do, either. No, you feel like some pathetic swamp creature who thought makeup and a curling iron could make her human again and failed spectacularly.

Your stomach churns as you hear him start down the hall, and you backpedal away from the door like he's a ghost, unprepared for a haunting.

"Darling?" his voice is soft, a little curious. "You almost ready?"

You practically shriek the word. “No!”

There’s a pause. Then you hear his footsteps stop right outside the bedroom door. His voice, tentative but calm, filters through. “Is everything okay?”

You want to say yes, pull it together, and say something breezy like, “I just need five more minutes!” But the words won’t come.

So, instead, you crumble.

“No,” you whisper, and suddenly, your knees give way, and you find yourself sitting on the edge of the bed, covering your face with shaking hands as the dam finally breaks. “I look horrible. I feel horrible. I’ve tried on like ten different things, and none of them work. My face looks weird, my hair’s being stupid, and I don’t know why I even care so much, but I do, and now I feel guilty for making it all about me, and I just—” your voice cracks—“I just hate everything right now, and I don’t want you to see me like this, and I feel like a horrible, mean, ugly human being.”

The door opens slowly, and Spencer steps inside with that sort of quiet care he reserves for only the most delicate moments—like you might shatter if he makes too much noise.

You don’t look up.

But you feel the bed dip beside you.

And then his hand is sliding across your back in a soft, slow arc. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, “we don’t have to go.”

You jerk back slightly, lifting your tear-streaked face with wide, betrayed eyes. “Oh, so you think I look ugly too?”

Spencer blinks, stunned by your sharpness. “What? No, no, that’s not—”

You stand abruptly, pacing like a cornered animal. “Because that’s what it sounds like. Like you looked at me and thought, ‘Yeah, let’s not bring that thing out in public.’”

“Hey!” Spencer rises, hands out like he’s trying to calm a skittish deer. “That is not what I said. That’s not what I meant. You looked upset like you were hurting, and I just—I wanted to give you an out. Not because you look bad. Because I love you, and I don’t want you to feel like you have to perform for anyone tonight.”

You hesitate, arms crossed tightly over your chest, throat tightening.

His voice softens again, his eyes scanning your face with the kind of reverence that makes it almost unbearable to be seen. “I think you’re beautiful. Right now. Right this second. Even if your hair’s not doing what you want it to. Even if your makeup’s a little smudged. Even if you’re crying and blotchy and pacing like you want to throw me out the window.”

That last line earns him a reluctant sniff-laugh.

He takes a cautious step closer.

“I love you when you’re confident and glowing. I love you when you’re a mess in sweatpants. And I love you now when you’re somewhere in between and spiraling a little.” He reaches for your hand, tentative. “Can I love you like this, too?”

You stare at him, eyes glassy, breath trembling in your chest. And somehow—despite everything—you nod.

He tugs you gently into his chest, holding you tightly, anchoring you.

And then, into your hair, he murmurs, “But if you did want to skip the dinner and stay in and eat cereal on the floor with me, I wouldn’t complain.”

You let out a watery giggle, and just like that… something starts to ease.

You might still feel a little like a swamp monster. But at least now, you're his swamp monster.

Your voice is muffled slightly by the fabric of his shirt as you murmur, “I do kind of want to throw you out the window, though.”

Spencer’s chest shakes with laughter, a surprised snort escaping him as he pulls back just enough to look down at you. His mouth curls into that crooked little smile he gets when he’s trying not to laugh too hard, and his eyes crinkle at the corners like they always do when he’s genuinely amused.

“Noted,” he says, pretending to be solemn. “Hostile while emotionally compromised. I’ll avoid standing too close to windows.”

You laugh softly, rolling your eyes as you rest your forehead against his collarbone. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Says the person who just accused me of calling them ugly and compared themselves to a swamp creature.”

You lift your head enough to give him a look. “Still considering the window.”

Spencer leans in, lowering his voice like he’s sharing a secret. “Joke's on you. I’m pretty sure Penelope has enchanted our windows, so I bounce back like a cartoon.”

You snicker, and this time it feels real. The kind of laugh that shakes something loose in your chest and makes the storm clouds shift a little.

He cups your face gently with both hands, thumbs brushing softly along your jaw as he studies you like you’re the answer to a question he’s been searching for his whole life. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Even when you want to commit light domestic homicide.”

Your lips twitch upward as you reach up and tug gently on the collar of his shirt. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I’m very aware.”

You sigh, leaning your forehead against his again. “Okay. I’ll get dressed.”

He arches a brow. “You mean re-re-re-dressed?”

“Don’t push it, Reid.”

He grins, kissing the top of your head. “Never.”

—

Spencer stepped quietly into your apartment, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. His bag on the hook in its usual spot, shoes carefully untied and toed off with a bit of weariness in his bones. The case had been long, grueling—the kind that dragged down not just his body but his mind until all he wanted was to slip into the clean silence of your home and wash the world off his skin.

He moved on autopilot, following his usual ritual: drop his satchel, set his badge and keys on the hallway table, roll his shoulders once, twice.

Your office door was closed as he passed it, light leaking from the crack near the floor. No sound filtered out—just the soft glow.

He assumed you were on a Zoom call or deep in focus, so he didn’t knock or call out. Instead, he fished his phone from his pocket and typed out a quick message, thumbs moving with quiet familiarity:

Hello, my love. I just got in—I’m going to shower (& sanitize). I love you.

You didn’t see the message until your meeting ended—your eyes blurry from too many shared screens, your voice tired from too many fake laughs, and professionally polite “mm-hmm”s. But as soon as your gaze landed on your phone and you saw Spencer’s name, everything else faded.

Your heart clenched in the best way. He’s here.

It had been over two weeks since you’d last seen him. Two long weeks of texts, phone calls, voice notes falling asleep to each other, and aching to close the distance. You’d missed him in the quiet ways—like reaching for a second mug without thinking or setting aside the blanket he always stole halfway through the night. The ache had been constant.

And now he was home.

You smiled, heart racing, and quickly wrapped up your last bits of work. You typed your final message, logged off, and pushed away from your desk with a quiet squeal of excitement you didn’t even try to suppress.

You heard the soft click of the shower shutting off from down the hall. You paused for a moment—smiling at the sound—then tiptoed out of your office, not wanting to interrupt.

You knew his process by now. The shower. The sanitizing. The quiet minutes he needed to decompress, to re-enter the world at his own pace after being knee-deep in trauma and adrenaline for days.

So, instead of rushing toward him like you wanted, you turned toward the kitchen, smiling, and began preparing tea—chamomile for him and jasmine for you.

You picked his favorite mug—the one with the periodic table printed in a perfect grid, the lettering slightly faded from years of use—and set it gently on the counter. The kettle purred softly to life beside it, and you stood still for a moment, wrapping your arms around yourself and soaking in the quiet comfort of home.

He was back. Finally, back.

Clean, safe, warm, and about to walk out of the bathroom smelling like cedar and mint and everything that calmed the worst parts of your nervous system.

The second he appeared in the doorway, barefoot and toweling off the ends of his hair, you turned to greet him with a soft smile—

Only for all words to leave your mouth in an offended gasp.

“What the fuck?” you blurted, voice sharp enough to make him pause mid-step.

Spencer froze, eyes wide behind his glasses. “Uh… nice to see you too, my love,” he said, chuckling nervously.

You stared at him, pointing dramatically. “Spencer, what the fuck!”

“What?” he asked, looking down at himself like he’d maybe forgotten to put on pants.

“Your hair!” you cried as if he’d committed a federal offense.

He blinked, then self-consciously reached up to ruffle the back of it. “Oh… yeah,” he said, almost sheepishly. “I got it cut. Since the case was in Vegas, I saw my old barber. Do you—do you like it?”

“Like it?” you repeated, spitting the word like it had personally insulted you. The audacity of this man.

“Yeah…” he hedged, now officially worried. “I know you loved it long, but it was starting to drive me crazy, getting in my eyes all the time, and—”

“Spencer Walter Reid…” you said in a slow, dangerous tone, beginning to cross the kitchen with purpose.

“Yes, darling?” he asked warily, hands raising slightly as you stalked toward him.

You kept walking until he was pressed against the counter, boxed in by your body, your arms on either side of him. His breath hitched as he looked down at you, searching your face.

“I love it so much,” you said slowly, deliberately, eyes raking up and down his freshly shorn frame, “I physically cannot contain myself any longer.”

And with that—before he could stammer out another syllable—you dropped to your knees in one smooth, reverent motion.

Spencer blinked. “Oh.”

His towel slipped out of his hands.

“Ohhh…”

And the kettle shrieked from the stove, but neither of you moved an inch.

Your hands were on him before he could fully register what was happening—gripping the waistband of his lounge pants, tugging them with a kind of desperation that made Spencer's breath hitch audibly.

“W-wait—wait,” he stammered, voice already shaking as he braced his hands on the edge of the counter, staring down at you with wide eyes. “You’re—you’re really doing this right now?”

“Spencer,” you said, voice low and laser-focused as you looked up at him from your knees, “I have been patient. I have been good. I have waited for you to come home. And then you come waltzing in here with this haircut like I wouldn’t lose my mind? I warned you.”

And then, with no more time to waste, you tugged his pants—and boxers—down in one quick motion, leaving them puddled at his ankles. Spencer made a strangled noise in response, already hard, twitching slightly from the abrupt exposure.

His hands gripped the counter tighter. “Jesus—”

But you didn’t give him time to protest, didn’t give him time to retreat into his brain and second-guess your every move. You leaned in, mouth warm and eager, your tongue dragging a slow, purposeful line up his length, just to watch him tremble.

“Oh my god—” he gasped, his head tipping back against the cabinets as you wrapped your lips around him, taking him in with a hungry sort of reverence. He was already panting, already muttering your name under his breath like a prayer, one of his hands reaching down to tangle shakily in your hair.

“You look—” he choked out, voice wrecked, “so pretty like this, you always—God, you always do—”

You moaned softly around him, and the vibration alone nearly made his knees buckle.

Spencer wasn’t composed anymore. He wasn’t calculating or analyzing or trying to keep up appearances. He was flushed and unraveling, his eyes glazed as he looked down at you with a kind of stunned disbelief, his words barely coherent between gasps.

“I—I was just trying to be practical,” he managed. “I didn’t know—you’d like it that much—”

You pulled off him for half a second, stroking him with one hand as you looked up, breathless and grinning.

“I love it, Spence. And I’m gonna show you exactly how much.”

And then you went back down—no teasing this time, just heat and need and your mouth wrapped around him like he was the only thing that could possibly satisfy you.

As Spencer leaned back against the counter, moaning your name, his head tipped up, exposing his throat and making his curls—what was left of them—fall back just slightly. His mouth was slack, his hands gripping the edge of the counter, and his body trembling from the sensation of your mouth on him.

And that was fine. It was good, actually. Great, even. Except—

You couldn’t see his hair.

The whole reason you’d dropped to your knees like a woman possessed, the reason your tea was going cold and the kettle forgotten—the haircut. And now his head was thrown back, and you couldn’t even enjoy the view.

Frustration bubbled up in your chest—hot, petty, and somehow very on brand.

So, mid-suck, with him seconds from completely unraveling, you pulled back just slightly and gently flicked the inside of his thigh.

“Ah!” Spencer jerked, startled, eyes snapping down with a gasp. “W-what—”

You didn’t let him finish. You just grinned wide and smug, then winked at him from your place on the floor like the devil in a t-shirt and sweatpants. He blinked in dazed confusion—still panting, still overwhelmed—until he saw you deliberately lick a slow, noisy stripe up his length, from base to tip, saliva catching the light and your tongue curling with purpose.

“Oh my God,” he whispered, voice cracked and desperate.

And then, before he could say anything else, you wrapped your lips around him again—slow and deep—hollowing your cheeks and drawing a choked moan from his throat.

He watched you now, just as you wanted. Wide-eyed, slack-jawed, completely at your mercy.

You could feel the tension in his thighs, his stomach, the way his hips subtly shifted toward you like he couldn’t help it. Like he needed you more than oxygen.

“You’re so—so good at this,” he babbled helplessly, eyes locked to yours now like they couldn’t stray for even a second.

And you? You were thrilled. Because you had his full attention. You were in control. And Spencer Reid, freshly shorn and entirely wrecked, was yours to ruin.

Still, you couldn’t help yourself.

With him trembling above you, chest heaving, hair slightly damp at the edges from the shower—and now sweat—you reached one hand up and rubbed slow, teasing circles across the lower part of his stomach. Right where you knew it made him twitch. Right where the tension was coiling.

Spencer let out a punched-out whimper—high, breathless, and almost painful. The sound sent a jolt of satisfaction through your body. Poor thing, you thought, smiling around the tip of him still resting against your lips.

“Close, baby?” you asked, lips brushing against him with every syllable, the slight motion making him flinch with overstimulation.

“Hngh,” was all he could manage—his whole body shuddering, jaw slack, his hand barely managing to stay braced against the counter.

You pulled off entirely then, stroking him with your hand, watching him try so hard to keep his focus through the haze.

“Do you want to come once or twice?” you asked lightly like it was a casual question about takeout. Your voice was soft but wicked, your touch relentless.

“Huh?” Spencer blinked down at you, eyes glassy and unfocused, like he’d forgotten what language was.

You tilted your head and grinned. “Do you need me to repeat the question?”

Spencer shook his head, curls bouncing slightly. “N–no, just um—can you elaborate, please?” he asked, voice cracking, and God, he was still trying to be polite. Still trying to keep up, even now.

“So polite, baby,” you purred, pressing a gentle kiss to the space just above his pelvis, your lips soft against the trail of hair leading down. “You’re going to fuck me in front of the mirror.”

Spencer made a soft choking noise.

You smiled. "So, do you want to come now and later?”

You paused, watching his face.

“Or just later?”

His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “I—”

You gave him a slow stroke right up the base just to ruin whatever he was about to say.

“Baby,” he whispered, completely undone, “I don’t think I can not come right now.”

“Twice it is,” you grinned, smug and devastating, as you took him back into your mouth like the promise you fully intended to keep.

It only took seconds.

Just a few more hollowed strokes of your cheeks, a well-timed swirl of your tongue, and then Spencer's hands—those long, elegant fingers usually reserved for page corners and coffee mugs—suddenly gripped your hair with urgency. Not rough. Just needy. His hips jerked forward, and his breath hitched like something inside him had finally snapped.

“Oh— God, I—I’m coming,” he gasped, voice hoarse and desperate, words tumbling over themselves as his control gave out entirely.

And then he did.

You moaned around him as the first pulse hit the back of your throat, your hands tightening at his hips, not to hold him back but to keep him close. You loved this part—this version of Spencer. The one who lost his polish, who couldn’t form sentences, who whimpered your name as he spilled into your mouth, utterly undone.

His knees nearly buckled, and his head dropped forward, curls swaying slightly as he looked down at you—looked at you, watching the way you swallowed him, the way your mouth didn’t falter once.

He groaned, something incoherent, his grip loosening as you pulled off him slowly, carefully, licking your lips as if you had all the time in the world.

When you stood, Spencer was still breathing hard, chest rising and falling like he’d just run five miles and solved a puzzle at the same time. His hands reached out instinctively, resting on your waist, eyes wide and still dazed.

You leaned in, nose brushing his, and whispered, “One down.”

And with that, you turned toward the bedroom, swaying your hips as you went—leaving him to catch his breath and follow you.

It took Spencer a moment to move—not just because his legs were still wobbly from the most mind-melting orgasm of his life, but because his brain was still trying to reboot. You had left him completely spent in the kitchen, looking like he'd been hit by a truck driven by a succubus.

When he finally managed to walk to the bedroom, half-dazed and barefoot, he paused in the doorway like he’d just walked into another dimension.

You were at the end of the bed, repositioning the mirror—the standing mirror—the one you always joked you only had so he could adjust his ties with mathematical precision. You were angling it with purpose, adjusting the tilt just right, your sweatpants already low on your hips and your shirt riding up as you stretched to fix the frame.

He blinked. “Jesus.”

You glanced back at him over your shoulder, eyes dark and amused. “Took you long enough,” you teased, running a hand down your side. “Starting to think you passed out in the hallway.”

Spencer’s throat worked as he swallowed, trying to form a coherent thought, but you were already stepping toward him, your smile just this side of dangerous.

“You gonna help me out of my clothes, handsome?” you asked sweetly, standing in front of him now, your hands hanging loosely at your sides—open, inviting, already daring him to touch.

Spencer looked down at you like you were a gift he hadn’t done enough to deserve. His hands reached out almost reverently, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt, eyes flickering up to yours.

"Yeah," he said, voice rough, lips parted, finally catching up. "Yeah, I am."

And then he got to work—slow at first, but certain—because if you were going to give him the privilege of watching you come apart in front of that mirror…

He was going to make damn sure you remembered it.

As soon as your clothes hit the floor, Spencer’s breath caught—and something in him shifted.

Whatever had been fogging his mind—the daze, the post-orgasmic haze, the stunned reverence—was gone. Replaced by sharp, focused intent. His eyes raked down your body with a hunger he didn’t even try to mask, and for a second, he just stood there, drinking you in.

Then he tore off his shirt like it was offending him.

And you? You moved like you had choreography in your bones.

You climbed onto the bed, slow and deliberate, the air charged with the promise of what was about to come. You planted your hands firmly at the edge of the mattress, then your knees, shifting until you were arched just right—back curved like a bow, ass up, thighs parted, and your gaze fixed on your reflection in the mirror.

You knew what you looked like. You knew what you were doing to him.

You swayed your hips once—just a little—to emphasize the view, a soft smirk playing at the corners of your mouth. “Well?” you asked, your voice low and teasing, “You just gonna stand there and stare?”

Spencer blinked like you’d pulled him from a trance. His hands flexed at his sides, and he stepped forward like a man possessed, crawling up behind you onto the mattress, his body humming with tension.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, voice low, lips brushing along your spine as he got into position behind you, “how long I’ve wanted to see this.”

His hands slid over your hips, gripping them just tight enough to ground you both, and when you met your own eyes in the mirror and saw his just behind you—dark, intent, full of heat—you knew: This wasn’t going to be soft. It was going to be glorious.

You whined softly, back arching a little more just to urge him closer. To invite him in.

“Gotta start telling me what you want, baby,” you pouted, your voice breathy but coaxing, playful and honest all at once. “I want to give you everything.”

Spencer leaned forward, his chest warm against your back as he wrapped one arm around your middle, his hand splayed across your soft stomach while the other gripped your hip like it was something sacred.

Then he nuzzled his face right behind your ear, his breath hot and steady, his lips brushing your skin as he whispered, “You are everything.”

Your breath hitched, the words hitting deeper than anything else he could’ve said.

Not “you’re giving me everything.” Not “you do everything for me.” Not “you’re mine.”

You are everything.

And the way he said it—like it was fact, like it had always been true, like it would be true in any universe, in any lifetime—made your stomach flutter and your heartache all at once.

“Spencer…” you breathed, trembling just a little, caught somewhere between need and love and complete, delicious surrender.

His grip tightened, adjusting you carefully until he had the perfect angle. You could feel the tension radiating from him—he was holding back, barely, his control hanging by a thread.

“Look in the mirror,” he said lowly, lips pressed to your neck. “I want you to see what everything looks like.”

This time, the sound that escaped you wasn’t a tease—it was a whimper, high and needy, trembling on your breath as your eyes locked with his in the mirror.

There he was���your beautiful, brilliant boyfriend, hair freshly cut, eyes blown wide with want, jaw slack with reverence. So much reverence. You watched the way his hands gripped your hips, possessive but gentle, the way he steadied you, angled you just right like you were something delicate and dangerous.

And then—God—he lined himself up with your entrance, his tip nudging against you, the anticipation thick in the space between your bodies.

“This…” you whispered, your voice hitching as your hips rocked back ever so slightly. “This was one of my best ideas.”

Spencer laughed—soft and wrecked and disbelieving—as he brushed his lips along your shoulder. “I’m not gonna argue with that.”

Because from this angle, you could see everything. The way your back arched so prettily for him. The way his stomach tensed as he held himself there, barely keeping it together. The way his face twisted with wonder when he finally—finally—began to push inside.

You gasped, your mouth falling open, your hands gripping the sheets in front of you as your eyes stayed locked with his in the mirror. He watched you feel him—watched your lips part, your lashes flutter, your shoulders twitch.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, voice shaky like the sensation was pulling the wind out of him. “You look… fuck, baby.”

And then he slid in all the way. Deep. Slow. A brand new angle for both of you.

You both gasped—yours soft and broken, his low and strangled—because it felt like a discovery like something you hadn’t even known was missing.

Your forehead dropped briefly to your arm as your body adjusted, and Spencer stayed perfectly still, just long enough to let you breathe. But his hands never stopped moving—stroking your hips, your waist, your ribs—like he was grounding himself in the feel of you.

“Look at us,” he whispered, voice tight. “Look.”

You did. And what you saw nearly undid you. Him—flush against your back, jaw slack, eyes molten. You—open and trembling and shining with love and desire.

It wasn’t just hot. It was intimate. Deep. Raw.

“Spencer—” you cried out, the word torn from your throat like it was the only one you could remember.

You weren’t just overwhelmed by the feeling of him inside you—it was everything. The mirror, the way he held you, the soft sounds he made behind you, the way his eyes never left yours. You could feel the love radiating from him, threaded through every inch of pressure, every breathy curse under his breath, every reverent touch.

And then—then—he began to move.

His hips pulled back, slow and smooth, only to roll forward again with just enough force to send a jolt straight through your core. It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t hurried. It was intentional. Controlled. Like he was trying to memorize how you felt around him with every thrust.

And then it happened.

On his second stroke, maybe third—he found it. That spot.

That maddening, impossible-to-reach place inside you that no one else had ever quite managed to touch. Not like this. Not so directly. Not so perfectly.

Your mouth dropped open. Your body jerked forward slightly on the bed. Your eyes snapped to the mirror.

Your reflection was flushed, lips parted, spine arched, eyes blown wide with disbelief and sudden, undeniable need.

“Oh my God—” you gasped, your voice ragged and high-pitched as your hands clawed at the sheets. “Spence—Spencer, I—”

You couldn’t even finish the sentence. Your brain had short-circuited. There were no words.

Because for the first time in your life, you weren’t just getting close. You weren’t trying to chase pleasure or grind your hips to make it happen.

No.

It was happening to you.

This need—violent, urgent, absolute—rushed through you like a tidal wave. Your thighs shook. Your stomach clenched. Your breath came in short, panicked little gasps.

“I’m gonna—” you whimpered, voice breaking as you looked at him in the mirror, wide-eyed and stunned. “I’m gonna cum. Right now. Spencer, I—I can’t—”

His eyes darkened instantly. One hand flew to your stomach, holding you still, while the other grabbed your hip tighter, anchoring you as he pressed in again with that same perfect angle.

But instead of saying anything even remotely helpful to the fact that you were about to explode—that your body was drawing taut like a bowstring about to snap—Spencer, in true Spencer fashion, didn’t react with encouragement or praise or even a filthy promise to make you scream.

No. He launched into a monologue.

“You know,” he began, breath still stuttering as he thrust into you again—deeper—like he wanted to make sure you felt every syllable, “the anterior wall of the vaginal canal—what’s colloquially known as the g-spot—is composed of erectile tissue. It swells when aroused. That’s why this angle—this one—stimulates it so consistently.”

You gasped—because of the thrust. Because of him. But also—because of him.

“Spencer,” you moaned, but there was no protest in it. Only need.

“And,” he went on, so casually, as if he wasn’t currently making your whole body shake, “researchers used to debate whether the g-spot even existed, but current studies support its presence as part of the clitourethrovaginal complex—which explains why internal and external stimulation together can cause—”

“Spence!” you cried, a sob of arousal breaking through your voice as your arms gave out and your face dropped to the sheets.

He moaned at the sight, one hand sliding from your hip up to your back, pressing gently but firmly between your shoulder blades to keep you arched just right. “You’re so close, aren’t you?” he panted, lips right by your ear now. “Your body’s proving the theory.”

You whimpered something unintelligible.

“Every time I hit it—your legs twitch. Your breathing changes. Your walls get tighter.” He thrust again, deep and devastating. “You want me to tell you what’s happening? What I’m doing to you?”

“Yes—yes, please—” you sobbed, eyes locked on your own wrecked reflection in the mirror.

“You’re about to experience an involuntary contraction of the pelvic floor muscles due to the intensity of pressure on your internal nerve endings,” he whispered, sweet and filthy and so proud of himself. “That’s what your orgasm is, baby. And it’s happening now.”

And with one final, perfect thrust—

It did. You shattered.

Your scream tore through the room like lightning—raw, high, unapologetic. It was the kind of sound you couldn’t hold back even if you tried, your body going rigid as the orgasm slammed into you like a freight train. Your hands fisted in the sheets, your thighs shook uncontrollably, and your mouth stayed open in a soundless cry as waves of pleasure crashed through you again and again.

Behind you, Spencer choked on a gasp.

“Darling—OH!” he blurted, his voice ragged and cracking under the force of it. “Oh my god—shit, that’s so—tight—”

You clenched around him like a vice, the spasms of your climax pulling him deeper, keeping him there, and Spencer—bless his heart—was doing everything in his power to keep his composure. But his hips stuttered, his breath coming in desperate, short bursts, and his hands trembled where they gripped your waist.

“I—I’m really—” he tried, blinking rapidly at the mirror, jaw slack, completely wrecked. “That—oh my god—you feel—fuck, I can’t—”

You whined, your hips twitching back against him instinctively, still in the throes of your own release, oversensitive and overwhelmed and barely capable of forming a single thought.

“Please,” he groaned, almost begging now, forehead pressed to your shoulder. “You’re still—Jesus, you’re still clenching—”

You were. You knew you were. Your body was betraying you in the best way, milking him, holding him in place, and you could feel him falling apart.

And still, through the blur of heat and haze, you had the audacity to whisper, “Come for me, baby. Fill me up.”

That was it.

Spencer snapped, burying himself deep with a low, devastated groan as he came hard, his entire body shuddering against you, hands flexing on your hips like he didn’t know where to hold on. He moaned your name into your skin, soft and wrecked, riding out every last wave of it like he had nothing else left to give.

And then you both collapsed—boneless, breathless, completely undone.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that—collapsed in a tangle of limbs and overstimulated nerves, your chest pressed to the sheets, and Spencer draped over your back like he’d just been hit by divine intervention.

His breathing was still ragged, warm puffs of air against your shoulder as he let out a small, dazed noise that might’ve been a laugh, a whimper, or possibly both.

“Okay,” he finally managed, voice muffled in your hair. “That was… I don’t even have words.”

You smiled lazily into the pillow. “Do I need to get you a thesaurus?”

Spencer let out a huff of a laugh, collapsing fully to the side and rolling off of you with a very dramatic groan, like his soul was trying to reenter his body.

“Not even that would help,” he muttered, his hand reaching out instinctively to find yours, fingers lacing together on the sheets between you. “I think I need a new language.”

You giggled, turning your face toward him. “You sound wrecked.”

“I am wrecked,” he replied, still blinking up at the ceiling like he was trying to remember how to function. 

You laughed harder, your chest shaking as you dragged your fingers lazily over the back of his hand. “You’re welcome.”

He turned his head toward you, eyes soft now, warm and sparkling even through the haze. “Come here,” he murmured, tugging you gently until you rolled into his arms, your leg draped over his and your face tucked into his shoulder.

For a few minutes, it was just that—quiet breathing, tangled sheets, your bodies cooling down slowly, your hearts still beating a little fast. He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, then one to your forehead, then another to your temple.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“More than okay,” you whispered, smiling against his skin.

“You were amazing,” he added, voice low and still just a little shaky. “Terrifying. Powerful. A little possessed, maybe.”

“Good possessed or bad possessed?”

“The sexy kind.”

You laughed again, breathless and content. “Your hair looks so good. I had to do something.”

Spencer groaned dramatically. “If this is how you react to my haircut, I’m gonna start getting it trimmed every three weeks.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, fingers pushing his short, soft curls from his forehead. “Spencer?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

His smile softened completely. “I love you too.”

And then, because of course he did, he added, “And I’m going to need to hydrate. Like… medically.”

You snorted, burying your face in his chest. “I’ll get the water. You stay here and recover.”

“Please,” he sighed, eyes closing, “and maybe a protein bar. And an ice pack. And—”

You kissed his chest once, grinning. “Don’t push your luck, Doctor.”

—

The first thing you felt was wet.

Too wet. Too warm. Not sweat, not a dream, not anything your sleepy brain could dismiss. You were still half-asleep when you shifted slightly in Spencer’s bed, but then—that feeling. The unmistakable gush.

Your eyes flew open. Wide. Alert.

Shit.

You moved quickly—automatically, like muscle memory. Years of this kind of panic had taught you not to waste time. You slipped out of bed with practiced stealth, careful not to jostle Spencer, who remained peacefully asleep on his side, facing away, one hand tucked under the pillow. His breathing was steady, unbothered.

Yours was not.

You rushed into the bathroom, closed the door gently behind you, and sat down on the toilet to assess the damage—and wow.

It was bad.

Blood was everywhere. Deep red smeared along the inside of your thighs, soaked through your underwear and sweatpants. You leaned forward slightly to confirm what you already knew—yep. This wasn’t a small spot. This was a full-on massacre.

Which meant—Spencer’s sheets.

With a soft, muffled groan, you let your head fall into your hands. Of course this would happen here, of all places. In his crisp, perfectly tucked bed. At his place, where everything had its place, and even the disorganized things were carefully thought out.

Panic prickled up your spine. But then, almost on cue—the cramps hit.

Sharp, low, mean. The kind that started in your lower abdomen and twisted cruelly down into your thighs, your back, your entire soul.

You clenched your jaw, willing yourself just to get it together, but it was too late. The frustration, the pain, the embarrassment, the sudden flood of hormones all collapsed onto you at once, and your eyes began to sting.

And then—quietly, shamefully—you started to cry.

Not loud. Not sobbing. Just silent, salty tears sliding down your cheeks as you sat there on the toilet, pants around your ankles, bleeding, cramping, and absolutely done with the universe.

You didn’t want to wake Spencer. You didn’t want him to see this, to see you like this. Not messy and raw and vulnerable, with blood on his sheets and tears in your eyes. You just needed a second to breathe.

To figure out what the hell to do.

But then—behind the door—you heard it.

A soft, sleepy shuffle. And then, “…Baby?”

Double shit.

“Mhm?” you hummed, trying to keep your voice light, unbothered, totally not on the verge of a hormonal breakdown. You blinked furiously, swiping under your eyes with the sleeve of your sweatshirt to catch the tears before they could betray you further.

Luckily, Spencer—sweet, brilliant Spencer—was not much of a profiler when he was sleep-soft and barely conscious. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice thick with drowsiness, muffled by the pillow.

You forced a laugh, the sound catching awkwardly in your throat. “Yeah, Spence, just… peeing.”

There was a pause, “You never pee in the middle of the night.”

You winced. Of course, he noticed.

“What? Ye,s I do,” you countered weakly. “How would you even know that?”

Another pause. A yawn. Then, with a gentle sort of logic only he could muster at 3 a.m., he said, “We’ve been together for almost three years. I’d know if you got up at night for any reason.”

You sighed, shoulders drooping. Damn him and his intimate knowledge of your bladder. “I drank a lot of water.”

“‘Kay…” he mumbled, his voice already fading as he accepted the excuse—sleep claiming him again like it always did. You could picture him now, curled on his side, arm stretched across your empty pillow, eyes closed again.

But the relief didn’t last long.

Because you knew what came next. Either he’d roll over and see the dark stain on the sheets. Or he’d start to wonder why it was taking you ten minutes to pee. Or worse—he’d hear you opening the wrapper of a pad or tampon in the stillness of his quiet apartment, and then he’d know.

There was no getting out of this unnoticed. No clever exit strategy. No plausible deniability.

You looked down at the wreckage between your legs, at the blood smeared on your thighs, and felt the tears spring up again. Not because you were ashamed—not really. Just… overwhelmed. Hormonal. Humiliated, despite yourself.

And so, with a shaky inhale and a wobble in your voice that gave you away immediately, you called out, “Spence…”

You heard the shift of blankets. The weight of him sitting up. “Yeah?” he called back, more awake now, concern threading through the syllable.

You stared at the door like it might disappear if you wished hard enough, heart pounding, cheeks burning hot with embarrassment. You felt small, fragile—not because you were bleeding, not because this had never happened before, but because it had happened here. In his bed. In his perfect little world, and suddenly you were convinced he’d see it as something wrong, something gross, something too much.

You swallowed hard. You didn’t want to cry again, but your throat was already tight. You just… needed him. Needed his eyes. His voice. The quiet steadiness only he could give.

“Can you…” you paused, your voice already cracking. You blinked away fresh tears and tried again, quieter this time. “Can you come in here, please?”

There was a pause—only a second or two—but it felt like a lifetime.

Then the sound of soft shuffling feet across hardwood.

The door creaked open slowly, the warm light from the hallway spilling in and catching Spencer’s sleepy, confused face. His curls were flattened on one side, his t-shirt slightly askew, and his eyes squinted until they landed on you—sitting on the toilet, legs drawn up, eyes wide and glossy.

Immediately, he softened. “Hey,” he said gently, stepping in and closing the door behind him like he could shield you from the rest of the world. “What’s going on?”

You sniffled once, suddenly unsure how to say it now that he was right there. “I, um…”

His eyes dropped to the clothes bunched around your ankles—bloodstained. His expression didn’t change, not in the way you feared. No grimace. No shock. Just a flicker of realization, and then something warm.

You inhaled sharply, trying to get it out. “I think I got blood on your sheets. I—I didn’t mean to. I woke up, and it just—there was so much, and I didn’t notice right away, and I’m so sorry, Spencer, I didn’t mean to make a mess, and I know how clean you like things, and I just—”

Spencer just nodded at first, still waking up, his mind turning over the facts at a slower pace than usual. You watched him, waiting for something—anything—that looked like reassurance. Like relief. Like love. But all you got was that blank, sleepy processing expression, and your chest constricted with a wave of shame so sharp it made your stomach twist.

He wasn't disgusted. But he wasn't saying anything either. And your brain, already loud and hormonal, filled in every awful blank.

You looked away quickly, blinking back tears that had already started to spill. Your lip quivered, and before you could stop it, the sob came. Soft. Gutted. Mortifying.

You turned your face toward the tile, trying to muffle it with your sleeve, but you couldn’t hide it fast enough.

And then—

“Hey.”

His voice cut through your spiral like a lifeline. It was soft, but firm. Awake now. Clear. Anchoring.

“Look at me,” he said again, and this time, it wasn’t a request.

You turned, hesitating, your vision blurry with tears. Spencer was kneeling in front of you now, close and grounded and fully Spencer again, his eyes wide and so full of you that your chest ached.

His hands reached gently for your thighs, grounding you. “I didn’t say anything right away because I’m still waking up,” he said softly, his brows knit with guilt. “Not because I’m mad. Or weirded out. Or upset. I’m just tired. And slow.”

You tried to breathe through your sobs, but one still escaped as you wiped furiously at your cheeks.

Spencer moved closer, cupping your face with both hands now, his thumbs brushing your wet cheeks. “You’re okay,” he murmured. “This doesn’t change anything. You’re okay.”

You sniffled, looking up at him. “I bled on your sheets.”

He nodded solemnly, and then, gently—genuinely—said, “Then we’ll wash them.”

You let out a weak, watery laugh, hiding your face in your hands as more tears slipped out—this time not from shame, but from the slow, warm relief that came with being seen and not judged.

“But they’ll be stained, Spence,” you murmured, peeking at him through your fingers.

“Darling,” he said patiently like he was reminding you the sky was still blue, “I know for a fact you know how to get blood out of cloth. You’ve told me about your victory stories—like, detailed accounts. I’m still haunted by that one involving your white skirt and a hotel bathroom sink.”

You sniffed, lips tugging upward. “That was legendary.”

“Exactly. And,” he added with a tiny shrug, “they’re white sheets. You know I have a concerning amount of bleach.”

“But what about your mattress?” you asked, still curled on the toilet like your shame had taken up permanent residence.

Spencer blinked. “Do you honestly think I wouldn’t have a mattress cover?”

That did it.

You laughed—really laughed. A wet, sniffling, hiccupping sound that bubbled up unexpectedly and made your shoulders shake. And Spencer smiled like the sun had come up in the middle of his bathroom.

“There it is,” he whispered, leaning in and pressing his forehead gently to yours, his hands cupping your face like you might drift away if he didn’t anchor you.

“You are the best thing that has ever happened in this apartment,” he said softly, reverently. “Sheets be damned.”

You exhaled shakily, leaning into his touch, forehead pressed to his, and whispered, “You’re such a dork.”

“And you love me.”

“I do.”

“Even though I own three kinds of bleach?”

You grinned. “Especially because you own three kinds of bleach.”

And with that, you melted into him, his arms wrapping around you, warm and solid and home.

His face was open and soft, with nothing but calm concern in those honey-brown eyes. “It’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You bit your lip hard, tears threatening again as you gave a soft, wet laugh. “I feel like a swamp creature.”

He smiled. “You look like my girlfriend, who’s going to stay put while I handle the cleanup.”

You blinked. “Spencer—”

“Nope,” he said, standing and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You take a warm shower, get a clean pair of sweats, a heating pad, and some water. I get to boss you around this time.”

“But—” you started, eyes widening as he stood up with purpose, clearly about to tackle the entire linen situation like it was a crime scene.

“No buts,” Spencer said immediately, already halfway to the door, waving a hand over his shoulder like he was shooing your protest away.

“But Spencer, really—!”

“Nuh-uh,” he cut you off, shaking his head. “Can’t hear you, my darling, beautiful girlfriend who deserves to stand in the warm water and not worry about anything right now.”

You groaned softly, watching him grab the corner of the sheet through the crack in the bathroom door. “Wear gloves, please!”

Without missing a beat, he called back, chipper as anything, “Already on it!”

You laughed because, of course, he was. Of course, Spencer Reid had a drawer specifically for latex gloves, a plan for this exact scenario, and the sheer determination to act like this was no big deal when, to you, it had felt like the end of the world.

But somehow, because of him, it didn’t anymore.

After your shower—hot water, fresh sweatpants, clean skin—you felt human again. Spencer had already changed the sheets by the time you stepped out. Now, the two of you were nestled back in bed, the world calm again.

You were curled on your side, your back pressed to Spencer’s chest, his arms warm and secure around your middle. One of his hands rested gently over your lower stomach, fingers stroking soft, slow circles as you breathed through another cramp.

It was one of those quiet, sleepy moments that made you feel impossibly close—like the tears in the bathroom belonged to someone else entirely.

Until Spencer snorted.

You groaned, eyes still closed. “What?”

“I just realized something,” he said, the grin already in his voice.

You didn’t have the strength. “Hmm?”

“This just confirms that you’re not pregnant.”

You turned your head just enough to stare at him over your shoulder with the most unimpressed expression you could manage.

And then, without a word, you leaned back further… and bit him.

“Ow!” he yelped, laughing through it, more startled than hurt. “Did you just—did you bite me?!”

“Shut up,” you muttered, burying your face in your pillow. “You ruin everything.”

“I do not! That was a scientific observation!”

“That was a death wish.”

He kissed the spot just beneath your ear with a chuckle, wrapping his arms around you tighter and whispering into your hair, “Worth it.”

You grumbled something incomprehensible, but you didn’t pull away.

Because he might ruin the moment—but he always stayed for it.

—

You hadn’t expected this errand to be sexy.

You were wearing sneakers, your hair in a claw clip, armed with a reusable water bottle and a list of budget-friendly desktop specs you’d scribbled down on a grocery list sticky pad. It was just supposed to be a quick trip to the electronics store so you could finally finish putting together your in-home office.

You were not prepared for Spencer to unleash his full brainpower in public like that.

It started innocently enough—just you and Spencer walking through the glossy aisles, checking out all the little info cards taped to the front of the monitors. You were squinting at acronyms and numbers you didn’t fully understand when Spencer stepped in behind you and said:

“This one’s solid, but the CPU’s clock speed might throttle under long-term workload if you’re running multiple programs at once—what do you usually keep open?”

You blinked at him. “Um… a few tabs. Zoom. Spotify. Sometimes Canva.”

He hummed. “Then we’ll need something with more RAM. Come here—this one has better ventilation anyway.”

And then it happened.

The tech guru from the store spotted you browsing and walked over. Before you could say a single word, Spencer launched into a ten-minute conversation that melted your brain.

They weren’t arguing, exactly—it was more of a debate but spoken in a language you had no fluency in. They talked about chipsets, thermal paste, GPU acceleration, and workstation stability. Spencer's hands moved when he talked, animated and passionate, and he kept pushing his hair out of his face like he didn’t realize how gorgeous he looked doing it. His eyes lit up like a storm every time he referenced a comparison model or corrected the tech guy with some obscure benchmark test result from a research article he’d read for fun.

And you?

You stood there, one aisle over, pretending to inspect a wireless mouse with your legs crossed and your entire body fighting not to squirm.

Because Jesus Christ.

It wasn’t just the brain. It was the way he used it.

The way his confidence never once turned arrogant. The way he explained things with precision, not to show off, but because he cared. Because he wanted you to have the right computer, the right setup, the right everything.

And God, it was hot. So, ridiculously hot.

By the time he walked back over to you, satisfied and smiling, you were barely holding it together.

“I got him to knock 10% off,” Spencer beamed, completely unaware of the fire he’d lit in your bloodstream. “You okay?”

You cleared your throat, trying not to stare at his hands, the curve of his neck where his collar dipped, or how he was breathing just slightly heavier from the excitement. “Mhm. Yep. Totally fine.”

“You sure?” he tilted his head, concerned. “You’re red.”

“Just… warm in here,” you lied, nodding quickly as you reached for your water bottle and took the biggest sip of your life.

And Spencer, bless him, just smiled and looped an arm around your waist like nothing had happened.

Meanwhile, you were already making plans to thank him properly the second you got home.

And you tried. You really did.

You tried to be patient, to make it home, to let the moment pass. You even rolled the window down a little, hoping the breeze would cool your face, your thoughts, or at least the burning in your stomach that had started the moment Spencer said “liquid cooling system” with that tone.

But then he put the car in reverse.

And when he reached back—long fingers braced on the headrest, torso twisting as he craned his neck to back out of the parking spot—his sweater pulled tight across his chest, exposing just a sliver of pale skin above his waistband, and that was it.

Your rational mind just… left the building.

You reached across the console, hand sliding deliberately—dangerously—up his thigh. Not his knee. Not the middle. High up. Just shy of making him stall entirely.

“Y/N…” Spencer’s voice dropped into a whisper, already laced with alarm and heat. “What are you doing??”

You gave him a wide-eyed, perfectly innocent look. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He turned his head to look at you fully now, jaw clenched, cheeks flushed, eyes already darkening like storm clouds.

“You can’t do that while I’m driving,” he said, sounding like he was trying to be stern but failing miserably. His voice cracked slightly, betraying how badly he was losing the upper hand.

You leaned in, fingers curling a little tighter where they rested. “Then maybe you shouldn’t reverse like a goddamn movie star.”

Spencer groaned—actually groaned—and his hand on the gearshift visibly tightened. “You are going to be the death of me.”

You just smiled, smug and a little breathless, and whispered, “Then maybe you should pull over.”

And for one heart-stopping second, Spencer looked like he was seriously considering it.

Spencer’s eyes darted to you like he couldn’t believe what you’d just said, like the words "Then maybe you should pull over" had knocked loose the last shred of his reason. He gawked at you, scandalized in the most Spencer Reid way possible—mouth parted, voice caught in his throat, one hand still clenched on the gearshift like it was the only tether holding him to the physical realm.

“W-we’re in public,” he stammered, blinking hard like maybe he’d hallucinated the look in your eyes. “In a parking lot. In a daylight-hour parking lot. W-with pedestrians. And children, probably—”

“Then drive,” you said lowly, your voice dipped in honey and need, all but panting as you slid your hand another inch higher on his thigh. “But hurry.”

Spencer practically squeaked. “Y/N—this isn’t rational. You’re—this is a stress response. You’re likely experiencing elevated hormones from the pregnancy scare—your body is reacting, not thinking—”

“I don’t want to think,” you growled, leaning closer, your breath brushing the shell of his ear. “I want to feel. And I want you.”

His knuckles whitened around the steering wheel as he blindly pulled the car out of the parking spot, jerking a little too hard in reverse before shifting into drive. “I’m not—not saying no,” he breathed quickly, blinking down the road, “I’m just saying—I’m not sure I can survive this drive.”

And then, as he finally got the car moving forward, you did it. Your hand left his thigh and slipped under his sweater.

You slid your palm slowly, deliberately, up the soft skin of his stomach. It was warm, smooth, and just a bit tense from how tightly he was holding himself together. Your fingers traced the curve just above his waistband, dragging lightly up to the center of his abdomen and rubbing in slow, tender circles.

Spencer heaved. Actually, visibly gasped. His breath punched out of him like someone had knocked the wind from his lungs.

“Oh my God,” he whispered, chest rising and falling fast. “You’re so mean.”

You smiled, wicked and wanting, your palm never stopping its soft, devastating rhythm. “I’m just in love,” you whispered, kissing his shoulder. “And so fucking turned on.”

Spencer swallowed audibly. And then—his voice wrecked, his eyes laser-focused on the road like it was the only thing keeping him from combusting—he muttered:

“We’re going to my place. It’s closer.”

And you just giggled, victorious. Because you had broken Spencer Reid. And he was loving every second of it.

…

You weren’t even pretending to behave anymore.

The desktop—the whole reason you went out in the first place—was long forgotten in the trunk of Spencer’s car, left to fend for itself like some abandoned prop in a scene that had taken a very different turn. Spencer had practically skidded into the parking spot outside his building, the car still humming as he put it in park with the kind of frantic energy that suggested he was one heavy breath away from losing it completely.

And now? Now you were following him up the stairs. Teasing him.

Relentlessly.

You stayed one step behind him, close enough to keep your hand on his back as he climbed. Occasionally you'd let your fingers slip just under the hem of his sweater, brushing along the warm, smooth skin of his lower back. The first time you did it, he stumbled. Just slightly. You giggled.

“Are you okay?” you asked sweetly, breathless with amusement.

“No,” he muttered, not even pretending otherwise, gripping the railing like it might protect him from you. “This is… so wildly unsafe for public decency standards.”

“I haven’t even touched anything inappropriate yet,” you whispered near his ear, letting your fingers skate higher this time, grazing the small dip in his spine.

Spencer made a noise halfway between a gasp and a whimper. “Yet.”

By the second flight, he was walking faster—clearly trying to outpace your hand, your mouth, your teasing. But it only made you more determined. You bumped your chest into his back at the landing, pressing close.

“You’re really gonna make me wait until we get inside?” you purred, resting your chin on his shoulder.

Spencer turned his head just enough to glance at you. His face was completely flushed, and curls started to stick to his forehead from the effort of moving quickly and not losing it right there on the stairs.

“I am this close to dragging you back down the stairs and into the passenger seat,” he said, his voice hoarse. “But there are cameras in the parking lot.”

You grinned. “And in the hallway?”

Spencer groaned. “You need to stop talking.”

But the key was already in his hand, and the front door was just ahead.

One more hallway. One more breath. And then you'd both stop pretending to be patient.

By the time you reached his front door, you couldn’t take it anymore.

Whatever self-control you had left—what little scraps remained after his parking lot heroics and that breathless spiral up the stairs—snapped.

As soon as Spencer fumbled with the key, you reached for him. Not gently. Not cautiously. Desperately.

You grabbed the fabric of his sweater, yanked him back against you, and smushed your mouth against his before he could even turn the lock. It was all heat and need, wild and unrestrained. Spencer gasped against you, his hands flailing for a moment before settling on your waist, trying to ground himself.

Your hands cupped his jaw, your fingers curling behind his neck, dragging him down into it as if you couldn’t get close enough. And he gave in completely, the key still awkwardly wedged between his fingers as he let you take the lead.

God, his mouth.

The same lips that could rattle off facts about deep-sea bioluminescence and ancient numeral systems and crash test safety ratings were now parted and panting and helpless beneath yours. The same mouth that had once shyly asked if you liked milk in your tea, that whispered book quotes into your skin, that lectured you on the proper way to hold a scalpel if you ever “theoretically needed to perform battlefield surgery”—was now moaning softly as your tongue brushed his.

You pulled back just a fraction, just enough to breathe against his lips. “Spencer…” you whispered, voice thick and shaking. “God, your mouth—do you even know what it does to me?”

He blinked, dazed, eyes unfocused and lips swollen. “I—uh—statistically I should’ve figured it out by now, but—”

You cut him off with another kiss, this one slower, deeper.

“Inside,” you breathed, biting his lower lip just enough to make him groan again.

He fumbled with the key, his hands shaking, his breath wrecked—and the second the door opened, you both stumbled inside, tangled and kissing and already forgetting where the rest of the world ended.

Your hand had just curled around him through his pants—finally, after all that teasing, all that build-up, all that delicious, unbearable tension—and Spencer let out a ragged, unfiltered moan, like the sound had been stuck in his chest for the last twenty minutes and could finally escape.

His knees buckled slightly. His hands gripped your hips like he was drowning. “Oh my God, Y/N—”

And then—

Knock knock.

Both of you froze.

Not just stillness—statue still. Like someone had pressed pause on the entire universe.

A beat.

Then again.

Knock knock.

Slightly louder this time.

Spencer looked at you, eyes wild, chest heaving, completely wrecked, and not even remotely recovered from your hand on him. His voice cracked as he whispered, “Who the hell knocks like that?”

You blinked, trying to reattach your soul to your body. “I don’t know,” you whispered back, breathless, fingers still resting where they definitely shouldn’t be when someone was at the door.

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “I—I can’t answer the door like this.”

“No shit,” you hissed, already stumbling backward, trying to straighten your shirt and wipe your mouth, feeling the flush crawling all the way down your chest.

Spencer scrambled—actually scrambled—across the apartment like a startled deer, grabbing the nearest throw pillow and covering his lap like it was his only hope.

“Act natural,” he whispered frantically.

“You are holding a pillow to your dick, Spencer.”

“I am trying!”

Another knock.

You took a deep breath, moved toward the door, paused just before unlocking it, and turned back to shoot him a look. “If this is Derek or Penelope, I’m actually going to murder someone.”

Spencer just mouthed, “Same.” And from where he stood, behind the couch, breathless and undone, he looked like he meant it.

“Reid, I saw your car. Are you here?” a muffled voice said from the hallway.

Spencer paled instantly, eyes wide as saucers. “Oh my God,” he panted, dragging a shaky hand through his hair. “Oh my God.”

Your stomach clenched, throat tightening. “What? Who is it?” you repeated in a harsh whisper, nerves crawling up your spine. “Spencer?”

He turned toward you slowly, like each step of his thought process was physically painful. He looked pale; lips parted, the pillow now forgotten in his grip. “Um… remember when I told you about Ethan?”

You blinked. “No? Who’s Ethan?”

Spencer let out a sharp exhale through his nose, shoulders slumping. “Right. I didn’t. Uh, well, hold on.”

You watched in stunned silence as he set the pillow down like it weighed twenty pounds, the moment having drained every ounce of blood from his body. The flustered, flushed man from just minutes ago was gone—replaced by the serious, awkward, deeply anxious version of Spencer Reid that emerged only in the wake of ghosts.

He walked stiffly to the door, unlocked it, and opened it to reveal a tall man with soft brown curls, tired eyes, and a familiar, cautious kind of warmth.

“…Ethan,” Spencer said, voice small. “Hi.”

Ethan stepped into the apartment like it was a place he used to live like he was returning to something still his. His bag was slung over one shoulder, frayed at the edges. He looked thinner than Spencer remembered—drawn in the face, shoulders sloped as though he’d been carrying something too heavy for too long.

“Got kicked out,” Ethan said quickly, almost like he was reciting a line he’d had to repeat too many times already. “Landlord said I’d broken the lease. Technically true, I guess. And then work… well. You can’t show up drunk and keep a steady gig teaching music theory to kids, apparently.”

Spencer’s face softened, even as his fingers twitched nervously at his sides. “Ethan, I—I wish you’d called.”

Ethan waved that off like it didn’t matter. “Didn’t want to burden you. Just need somewhere to land. Somewhere to get my head on straight.” His eyes scanned the apartment. “I won’t be here long. I just need someone in my corner again.”

Spencer glanced at you, and something unreadable flickered across his face—some combination of guilt and concern. He stepped slightly to the side and motioned toward you, voice gentle. “This is Y/N. My girlfriend.”

Ethan’s eyes barely flicked toward you. No handshake, no nod, not even a polite smile. He glanced—glanced—and then looked back to Spencer like the words had been noise, not introduction. “You still got that foldout futon in the guest room?”

You blinked, stunned by the complete lack of acknowledgment. Spencer hesitated, his jaw ticking slightly as he registered it too.

You looked at Spencer, brows raised. “Okay… hi to you too, I guess,” you muttered under your breath.

Spencer offered you a helpless look, one that said this is complicated, and please don’t hate me, and I didn’t expect this either, all at once.

And just like that, the warmth of your earlier moments evaporated, replaced by a chill that had nothing to do with the open door.

Ethan had already dropped his bag by the wall and started toward the hallway like he owned it, like the last five years hadn’t passed, like Spencer hadn’t built a life outside the hazy, fragile world they once shared.

Spencer stepped forward, voice stammering slightly, trying to patch over the growing awkwardness like it was a leaky pipe.

“Uh no, Ethan… this is a one-bedroom,” he said, clearing his throat. “It always has been.”

Ethan paused mid-step, turning with a furrowed brow. “What? No, you had that place with the foldout futon—”

“That was my old apartment,” Spencer interrupted, awkwardness tinged with discomfort now. “In Georgetown. This is… this is a different place. You’ve, um… you’ve never been here.”

Ethan blinked at him like the math wasn’t adding up. Like the timeline of Spencer’s life hadn’t continued after him.

You stood a few feet behind Spencer, arms crossed, lips pressed into a line, watching this strange tension unfold. The air was heavy like a thunderstorm was pressing against the windows, waiting to get in.

Ethan nodded slowly, his gaze trailing away from Spencer again—still not toward you. “Right. Guess I forgot.”

But you didn’t miss it. The way Spencer stepped subtly in front of you. The way Ethan kept talking like you weren’t even here.

Spencer stood frozen for a moment, one hand twitching nervously at his side, the other hovering near the seam of his pants like he couldn’t decide whether to fidget or brace for impact. He shifted his weight, looking like he wanted to disappear into the floor.

“Ethan,” he started, his voice gentle, careful, like he was talking someone down from a ledge, “I want to help—I do. But this… this isn’t really a good time. I—I live here. With Y/N. It’s not just my space anymore.”

“Ethan,” he started, his voice gentle, careful, like he was talking someone down from a ledge, “I want to help—I do. But this… this isn’t really a good time. I—I live here. With Y/N. It’s not just my space anymore.”

You heard the lie. Spencer never lied.

But you didn’t jump in to correct him.

Because while the technical truth was that you both had your own apartments, Spencer’s space had slowly become yours too. Your books on the shelves, your fuzzy socks under his bed, your favorite mug drying on the rack beside his. He called it home when you were there. And that had to count for something.

So you let the lie sit. Because it wasn’t really one. Not where it mattered.

Still, Ethan didn’t look at you. Didn’t even glance. He just tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “I said it wouldn’t be for long. I just need a few nights. You used to let me crash for weeks.”

Spencer winced. “That was different. That was… years ago. Things are different now.”

“You mean she’s here now?” Ethan said flatly, voice dipped in something that wasn’t quite bitterness but knew how to get there fast. “That’s what’s different?”

Spencer’s jaw twitched. He inhaled slowly through his nose, trying to hold his ground. “No. What’s different is I’ve built something stable. Something I want to protect.”

Ethan let out a soft, humorless laugh. “Stable. Right. That’s rich coming from you.”

Spencer flinched at that but said nothing.

Ethan’s eyes finally flicked to you—just for a second—before shifting back to Spencer like the look itself had been an inconvenience. “You told me once that I was the only person who really got you. That no one else could make sense of your head. Remember that?”

Spencer closed his eyes for half a second. “Don’t do this.”

Ethan stepped forward, voice low, pointed. “We were more than friends, Spencer. You don’t get to act like I’m just some old college buddy who needs a couch.”

You felt your chest tighten. Spencer’s shoulders tensed, and you could practically see him swallowing everything he wanted to say—needed to say—and trying to replace it with something gentle, something palatable, something that wouldn’t make Ethan shatter.

But the weight of it was written all over his face. Regret. Guilt. Boundaries.

“I’m not that person anymore,” Spencer said softly. “And you’re not either. And I’m sorry, but I can’t be your safety net this time. Not like that. Not here.”

Ethan scoffed, throwing his words like stones. “You’re not that person anymore? Meaning you found yourself a nice little trophy wife to buy a white picket fence someday?”

“Ethan,” Spencer warned, voice still even, but with an edge that trembled beneath it.

“What?” Ethan shot back, eyes hard. “Are you too scared to be who you really are? So scared you’re hiding behind a beard?”

And that was it.

“That’s enough!”

The words cracked through the apartment like a thunderclap.

Silence slammed down in their wake.

Spencer’s chest was heaving, shoulders locked, his fists clenched at his sides like he was still holding onto the echo of the yell that had just torn out of him. It wasn’t just loud—it was jarring. 

Spencer Reid didn’t yell. He didn’t need to yell.

But this—whatever Ethan had just ripped open—had pushed him too far.

Even Ethan looked stunned like the sharpness in Spencer’s voice had knocked the fight clean out of him.

And you? You just stared, wide-eyed, heart pounding, watching the man you loved stand up not just for you—but for himself.

Ethan stood frozen for a breath, maybe two, eyes wide like he couldn’t believe Spencer had actually raised his voice. His mouth opened—then closed. He looked down at the floor, jaw working like he was chewing on words too bitter to swallow.

Then, quietly but sharp enough to cut glass, he muttered, “Second time breaking a heart.”

The words landed heavy—aimed like a dagger but dulled by pity.

Spencer didn’t respond. Not right away. His jaw was tight, his posture rigid, but something in his expression fractured. You saw it. The flicker of pain. Of guilt. Of something mournful—but not regret.

Ethan gave a soft, bitter laugh and shook his head. “Guess the first time wasn’t final enough.”

Then he grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and walked out the door without another word. No slamming. No dramatics.

Just a final wound on his way out.

And then it was quiet. So quiet it felt like the air had changed.

Spencer stood still, eyes locked on the door long after it had closed. And you, standing behind him, finally took a step forward, reaching gently for his hand.

He let you take it. 

Gratefully.

Desperately.

…

You hadn’t meant to break the peaceful rhythm of dinner. Spencer had cooked for you tonight—something simple and grounding, pasta tossed with garlic and herbs, the kind of thing he could make with his hands while his mind drifted. He was quiet, sure, but he had smiled once or twice. You thought maybe he was pulling out of the fog of earlier.

But curiosity had been tugging at you since the name slipped from his lips when Ethan appeared like a ghost from a past you hadn’t known existed.

So now, here you were. Asking carefully, gently. Like you might scare the memory back into hiding.

“Spencer?”

He looked up from his plate, blinking slowly as if being pulled from somewhere far away. “Yeah?” he murmured, a little distracted still but present enough to meet your eyes.

You hesitated. Then, quietly, “Who, um… who was Ethan?” A pause. You swallowed. “Who was he to you?”

The question settled between you and Spencer like a feather—and yet, somehow, it hit the table with the weight of stone.

Spencer stilled.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable—just delicate. He set his fork down slowly, resting his hands in his lap like he needed them to be still while he spoke.

“He was…” Spencer exhaled through his nose, searching for the words. “He was my friend. In college.”

You nodded slightly, waiting.

“We met in a seminar,” he continued, his tone even measured. “He was one of the only people who didn’t look at me like I was a curiosity. He didn’t care that I was a genius or a little weird. He… treated me like a peer. Like a person.”

You could hear the fondness there, buried beneath the ache. But there was more, and you knew it. He saw it in your eyes before you asked.

Spencer offered it willingly, if slowly.

“There was a time I thought maybe it could become more. I wasn’t sure what I wanted. Or what he wanted. There was… one kiss. Maybe two. But it didn’t go further than that. Not really.” He ran a hand through his hair, eyes falling back to his plate. “We lost touch. He had his demons. And I had mine.”

You reached out, sliding your fingers gently across the table, brushing his knuckles.

“And now?” you asked softly.

Spencer looked up again, eyes tired but sincere. “Now I just feel sad. For him. And for who we both were then. I think I wanted to save him. I think he wanted me to. But we were just kids trying to feel less alone.”

You nodded, squeezing his hand.

“Thank you,” you said quietly. “For telling me.”

He gave you a small, fragile smile.

“Can I ask you something… really personal?” you said softly, your voice hesitant but honest.

Spencer’s eyes flicked up to yours, and for a moment, he looked slightly startled—maybe even nervous—but he nodded anyway. “Yeah. Of course.”

You took a breath, steadying yourself.

“Do you ever wish… you’d had more time to figure out your sexuality? To explore it… without so much pressure, or expectation?”

Spencer blinked at you, his fork pausing midair.

It wasn’t that the question offended him—it didn’t. You knew him well enough by now to tread with care. He could see that you weren’t asking to pry. You were asking because you loved him. Because you wanted to know him.

Still, it took him a second. He set his fork down gently, eyes flicking down to the plate before returning to yours.

“I, um…” he started, then stopped, folding his hands together as he leaned forward slightly. “That’s… a very good question.”

You smiled a little, encouraging but quiet, giving him room to think.

Spencer’s brows furrowed, not with discomfort but with the weight of consideration. “I think… yes. In some ways, I do.”

He exhaled slowly, eyes flickering toward the candlelight dancing on the table. “I didn’t have what most people would call a normal adolescence. I wasn’t allowed the space to explore anything—romance, intimacy, identity—without being either fetishized or ridiculed. I was always the youngest in the room. Always the anomaly.”

You nodded softly, your hand resting atop his on the table.

“I think there are parts of myself I didn’t even let myself question,” he continued, voice low. “Not because I didn’t want to. But because it didn’t feel… safe. There were rules I made for myself. Stay small. Stay quiet. Don’t make things harder than they already are.”

His eyes met yours again—braver this time, vulnerable but steady.

“But you’ve made me think about it more. Not in a pressured way. Just… being with you, and how safe I feel. I think maybe I’m still discovering who I am in that way. And I don’t feel late to it. I just feel—grateful. That I get to figure it out now. With you.”

Your throat tightened, tears burning just a little at the edges.

You reached out and cupped his cheek, thumb brushing gently along the curve of it.

“I’m grateful, too,” you whispered. “For you. All of you. Every part you’re still uncovering.”

Spencer turned his head slightly, pressing a kiss to your palm. 

You hesitated, watching him absorb the weight of his own answer, his fingers absently smoothing over the tablecloth like his thoughts were trying to find a soft place to land.

But his honesty had opened a door. And quietly, gently, you stepped through it.

“Can I… ask one more thing?” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “And please, please don’t feel like you have to answer. You don’t have to protect my feelings, I just— I want to understand.”

Spencer looked up, eyes meeting yours, already bracing but open.

You took a slow breath. “Do you… want to explore? With men, I mean?”

For a moment, he didn’t speak. Not because he didn’t want to answer—but because he was thinking, the way only Spencer could: carefully, thoughtfully, measuring not just his words, but the honesty they carried.

“I don’t know,” he said finally, quietly. “Sometimes I wonder. Not because I’m unhappy with you—I’m not, not even a little. Being with you feels… right in a way nothing else ever has.”

You nodded, encouraging him to go on, not flinching.

“But I also never really gave myself the chance to ask. Or try. I was so focused on staying safe, fitting in, surviving academia, and then the BAU… it never felt like there was room.”

He looked at you again, his expression soft and a little scared. “But I don’t want that to come between us. I don’t want to lose us because of something I might never even need to act on.”

You reached for his hand.

“You’re not going to lose me,” you said firmly, lacing your fingers through his. “Wanting to understand yourself more doesn’t mean you love me any less.”

He swallowed hard, blinking fast. “How do you always know exactly what to say?”

“Because I love you,” you said simply. “And I want all of you—even the parts you’re still figuring out.”

Spencer still couldn’t believe it. No matter how deeply he loved you, no matter how safe you already made him feel, you always found new ways to surprise him with your openness, your trust, and your devotion.

“I love you too,” he breathed, voice trembling slightly as he tried to hold your gaze, to make sure you knew how much this meant to him. “But… what are you saying, exactly?”

You sighed, not out of frustration, but from the sheer weight of trying to express something so delicate. You took a moment, collecting your thoughts, your words.

“I think,” you said slowly, carefully, “if you ever met a man—someone you were attracted to, someone you felt curious about—I’d want you to feel comfortable telling me. And then maybe, if we’d talked about it and if we’d set boundaries… maybe you could explore it. If that’s what you needed.”

Spencer blinked at you, stunned into silence for a few seconds. “Isn’t that… cheating?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“Not if we talk about it first,” you said gently. “Not if we understand each other and agree on what’s okay. Not if it’s something that helps you grow, and we stay honest with each other through it.”

He stared at you like you were a miracle. Because, to him, you kind of were.

“Thank you,” he said finally, voice rough with sincerity. “I appreciate you more than I’ll ever be able to express. But I think I’d need to… do some research. I mean—a lot of research. Before I could give a firm answer.”

You reached out, brushing your fingers along his arm. “I understand, baby. Take all the time you need.”

He nodded, chewing on the inside of his cheek for a beat, and then—tentative, awkward—he added, “And what if… what if I wanted to just experiment… with you?”

You tilted your head, your voice still soft. “Can you elaborate, my love?”

Spencer chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh… I guess I mean… I wouldn’t mind if we tried some… new things.”

Your lips curled into a smirk, affection lighting up your face. “Like what?”

He was bright red now, staring at a spot just past your shoulder like it might save him. “Like… like anal.”

You blinked, curiosity in your tone but no judgment. “You want to have anal sex with me?”

Spencer nodded quickly—shyly, but without looking away. “I do. But… I would, um… be on the bottom.”

Tilting your head with a curious, thoughtful expression, you asked, “Do you want to add strap-ons to your research? I’d want to get the best one in that case. And we’d need to know proper preparation, and materials, and—”

Spencer laughed, interrupting gently but with a real smile, the tension in his shoulders finally loosening. “I get it,” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ll look into it all. Thoroughly.”

You beamed at him, proud and warm and deeply endeared, before reaching for his hand and threading your fingers through his.

“Thank you for telling me, baby,” you said sincerely, giving his hand a loving squeeze.

He nodded again, his cheeks still flushed, but there was a glow in him now—something almost giddy beneath the vulnerability. Visibly relieved. And maybe even a little bit excited.

Because at that moment, he understood something unshakeable, something that filled every quiet space between your words:

There was nothing he couldn’t say to you. Nothing too strange. Nothing too personal. Nothing too tender.

He had you—and you made him feel safe enough to explore who he was, and loved enough to never question if that exploration would change how you looked at him.

It wouldn’t. Not even a little.

—

The headaches didn’t just start.

But you didn’t know that.

Not really. Not until Hotch called you himself and said Spencer was being sent home early after nearly collapsing during a case consult. Not fainting exactly—just… swaying, disoriented, like the world was too loud, too bright, too much all at once.

You had dropped everything. Your keys were barely off the hook before you were in the car. And by the time you got him home, your entire body was one humming line of worry.

Now, Spencer was curled on the couch, his head resting in your lap, skin pale and clammy with exhaustion. The only light came from a single shaded lamp across the room. Everything else was silent. Still.

You laid the cool towel across his forehead as gently as you could and stroked your fingers through his hair, watching as he exhaled softly under your touch.

“Baby…” you murmured, keeping your voice low, like even sound might hurt him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just gave the smallest shrug, his temple shifting against your thigh.

You frowned, brushing a curl off his forehead. “Spencer.”

“I didn’t want to worry you,” he said finally, voice quiet and hoarse. “I figured it would pass.”

“Have you seen a doctor?” you asked, already knowing the answer and hoping you were wrong.

He shifted his head slightly. Just enough for a soft, unmistakable no.

You closed your eyes for a second, steadying yourself. Not to snap. Not to scold. But to keep your worry from rising into panic.

“Spencer,” you said again, softly but firmly this time. “This has been happening for how long?”

Another pause. Then: “A couple weeks.”

You were silent for a moment, pressing your lips into a thin line as your hand slowed through his hair. “You’ve been getting headaches for weeks. And didn’t think that was worth mentioning?”

He didn’t move, but his voice went even softer like he was trying to shrink away without actually moving. “They weren’t this bad at first. And I thought maybe it was just stress or dehydration. Or—”

You stopped him with your palm against his cheek, not forcefully, just enough to make him look at you.

“Spencer,” you whispered, “if something hurts you—especially your head—you tell me. I don’t care how small it seems. I don’t care if you think it’s nothing.”

His eyes flickered with guilt and something else: shame, fear, and the quiet helplessness of someone who’s used to powering through because stopping means looking at the thing directly.

You kissed his forehead gently, letting the towel fall to the side for a moment.

“We’re going to the doctor as soon as they can get you in,” you said, no room for argument but full of care. “And tonight, we’re resting. Nothing else. Just this. Just me and you and quiet.”

Spencer nodded slowly, eyes fluttering shut again as your fingers moved back into his hair.

He didn’t argue.

Because, for once, it felt good to let someone else take the weight.

…

But the migraines… they didn’t pass.

They didn’t lessen. Didn’t become manageable with water, sleep, and hope.

Instead, they began to chip away at him. Slowly, steadily, like waves against the foundation of a house that had weathered more storms than it ever should have.

Your Spencer—the man you knew and loved in full color—started to fade into a version of himself that felt… hollow.

Still brilliant. Still kind. But dimmed. Distant.

He smiled less. Laughed less. Barely touched the books that once lived in his hands like extensions of his body. He started carrying sunglasses even when it was overcast. Kept earplugs in his coat pocket. You’d come to his apartment to find him sitting on the floor in the dark, palms pressed to his temples, jaw clenched against the sound of his own breath.

And you’d heard of this version before.

You knew him only through fragments—through stories whispered by people who had been there then.

The Spencer who had used.

The one who would do anything, take anything, to quiet the pain.

The man who lived in the aftermath of loss, crawling his way out of the kind of darkness that doesn’t leave easily.

And you knew he was clean. You knew it.

He had told you. The team had told you. He went to meetings. He journaled. He did the work.

But watching him now—watching the way his hands shook when you tried to touch him, the way he flinched when the light from the fridge hit his face, the way he refused to meet your eyes some nights—it terrified you.

Because he wasn’t just in pain. He was shutting down. And he wasn’t letting you in.

You’d wake in the middle of the night and find him sitting at the edge of the bed, head in his hands, so quiet it broke your heart.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to shake him. You wanted to say Please don’t go away. Please tell me what to do. Please don’t become that ghost again.

But instead, you sat behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek to the warmth of his back, whispering, “I’m still here.”

Even when he said nothing. Even when his silence felt like a wall taller than anything you’d ever climbed.

You stayed.

Because you remembered the way he looked at you when he was whole. And you would wait—for as long as it took—to see that look again.

But it took so long.

So long.

Long enough that the days started to feel indistinguishable from one another—an endless loop of dimmed lights, soft steps, whispered concern. You adjusted everything around him. At first, it was natural. A kindness. A compromise.

But over time, it became suffocating.

You stopped going over. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you were scared that the sound of the door clicking shut behind you might wake him—and God forbid you be the one to trigger another migraine.

You didn’t call or text anymore. Not even to say I love you, not even to say I miss you, because the brightness of your phone might hurt him. Because he wouldn’t check it anyway. You told yourself that over and over, he wouldn’t check it anyway.

So you stopped reaching out.

Even when you would go over, you didn’t play music. You didn’t turn on any lights. You started wearing socks around his apartment so your steps wouldn’t echo off the hardwood. You learned the rhythm of his medication alarms better than your own sleep schedule. You brought food and left it untouched on the counter. You came to check in, to switch out towels, to refill water bottles.

And somewhere in the middle of it all…

You forgot how to be his girlfriend.

Because that’s not what it felt like anymore. You were a nurse. A shadow.

An afterthought orbiting quietly around someone you loved more than anything, who couldn’t seem to see you anymore.

And the worst part—the most devastating, gutting part—was that you didn’t even know if he noticed.

If he saw the way your shoulders slumped when he didn’t respond. If he noticed how your voice had grown quieter, your touches more hesitant. If he could feel how hard you were fighting not to break.

Because you were still fighting. Every day. 

But the silence between you was deafening, and love—no matter how deep, no matter how patient—cannot live forever in the dark without being fed.

You didn’t want to leave. But you didn’t know how to stay like this either.

And you were beginning to wonder— If maybe he was already gone.

…

Your fingers slipped off the keyboard the moment you heard the lock click.

You froze. Heart stopped. Because no one—no one—used that lock. No one should be using that lock. You hadn't had someone walk into your apartment unannounced in... weeks. Maybe longer. You lived alone. You lived quietly. That sound—unexpected and metallic and out of place—sent a cold jolt of adrenaline through your chest.

You were halfway out of your chair, breath caught and heart thudding when you heard the door shut gently. No crash. No hurried footsteps. Just soft movement, deliberate. Familiar.

Still, your voice was shaky as you called from your office, “Spencer?”

There was a pause. A long one. Then footsteps padded across your floor with hesitant slowness. And then—he appeared.

He looked... wrecked.

Not bloody or bruised. Not in any visible way. But hollow. Sunken. His curls were tangled. There was stubble on his jaw. His coat was barely buttoned, satchel slipping from one shoulder. And his eyes—those big, expressive, vulnerable eyes—looked up at you with the kind of ache that reached straight into your chest.

“Are you mad at me?” he whispered like the question itself was too heavy to speak out loud.

And your heart just about shattered.

You swallowed hard, stepping into the doorway, grounding yourself. “No.” The word came out as a breath, too light, too soft, but true. Completely and utterly true.

He looked like he didn’t believe you.

So you pushed off the doorframe and crossed the space between you, slow and measured like he was a wounded animal like you were afraid any sudden movement might send him bolting.

“I was…” your throat tightened, but you pushed forward. “I was scared you stopped needing me.”

Spencer didn’t speak. Just shook his head—hard, like he was trying to dislodge the very idea—and his voice broke on the edges when he finally looked at you again.

“I was scared I stopped being someone you could love.”

That hit hard. Because those weren’t just words. That was Spencer. That was the man who overthought everything, who felt deeper than he admitted, who retreated when the world became too much because he doesn’t want to be a burden to anyone he loves. Especially you.

You didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything to say.

You just closed the last few feet between you and reached for him, and he met you in the middle—hands finding your waist, your arms looping around his shoulders, your fingers twisting into the fabric of his coat like you needed to physically hold him together.

There, in your entryway, with his bag slipping to the floor and your heart pounding in time with his, you stood wrapped in each other.

Not speaking. Not rushing. Just holding on.

Letting the silence breathe between you. Letting the ache be acknowledged. Letting your hands say everything your voices couldn’t.

And that—right there—was where the repair began. Not with an apology. Not with a solution. But with the simple act of staying.

…

Spencer stays the night.

He doesn’t ask. You don��t offer. He just... doesn’t leave.

After the kind of reunion that left both of you too full and too fragile to say anything else, it didn’t need to be discussed. He dropped his coat onto the rack like muscle memory. He put his satchel on the same hook he always did, though it sagged heavier than usual like it knew too.

And then he went into the bathroom to brush his teeth, just like he used to.

You followed a few minutes later with your own toothbrush in hand, standing beside him at the sink, pretending—trying—to pretend that nothing felt different.

But it did.

Because Spencer was here, in your space, but it didn’t feel like your Spencer. Not completely. His presence carried a weight you weren’t used to. Not uncomfortable, not unwanted—but heavier, older, a little weathered at the seams. Like he’d been through something he still hadn’t told you. Like you were brushing your teeth next to someone who looked like your boyfriend but who hadn’t touched your hand in nine days.

Your palm hovered for a moment before you rested it on his back, just lightly. You felt the subtle tension there—his body registering your touch before his mind did. He didn’t lean in the way he usually would. But he didn’t move away, either.

It was enough.

Later, he sat on his usual side of your bed; the covers pulled up neatly over his legs, a worn paperback in his hands. The lamplight was dim, golden, soft—just the way you always kept it when winding down for the night. And you curled up beside him, face half-hidden against your pillow, listening as he read aloud from the page in that soothing cadence of his.

It felt familiar. It looked familiar. But it didn’t feel quite right.

Because there was too much air between you. Too much left unsaid.

But still, you closed your eyes and listened to his voice like a lullaby, like its rhythm might stitch something back together.

In the morning, it was… normal.

Almost eerily so.

You sat on the kitchen counter, legs swinging gently as you sip your coffee, and Spencer stood between your knees, his forehead resting softly against your chest. Your arms loosely circled his neck, and his hands settled on your thighs. It was tender, quiet, and domestic.

Everything about it screamed routine, but your heart still beat too fast.

Because this wasn’t casual. This wasn’t easy. This was two people pretending they hadn’t been drifting.

Trying to return to something soft. Trying not to acknowledge that it felt just a hair too tight.

But you held him anyway. Pressed your cheek against his hair. And tried not to think about how long it would take to feel normal again.

Or if it ever would.

…

Spencer doesn't say it all at once. He doesn’t sit you down and unfold his guilt into a perfectly formed apology with bullet points and clear, linear thought. That’s not how this lives inside him.

It spills out in pieces—fragments—little revelations that tumble out when his voice is already low, the night is already quiet, and the space between you is already stretched thin with everything left unspoken.

You're sitting on the couch, legs tangled under a blanket that doesn’t quite reach the edges anymore, and his head is resting on your shoulder, a book forgotten in his lap. You don’t know what triggers it—maybe the way your hand idly combs through his curls or the way you haven’t said anything in minutes, and the silence has grown too tender to ignore—but suddenly, Spencer shifts.

“I didn’t know how to let you in,” he says quietly, voice hoarse, like it’s been caught in his throat for too long. “Not without making you carry it for me.”

You don’t speak. You don’t move. You just listen. Because you know he needs to say it.

“I was scared,” he continues. “Scared that if I leaned on you too hard, you’d… break. Or get tired. Or realize I’m too much.” He laughs, but it’s dry and hollow. “I thought keeping it in would protect you.”

And there it is.

The heartbreaking, twisted logic of someone who loves too hard and hurts too quietly.

You tilt your head, rest your lips in his hair, and whisper, “You don’t have to protect me from loving you.”

Spencer doesn’t respond at first. But his hand finds yours beneath the blanket. Clumsy. Seeking. He laces his fingers through yours like he’s making a new promise. Maybe he is.

From then on, he tries.

In the smallest ways.

He texts first—even if it’s just a simple thinking of you or a blurry photo of something he saw that reminded him of a joke you once made. You reply warmly every time, no matter what you’re doing. Because you know what that little message cost him. And what it means.

He starts saying, “Want to come over?” again. Not every day. Not even every week. But it starts. And when he does, you go. Even if he’s tired. Even if all you do is sit silently, eat soup, and read on opposite ends of the couch, you go. Because he’s asking. Because he wants you there again.

And one night, while you’re brushing your teeth in his bathroom and trying not to get toothpaste on your shirt, he walks past and lightly rests his hand on your back. Just a press of fingers. No words. No performance.

It makes you tear up.

Because that little touch says: I missed you. I’m trying. I’m still here.

And you let him try.

You show him you want him—not just when he’s dazzling and fast-talking and quoting obscure facts to fill the silence—but when he’s slow. When he stumbles. When he forgets how to let love feel easy.

You hold space for all of it.

Because you’re not just here for the version of him that’s easy to love.

You’re here for all of him. Even the parts that still don’t know how to stay. Especially those.

This part isn’t easy either.

Because silence had become your way of coping—of making space for him, of shrinking yourself so his pain didn’t have to make room. You thought you were being kind. And maybe you were. But kindness without communication turns into quiet resentment. And now it’s time to speak.

Your voice wavers when you begin. Because you're not angry. You're hurt. And that kind of honesty is terrifying when you've spent so long treading carefully around someone else's fragility.

But you do it anyway.

You look at him—really look—and say:

“I don’t need you to be perfect; I just need you to let me in again.”

You see it hit. Right there in his eyes, the way his breath catches like he’s just now realizing how far he pulled away.

So you keep going. Gently. But honestly.

“I missed you,” you whisper, softer this time, “and I need to know you missed me too.”

His hand twitches, like it wants to reach for yours but doesn’t know if it has permission yet. You give it to him, not with words, but with your eyes.

Then, because this is the hardest truth and the one that’s been buried deepest, you let it out:

“I want to feel like your girlfriend again. Not just your support system.”

There’s a pause. A long, heavy one where the silence could crack either way. Where he could shut down or shut you out.

But Spencer doesn’t.

Because he listens.

He always listens.

And more importantly—he responds.

His hand finds yours, finally. His fingers squeeze, just once, but it says everything. And when he speaks, it’s quiet and raw, his voice hoarse from emotion.

“I didn’t know how much I was asking you to carry,” he says. “And I didn’t know how to say I missed you without breaking apart.”

You nod, already tearing up. But you don’t drop his hand. You hold tighter.

Because now it’s out. The words are real. The air between you isn’t full of what-ifs and almosts anymore—it’s full of truth.

And from here, you can finally start again.

…

Rossi notices it first.

The way Spencer walks a little lighter into the bullpen, his satchel slung across one shoulder and a barely concealed smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The way he lingers longer in conversations again and doesn’t just nod and disappear into the nearest file. The way his eyes brighten when his phone buzzes, and your name lights up the screen.

He’s back.

Not just showing up. Not just surviving. But present.

And for a team that’s seen him hollowed out by pain—grief, migraines, trauma, silence—it’s everything.

So Rossi, in his infinite paternal wisdom and subtle Italian flair, throws out the idea over coffee one morning like it’s nothing.

“Team night at my place this Friday,” he says, handing Hotch his espresso. “The usual—music, wine, enough pasta to drown a horse. Partners invited.”

Hotch raises a brow. “That sounds dangerous.”

“It always is,” Rossi grins. “And that’s the point.”

The word spreads quickly—Penelope is already planning outfits and playlists, JJ starts texting around to see who’s bringing what, and Spencer?

~

It’s a quiet afternoon when your phone buzzes.

You’re in the middle of some mundane work task, one of those peaceful moments where your brain is finally unoccupied just enough to hum again. You glance down at your phone, expecting some spam notification or a reminder you forgot to cancel.

But it’s him.

Spencer.

Spencer Reid — who still, despite everything you’ve been through together, texts like he’s composing a letter with a fountain pen. The preview on the lock screen reads:

Would you maybe want to come with me to something?

You smile before you’ve even unlocked the phone.

You can practically hear the cadence of his voice in the phrasing. See the way he’d glance away when saying it in person, fingers tugging at the corner of a folder or the hem of his sleeve, his mouth twitching with nerves and hope.

You type back:

Yes. Absolutely. What is it?

There’s a pause—a longer one this time—and then:

Rossi is hosting a team dinner. Just something casual. Partners invited. Everyone will be there. I’d like you to be there too. With me.

Your heart swells. Not because it’s a party, or because you get to be in a mansion, or even because it’s a rare invitation into his work life—but because it’s him.

Of course.

You send it immediately, no second thoughts, no edits. And almost instantly, the three little dots appear. Then a single message comes through:

Thank you. You have no idea how much that means to me.

But you do. You really do.

You put your phone down, and for a moment, just sit in the warmth of it all.

Because even through the screen, you can feel it—that tiny shift in Spencer’s world. That quiet loosening of his shoulders. That sweet, boyish, barely-there smile you love so much.

~

He asked. You said yes. And something inside him—tight and long-held—finally lets go.

Because he’s not just inviting you to dinner—he’s inviting you into something. Back into his world, where you belong.

The week flies by, and by Friday night, you're practically bouncing in your seat as Spencer drives you through winding roads and tree-lined driveways. He’s wearing that soft sweater you love, the one that clings to his arms just right, and his hair is freshly washed, curls soft and neat, like he tried extra hard.

When you arrive at Rossi’s mansion—stone archways, glowing windows, and the smell of garlic and rosemary floating through the open door—you’re met with warmth. Laughter. Familiar faces.

Penelope squeals when she sees you, immediately wrapping you in a glittery hug. JJ hands you a glass of wine before you’ve even made it past the foyer. Derek grins, claps Spencer on the back, and says, “There’s the man of the hour.”

But the best part— The best part is how natural it feels.

You and Spencer move through the house like you’ve always been a pair. Like the distance, the silence, the months of aching and not knowing how to reach each other are finally, finally behind you.

He keeps a hand on the small of your back as you walk into the kitchen. He leans in to tell you little jokes while you nibble from the charcuterie board. When someone teases him—probably Morgan—you rest a hand on his knee and feel him exhale with laughter instead of flinching like he might have weeks ago.

And later, when the group settles into the living room with glasses of wine and soft music playing in the background, you find yourselves tucked into the corner of Rossi’s oversized sectional, Spencer’s arm around your shoulders, your head against his chest.

You’re back in your groove.

You feel it in the way he laughs again without hesitation. You see it in how he looks at you—like the storm has passed, and you were his shelter the whole time. You feel it in yourself, too—in the quiet calm beneath your ribs, the safety of this, whatever this is becoming again.

And as the team jokes, reminisces, and bickers affectionately around you, you can’t help but close your eyes for a moment, smile into his sweater, and think—

We’re okay. We made it. We’re home.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

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[xomintybreezexo]

Can you imagine if some Major Shit(tm) goes down and Phantom and the other protective spirits in the area just casually stop it? Like, maybe Trigon shows and he's halfway through his evil monologue before a bunch of smaller protector spirits just...appear and start wailing on the dude. Some of them have guns, knives, music, and missiles; they all have a lot of things going on.

Then Phantom show up and takes one look at this absolute frootloop, his words, on live, and is just like "Yeah, nah. S O U P" (again, his words on live TV) and then just...leaves? With a sci-fi-looking thermos full of evil demon of chaos?

And imagine if the other ghosts explain the above, like "Yeah, because Phantom's a protector spirit, his ghostly embassies empower us other protector spirits to be stronger and more corporeal, and his embassies are, like, all over the globe lol" how would the public react? Would there be fundraisers for more official and permanent 'graves' for Phantom? Would the public learn about the GIW somehow? How would they react to that?

Maybe they learn about the GIW because they come out with a statement that ghosts are evil and unfeeling, non-sentient they say, and how people are being manipulated by Phantom to ensure the 'ecto scum's' continued exsistance? I can imagine this is met with outrage and righteous fury.

a ghosts graves

In the aftermath of a battle, Phantom, Batman, and Superman could be see talking between each other. 

During a lull in the conversation a tiny girl comes running from underneath caution tape taped around the vicinity, holding a bouquet of marigolds between her small hands. She’s out of breath and seems to be embarrassed when she stands before the heroes, Batman reacts the quickest to the sudden encounter. Asking her about why shes here and what the problem is, he’s about to ask about her parents when she interrupts with “i have something for mister Phantom”. 

Danny who had been only half listening was caught off guard, he looks at her and tries for a reassuring smile but his confusion must show through because she suddenly looks down shyly at her flowers. 

“I heard from mommy that you put flowers on graves for people you like, ” she starts, “i don’t know where yours is though, so i got you flowers to put it wherever it is”. She’s obviously embarrassed about interrupting, but she says the words with a form of determination. Suddenly what seems to be her mother comes running from out of the crowd. 

“I am so, so, sorry for Miya, i didn’t mean to loose sight of her, she slipped away, we’ll get out of your hair now. ” the woman says in a rush, gently tugging the child back from the slack jawed heroes. Danny can just make out her gently reprimanding the child for her behaviour when he suddenly steps forward. “Wait, wait, wait” he says quickly, crouching down to the child now hiding a bit behind the mother, “you got me flowers… so i can put them on my grave?” the tiny nod he gets from that has him smiling, “you wanted to put flowers on my grave?” is asked with excitement, gaining n even bigger nod in return. 

He takes a small step forward, still crouched, and asks “are you alright with me hugging you?”, the nod lets him quickly move forward a spin the child around in a tight hug, laughing. He smiles brightly at the girl, holding her in his arms with enough space to make sure the flowers were safe, who is smiling back just as brightly. Danny laughs, “no ones ever given me flowers before! And you want them on my grave!” the actions have gained the attention of both civilians and other heroes, Danny could honestly care less though, someone wants to put flowers on his grave! Someone went through the effort of giving him flowers! He is so excited!

Both the mother, Superman, and Batman all look uncomfortable, “have you… never gotten. . ahem. . Flowers before?” Superman asks, “i mean, you look young so… have your parents never… ?”, the ending never gets finished but its definitely implied what he wants to really ask. Danny doesn’t care, its not exactly important, right?

He looks at the heroes and says cheerily “i don’t think my parents even know im dead!” before looking back at the child in his arms, not seeing all the shocked, pale faced staring( minus Batman, he never emotes, like, at all). 

Eventually the kid has to leave due to dangerousness of the area, but not before a final hug and happy goodbye from Phantom after she hands the flowers to the undead hero. Danny says his goodbyes to the surrounding heroes, not understanding why they all look at him funny as he carries around the marigold bouquet before he flies off. He holds the flowers close to makes sure they dont get destroyed by the wind, but he cant help a few happy loops and twirls in his flight home. 

The first ever flowers for his grave, how exciting!

———————————————————————————————————————

Ever since then the heroes and a few civilians make sure to give Phantom flowers each time they see him for his grave. Phantom is so excited people want to give him flowers each time a new set is given to him. 

________________________________________________________________

wooooooo ok

i finally actually wrote something after so long, sorry for the long break between shit, stuff happened :/

sorry if there’s any big misspellings or anything like that in here, i had an idea and wanted it down as fast as possible and i fucking ran with it as far as i could lol

y’all can continue this if you want, i just thought this idea was so cute

have a good night/day/afternoon/life

[sixeyesonathiel]

your goddess loves you this much

pairing — yandere hero!satoru x goddess!reader

synopsis : you are a benevolent goddess, the eternal comfort in the chaos, welcoming a lost hero into your divine realm after a harrowing journey between worlds. with soft words and steady hands, you guide him through uncertainty, offering warmth, purpose, and a weapon to wield against the darkness threatening your land. loop after loop, you are his constant—his salvation, his truth. after all, isn't that what a good goddess does?

wc — 4.4k tags — oneshot, yandere, psychological horror, time loop, unreliable narrator, slow burn insanity, obsession, manipulation, role reversal, emotional control, gaslighting, looping timeline, moral erosion, poetic justice, deconstruction of heroism, implied multiple deaths

gen masterlist

the weight of his head against your thighs has become as familiar as breathing—more familiar, perhaps, since breathing is something you’ve never needed to think about until now. until him.

you feel the tremors first, always the tremors. the way his body shakes like a leaf caught in a winter storm, muscles twitching with phantom pain from wounds that no longer exist but live on in the meat memory of mortal flesh. his white hair spreads across the silk of your dress like spilled moonlight, each strand catching the ethereal light of your divine realm. it’s damp with cold sweat that shouldn’t exist here, in this place beyond temperature and discomfort, but it does because you will it to. because you find something intoxicating about the way mortality clings to him even in your perfect sanctuary.

loop 847.

the number sits in your mind like a precious jewel, polished smooth by repetition. you’ve been counting since the very beginning, though the significance has evolved from mere record-keeping to something approaching obsession. what started as clinical curiosity—how many times can a soul break before it stops reforming?—has become something else entirely. something you refuse to examine too closely, even in the privacy of your own divine consciousness.

what matters now is the delicious anticipation building in your chest as his eyelashes flutter against his cheekbones. those ridiculously long lashes that would make mortals weep with envy, dark against skin that’s too pale from shock and trauma. you count the seconds—three, two, one—before those brilliant blue eyes snap open, wide and unfocused, pupils blown with terror that makes your divine essence sing with dark satisfaction.

there it is. that moment of pure, distilled anguish that you’ve become addicted to witnessing. the way his gaze darts around frantically before finding your face and latching onto it like a lifeline. the relief that floods his features is almost as beautiful as the terror that preceded it.

“shh,” you whisper, the same script, the same gentle tone that’s become your favorite performance piece. your fingers card through his hair with practiced tenderness—so soft, so perfectly maintained despite the violence he’s just endured. the last death had been particularly inspired, even by your standards. the demon lord’s claws had taken their time, peeling him apart layer by layer while you watched from your scrying pool with the focused attention of a scholar studying ancient texts. you’d rested your chin on your palm, legs crossed elegantly, occasionally taking sips of divine nectar as his screams echoed across dimensions.

“you’re safe now,” you continue, letting each word drip with honey-sweet compassion. “you’re with me.”

his breathing comes in sharp, shallow gasps that make his ribs flutter like bird wings beneath his torn shirt. you can feel his heart hammering against his chest where his side presses against your lap—such a frantic, desperate rhythm. mortal hearts are so wonderfully expressive, unlike the steady, emotionless pulse of divine essence. his heart tells stories: of fear conquered and reborn, of trust given and shattered and painstakingly rebuilt, of a soul slowly learning to depend on you for everything that matters.

“i—” his voice cracks like ice under pressure, and oh, how you savor that sound. you’ve heard it 846 times before, but it never loses its appeal. “i was... there was pain, so much—”

“a nightmare,” you murmur, letting your thumb trace the sharp line of his jaw. such perfect bone structure, even when it’s slack with shock. his skin is always so warm when he first awakens, as if his body remembers the fire that consumed him three loops ago, or the ice that froze his blood solid in loop 739, or the poison that ate through his organs while he writhed on the ground in loop 623. each death leaves its signature in ways only you can perceive. “just a terrible nightmare from your human world. you’re here now, with me.”

the lie flows as smoothly as silk, perfectly crafted after centuries of refinement. you’ve become an artist of deception, painting reality in whatever colors best serve your purposes. and your purpose, though you’d never admit it even in the deepest recesses of your mind, is to keep him exactly like this: broken, dependent, desperate for the comfort only you can provide.

satoru’s eyes search your face with that desperate intensity you’ve grown to crave. like a drowning man looking for driftwood, like a lost child seeking its mother, like a worshipper gazing upon their god. the trust there is so complete, so absolute, that it makes something warm and possessive unfurl in your chest. he has no idea. no idea at all that the goddess cradling him so tenderly is the architect of every scream, every moment of agony, every carefully orchestrated betrayal that led to his destruction.

you are merciful in his eyes. you are kind. you are his salvation made manifest.

the lies taste sweeter than ambrosia on your tongue.

“goddess...” he breathes, and his hand—scarred now in ways he doesn’t remember earning, marked by battles that exist only in the spaces between consciousness—reaches up to touch your cheek with trembling fingers. the reverence in that simple gesture makes your divine essence purr with satisfaction. “you’re real. you’re actually real.”

“of course i’m real.” you lean into his touch, letting your expression soften into something that could almost pass for love if observed from the right angle. it’s not difficult anymore; you’ve had centuries to perfect this particular mask, to understand exactly which micro-expressions most effectively convey maternal affection mixed with divine benevolence. “i’ve been waiting for you, hero.”

hero. the title sits in the air between you like a blade waiting to fall, because you both know what heroes are made for. they’re not made for happy endings or peaceful retirements. they’re made to suffer beautifully, dramatically, in ways that make for compelling stories. they’re made to sacrifice everything, to lose everyone they care about, to stand alone against impossible odds until the very weight of their nobility crushes them.

they’re made to break, over and over, until breaking becomes their most defining characteristic.

and satoru breaks so very prettily for you.

you help him sit up slowly, your hands steady on his shoulders as he sways like a tree in high wind. his body remembers trauma it can’t consciously place, muscles locked tight with anticipation of pain that isn’t coming. not yet. the reprieve is temporary, always temporary, but he doesn’t know that. he thinks this moment of peace might last, and that hope is almost as delicious as the despair that will follow.

“i don’t... understand,” he says, pressing the heel of his palm against his temple hard enough to leave red marks on his pale skin. “everything feels wrong. like i’m forgetting something important. something crucial.”

everything, you think with dark satisfaction, watching the way his brow furrows with concentration. you’re forgetting everything that matters, and i’m the only constant in your dissolving world. i’m the only truth you’re allowed to keep.

“memory can be hazy when crossing between realms,” you offer with gentle wisdom, guiding him to his feet with hands that seem to care only for his wellbeing. he moves like he’s testing each step, uncertain of his own body’s capabilities. which makes sense—how many times has this body failed him? how many times have these hands been unable to grip a weapon when he needed it most, these legs unable to carry him to safety? “the transition between worlds can be... disorienting. it will clear in time.”

another lie, of course. his memories will never clear because you’ve specifically designed the magic to prevent it. instead, they’ll remain trapped in that liminal space between dream and reality, close enough to create unease but never quite accessible enough to provide clarity. it’s one of your more elegant touches, that spell. it ensures he’ll always feel slightly off-balance, always in need of your grounding presence.

the chamber around you gleams with ethereal light that seems to emanate from the very air itself. marble and gold and impossible architecture that defies mortal comprehension stretch in all directions, creating a space that’s both infinite and intimate. crystalline pillars support a ceiling that shows glimpses of distant stars, while fountains of liquid light provide a soothing soundtrack to your interactions. it’s designed to inspire awe and comfort in equal measure, to make mortals feel both humbled and protected.

but satoru’s eyes don’t linger on the divine beauty surrounding him. they stay fixed on you with an intensity that’s become familiar over the centuries, hungry and searching, like you’re the only real thing in existence.

you are, in a way. everything else—the weapons, the quests, the monsters that will tear him apart in increasingly creative ways—are props in your private theater. but you? you’re the constant. the comfort. the reward he gets for playing his part so very, very well.

“tell me about the world,” he says quietly, and there’s something in his voice that makes you pause. a thread of steel you haven’t heard before, barely perceptible but definitely present. like the first hairline crack in perfect glass. “tell me about my purpose here.”

you gesture toward the vast armory that stretches beyond the main chamber, a space that could house armies worth of weapons. each piece gleams with deceptive promise—swords that will shatter at crucial moments, armor that will fail when he needs it most, shields that will crumble to dust, magic artifacts that will betray him in creative ways you’ve spent decades perfecting. some of them are beautiful enough to make mortals weep, others radiate power that makes the air itself sing. all of them are tools of his eventual destruction, crafted with the same loving attention to detail that a mother might put into her child’s favorite meal.

“you are chosen,” you begin, the familiar words flowing like water over worn stones. you’ve recited this speech so many times it’s become a prayer, a litany, a song that shapes reality itself. “a hero summoned from your world to save ours from—”

“from what?” the interruption is sharp, unexpected, cutting through your carefully crafted monologue like a blade through silk. satoru’s blue eyes have focused with laser intensity on your face, and there’s something different about his gaze. something that makes the base of your spine prickle with unease. “what exactly am i saving the world from?”

in all 847 loops, he’s never asked that question with such pointed curiosity. usually he’s too traumatized, too desperate for comfort and guidance to think beyond the immediate moment of safety in your presence. usually he accepts your explanations with the blind faith of a drowning man accepting a rope, never questioning its source or strength.

but you adapt. you always adapt. that’s what’s made you so successful at this game.

“darkness,” you say simply, letting a shadow of ancient sorrow cross your features. you’ve practiced this expression in divine mirrors, perfecting the exact degree of pain that suggests personal loss without overwhelming your audience. “an ancient evil that threatens to consume everything good and pure in this realm. only a hero from another world, untainted by our corruption, can hope to stand against it.”

it’s not technically a lie, which makes it easier to sell. there is darkness in this world—you’ve created most of it yourself, shaped it into increasingly elaborate death traps and moral quandaries, each one designed to push him further toward the breaking point you find so psychologically fascinating. you’ve crafted villains with compelling motivations, tragic backstories that make their evil feel almost justified. you’ve built societies that force impossible choices, where saving one group means dooming another.

you are the darkness he’s meant to fight, but he doesn’t need to know that. not yet.

satoru stares at you for a long moment, and something shifts behind his eyes. a recognition that makes your divine blood run cold in ways you didn’t know were possible. it’s like watching someone solve a puzzle you thought was perfectly obscured, seeing the moment when scattered pieces suddenly form a coherent picture.

“show me the weapons,” he says finally, but his voice carries undertones you can’t quite parse.

relief floods through you like warm honey. familiar territory at last. you lead him through the armory, past blades that sing with false promises and shields that radiate protective energy they’ll never actually provide. the space is vast enough to echo, filled with the soft chiming of metal and crystal, the whisper of displaced air around objects of power.

he examines each piece carefully, too carefully, running his fingers along edges and testing the weight of handles with a thoroughness that seems excessive. you watch him move through the displays, cataloguing his reactions for future reference. does he linger longer at certain types of weapons? does he seem drawn to particular magical signatures?

“this one broke,” he murmurs suddenly, fingers hovering over a silver sword without quite touching its gleaming surface. the blade is perfect, unmarked, radiating holy power that makes the air shimmer around it. there’s no possible way he could know about its hidden flaw—the microscopic fracture in its core that will cause it to shatter at the worst possible moment. “didn’t it?”

your mask doesn’t slip. it can’t slip, not after all this time, not when you’re so close to sending him off on another perfectly orchestrated tragedy. “i’m sorry?”

“nothing.” but his smile is wrong, too sharp around the edges, too knowing. it reminds you uncomfortably of your own expression when you’re particularly pleased with a clever manipulation. “just... déjà vu, i suppose.”

he moves deeper into the armory, and you follow, unease growing with each step like storm clouds gathering on a clear horizon. something is different this time, something has changed in the delicate balance of your game, and you can’t quite identify what. it’s like trying to pin down the source of a sound that exists just at the edge of hearing—present but elusive, important but incomprehensible.

satoru stops in front of a section displaying particularly vicious-looking weapons—axes that will grow too heavy to lift at crucial moments, spears that will snap under pressure, maces that will turn on their wielders when activated. each one is a masterpiece of deceptive craftsmanship, beautiful and deadly and ultimately useless when it matters most.

he studies them all with that same unsettling intensity, head tilted like he’s listening to something you can’t hear.

then he turns to you, and the smile on his face makes your divine essence recoil instinctively.

“i’ve been thinking,” he says conversationally, hands clasped behind his back in a pose that seems casual but somehow radiates contained energy, “about patterns.”

the word hits you like a physical blow, resonating through your divine consciousness in ways that mortal language shouldn’t be able to achieve. you keep your expression serene, but your supernatural senses are suddenly hyperaware of every detail—the way he’s positioned himself between you and the nearest exit, the careful distance he’s maintained, the way his gaze never quite leaves your face even when he seems to be looking at weapons.

“patterns?” you echo, your voice steady despite the growing void in your chest where certainty used to live.

“mmm.” he takes a step closer, and every instinct you possess—instincts honed by millennia of existing as a predator among predators—screams at you to step back. but you don’t, can’t, because that would acknowledge the shift in dynamic you’re desperately pretending isn’t happening. “like how some things feel familiar even when they shouldn’t. how some fears feel earned instead of inherited from nightmares.”

another step. your heart—do you have a heart? you’ve never been certain, but something in your chest is definitely racing now—begins to beat with mortal urgency.

“how some people feel too good to be true,” he continues, voice dropping to something almost intimate. “how some kindnesses feel like they come with invisible price tags.”

the silence stretches between you like a wire pulled taut, humming with tension that threatens to snap at any moment. satoru’s blue eyes search your face with surgical precision, and for the first time in centuries, you feel truly seen. not the carefully crafted mask you wear, but the thing underneath. the thing that finds such exquisite pleasure in his pain, that orchestrates his suffering with the dedication of a master artist.

the thing that loves him in the most twisted way possible—not as a person, but as a beautiful object to be broken and mended and broken again.

“choose your weapon,” you say, and your voice doesn’t shake. it doesn’t, because goddesses don’t shake, don’t falter, don’t lose control of situations they’ve spent centuries perfecting. “the world needs its hero.”

satoru laughs, and the sound is nothing like the broken sobs or desperate gasps you’re used to hearing from him. it’s rich and dark and full of terrible understanding, like the laughter of someone who’s just gotten the punchline to a very long, very cruel joke.

“oh, i’ve already chosen,” he says, and his hand shoots out faster than your divine reflexes can track.

his fingers close around your wrist like a shackle forged from mortal determination, and the contact burns in ways that have nothing to do with temperature. for the first time in your existence, you feel small. vulnerable. caught.

“i choose you.”

instinct takes over before conscious thought can intervene. you reach for your divine power, the endless well of cosmic energy that’s been your birthright since the moment of your creation. it should be as easy as breathing, as natural as existing—power flowing through you like golden fire, reshaping reality according to your will.

instead, you feel... nothing.

not the absence of power, which would at least be something, but a hollow emptiness where your divine nature used to reside. like reaching for a sword and finding only air, like trying to breathe underwater and getting nothing but liquid suffocation.

you try again, panic beginning to claw at the edges of your perfect composure. surely this is just shock, just surprise disrupting your concentration. you’ve had your power for millennia—it can’t just disappear, can’t just abandon you when you need it most.

but the air remains stubbornly still around you. no wind rises at your call, no light bends to your will, no reality shifts to accommodate your desires. you are as powerless as any mortal, as vulnerable as the humans you’ve spent so long manipulating.

the realization hits you like ice water: he’s not just grabbing you.

he’s dragging you down.

the world dissolves around you, divine architecture collapsing into streams of light and shadow. your perfect sanctuary, your place of absolute power, crumbles like sand castles before the tide. you feel yourself being torn from your celestial throne, stripped of the comfortable distance between observer and observed, between puppet master and puppet.

the sensation is violating in a way you’ve never experienced—like being turned inside out, every carefully hidden thought and motivation exposed to harsh light. you’ve never been vulnerable before, never been at the mercy of another’s will, and the terror that floods through you is more overwhelming than anything you’ve ever imposed on him.

when reality reassembles itself, you’re on your knees in mortal grass, mortal dirt staining the pristine white of your divine robes. the earth beneath you is real in ways your realm never was—rough, imperfect, stubbornly resistant to your will. the air tastes different here, heavier, full of mortality and consequence and the complete absence of your absolute control.

you look up to find satoru standing over you, and his expression is nothing like the desperate devotion you’re used to seeing. his blue eyes are calm, calculating, almost gentle in their cruelty. there’s no trace of the shattered hero you’ve been so carefully maintaining. instead, there’s something that looks almost like...

relief.

“surprised?” he asks, crouching down to your level with fluid grace. his hand cups your chin with mock tenderness, fingers warm against skin that suddenly feels too fragile, forcing you to meet his gaze. “you shouldn’t be. you taught me so well, after all.”

“satoru—” you begin, but he presses his thumb against your lips, silencing you with the same casual dominance you’ve used on him countless times.

“eight hundred and forty-seven times,” he says conversationally, like he’s discussing the weather or commenting on the quality of mortal wine. “that’s how many times you’ve killed me. how many times you’ve held me while i shook apart, whispering lies about salvation and purpose and the greater good.”

your divine mind reels, struggling to process the impossibility of what he’s saying. he couldn’t remember. you’d been so careful, so precise in your manipulations. the memory spells were perfect, tested across centuries of use. he shouldn’t be able to retain anything between loops, let alone count them.

“oh, but i do remember,” he continues, as if reading your thoughts with the same ease you once read his. “every death. every betrayal. every weapon that failed at the crucial moment. every ally who turned out to be an enemy in disguise. every moment of false comfort in your lap while you planned my next exquisite destruction.”

his grip on your chin tightens, just shy of painful, and you could break free—should be able to break free—but something is fundamentally wrong with your body here. dulled, muted, constrained by mortal flesh and mortal limitations in ways that make your divine consciousness scream with claustrophobic panic.

“the first few hundred times, i believed you completely,” satoru admits, thumb stroking along your jawline with possessive familiarity. “trusted you with everything i had. you were so convincing, so perfectly compassionate. the way you held me, the way you looked at me like i mattered... i thought it was real.”

something in his voice makes you want to protest, to insist that it was real, that your care for him wasn’t entirely fabricated. but the words die in your throat because you know they’d be lies, and somehow you suspect he’d know too.

“but patterns, goddess...” he continues, voice dropping to something almost fond. “patterns are hard to ignore when you’re paying attention. and after the first few hundred deaths, i started paying very close attention indeed.”

he releases your chin only to thread his fingers through your hair, the gesture a perfect mockery of all the times you’ve done the same to him. when he tugs, just lightly, you can’t suppress the small sound that escapes your throat—part surprise, part something you refuse to name.

his smile widens at the sound, blue eyes lighting up with the same dark satisfaction you’ve seen in your own reflection when a plan comes together perfectly.

“the way you always knew exactly what to say to comfort me,” he muses, fingers still tangled in your hair. “the way you never seemed surprised by the specific ways i’d been hurt. the way you’d touch the wounds that were no longer there, like you were checking your work.”

each observation hits like a physical blow, stripping away layers of deception until you feel raw and exposed. you want to deny it, to maintain the fiction that has sustained you for so long, but what’s the point? he sees you now, really sees you, and there’s no mask perfect enough to hide behind.

“and then there were the weapons themselves,” satoru continues, almost conversational now. “each one perfectly suited to my preferences, each one guaranteed to fail in exactly the way that would cause maximum suffering. it was almost artistic, really. i found myself admiring the craftsmanship even as they killed me.”

he leans closer, close enough that you can feel his breath against your ear, close enough that the warmth of him surrounds you like an embrace.

“you have such beautiful taste in tragedies,” he whispers, and the words make you shiver in ways that have nothing to do with cold.

“and now here we are,” he murmurs, voice dropping to something almost intimate as he pulls back to meet your eyes again. “no divine realm to retreat to. no reset button to press when things get uncomfortable. just you and me and all the time in the world to explore some new patterns.”

the realization hits you like a physical blow: he’s not going to play hero anymore. he’s not going to quest or fight or die gloriously for your entertainment. the game you’ve spent centuries perfecting, the delicate balance of hope and despair that’s sustained you for so long—it’s over.

he’s going to keep you instead.

“the world—” you start desperately, grasping for any argument that might restore the familiar dynamic between you.

“can burn,” he finishes simply, with the casual dismissal of someone discussing an unwanted dinner invitation. “i’m done saving things. done being your perfect little tragedy. this time, i think i’ll try being the one in control.”

your hands shake where they’re pressed against the earth, divine composure finally cracking under the weight of complete role reversal. for the first time in millennia, you don’t know what comes next. don’t know the script or the ending or how to manipulate the variables in your favor. the future stretches ahead of you, vast and unknowable and entirely outside your control.

you are no longer the author of this story.

you are no longer anything but a character in his.

satoru seems to sense your realization, because his expression softens into something almost pitying. he helps you to your feet with gentle hands, steadying you when your legs threaten to give out under the weight of mortality and consequence. his touch is warm, familiar, almost loving—and that makes it so much worse.

“don’t look so lost,” he says kindly, and the tone is so familiar it makes you dizzy with déjà vu. how many times have you used that exact inflection to comfort him? how many times have you steadied him just like this, with patient hands and false compassion? “i’ll take good care of you. after all...”

his lips brush against your ear, voice dropping to a whisper that makes your divine blood sing with terror and something else you refuse to acknowledge.

“you taught me exactly how it’s done.” he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, and his smile is soft and loving and absolutely terrifying.

your mouth opens—maybe to beg, maybe to explain—but no sound comes out before he leans in.

“shh,” he whispers, and his thumb smears a tear across your cheek you didn’t realize had fallen, dragging it down like a mark. “don’t be afraid. you’re safe now.”

a/n: i might write this into a long fic someday 🌝