#((^^^ did so willingly and with intent))

[princessdarth-vader]

I think my ultimate thoughts re; Kipperlilly is that I wish we got a scene where a character was allowed to show her... sympathy. I know there's a tone you wanna hit with a victorious season finale, and a somber note of a teenager falling into a deep well of rage doesnt match that tone but it would've been nice to see.

In my dream world, we get an extra epilogue scene where Riz goes to see Jawbone to go and talk to him, and brings up the thing he mentioned about "seeing Kipperlilly in himself" -- relating that to what Jawbone said at the beginning of the year, and wanting to talk about that deeply set in need for control, and the latent anger he has, and all the ways he is like Kipperlilly, and doesn't want to be.

And in response, Jawbone is able to address the ways in which he failed Kipperlilly, and let her down. That she needed more help than he could provide, that she needed someone who wasn't too afraid of their own biases to shut down her anger, someone who could maybe have given her a support system to turn to instead of Porter. Someone external to the school and the social dynamics within it. Just an acknowledgement from, as far as we know, the only adult in Kipperlilly's life who earnestly tried -- and earnestly failed -- to help her find a better path than her rage.

Just a small moment of acknowledgement that Kipperlilly was a child, an angry, scared, biased and deeply insecure child who was looking for help when she first walked into Jawbone's office, and because of all the adults who failed her, she was turned into something unrecognisable by the time she was 17.

[incestoru]

I think writing about incest is bad.

“anti(s) dni!” boo I’m a job application did I scare you

i laughed you’re amazing nonnie

[celestial-narwhal]

@everlastiingiimmortals replied to your post:

ALL FOUR, IN THAT ORDER, YOU KNOW HOW IT GOES-

If looks could kill, Jing Yuan would have met his fate 700 years ago. Maybe the rumors were right. Maybe Luocha's coffin was meant to house a body. He certainly wished to be able to shove a certain General in it at the moment.

Nevermind that it was all of his own volition that he ended up here, that he oh-so-willingly fell into a certain General's bed. The draw of their game simply too much to resist.

The push and pull of [Flattery] and wit.

The [Bang] of tension when either finally snapped.

The tangle in the sheets as they fell into [██████].

And finally, the lazy grin set on the General's face as he hovers a steaming spoonful of hearty congee in front of Luocha's face, looking all to happy compared to the merchant's indignant scowl.

Obstinate as ever, Luocha attempts to rise from his pile of bedding, only for a familiar pang to stop him in his tracks. His scowl deepens, eyes trailing to the food held tantalizingly in reach from the General, if only he would swallow his own pride.

... Maybe, just this once.

[Feed him].

[nightmare8-420]

The words ‘our’ and ‘house’ no longer feel real to me. I believe this is the closest i will ever become to unlearning english.

[bibleofficial]

i wonder what happened to fafsa bc it was literally free money in 2017/2018 & was enough to cover my community college tuition like is it STILL enough to do that ? i doubt it but i like to hope so

[heegyukeluv]

it's okay... (sjy)

pairing: jake x afab!reader

synopsis: Jake's sensitiveness was, ironically enough, a sensitive topic to him. What would you think seeing him getting so desperate over a few gentle touches on his back?

my's note: inspired by ari's talking w me about jake being sensitive lol

warnings: established relationship, jake is very sensitive to readers touches and is shy about it, SMUT - so minors DO NOT interact!, jake cums untouched, desperate, needy and sensitive jake, dry humping? kinda?, literally reader caressing jake's back and him coming with that lol, he nearly cries. lmk if i missed something!

wc: 4.3k

NOT PROOFREAD.

taglist 💖: @yvnempire, @marigold-sunflowers, @ikeuverse

Jake was sensitive. So sensitive. And everywhere.

You and he started dating not so long ago; three months into a beautiful and comfortable relationship, he showed you plenty of possibilities of how to like and eventually love someone. He was steadily and easily climbing to the rank of being the man of your life.

Every nuance of your relationship with Jake was delightful, cozy, gentle. He cared for you with genuine affection and always tried his hardest to give you the best of the best – if felt contrastingly effortless and intentional, offering you a reliable safe haven.

The physical side of your relationship was equally fulfilling. From the start, your boyfriend had been nothing but respectful towards your boundaries, leaving the pace entirely in your hands. Jake let you decide when the touches were just innocent, light ones, and when they started to dive deep into something more profound, more intense, something you eventually named as lust, laced with passion and need.

Jake was fucking hot. He didn’t disappoint – never did. With his skilled tongue and mouth, he made sure to send you to heaven, to hell and back to earth in minutes of work on your pussy, leaving you panting, breathless, aching for more, chanting his name like a messy mantra. And down onto his body he didn’t lack as well, allowing you to see stars with deep and precise thrusts, touching your g-spot as if he knew ever since the beginning.

Jake knew how to please a girl – his girl. 

But there was a constant lingering, unspoken tension whenever you touched him.

Jake was the most sensitive person you ever met. Just the idea of your fingertips grazing his biceps was enough to make him rock hard – an information he for sure didn’t give you and prayed you didn’t notice either.

What would you think if you knew? If you realized how easily and powerful your touch flustered him? How the mere fantasy of your hands roaming his body could make him feel like the world’s most hopelessly horny man?

The thought haunted him and he kept it locked away, terrified of what you might say if you uncovered just how badly he wanted – needed – you.

Jake came to realize that you put his entire being under a specific and delicious spell as soon as he fell for you. Better: as soon as he saw you.

The first encounter was unplanned and with no expectations attached to it, after all, who thinks a party fling could turn into something real? Jake still had a vivid memory of how the curves of your hot body fitted your outfit that night, hugging your figure with care and just the right amount of temptation that got his body weak, pulling close like a magnet.

He paid for your drinks willingly, thinking a pretty woman like you deserved to be treated just how she wanted to; he didn’t ask for anything in return, though – a kiss nor your number. He just cherished your presence, your sweet talk and your way of gesticulating when speaking. 

Jake sat by your side for the rest of that night sharing his interests, genuinely happy with your warm and approachable reception.

He also cheered silently when you pressed your soft lips onto his before heading your way out without faltering or looking back, leaving behind a desperate man missing the touch of your gorgeous fingers on his locks and your tongue against his.

The following encounters happened at a pace you wanted. Yes, you wanted.

When you got home, you couldn’t help but notice how affected you felt by the gentle, caring touch of that respectful guy you had kissed. It wasn’t typical for you to attend parties, let alone kiss strangers – or even recent acquaintances. Your values nudged you towards something more reserved, something more personal.

But Jake awakened a sense of ease in you, offering a space of trust that utterly charmed you. Maybe it was the sweet way he spoke, or the way the corners of his lips curled up into that soft, boyish smile. He was gorgeous – and he seemed so affectionate, not to mention undeniably hot.

You looked Jake up on Instagram and found him effortlessly, and your meetings happened casually, until they culminated in an intimate moment: when he asked you to be his girlfriend.

Not long after, you guided him into the beginning of your shared sexual journey as a couple. And it was so, so good to find someone whose tastes and desires aligned so well with yours.

You felt powerful and confident knowing the effect you had on Jake. It was almost funny to notice how even something as simple as you wearing one of his shirts could leave him hard and needy. 

Alongside that, Jake also shamelessly acted as if you owned him, from casually asking your permission to go out with his friends, to making sure he was never out of your sight for too long. You never asked him to behave that way, but when you questioned his actions, he simply shrugged it off, claiming it was for his own pleasure. He liked the idea of you having control over him.

And you definitely did. 

Yeah, Jake was sensitive with any type of touches, even when his friends hugged him he would squirm if their hands caressed his back in certain places, but you… You got him wrapped around your finger easily.

He never found the right words to describe the amount of pleasure he felt when your fingers grazed his arms, or caressed the back of his neck, or touched his hair, or just got in contact with any other place of his body.

Just you and your beautiful hands traveling through each inch of his skin were more than enough to elicit soft moans, a pathetic roll of eyes and a shiver down his dick. 

You were now sitting on your bed, back lazily resting on the headboard with your legs stretched forward, while Jake napped by your side, lying on his stomach and hugging one of your many pillows; his soft snores getting lost in between the sounds of war coming from the TV, proving he was getting deep into his sleep little by little.

The agreement between you both involved Jake watching the movie with you, but he was so, so exhausted from work that you didn’t even consider starting an argument – though, honestly, you probably wouldn’t have anyway. Jake was such a sweetheart, and in your opinion, he had already done so much by coming to your place instead of his, even though yours was half an hour farther.

After you demanded him to go to sleep and he demanded you to go watch the movie without him, you found yourself in that exact position; your boyfriend sleeping and your hands wanting to caress his silky strands, as a way to casually fidget with something. 

You didn’t hold yourself and softly placed your fingertips to thread through Jake’s hair, just like you always did when he laid on your lap. 

Jake thought he was dreaming, his mind confused, caught somewhere between reality and sleep, making it difficult for him to figure out why his body was tingling.

But it wasn’t a bad tingling, no. In fact, it was the same sensation he felt whenever you touched him – the pleasant shiver of your fingers tracing warm wonders wherever they wandered, the rush of pleasure melting away the self-control Jake had worked so hard to maintain, just so you wouldn’t see how completely he had fallen apart before your mere touches.

...

Jake’s eyes snapped open, and his body tensed immediately when the realization hit: you were gently stroking his hair with the same affection you always did, that natural, tender gesture of love shared between those who cared deeply for each other. But your daring hands didn’t seem to want to stop there. They trailed down the back of his neck, sending an instant shiver through his body.

You didn’t notice right away, but your boyfriend shifted slightly, fighting the moan that threatened to escape his throat as you obliviously continued your loving touch. It quickly became a difficult task for him to remain silent when you began to play with the small hairs at the back of his neck, absentmindedly pausing and resuming your movements while your attention was entirely on the plot of the movie, as if your touch had become as instinctive as Jake's exaggerated reactions.

He didn’t want to alarm you or draw your attention to the growing – hard – problem beneath his pants, however, with each delicate stroke of your skin against his still covered one, waves of pleasure washed over him, making it nearly impossible for his breath to maintain its stability.

The sensation was intoxicating and desperate, because it fueled the fear of getting caught together with the craving to keep going, to keep driving through that induced high Jake was slowly allowing himself to go.

As your fingers continued their gentle, nonchalant exploration, Jake’s body began to contort a bit more, especially when your fingertips started to softly draw random shapes along the sensitive surface of his back.

His fucking back.

Jake had a certain spot that, when touched just the right way, could completely unravel him. A single, subtle touch there and his body would jolt, almost instinctively trying to pull away, but if the one doing the touching was you, the reaction was entirely different.

The sensation, instead of causing discomfort, flooded his body with warmth, sending a slow, delightful buzz straight to his lower parts, where stood his growing desire mixed with the pleasure that seemed to bloom with every caress. 

Completely unaware of how affected Jake was getting, you continued to calmly trace your fingers along the contours of his spine, leaving trails of warmth on it. Eventually, you felt the hardness of his back underneath your touch tensing, but you didn’t mind, knowing Jake was sensitive and was probably only automatically shifting away, the way he always seemed to do.

The movie drew your concentration intensely enough for you to barely hear when Jake whined, blending almost perfectly with the fight scene unfolding before your eyes on the TV. You took another quick notice of his body writhing with more constancy, nearly matching your movements, yet again, you didn’t give it any proper attention.

Jake was on the verge of crying in despair, whines and moans getting lost amidst the soft pillow and his mouth pressing onto it, aware that he would snap into a complete mess if he lost control over his body – and he felt it slowly slipping through without giving him the chance to fight for it, swelling the urge, the yearn for more.

Instinctively, his eyes shut close and hips started to rut against the mattress, hoping that the sheet covering his body would occult his nasty attempts of getting some relief, knowing that he could cum just by the way you touched his body. 

Jake also silently prayed for the loud scene on the TV to continue on for just a few more minutes, long enough for him to savor the tantalizing sensation coursing through his veins and stifle his sounds. It was as though he were on the edge to melt – a relaxation that wasn’t calming at all but instead left him craving more, his mind hazed in a state of unbearable anticipation, building up something intense and way too addictive. 

Suddenly, his entire body trembled, almost like a spasm, a wave of numbing electricity surging through every inch of him. It pulled a rather loud moan from his previously pursed lips, escaping together with his failed attempt to squirm away.

You had, entirely by accident, let your fingertips graze featherlight over that spot on his back – right in the center, where even the faintest touch, especially one as delicate as yours, had the power to drive him completely insane, unraveling every shred of control he thought he had.

A puzzled expression immediately crossed your face as your gaze fell on your boyfriend, still lying on his stomach but now visibly tense, his breathing uneven. Slowly, the pieces began to fall into place: the way his body wouldn’t stop shifting, the sounds – now unmistakably coming from him, not the movie.

Jake fell nervously silent right after, his dick twitching, already wetting his underwear with the leaking precum; the heat travelled towards his neck and face, leaving his skin flaming hot with embarrassment, because for his misfortune, the scene in the movie was now calm, with no soundtracks or voices to cover his noises. 

You lowered the volume from the TV, so you could be heard by Jake as your quiet voice filled the room. 

“Baby, are you alright?” 

Perhaps Jake was feeling sick with the amount of movements he was doing and the small painful sounds he was letting out when you finally paid attention to. Consequently, you halted your action of brushing your fingers randomly on his back, now resting your palm completely flat on it, oblivious of how hot Jake was feeling under your touch.

“No– D–Don’t stop–” 

His voice was muffled due to his position and the fact that he wanted to actively hide himself from you, ashamed of his pathetic reaction with such innocent touches. Nonetheless, in a twist, he threw all restraint to the wind, fully surrendering to the blissful sensation you were providing him, embracing his embarrassing helpless, meek persona. 

You, however, furrowed your brows, confused. “What?”

“Your hand–” He exasperated the exact moment you hinted to remove your hand away, arching his torso towards where he thought you could be, as if searching for them. “Please, don’t stop…”

Reading through his words and demeanor, you struggled to comprehend entirely what they were about, so you simply stayed there, waiting for further instruction, because the only reasonable conclusion you could draw was that Jake was silently asking you to keep touching his back, in a whimpering voice.

“Jake, love… I don’t think I understand…”

“Just keep going,” he mumbled, now grabbing your wrist without facing you, to place your fingers back on where they should be, forcing the motion you were doing before. “Your fingers on my back. Please, just… Keep going.”

Even without Jake looking at you, you blinked twice and cocked your head to the side, utterly bewildered. 

“You mean…” You trailed off, resuming to trace gentle patterns with your fingertips, still uncertain. “This?”

The answer was immediate. Even without Jake’s verbal response, you knew you got it right because he jolted slightly and moaned under his breath, trembling.

“Fuck– Y–Yes…”

You positioned yourself better to keep drawing random things on his clothed back, just like he solicited. 

Part of you was still a bit confused, but you couldn’t ignore the soft, breathy moans that Jake was starting to let out again. Slowly but surely, you began to piece the puzzle together – the way his hips shifted, grinding ever so slightly into the mattress, his movements gaining a rhythm, a near-thrusting motion, his sudden breathy moans, his needy voice.

Your touch, innocent and unintentional, was being turned into something far from pure under Jake’s judgment; each subtle graze of your fingertips across his skin seemed to push him further into a state of intoxicating desperation. It was ridiculous, lascivious, and utterly delicious to your ears and your growing curiosity.

"Aw, baby," you cooed, your voice dripping with a mix of amusement and teasing affection. "Are you really this sensitive?"

A muffled hum was all he could manage to mumble, his face now buried in the pillow in a feeble attempt to hide the flush spreading across his cheeks. But shame couldn’t hold his need; his pleasure was overwhelming, spilling out in brazen sounds and increasingly shameless movements.

"Or," you taunted again with a smirk, letting your hand glide a little lower, earning another gasp from him, "is it me? Am I the cause of this?"

"You," he murmured, his voice broken but certain. "Always you."

His unwavering answer sent a thrilling shiver down your spine, and though his face was hidden, you could feel how much control he was losing, surrendering entirely to your touch. His hips moved with more purpose now, and his muffled, constant moans were a symphony of surrender and desire, a beautiful melody that let your panties ruined with your growing arousal.

“So dirty, aren’t you?” 

Jake didn’t assign to have you playing with his most sensitive spot while talking in such a velvety voice when he chose you as his girlfriend, but he was definitely happy knowing you were enjoying it as much as him; your low chuckle to his instant, urgent reaction reiterating it. 

“N–No…” He shook his head. “‘M not, it’s just–”

“It’s okay…” A soothing whisper escaped your lips, eyes once full of amusement now dropping to a darker shade, hooded, as the air grew thicker; the necessity of pleasuring your man bubbled within your core with each passing second, an ache you didn’t know existed until now. “Does that feel good, baby?” 

Jake groaned a soft hum, his body betraying him with a wave of desire flushing through it. He squirmed beneath your touch, his shoulders jerking upward involuntarily when your fingers traced a deliberate, lingering line from the base of his spine up to the nape of his neck. The movement was slow, tantalizing, and precisely intoxicating.

Every muscle in his body seemed to tighten as he whimpered softly, his voice muffled by the pillow. His reaction only spurred you on, your touch becoming a little bolder, savoring the way his body responded so beautifully to every slight motion of your fingers.

“Can you really cum just by this, my love?” Your voice curled through the air, low and calm, yet amused with how responsive Jake’s was being, his shameless impulses of getting himself off untouched eliciting a clench on your pussy.

“I dunno…”

In between Jake’s answer, you propped yourself with a knee on each side of his waist, not completely leaving your full weight to sit on him, but mainly to give a proper access for your fingernails to wander carefree in direct contact with his skin, as they sneaked beneath the soft white fabric of his shirt, meeting the goosebumped flesh that yearned for more of your sweet, slow touches. 

Jake could feel his underwear growing wetter with the steady, uncontrollable leak of precum seeping from the swollen tip of his dick. His damp forehead pressed into the pillow, leaving only a narrow space for him to breathe, his breaths coming in shallow, ragged gasps as the heat consumed him.

Was your room always that hot?

“Should we try?”

You let only a hand inside his shirt so you would be able to support yourself with the other, as you lowered your torso forward, enough to have your lips finding a place on his sensitive neck, your warm muscle dancing deliberately against the flesh that reacted instantly to your stimulus.

Jake was far from thinking straight, aligning his body to settle you more comfortably, though his true intention was to drive through the delicious high that was building up in his lower stomach, his abdomen tightening within each subtle draw you were tracing, teetering towards the dangerous edge of coming undone and untouched before your caress.

“Shit–” 

The curse spilled past his parted lips amidst a sequence of messy moans due to the overwhelmness of your presence over his whole body, leaving him writhing, wincing, trembling with need. His hips moved slightly frantic with the crescent blazing necessity of releasing his orgasm, grinding against the mattress as he desperately chased relief.

“Feels good, Jakey?” You murmured, lips brushing against the top of his ear, tickling the sensitive area, causing more shivers to run his body.

“Yes, fuck– Yes– Mhm–” His stuttered words were music to your ears, loving how he was melting, falling, dissolving under your control. 

However, deep down Jake felt a sudden wave of despair and remorse mingling with the lustful desire that had been fueled by your constancy. His thoughts spiraled, and for a moment, he felt utterly pathetic, questioning how he could be so stupid, acting like a desperate fool just from a few gentle and innocent caresses.

It was like his mind got so lost in pleasure, that it dived too deep into his past and consequently revisited those reminiscences that once was his biggest fear. Panic seized him, his thoughts racing in horror at what you might be thinking, terrified of how vulnerable and broken he must look in your eyes.

“I’m so sorry...” Jake whispered, his voice thick with emotion, almost breaking into a sob, his back arching within a wave because, even apologetical, he kept on drifting through the amazing feel of getting closer to his climax.

Aware of the possible overthinking nature of your boyfriend threatening to bloom, you shook your head softly, the tip of your nose grazing sweetly against his neck. 

“Shh, it’s okay, Jakey,” you reassured in a quiet whisper. “This is completely normal, my love. You look so beautiful falling apart for me.”

You dared to lower your fingernails to his sides, tickling the area ever so slightly before dragging them out of his shirt to play with the inner part of his exposed biceps, as he laid with his arms tucked under the pillow and gave you easy access.

Your eyes tried to search for him, but Jake was actively avoiding his pathetically broken expression to be read by your curious gaze, especially as he felt his release getting extremely near to snapping into a complete wet mess.

“‘M so close…”

It was clear by the way he sounded – shaky – and how his crotch area sought for even more friction within his frantic grinds that he wasn’t lying.

Jake’s moans shattered into whimpers that you had never had the special privilege of hearing until now, grateful that your boyfriend had, albeit initially unknowingly, allowed you to witness such a delectable piece of his existence, drenched in rising desire and pleasure.

You found yourself hoping he would feel comfortable enough to show you more, now that you knew just how deeply it affected you to experience this moment with him.

It was a melodic symphony that melted your self-control, pushing you to the edge, to the point where you almost, almost fell into the idea of rubbing yourself against any available part of his body, desperate to join him in his search for release that night.

Jake looked so beautiful, so irresistibly sexy, as he got lost in the vastness of his own sensitivity, surrendering completely to his instincts, to the overwhelming need to come, no longer caring how foolish he might appear to you, driven by pure, raw desire.

“Come for me, baby,” you whispered, your voice inviting, tempting, your hand back to lightly graze the curve of his spine as you guided him towards where he needed the most. “Lemme see your mess, mhm?”

“Fuck–” Jake let out a louder moan, at the same time his fingers grasped the sheet beneath his palms, and his whole body trembled with an unbearable sensation of flood, as though his failed attempts of preventing to burst out embarrassingly  prematurely, untouched, poured through his every pore within an intense force when he let go. “Fuck, fuck, fuck– Cumming–”

You couldn’t deny that Jake’s whole reaction was driving you, yourself, insane. The desperate way he sounded, so vulnerable, helplessly chanting a mix of your name and parted whimpers and groans, as if he got lost into a maze of a lustful bliss he didn’t want to go away from so easily, and let the responsibility on you, you to lead the way.

“I’ve got you, my love,” your hot breath fanned his nape, a small smirk gracing the curve of your lips as you murmured against the shell of his ear, fingers still dancing lightly on his heated, smooth flesh. “My messy, sensitive boy… Yeah?”

Jake rolled his closed eyes in pleasure, because he was still a bit tipsy from your scent, your mild touches, your comfortableness that allowed his particular part to shine without shying away completely.

“Mhm…” He quietly nodded. “Yours.”

Though Jake was the one achieving his climax, you also felt completely satisfied after your not-so-hard work; you enjoyed, no, you loved to explore this new possibility, this new slope of your relationship. It gave you a sense of confidence that flattered your ego in the best way possible, since you managed to make your boyfriend to cum with just soft touches. And he was beautiful while doing it.

“I’m shy.”

Jake’s mumbled voice cut through the heavy air that slowly calmed down, and you chuckled lightly with his choice of words, removing yourself from his back to sit on your knees and playfully nudge his sides.

“Lemme see you. I miss your pretty face.”

Jake shook his head and giggled, the warmth of your naturally cozy and reliable relationship taking place deliberately in between Jake’s rigged breath; he could feel how soaked his underwear and shorts were, and the bedsheet would very much be dampened with his arousal as well.

He was slightly bashful about showing you the obvious – after all, you were fully aware that he had just come in his pants. And while he was drowning in embarrassment, you were practically biting your tongue to keep from screaming about how ridiculously turned on you were by it.

But, as always, knowing your boyfriend's nature, you said the one thing guaranteed to make him hard all over again, something that would not only crush his lingering shame but also ignite his confidence to finally meet your gaze.

“You have no idea how desperate I am to ride you right now.”

[ihrthoney]

[ again in bed and brainrotted. ak!jason todd who is very concerned when you willingly let him have anything he asks for. ]

for safety measures, he asks if he can tweak your phone so you can’t be tracked or hacked by people and you just hand your phone over then go about your day.

he asks to do it to every electronic you have and again, you don’t even hesitate and give him all your passwords if needed.

it worries him that you’re so okay with him literally being all in your privacy and you just shrug, “i trust you, you’re my boyfriend.”

internally he’s on his knees throwing up and crying at your comfortability with him.

ak!jason who sits you down and sighs, asking if he can put a tracker on you disguised as jewelry that you can’t take off ever because he wants to be able to know where you are and you just nod, asking what kind of jewelry.

“sweetheart.. are you not.. put off at all these precautions?”

“why would i be? you’re doing it so im safe right?”

“of course, i want to make sure nothing happens to you and if it does i need to make sure i can be there.”

“then it’s fine. you’re not harming me or controlling me if that’s what you feel, i understand your intentions.”

he’s starting to question your sanity atp.

ak!jason who tests you and asks to put a chip in your body so he can regulate your heartbeat and know of your every second whereabouts and you again just agree with no after thought.

he gently grabs your hand and sits you on the couch, “baby. we need to talk about your survival instincts. you can’t just accept everything i ask of you.”

your brows crease in confusion and he wants to squish you because you’re so cute, “i said i would do anything for you, whatever makes you happy then im happy. i trust you with my life jaybee.”

he wants to cry at how open and vulnerable you are with him, guilt claws at his throat as he’s not able to reciprocate that vulnerability yet.

“if you asked me of those things.. i don’t know if i would say yes.”

you can see the guilt pooling in his eyes, so you take his hand in yours, “and that’s okay my love, it’s okay to have boundaries. just because you don’t agree doesn’t change how i feel about you. i also don’t doubt what you feel for me. it’s alright baby.”

he squeezes your hand three times and you know what he’s telling you. you kiss the inside of his wrist, bringing him to the bed to sleep.

he follows your steps, “i’m not actually going to put a chip in you, you know that right?”

“i know! but if you did id be okay with it. just tell me where it is at least!”

“you’re kind of crazy baby.”

“only for you jace.” <3

[tedmustache]

Coffee Swap

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader

Summary: It starts with coffee. Then it becomes something more.

Warnings: none, just pure fluff

Requests are open | AO3 Link | Main Masterlist

[...]

It started with coffee.

Black, no sugar. The kind most people couldn’t stomach. But she remembered. Every time their shifts overlapped, there it was, sitting quietly on his desk before rounds began. No note. No explanation. Just coffee.

At first, he thought it was a fluke. A mistake. But it kept happening. And after the third cup, he knew it was intentional.

She never said anything. Didn’t ask for thanks. Just left it there like it didn’t mean anything.

But it did.

He noticed her long before the coffee. The way she moved through chaos with quiet focus. The way she stayed calm when things got messy. The way her laugh—rare, but genuine—cut through the sterility of the ER like sunlight through blinds.

Jack had spent years perfecting the art of distance. He kept things professional. Efficient. Impersonal. It was easier that way. Safer. But something about her made that wall feel… thin.

So one Monday morning, after a hellish double, he got there early. Bought a second coffee. Sweet, with a splash of cream, the way she always ordered it.

He left it on the break room table and leaned against the counter, waiting.

She walked in, paused mid-step, staring at the cup like it might explode.

“You… got me coffee?” she asked, voice edged with disbelief.

He shrugged. “Figured it was my turn.”

She took a sip. Her eyes softened. “Thanks.”

He nodded, kept his expression flat, and walked out. But as he turned the corner, he felt something strange tug at his mouth. A smile, small and involuntary. He hadn’t smiled like that in a long time.

[...]

It became a thing. No one talked about it, not even them.

Some days it was coffee. Other times, food left in the fridge with his name scribbled in her neat handwriting. Once, she handed him a smoothie with a deadpan, “Don’t fight me on this, you need something green.”

He didn’t fight her. He never did.

It was easier not to think too hard about what it all meant. About how he found himself noticing when she wasn’t around. Or how he started showing up five minutes early on her shifts, pretending it was for paperwork.

He liked routine. Control. But this? This was different. It didn’t feel like losing control. It felt like giving it up, willingly.

[...]

Then one day, Dana cornered him in the hallway, grinning like a kid with a secret.

“So,” she said, “you and her, huh?”

He frowned. “What about us?”

She just laughed and walked away.

It shouldn’t have rattled him. But it did.

Later that night, he waited by the exit, two coffees in hand. He told himself it was nothing. Just routine. Just habit.

But when she saw him, her smile did something to his chest. Made it tighten, then ease.

“Late shift?” she asked.

“Nope.” He held out her coffee. “Just wanted to make sure you got this.”

Their fingers touched when she took the cup. This time, neither moved away.

“You know,” she said softly, “people are starting to talk.”

He looked at her. Really looked. Saw the question she didn’t say out loud.

“About what?”

“About us.”

And for the first time in a long time, Jack Abbot let himself smile. Fully, openly. No walls. No mask.

“Let them.”

Because he knew now: it was never just about the coffee.

[...]

a/n: I'm just in love with him

[just-a-joey]

Im stealing your headcanon now about Chance and the bois. You can't stop me >:)

Hmmmm how did the bois react to being told Chance is a target on their list? Were they suddenly mad at him and turn on a dime? Or were they just kinda devastated they now had to kill their old buddy?

How does Chance feel about seeing his old friends? Obviously he's nervous bout the hit list thing, but otherwise is he happy to see them again? I'd imagine its been a long while since they all got together to hang

Also, dunno if it's intentional or not but your anons are off. If it is intended tho you might want to put it in the desc or a pinned post so people don't ask more lol. Not forced of course just a suggestion!

TW: HEEEEEAAAVY headcanons

Chance had to leave because his parents found out (both rich influential people.) They made Chance leave, then made Mafioso give them a LOT of money or they would turn him and his crew into the police. Mafioso did, and never told the boys the real reason he was almost put in prison, so they could still have an alright relationship with Chance.

But now that Chance is on the hit list, and Mafioso knew the Spectre would do something to them if they didn’t comply. Therefore he told the boys the real reason so they would go for him willingly. So at first they were devastated, but they know the boss always has his reasons, and he’s never cruel. They’re loyal to a fault.

Chance was ecstatic until he realised they weren’t on his side.

[grotesquevi]

★ cupid carries a gun.

open up your skull, i'll be there climbing up the walls.

cw # 18+ mdni, modern au, mentions of marijuana, dealer+loser!ellie, blink and you miss a slight pervert behavior, sub!reader, switch!slightdom ellie, pussyslapsyum, pet names, fingering, public sex.

an # if you recognize this it may be because it's from my previous account aka @vicorices who got deleted out of nowhere, this is me trying to get all my work back up again cause i'm not losing three months of work thanks to a shitty team who wiped me out of the internet.

the first time she saw you, she called you bro by accident.

it happens unexpected. ellie's been selling weed for a while now and she's used to get random text messages from unknown numbers: a friend of a friend, a recommendation from some old client — of course when she got your text you're not going to receive special treatment, not when she greets you like she would greet a guy, asking you where to meet since the club's big.

you're friends with cat, that's how you got her number. your usual provider is being insane with ridiculous prices you cannot afford not even by chance, so you're searching for someone else, a reliable source you can buy your weed from without getting into much trouble.

she’s perfect for the job.

it's a surprise either way when you tell her to meet you close to the main stairs in the first floor, and you think you saw her by the time you get there, but before you can approach your phone lights up with a new notification from an unknown number you now recognize.

you like it, making them think you’re a man, confuse the people you buy weed from. it's funny cause it's not the first time it happens, matter of fact, it's really common as you approach the auburn haired girl, noticing she's far less intimidating than your last seller, less tattoos on the face to instead, be covered in freckles and green eyes.

and to ellie — it's clear you aren't a bro too.

you don't pay much attention since it's a quick interaction, but to ellie its enough to make her spiral. too much weed, too much booze that night made her look at you like you're most beautiful girl out there, barely illuminated by the sporadic lights that changes time to time as you approach to her in a nice top of a band she also hears.

"hey. sorry to make you wait" you're too kind to her rough heart, yet from up close she's able to look at your face properly: where the fuck did you know cat from? why she hadn't seen you before too? was she hiding you from her?

"ellie," she presents herself like you do and she's almost a little shy to ask you to walk with her to a less crowded space, cause it sounds different from when she usually asks, slapping herself mentally for being so lame when she meets a pretty girl in a situation like this: don't be a fucking pussy. "do you mind if we move to a quieter place?"

"no, no problem" you reply "i was going to ask you the same, actually. don't want to get kicked out from here."

and you must be really trustful person, cause ellie could be a bad person and you're following her willingly, entering a dirty, small bathroom only to lock the door beneath her not really knowing her true intentions. you know she's not going to do anything when she's nervously speaking to you as the space got way reduced.

"so, you're friends with cat" what's she even doing? trying to pull off some small talk she sucks for? either way your nodding as ellie gives you a small bag with an smiley face on it, letting you see the weed she's going to sell you out first — "you study here in this university?"

"yeah, it’s my last year" you say inspecting the weed with a pleased look, sure you're buying when you take a deep breath and it seems like actual weed and not a fucking rock so tight it seems it came in somebody's ass, good smell, some purple there between different shades of green "film school."

"sick," she looks at you for a moment since you're too busy looking at the product. under the white lights ellie can see the details on your face now, the small moles, the scars, things she wasn't aware of as she wasn't so close as she is now — "it's okay? you like it?"

“smells real good, my last supplier was pretty shit and always had the same strain" you find her concern cute, sure she must take pride in selling good stuff, maybe that's why cat shared her number so reluctant to it, you'd gatekeep a good dealer too.

“that’s lemon haze” ellie explains as a subtle layer of red spreads right over her nose, must be the weather inside the bathroom or something like that, but it's hot as she stares at your eyes and she's betting you must be thinking she's the weirdest girl in the planet. her flannel's too fucking tight, too thick. "it's a nice sativa, wont leave you stupid nor like a hungry animal."

girls like you may be out of her league, but even when ellie's brain saying the same, it does not matter when your fingers brush against hers and you're laughing at her bad joke, giggling like she's oh so funny and it's enough. it may be a tactic she's falling all the way in when saying a lower price than regular and your eyes widen cause you don't believe it: why would such a good quality be cheaper than the usual shit?

"you study in this university too?" you curiously ask as if you're trying to catch the trick, clever girl. she’s selling you cheaper to secure you.

"forensic science" you seemed a bit surprised by it since you didn't talk much to stem girls in general, being in two different fields: hot— "it’s my last year too."

"that sounds cool, never met someone who study that," you say as you're pulling out 20$ for at least 3 grams of top-graded-weed: she's fucking stupid for selling that quality for less than $30 "well nice to meet you ellie, if i don't get poisoned with your weed, you'll be definitely hearing more from me."

and she wants to say something flirty, something with her usual witty charm and her sarcastic replies she loves by heart, but instead of saying something clever, ellie ends up stuttering, tripping in her own words as she nods.

"i- uh- yes sure. save my contact and text me anytime."

fuck it, cause it does get her to know you'll be talking to her again someday, maybe this week, maybe the next, tomorrow. her weed is hella good and her own brain is feeding her delusions cause as far as she knows you might as well be the biggest heterosexual girl in university, but you're there waving her goodbye with a warm smile and your perfume lingers in the air for a while even when you're not there.

so ellie stays in the cubicle for a minute. the longest minute of her life when she takes a deep breath at the scent, discovering the fruity notes, the damn strawberries sweet as ever now impregnated under her nose.

fucking cat cause she must have kept you all to herself, pure selfish reasons — ellie thought they were in good terms.

it's crazy to say she would've done the same if you were her friend too.

the second time ellie sells you weed you're talking with your friends seated in a secluded spot of the main quad and the sun hits your skin just in the correct way to make her mouth go dry.

you're using this straight sinful sundress in blue and white, covering from the fresh air in a denim jacket and it looks so good she needs to check you actually messaged her in the first place and didn't imagined the whole thing.

she politely greets everyone but her attention drifts back to you when ellie's sitting close like you're friends with her before the people you’re hanging out with.

"was it good?" she asks, blatantly checking you out you're resting over your elbows, letting the exposed parts of your body fill out with vitamin d after being trapped in class for what it seems an eternity, and ellie feels trapped too, slightly different cause she's experiencing the victorian era on the flesh when only a glimpse of your ankles is enough to kill her — "guess it was if you're texting to meet up again."

"yeah, seems like you got the best weed in the whole place" you laugh, each time warming up to her as you reply under a pair of black shades that make you look so fucking attractive: her weed, the best. "good job, ellie."

awfully good price. outstanding for you, only loses for her.

the third time, you're meeting her outside class and her friends joke calling you her girlfriend as ellie quickly walks away hoping you didn't hear them: do you talk to her about dinosaurs too, williams? you're too polite to say you find it cute.

by the fifth time you're on her car and the silence is so damn loud as the music sound softly in the speakers, some song you say you like as ellie turns up the volume so you can hear it better. you're humming to the tune, a two-minute song as she pretends to be searching for the weed on her bag, taking more time on purpose.

"are you going to take the same three grams or you feel generous this time?"

"no, just three" you reply to her question. you've become quite aware of her consistent gaze on you now after weeks of selling you grass, personally giving you the best, making the moment linger without you noticing until you actually do catch on her subtle tactics— "that way i can text sooner and see you again this week."

ellie’s clueless most of the days but with that? anyone would notice you're flirting, blatantly as you look up to her and your dealer struggles to resist the need on her hands to pin you against the passenger seat and lean all over the console to go on and kiss you until you clearly state what you want. no playing around the bushes this time. demand, as her stomach turns, what do you mean by that.

do you want to see her more? that's why you buy three grams and talk to her every three or four days? are you, by any chance, not straight?

“if you want to see me during the week, you might just ask” ellie says mirroring your tone “like you ask to buy weed from me, s’not that hard.”

you’re the one who's nervous now, and she considers on giving you the weed as a gift before you’re paying. loses, you only mean loses in her economy at this point — and it's driving her hella mad when you get out the car and ellie’s left there with the need to have you as closer as you possibly agree to.

silk fabric slipping through her fingers.

the sixth time, ellie decides she's going to do something about it. about her needs. there’s no actual way you’re not flirting with her, the image of you in the passenger seat still sealed freshly on her mind even if it was a week ago, repeating it over and over again — you got her staring at your profile pic, debating if she can or cannot masturbate with the pictures you’ve shared on instagram from spring break in fucking california, liking your post cause it’s the only way she dares to interact, a way of saying she’s there.

in the middle of a saturday night, thinking about you. two in the morning and it’s all fucking you.

she should make up her mind. you’re a good buyer, and she wishes to keep it that way. you don’t ask for later payments, you constantly buy and don't share her number with weirdo friends like everyone else does, you're a reliable source surely: so why does her heart stops in her chest cavity when her phone's buzzing and ellie's reading the name she saved your contact with?

right. her pathetic crush on you.

her fingers move on their own before she considers to delay her response five minutes to seem busy.

she wont charge you double.

shit. it's two in the morning and she's selling you weed driven by the desire to see you again, using this gray hoodie to protects herself from the cold autumn breeze as she's pulling up to this party totally uninvited, passing the open door like it's her own house as zeta phi seems to be fully loaded now as the music sound loud and strident as all her hopes of catching you alone goes to the trash can.

no she’s not going to charge you double, she’s just guilty she’s so into you without you having any idea of it.

where you waiting for her arrival? fuck. her brain is acting up like a backstabbing bitch and ellie cannot help it as you appear radiant under a sea of people. you're not saying a word either when you're lacing your fingers with her's and you're pulling on your dealer upstairs, feet moving on their own as she don't make a single effort to resist your magnet-like influence in her very self.

ellie’s hand are sweaty cause she's so fucking nervous but you don't seem to care about it, looking back at her from over your shoulder only to offer a smile she cannot wrap her head around for a moment.

"can i ask where you're taking me?" she questions you, hoping her voice doesn't sound like that really, so strained and rough from just see you around — "or am i your hostage now?"

"we need a more private space to buy" you state like it's obvious "duh, the rooftop's empty. i stole the key."

ellie should've know you were a walking hazard.

cause it really seems like an achievement when you're opening the rooftop door, mischief grin as you look twice behind your back paranoid as ever someone can see what you're doing; and ellie chuckles at the sudden adventure, how you're closing the door when you invite her to step in with a subtle head movement, quickly shoving the key back to the pocket in your skirt.

cute. she thinks you’re cute.

it's empty like you said, and the knowledge makes every hair on her arms stand on their own even when she's wearing this thick hoodie that protects her from the cold.

"cannot risk my dealer of getting in trouble down there" you explain now that you can talk to her at a decent volume, and she fully eats it even when it's a clear lie and you're making up excuses to get her away from the noise.

"very kind, gonna name you my knight in shinning armor if you keep this up."

you're panting the spot right next to you as you take a seat in the over-used lounge chair with a tiny wooden table in front of it, and like a trained animal, ellie follows cause it's the perfect spot to leave her backpack as her brain keeps buzzing at the name you used to call her seconds before— my dealer.

she is, by all means, your dealer. it makes her chest fill out with a different kind of emotion, sound so fucking intimate, so nice.

"gonna buy the usual three grams, princess?" your knee brushes against her, and ellie's breathing hitches cause you're wearing this black-sheer stockings all the way to your upper thigh and she becomes aware of it when the material slips down as you're seated, skirt raising slightly upwards against the muscles of your legs: one movement and she swears she'd be able to see your underwear and ellie has to once again, remind herself how you quickly reduce her to this behavior; this state, shoved in a sea of pure filth — "or did you just call me because you wanted to see me tonight?"

she's feeling lucky tonight even when she never feels that way, a strike of confidence ellie feels as a rush on the blood: you give her a sight of your legs and now she's all over the damn place? loser behavior.

"is it that obvious?" you want her to kiss you. it's a need that installs deep down in your chest, and if you're not making it obvious by then you're definitely doing it now: you're not straight, you're not bulletproof to the holes her eyes make on your skin every time you have the pleasure to be left alone in her company, you're not giving up on this constant game of seduction you like to play "i'm buying weed too, so coming up here actually matters for you."

"haven't we state that already?" ellie asks, looking up to you as she drinks in the sight of you under the almost invisible light of the stars up in the sky "if you want to see me during the week-"

"might as well just ask" you completed for her as ellie grabs her bag so she can pull your weed from it. the best three grams she has in her power "i know that- thank you."

"it's a gift" she finally dares to say it now — "don't pay me this time."

has she ever felt this way before? never. the overwhelming pull, the reminder you're not her's? stings on ellie's skin like tiny needles. it's not a big deal, once again she's losing money all reckless, but fuck- it's worth it, worth it when ellie see you malfunction for a long moment, brain short-circuiting cause you don't expect it.

"that's not the deal."

"i don't care what our deal is, you're my best client, and i take care of my clients” it’s simple as she says it “sides. the weed does not matter, seeing you was payment already.”

"don't go yet," you add before she's making a movement to get up, hands cold wrapping around her arm as you pull her down to the lounge chair you're so comfortably seated — "smoke with me. let's talk for a while."

and she knows it's dangerous, but you're batting your eyelashes, looking at her with this sly smirk on your face she wants to kiss away and ellie has no option but to stay there buried in your side, your fingers still tight against her arm muscles as you make her stay.

"okay, but i need you to let go of me baby- i can't roll a joint with you all over."

liar.

she just want to see you get all flustered because of her as her fingers swiftly roll a joint without much effort, allowing the smoke to fill the air seconds after before you’re sneezing and she notices how you shiver on her side, turning her face to look back at your pretty face she’s been avoiding to stare so much.

"you cold?" she asks, and you do not want to admit it, but ellie's taking her hoodie off and it's a fucking sight when she's wearing this white tank top she does not care about until she can physically feel the shift of the air between you and her, caught up with your eyes checking her out as she lights up the joint.

"thank you," and for being a stoner, it's smells surprisingly nice as you relish on the warmth of it, comfortable now as you watch her smoke "i'll gave it to you downstairs."

"go home with it. you're going to catch a cold like this."

the silence it's imminent for a moment before she's passing you the joint an you're holding it between your fingers.

"i like your tattoo" is it also an excuse? not really, but ellie's bringing her arm closer to you as she's showing it under the flashlight of her phone cause she likes it too, showoff — "can i touch it?"

any other time she'd be denying it mumbling something stupid about hating random people to go on and touch her scarred arm but you're not a random girl. so she's whispering a barely audibly yes, and your fingertips are tracing the pattern etched on her skin, taking your time in doing so.

"it suits you," you praise as you touch, and she's fucking melting there under simple caresses, under something so simple as your fingers tracing her inked flesh, invisible shapes as you just want to keep your hand on her "did it hurt too much when you got it done?"

"yeah, sort of" it's not really like she's trying to sound cool, in all honest, she's just trying to be coherent now as you keep touching her skin as you smoke. invested in questions she's answering in full auto-pilot.

you're high after a while, and it's her weed that makes you look like that. half lidded, a lazy smile on your lips as you keep talking to her, red eyes, slower than ever: shit. she'd devour you all.

“have you ever shotgunned smoke into someone’s mouth?” you ask curiously, and the question comes out of nowhere as you stare at her blowing the smoke, a warmth creeping upon her neck as she notices the way you’re staring at her, ellie’s blushing.

selling you weed and not be able to get high with you every single time must be named one of the most horrible crimes in humanity.

“when i was like, 17?" ellie replies thinking for a moment "i dunno, thought it was the hottest thing ever- have you?”

“no, not really."

and to be fair, ellie's high too. she's testing a new strain with you and the words roll out of her tongue so easily she has no time to regret it, not when you're looking at her like you want her to get handsy there in a damn lounge chair, to hell if it’s in the middle of nowhere or not.

“want me to do it for you?” she asks, a gentleman as usual “i’ll gladly be the first.”

it takes a moment for you to consider it before your voice is all low and husky — "mhm."

“come here then miss,” ellie says using a finger to call you out, the joint already on her lips before she takes a long drag — “sit on my lap and open your mouth f’me.”

it's devastating.

your weight on top of her, your ass in her leg as she can see again, those transparent sheer stockings that must be damn useless against the cold, and her hand rest on your upper thigh there where she looked before.

you're so obedient. your skirt is a sinful invitation to touch further, and you're parting her mouth for her so she can get closer, and as she smokes, ellie does get closeto you. closer than she’s ever been — more than the car, the bathroom in the party she met you, mere inches before she's shotgunning the smoke in your parted lips and you're smoking from the same weed that was in her lungs.

"17-years-old ellie was right" you reply, not really moving to give her space as ellie's fingers squeeze your leg like a reminder you're there still, sated on your dealer's lap, her hands on you — "it is the hottest thing ever."

it's almost a chronicle of a death foretold, cause ellie's kiss does not surprise you at the slightest. it's demanding and sloppy cause she's high, you're high, and she's a victim of this force she cannot escape near you.

so she keeps on kissing you until your lips are swollen and you're simply there, slowly wanting more, squeezing your legs together cause you don't want to be a slut now — no. you don't want her to know you're soaking over a few kisses, at ellie's fingers pulling on your high stockings down till they are no longer there anymore.

"you're a fucking menace" she says between kisses, breathing heavier now by the seconds: ellie already noticed— "a menace to me, to my weed and my economy, you know that? how you make me sell out my stuff at half the price cause i want you as my secured client?"

despite her words, she's pushing you closer to her so you can feel her rib cage pressed against you, the goosebumps you produce just from being close to her, red lips and messy hair.

"it’s your loss ellie, cause i'd pay for the full price."

"mmhm well shit, you're really lucky cause you do give damn good kisses" she murmurs, fingers toying with the hem of your skirt now and she has the damn audacity to keep on smoking cause she's now confident on her effect, how you’re all affected by her touch — "and if you give damn good kisses, i'm betting all my money that you have an even better pussy for me."

the sounds you're making? fuck. she’s creaming her panties already when you're letting her touch you so freely and it’s not near enough.

"what is it going to be then, huh?" she asks curiously, her mouth already following the path down to your collarbone, your cleavage before she’s taking her time in leaving red-purplish hickeys there hidden beneath her own gray hoodie "should we make it to our seventh selling or you're going to let me play with your needy cunt as a much deserved reward?"

shit. shit. shit. you're so fucking wet when you're parting your legs further apart to give her a nice view of your underwear, a damp spot already there between your legs who’s enough to make her mouth water with the thought of burying her face between your thighs, intoxicate with the smell you're emanating and she feels already under her nose.

good fucking girl. she wants to praise you, let you know you're doing a great job there letting your skirt roll up to your stomach, so easy to get rid of it ellie's sure you did it on purpose now so she can let her hand slip between your legs to feel how soaked you are.

your cunt makes this sound when her finger’s taunting you she just happens to love, and your underwear clings to your pussy lips, hips buckling up to meet her fingers already wanting more.

greedy.

"shh-" she tries to reassure you — "you're comfortable there baby? want you to feel good when i touch you yeah? you'll let me know anything cause you're my well-behaved girl, aren't you? my best client here.”

ellie’s making you shake her head, coaxing you to say out loud you are comfortable there, ass in her lap, spread legs as her fingers push against the fabric right against your entrance, noticing how the cotton soaks at the motion.

"look at you all desperate" she chuckles — "have you been thinking about this a lot like i do?"

her fingers pull on your underwear to the side and there it is: glistening cunt, swollen lips and neglected clit that's just begging to be touched, filled, discovered by her hands, her mouth, tongue. nothing she fucking wants more.

who she is to ever deny anything to you? to stop selling you weed? the joint falls to the ground now as she's using her entire hand to touch you, fingers rubbing against your minor and mayor labia, circling against your engorged clit as you arch your back and she has to use force to keep you still, taking what she has to give like a champ.

"you're fucking soaked-" there's a slap sound that fills the air, and even when there's people in the garden they don't seem to hear your whimpers as her hand comes in contact with your pussy and she's slapping it once again, just enough to apply some pressure in your clit, just enough to make your legs shake "so responsive to me, gonna let me stuff this cunt full tonight? fucking finally huh? you've been haunting me like no one else."

and you giggle, giggle cause you cannot fucking believe it: fucking your dealer? are you so for real right now? you're deep under a cloud of haze you're unable to control, disheveled state when your skirt is all the way to up and your underwear being pulled to the side at her mercy and you can only answer:

"yes- ngh yes please ellie."

"shit- your clit is all puffy baby, all needy for me."

you're squeezing her already so hard when she’s working on you. a wet schlick that fills the air and combined with your incoherent words of praise and moans will send her to the grave.

ellie’s knuckles-deep and fuuuck. you're so tight she needs to ask if you're doing right, cunt engulfing her' fingers until there’s no more and she's curling them right to the spot so you don't care about the drunk fucks in the garden anymore, about anyone who can hear whats going on in an empty rooftop.

ellie’s using a hand to keep your legs spread when your free will collapses like paper cards, pulling them apart only to add a third finger in your used hole and reduce you to pieces now, clenching tight as she rubs on that special spot inside and you're mumbling something about feeling so full, so good with her inside.

"this pussy must be made for me baby, fits me like a fucking glove," ellie’s doubling her efforts, her palm colliding against your clit, fingers thrusting against the right spot over and over — "gonna let me see your pretty face when you cum? i know you're close."

you are. fuck you so are. your movements are erratic, your legs shake, and ellie's kissing on your shoulder, leaving a path of wet kisses on the exposed skin on your neck, biting on your earlobe, anywhere she can get.

"i can't-" you cry out, moving yourself in quick, sharp movements, it’s overwhelming — "fuck i can't hold no more-"

"let go" she replies, holding you tightly against her body — "let go. i got you."

it's hot. messes up ellie's jeans with a damp mark on them, turning the fabric darker when you finally cum and you're gushing on her fingers, leaking through trembling legs.

"fuck yes. drench me like that," your dealer moans, stealing a kiss from your parted lips, keeping the last glimpses of air in your lungs for her benefit "use me, baby, don't stop."

ah. ellie's in trouble after all, cause it don't seem she’ll be selling weed to you now. not when she's mixing business with pleasure and she's making you bend against the top rail of the old lounge chair cause she's not able to wait any longer to lick you clean until you have no other choice but to cum again.

truth be told she once heard cupid's cruel, but she didn't believe it fully, not until now since ellie knows, first hand — the little fucker shoots to kill.

[fawnnlvr]

red velvet hair | criminal minds

summary: in which the bau is never fully prepared for the disturbing stories of one of their assistant agents who never fails to leave them absolutely speechless.

pairing: criminal minds x catvalentine!reader

word count: 1.5k

warning: this is so stupid. mentions of blood and mental illness because cat valentine. ♥︎ this is truly the stupidest thing i have ever written and willingly posted. im sorry in advance to whoever has the misfortune of coming across this.

masterlist

author's note: this is honestly for doodoos and giggles. i just like the idea of having a ditzy reader like cat valentines absolutely traumatize the already traumatize. also, i know i should be posting about my hot!diva!reader but a girl can get distracted :( also i just love victorious and i might do her helping out spencer with his addiction because cat was addicted to bibble.

The BAU wasn't really sure how you got hired as a apart of the behavioral analysis unit since they were not sure how you passed the psychological evaluation or written tests. You were what the FBI considered a special exception, just like Spencer Reid since you were extrodinary in passing the phsyical tests and using unique ways to solve problems. You also were very charming towards your instructors and Strauss. It weren't even the little things that led them to question how your mind worked, it was the things you'd say and do outright that you considered to be normal; today was one of those days that Hotch made another mental note to get you drug tested later on.

You and Penelope gathered around Spencer's desk to see the photo that Penelope had printed out. You leaned on Spencer's chair while Penelope leaned on top of the desk as you all stared in shock.

"It's remarkable. Something like this makes you questioned everything you thought you knew." Spencer stated, shaking his head at Emily's photo as you nodded in agreement.

"Yeah, it's like the monolith in 2001." The computer tech commented, a teasing tone in her voice as she eyed Emily who sat not too far away.

"So there was actually a time when something like this was socially acceptable?"

Penelope sighed at Spencer's inquiry, "You and [Name] are young. 80s left a lot of people confused. This is erm... especially sad."

"Alright. Very funny guys. Very funny." Emily finally spoke out in a dry tone, snatching the paper out of Penelope's hand. "What'd you do to it?"

"Do?" Garcia hid a laugh.

"You obviously altered it in photoshop or something — that hair." Emily scoffed, as she showed the photo towards them, not believing it was ever her.

"Oh— no pussycat, that is— that's all you. Garfield High, class of '89."

Emily peered down back at the photo, a new frown appearing in her face, "You really didn't change anything?"

"I hacked it as is. You're really trying to tell me you don't remember rocking that look."

"Perhaps your lack of recognition stems from a dissociative fugue suffered from an adolescence. Say it a Siouxsie and the Banshees concert." Spencer joked which caused penelope to giggle but you were very confused.

"Who?"

"You don't know Sioxsie and the — nevermind" Emily cut herself off, sighing. It was already terrible that she graduated in the 80s and she did not need to be reminded of her age yet again.

"Well whoever they are, they must be pretty cool. I think you looked really cool in your yearbook photo, Emily." you said with such sincere and genuiness that the receiver of the compliment's heart warm.

"You think I looked cool?"

"Yeah! We could've maybe had been friends had we gone to school together. But, what happened to the coolness now?" you tilted your head. You asked the question without any hint of malicious intent, and full of genuine curiosity. You like when people dressed goth or alternative. You never were one for status quos and your entire high school was filled with people of that nature.

Spencer and Penelope stifled a laugh as Emily stared out into space, questioning where her life went wrong to have such a backhanded compliment by a girl who used to skip the number three when counting. They learned that habit was fixed during your FBI academy days.

"What are we talking about?" Morgan had joined the group, a cup of coffee in his hand. "Woah! Prentiss, that's you? Oh my that is, something!"

"What is going on?" Rossi followed behind Morgan, the same suprise is evident on his face. "Oh! That is a... lovely photo."

"You know what, what did you guys look like in high school because I am positive we all went through a phase." Emily asked, defensiveness clear in her tone.

"Well fear not because I had time this morning for another hacking of a fellow agent, Miss [Surname], and let's just say that I have never felt more jealous of a life lived than yours my dear."

"Oooo I haven't seen this picture in a while!" you squealed, excited to see how you were at one of the happiest times in your life. Penelope brought out the photo and everybody gathered around, curious as to what era of you they would see.

They always knew that you were a sort of special type of person but they had only met you in this era of your life. The you they know and love is somebody who is undeniably herself and a sweetheart who gives everybody her love unconditionally.

They never would've expected for Penelope to pull up a photo of an alternative fairy-like girl. You looked into the camera with the smile of a model in the perfect position that caught you from all the good angles. Your head perfectly tilted just a teensy bit down, your smile not quite reaching your eyes but offering a sense of lightheartedness and mischief, and your eyes captured this sort of fun youthfulness. You also wore a hot pink off the shoulder shirt with cybersigilism prints and many metal necklaces. But what caught the other agent's eyes the most was your red hair.

"Did you get your photo professionally taken?" Spencer inquired, his mouth still slightly agape.

"You barely aged! What year did you graduate?" Rossi asked, although he wasn't quite sure he wanted to hear the answer at his old age.

"Hollywood Arts, class of 2002." It had been six years since then but still at 24 years old, you barely changed in terms of style from your high school self.

"You went to an arts school?" Emily asked and you enthusiastically nodded.

"Who would've guessed I would've joined the FBI?" you laughed, reflecting on how much life had changed since then, "One time, I performed in a play as this spy who used bananas as a gun and now I get to use a real one. How crazy is that?"

"More concerning than crazy." Spencer muttered under his breath.

"What's with the red hair?" Morgan was still fixated on your dyed hair which sort of did make sense from how much you already express yourself through your clothing and personality like Penelope had.

"I had red hair for I think six years, but my hair wasn't exactly the healthiest so now it's natural, but i loved it so much." you shared with them.

"Why did you choose red?" Penelope questioned and you laughed because to you, the background behind the decision was one you could look back and find humor in.

At that moment, Hotch and JJ quickly made their way towards the bullpen area to inform the rest of the new case that had landed onto them that needed their utmost attention.

"That's actually a really fun story. In my freshmen year—" Hotch and JJ knew better than to interupt your while you are sharing a story because it could either truly be a fun story, or a disturbing one that they would later bookmark to discuss with you later. "I snuck out of my house to hang with my friends and when I tried sneaking back inside— my brother thought i was an intruder—"

The entire group could imagine where this story was going because any mention of your older brother never involved anything good nor legal, but none of them could have expected the full story. Except Doctor Reid, who quickly tied together the red hair connection to the scared brother.

"And so he took a vase and smashed it over my head. I was like knocked down for a few seconds but when I pulled myself up, I looked in the mirror and the blood had stained my hair since I had blonde highlights and I thought— wow, I look amazing with it! So later that week, I dyed it red. I also just really love red velvet cupcakes."

You innocently looked at the reactions of your fellow agents and none of them could speak. Emily opened then closed her mouth. Spencer couldn't even muster up any words for the first time in forever as you left his mouth slightly agape once again. He had predicted the story's route but even as he did, he is never prepared for you to actually say it. Sometimes he sort of hopes he is wrong, but on the off chance that he is, the story is always weirder or more disturbing than he imagined.

JJ and Penelope just locked eyes and couldn't move. Hotch blinked at you with the same stare of, 'We will call the counselor again'. Rossi learned to stop getting suprise and just offered you an encouraging smile and thankfully, he broke the silence.

"Red velvet cupcakes do look scrumptious. The red hair suited you."

You had an innocent laugh, "Right? When me and my friends performed a food song to little kids, I even dressed as a red velvet cupcakes. I had this whipped cream hat and everything."

"Um, I think Hotch and JJ have a case." Spencer stated and everybody did their best to snap out of their daze and direct their attention towards what should be more important.

"[Surname], can you please get the preparations ready for the trip." Hotch stated. You were the assistant of the group and part of your job involved getting traveling arrangements ready and helping JJ communicate with people.

"On it, sir!" You walked away without a care in the world as the rest of the agents made their way to the briefing room.

"Hotch." Morgan stated his superior's name with loud concern.

"I know Morgan."

[songsofadelaide]

It took everything in Sakura's power not to jump out of your bedroom window when you first kissed him.

"H-Haru-chan?"

His hands shook as he held you by your shoulders, his lips trembling soundlessly. He looked like he wanted to say something, but all the words he knew just vanished into thin air.

You didn't know if you read the signs wrong. He came with you willingly, didn't he? You even held hands all the way home. That was an improvement from your linked pinkies. And though his brows were furrowed in what seemed to be an awkward expression, you could tell from the way his gaze rested steadily on you that he was fine with the way things were going.

But now, he looked like a cornered animal that was smothered too much, his eyes wide in evident shock and confusion.

"Y-You—" He stammered, his face red down to his neck. "W-We—!"

You had to admit that you were a little bit too impatient. Though this relationship was new to you both, your happier and healthier upbringing never cast any shadows of doubt over your ties with other people. For Sakura, this relationship was a leap of faith into uncharted waters... And you might have just botched the entire thing by jumping at him.

Did I read the signs wrong? He was looking at my lips so intently, after all...

"I'm sorry, Haru-chan. You looked like you wanted to kiss me, so I just went ahead," you told him apologetically, your hands clasped together as you gave him a short bow. "If... If you want to go home now, it's fine with me..."

The sound of his choked-up voice prompted you to look up at him again. Though the surprise was still evident in his face, his gaze softened into a look of relief.

"I-I... I d-did want to k-kiss you..." Came his stuttering confirmation. "Y-You surprised me! I didn't expect you to... to—!"

"You didn't expect me to what? Want to kiss you?" You chuckled at him, though you started to feel embarrassed yourself. "You're my boyfriend, Haru-chan. Of course I'd want to k-kiss you..."

Sakura settled down, no longer like a cat caught in some headlights. He took his seat right next to you on your carpeted floor, the tenseness of his shoulders gone, now replaced by the tender rhythm and sound of his soft and rare laughter.

"Would... Would you like to, uh... D-Do it again? I'm ready this time..."

All his apprehension and resolve melted away the moment you cupped his warm face in your hands, his eyes the color of celestial bodies rested solely on you— as though you were the only thing worth looking at in your shared quiet world.

"I'd want nothing more," you beamed at him, your wide and elated smile reflected on his own face. "Just promise me you won't jump out of my window afterwards."

[carpenterswife]

HALF OF ME (iv)

SUMMARY: With Soldier Boy alive in the 2020’s, back in America, he starts his mission of vengeance. Of course, his first stop is to you; the only woman he’d truly wanted to start a relationship with, who’d taken his spot only months after his supposed death. And you don’t exactly expect your old lover to appear in your home, with the intent to kill.

WORD COUNT: 2238

WARNINGS: MINORS DNI. Typical Soldier Boy behaviour, gore, heavy violence, canon divergence.

SERIES MASTERLIST / MAIN MASTERLIST

Finding you was difficult. They were beginning to think Ben had been wrong, that you were six foot under in some unlabelled grave, rotting away. But, Ben was sure. And arguing with him seemed like signing their death warrant.

So, they kept searching. Despite the fact they could have located at least two other Payback members, and had them dead, by now, Ben was insistent on killing you first.

So, they kept fucking searching.

And then they found it.

It was a tiny discrepancy. Something most people would simply brush past. But, Hughie found it, and it was all they needed. They followed the rabbit hole, down and down, finding hidden documents and details not even Ben knew about.

It only took two days to pinpoint your location.

The Appalachian Mountains. In the middle of fucking nowhere. Smack-bang in the middle of one of the largest forests in the entire USA. But, to Ben, that fact was whatever. He had your location. And he was going to find you, even if it meant spending weeks searching every inch of that forest.

Butcher and Hughie knew it was a dumb idea.

But, they got Ben in a car, and started their roadtrip.

━━━━━━ ✦ ━━━━━━

The quiet life was nice, you’d decided. You’d forgotten about Queen Maeve’s uninvited visit, going back to your routine of feeding the animals and drinking coffee on the balcony every morning.

It was weird. You used to be one of the most famous people on the planet. There was blood staining every inch of your hands, and families who were likely still trying to gain justice for the people you killed. You had decades of history. And, yet, you now lived out your days as some sort of Disney princess.

You couldn’t complain. It was better than willingly running into gunfire every week.

Padding through your dark home, the moonlight casting a soft glow over the floors, you headed for the kitchen. You were never too old for a midnight snack. Especially in the comfort of your own home. You turned into the kitchen.

And you saw it. A dark figure, shadowed in the corner.

But, you kept moving, playing oblivious. In your mind, your old training make itself own. Ben’s critiques and advice played like a movie, as you pulled the cabinet open, standing high on your toes to reach for packet of chips. Your senses were on fire, focused in on the quiet breaths, the soft squeaking of boots on the tile.

They moved, and so did you.

You ducked under the fist swinging towards your face, snatching a knife from the block beside the fridge. Holding it tightly in your fist, your stance ready to attack, you looked at the intruder. Every muscle in your body froze.

“Ben?”

He didn’t pull his punches. Ben grabbed you by the throat, using your momentary distraction to his advantage, shoving your back against the sharp edge of the counter. Instinctively, you swiped the knife towards him, but a rough hand caught your wrist, slamming it down onto the counter.

A cry of pain slipped past your lips, fingers releasing the knife. It was his turn to grab it, tossing it from your reach.

No words were spoken, just heavy breathing.

You’d never seen Ben look at you like this before. This look was reserved for those who got on the wrong side of him. Those who disappeared mysteriously overnight and were never found again — but you knew what happened. And so did he.

He was here to kill you.

“Ben—“ You choked out, through the tightening grip his hand had around your throat. The grip tightened, and your breath caught with a squeak, broken gasps for air trying desperately to pull in oxygen.

“How much did they pay you?” He demanded, his voice low and gravelly. “Huh? How much, did they fucking pay you?” There was something about him that was so different. A new edge to him, maybe. But, what caught your attention, was the look in his eyes.

Hurt. He was staring at you like you’d ripped his heart from his chest and stomped on it.

You clawed at his wrist, unable to bring any air into your lungs. Your nails bit into his skin, the scratches down his wrist quickly repairing themselves. He let you go. Not out of mercy. No. He grabbed your collar, lifting your head up, and then slamming it down onto the counter.

Your vision went completely white, all remaining breath knocked from your lungs with a gasp. Blinking desperately to clear the stars, you tried to struggle. But, he slammed you down again. And again. And again. Until he tossed you to the floor like nothing more than a rag doll.

The counter was cracked from the force of it, blood staining the white marble, and splattered across the counter. Your own kitchen. Stained with your blood. You could feel the warm liquid dripping down the back of your head, matting in your hair.

If you weren’t a supe, you’d be dead.

He didn’t let you get a word in, brutal with each of his attacks. As you desperately tried to scramble away, body on fire, he put his foot down on your ankle. Leaning down, staring intently at you, with dark eyes, Ben snarled. “How much?”

“Ben—“ Finally, words escaped. In a pathetic whimper that made his lips twitch in disgust. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Your breath hitched with pain.

That answer wasn’t good enough for him. You swore you could feel the bones in your jaw crack, as his fist met your cheek. You cried out in pain, the force of the impact whipping you around, hitting your head against the ground.

His hand curled into your hair, forcing your eyes on him. “Don’t fucking lie to me, you bitch.” Your breaths were ragged, with pain and terror, staring up at the man you thought was dead. He seethed, nothing but anger and disgust (and hurt?) in his green eyes. “You whored yourself out to me, huh? Put my dick in your mouth? For what? Fuckin’ soften me up like a weak pussy?”

“Ben—“

“Don’t.” He tugged your hair, hard. “I loved you.” His teeth grit together.

Your heart broke, tears in your eyes as you stared up at him. He loved you. And he thought you’d hurt him? He was dead. He was dead. That’s what they said. They said he was dead. Your mind worked at 100 miles an hour, heart constricting.

He loved you.

Soldier Boy loved you.

You didn’t even think he was capable of that. Sure, you knew you had something special with him, something unique. But love? It’d never crossed your mind. You’d always loved him somewhat, always throwing yourself in front of bullets and danger to protect him. Always following his lead and teasing him.

Always pushing your luck with his temper. Because he never snapped. He never hurt you. He never hit you. You knew you’d loved him, when your heart would dance when he chuckled at your jokes. The way your body reacted to his hands on your hips during your first training session. You knew there was something. But, for sure, you thought it was one-sided.

That, to him, you were a good fuck. Just a hole, as he liked to say about some women.

But, you’d been so wrong. And, all this time, 37 years, he’d been alive. And you’d done nothing.

“I loved you.” He repeated, in a broken seethe. His eyes were less angry now, but still held that hint of vengeance. “I would’ve died for you.” You could’ve sobbed, right there. “We were gonna start a family.”

Your voice was shaky. “Ben. Please. I don’t know what’s going on.” You begged, pathetic and weak. Ben scoffed, emotional. “I thought you were dead. I swear it, Ben!” It was practically a plea; a desperate cry for him to believe you.

He was too blinded by his rage. “I waited every day for you.” He hissed, reaching over and grabbing his discarded shield. “For you to come and get me. To save me. You never came.”

“Ben—“

He shoved you down, head slamming against tile once more. Knees on other side of your hips, Ben gripped the edge of his shield, raising it high.

He was going to kill you. You couldn’t stop him. Couldn’t fight it. All you could do was look at him, tears running tracks through the blood on your face. A silent plea, begging him to not do this.

He rose the shield higher, lined up with the juncture of your throat.

And then he saw it. A glint of metal peeking out from under your shirt. He could recognise them from a mile away. They were his, after all. His dog tags, sat delicately just above your chest, resting on the skin like they were made to be there. His brows furrowed, movements faltering.

His dog tags. You were wearing his dog tags.

Ben hesitated, unsure.

He looked down at you, meeting your teary eyes, and his brain ran wild. Of memories of being a couple. Of the memories of when a big question mark had hung above your relationship, neither of you sure of what was going on, but treating each other like lovers anyway.

Your soft touches; the way your fingers would trace the contours of his muscles in the morning. The way you’d kiss each of his scars, muttering against his skin how perfect he was, despite the flaws and the imperfections littering his body. How gentle you were. He’d never felt a gentle touch before you.

How you’d giggle at his jokes, smile blinding, pretty dimples, cheeks flushed.

God, and those eyes. How they’d shine and shimmer when you looked up at him, like he was made of the stars themselves. He always used to melt when you propped your chin on his chest in bed, looking at him with that cute smile, and he’d trace your face with his thumb, cradling your cheeks like delicate glass.

Those few nights spent together, in the limited time you’d had together as an actual couple. The way you’d move together; perfectly in sync, like you were made for each other.

The way you’d hold him. Laugh with him. Smile at him. The passing touches. The lingering stares across red carpets and events, subtly checking each other out, and then meeting up in the supply closet. The quiet moments together, cooking dinner or merely holding each other. All those times you forced him to dance, and he’d begrudgingly spin you in the kitchen. The dates, and the movie nights, and the silly fights, and how warm his cold penthouse felt when you were with him.

Every memory, every moment, replayed in front of his eyes, as he stared at you. He lost his breath, muscles stiff. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t bring this shield down and kill you. His chest ached and burnt.

He couldn’t kill you.

So, instead, he hit the blunt edge of shield against your head, and watched your eyes roll back.

━━━━━━ ✦ ━━━━━━

Coming to was disorientating and painful.

Every inch of your body ached, from the beating you’d received from Ben. You cringed as the light made the throbbing in your head intensify. Through squinted eyes, you made out the sight in front of you.

You were in your dining room. And there were two… unfamiliar men stood by your table, leaning over files and papers. Movement caught your attention.

Ben. Setting his shield down by the table.

“Ben.” You choked out, instinctively trying to reach out and grab him. To check if he was real. If he was actually stood in front you. Living, breathing. Your hands didn’t move. You looked down, frowning at the sight of tattered rope tying your wrists of the arms of your chair.

The noise drew over the attention of the three men. They exchanged a silent look, and slowly, and rather intimidatingly, approached. You whined a little, at the throbbing pain that made a tremble run it’s course through your body.

One of the unfamiliar men pulled up a chair. “What d’ya know abou’ BCL-RED?” Was that an English or Australian accent? You couldn’t tell through the buzzing in your ears.

“Wha’?” You slurred, blinking rapidly, trying to orientate yourself. “BCL-what-now?” A grunt slipped past your lips. They didn’t look impressed by that answer. “I— I saw it on a file. Back in ‘84. Never figured out what it meant.”

The man learnt forwards. “Neva’ found out?”

Your head shook, and it made the pain increase. Your face scrunched up in agony. “Mm, no.” You groaned, breaths hitched. “It was all classified. Edgar never told me. Mallory and I— we tried to figure it out.”

“Grace Mallory?”

“What? Yes. Grace.” You groaned again. “Jesus. Can you turn off the fucking lights? It feels like there’s a drill in my head.” You tried to push your face into your shoulder, hiding from the light that made your eyes burn and your head feel like Ben was slamming it against the ground again.

There was a beat of silence. “Did you know?” That was Ben. He sounded hesitant.

“Know what?” You peeked up at Ben, eyes squinted to be able to look at him. He looked tense, face expressionless. “I thought you were dead. I don’t know what else to say to convince you. I thought you were dead.”

“How did you not know?” He demanded, his short fuse lit. Ben and his fucking temper.

“I don’t know, Ben!” Your own yell made you wince in pain. “They never told me shit! I tried for 15 years to get answers!”Ben didn’t look convinced. Of course he didn’t. He was so set in his heartbreak and rage, by your supposed betrayal, that he’d utterly convinced himself. “I didn’t know.” You echoed in a broken whisper.

“How’s ‘bout this?” You blinked rapidly, trying to focus in on the accented voice. “We track down the otha’ girl. See what she ‘as to say.” There seemed to be a group-wide agreement.

“Countess?” You grunted, confused. Your gaze flicked between the three men. “I know where she is.”

And that got their attention.

banners in use by @cafekitsune

taglist: @onlyangel-444 @deans-spinster-witch @fumolemon @anundyingfidelity @mostlymarvelgirl @aaronhotchnerlover @delaynew @let-me-luve-you @yvonneeeee @livsh20 @thej2report @lostin-jensenseyes

@boywivlove @leavli @cassieriddle713 @drasticemotions @suspicious-stain-in-spain @samanddeaninatrenchcoat

[undercoveravenger]

Sleep Like the Dead

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Male!Reader

Requested: No

Summary: Everyone on the team thinks Ghost is the worst person to share a bed with. You don’t mind and Ghost finally gets a decent night’s sleep.

-----

No one ever wants to share a bed with Ghost on a mission. It happens every time, at every safe house, so he’s not surprised when Gaz and Soap call dibs on sharing one of the two double beds. They’re both pretty calm sleepers and won’t disturb each other’s rest so it makes sense for them to pair off. Price posts up in the battered recliner mumbling something about being “too old to share.” And that leaves Ghost with you, the 141’s newest addition. You haven’t been on the team long enough to know to find other sleeping arrangements.

You trail him easily into the other bedroom and strip down to your boxers, climbing under the covers without complaint at being stuck with him. He slowly settles beside you, just as tense as he’d been out on the field - adrenaline not quite fizzled out yet. You don’t seem to mind, eyes closing and breathing slowing basically as soon as your head hits the pillow and just like that Ghost is alone with his thoughts.

Despite himself, his mind echoes with the sound of Soap whinging about bruises he’d gotten from Ghost’s less-than-gentle “readjusting” and Gaz’s complaints of his snoring - “What, you running a chainsaw in there, Lieutenant?” “There a thunderstorm in your room last night, Ghost?” There’s a reason Price would rather go for a kip in some ratty old armchair than sleep anywhere near Ghost, even if he never voices why. He knows he’s not an ideal bed partner and he hates it. Hates that he’s exposing you to it - you, who’s never looked at him like he’s weird for keeping his mask on and who’s never seemed to be afraid of him, even the first time you’d met him. You, who’s seen some of the brutal things he’s had to do out on the field and never once judged him for it, who’s done plenty of nightmarish things yourself.

But this is the first negative trait he’s willingly exposed you to and he doesn’t want to see you try to duck him as a bedmate the same way the rest of the team does, especially when he’s starting to suspect that he feels more than camaraderie for you.

You move then, rolling onto your side and hooking an arm round his middle to tug him back against your chest. Ghost’s frozen against you, muscles tight and breath shallow, even as your heart beats steady and slow against his back. He settles slowly, breath evening out to match yours. He’s not used to being… cuddled, let alone being the little spoon, but it’s sort of nice to be held. Like you’ve got his back, even unconsciously. 

He shifts slightly, nudging himself back into your arms further and brings one hand up to curl around yours, settling your joined hands against his chest above his heart. 

Simon’s eyes slip closed somewhere between one breath and the next and he sinks into the most peaceful sleep he’s had in years.

-----

Everyone’s looking at him strangely when they all gather in the morning to prepare for evac and he’s not sure why. He can only take so long of Price’s concerned stare and Soap and Gaz whispering around furtive glances before he snaps.

“What,” he says, and that seems to be all the permission Soap needs to sidle closer, studying him intently. “Got somethin’ to say?” Ghost challenges, arms crossing over his chest. “Say it.”

Soap hesitates only a moment before he says anything, fingers tapping rapidly against his thigh like he’s nervous. “Did you, ah, did you sleep last night, LT? Like, at all?”

Ghost blinks. Blinks again. It’s not the weirdest question Soap’s ever asked him, not by a longshot, but it feels strangely pointed and he’s not sure why. “Slept fine. Why?”

Gaz cocks his head, dark eyes puzzled as they dart between Ghost and the door to the bedroom that he’d shared with you. “Did he?”

Ghost is saved from answering by you making your way out into the living room with the rest of them, go bag already packed and ready. You’re shifting your weight up onto the balls of your feet like you’re ready to take in a run, like you’re itching to move. Your eyes are bright, not a hint of sleeplessness to be seen about you.

“Maybe they tuckered each other out?” Soap suggests, eyebrows waggling suggestively as he looks between you and Ghost. “Surprised they were able to keep that quiet-”

“Shut it,” Ghost growls, trying to keep the teasing from letting you on to the feelings he’s finally admitted to himself. “We both slept fine. What’s all the fuss about?”

Price claps a hand over Soap’s mouth before he can make another raunchy comment, interjecting himself to help move the conversation along. “Just glad to hear that you were finally able to get a good night’s sleep, Ghost. Seemed to us you hadn’t slept well the last few ops.” His eyes slip to you and back quickly, lingering just enough that he knows that Price knows. “Seems whatever change you’ve made to your nightly routine might be a good one to keep up. Maybe try to make it a regular thing?”

Ghost wants to argue. To protest that sleeping in your arms wouldn’t have changed anything for him, especially not enough for his team to notice, but he knows Price is right. Knows that it’s having you with him that’s finally allowed him to rest. That you make him feel safe, as crazy as he feels admitting it. He’s not ready to really do anything about whatever it means quite yet, but he knows that he’ll be seeking you out to share a bed again on the next op. And maybe, if that goes well, inviting you back to his flat in Manchester while the team’s on leave to see if the effect you have on him goes both ways.

[vibelladonna]

❛ 𝓈𝒽𝒾𝒷𝒶𝓇𝒾 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝑔𝑒𝑜 𝓍 𝒶𝒻𝒶𝒷!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: You and Geo have always been so close that sometimes you wonder if there’s an unspoken thing between you two.

Are you just really good friends? Or is there something deeper neither of you is willing to say out loud? Of course, you could always just ask him. That would be the normal thing to do. Instead, fate—or your own questionable choices—ties you to a much more hands-on way of figuring it out.

So, is this just another weird chapter in your situationship or the moment that finally forces you both to admit the truth?  

Only one way to find out.

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

𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: Sooo, I stumbled across a header picture by @mint0hhh on Twitter, then commented, "HELP, I’M WRITING A FANFIC ABOUT THIS!" …except I never actually did. So a promise is a promise; I made this fanfic EXTRA LONG, so even though I’m very late—here it is.

Also, I included @alienfreak124 OC, Perssila Keithens as the reader’s friend and Crowe’s girlfriend. Sorry, not sorry to the Crowe fans. I HAVE officially switched sides to the tall, silent type.

Geo stole my heart~

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: geo x afab!reader, friends to lovers, slow burn (but with tension), mutual pining but make it stupid, light bondage, small smut part, awkward intimacy, geo is soft (but not really), and perusal absolutely is done with you.

No one really knows Geo. 

People just accept his existence as a natural phenomenon. He’s there, he does things, he’s filthy rich for some reason, and he knows how to handle a weapon with the kind of ease that makes you wonder if he was trained in a secret underground assassin program as a child. 

No one dares to get on his bad side. No one knows his hobbies. No one knows his personality. No one knows anything.  

Except you.  

For some reason, you made the cut. Congratulations. You’re one of exactly two people in Geo’s life that he actually likes. Maybe not in front of Crowe because, let's be real, he plays favorites, but it’s pretty damn close. 

To this day, you’re still baffled by the fact that when you casually admitted you liked being around him, he just... agreed. Like, straight-up nodded and went, “Same.” No hesitation. No sarcasm. Just acceptance.  

Which was shocking, because Geo does not, under any circumstances, like people. He barely tolerates society. 

The only reason he’s slightly more bearable now is because of Crowe, his first friend—who, let’s be honest, probably deserves a medal for putting up with his cryptic nonsense for so long. But let’s rewind—why did Geo allow you to be around him?

According to him, you’re "interesting." Which is bullshit, because compared to his lifestyle, you’re about as interesting as a blank piece of paper.  

See, there’s this saying: the quietest people have the weirdest interests.

And oh boy, does Geo live up to that. Over time, you’ve picked up on his oddly specific, borderline ancient-man hobbies: potted plants—a whole collection, opera music—who even listens to that willingly?

Theatre—he could quote Shakespeare in his sleep, cats—makes sense, and reptiles—also made sense, but in a ‘he’s definitely plotting something’ way.  

Everything about this man screams, ‘I am a young adult but my soul is a retired professor who sits in a leather armchair and contemplates the meaning of life.’

And yet, despite his old-as-hell interests, his quiet judgmental stares, and the fact that he could probably take you out in 0.3 seconds if he wanted to—you still love him.  

Old-ass hobbies and all.

As time went on, you started noticing something about Geo—most of his hobbies, the ones he actually lets you see, seem to be deeply tied to his Japanese culture.

Like, ridiculously tied to it.

The way he listens to opera music when he’s focusing? Turns out it’s specifically Japanese opera. His appreciation for theatre? Kabuki and Noh. Even the way he arranges his potted plants—it’s not just some random aesthetic choice, it’s done with an almost ritualistic precision that makes you wonder if this man has secretly mastered the art of bonsai pruning in his free time.

But here’s the thing—Geo never talks about his family.

Like, ever.

And when someone does bring it up?

He effortlessly sidesteps the conversation like he’s dodging arrows in slow motion. The man could be the heir to some untouchable, secretive empire, and no one would ever know because he simply refuses to acknowledge it.

Despite being filthy rich, he lives like someone who’s been independent his whole life—fully in control, fully detached.

No explanations. No unnecessary details.

No personal history. And, well… you’re curious.

Not in a creepy way—okay, maybe a little—but more in the "I am slowly realizing how little I actually know about my closest friend who, by all logic, should have kicked me out of his life by now, yet for some reason tolerates my presence despite allegedly hating people" kind of way.

It’s been picking at your brain for a while now, but there was no one you could talk to about it without sounding weird. Who were you gonna ask? Crowe?

Absolutely not.

Because Crowe—your usual go-to source for all things Geo—has been utterly, completely, and frustratingly useless. Not in a mean way, of course. No, it’s like he refuses to tell you anything in the most annoyingly polite way possible.

"Oh, sorry, can’t talk—buried in paperwork." The first time you ask. "Ah, you know how it is—so much to do, so little time!" The second time you ask. "Oh wow, would you look at that? Another report to file!" At this point he was just fucking with you.

Like Sir. Just say no and move on. At this point, you’re convinced the paperwork is a myth—just an excuse so he doesn’t have to answer any questions. 

Which is how you found yourself out at a chill bar, drinks in hand, with the one person who might actually give you answers—Perssila Keithens. The manic pixie dream girl. The alternative-broke-college-student-in-heavy-debt. And quite possibly the coolest and best girlfriend Crowe has ever had.

Actually, scratch that. She’s not just his coolest girlfriend—she’s one of the coolest people you know, period.

You adore her.

Understand that Perssila and Crowe were the first people to help you when you ended up in the Low-Class building, and honestly? You might not have survived that transition without them.

They made it easier. Better.

And while Crowe is the reliable, big-brother type, Perssila is the type of person who somehow always knows exactly what to say—whether it’s life advice, existential ramblings, or just some insane conspiracy theory that somehow sounds plausible when she says it.  

Need life advice? She’s got you.

Existential ramblings at 2 AM? She’s down.

Random conspiracy theories? She makes them sound weirdly plausible.

And right now? You need help. If anyone could help you figure out the absolute mystery that is Geo, it was her.

You take a slow, contemplative sip of the deep red wine in your hand, watching Perssila as she processes everything you just dumped onto her. She stares at you. Blinks once. Tilts her head. Opens her mouth—closes it. Squints.

Then, without warning, she snorts—an ugly, loud snort that startles the guy sitting at the table behind her.

And then she loses it. Like, full-on wheezing, slapping the table, looking like she just heard the funniest thing in the entire world.

“Oh my God,” she chokes out between gasps, “you’re—you’re stalking him.”

You nearly choke on your wine. “What?! No, I’m not!”

“Yes, you are!” she howls, wiping tears from her eyes. “You’re out here piecing together this man’s entire existence like you’re some detective in a slow-burn mystery novel, and for what? Because he likes plants and doesn’t trauma-dump on you?”

You huff, crossing your arms. “I barely know anything about him!”

“Oh, boo-hoo!” Perssila mimics fake crying, dramatically dabbing at imaginary tears. “You poor thing, your filthy rich, ridiculously handsome, archery-prodigy friend won’t trauma bond with you. How tragic.”

You groan, letting your head fall back. “This is serious, Perssila.”

“Is it?” she shoots back, grinning like the devil. “Or do you just have a little crush on Mr. Mysterious?”

You almost drop your wine glass. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, don’t you ‘excuse me’ me,” she smirks, leaning in. “I’ve seen this before. The accidental obsession, the need to figure him out, the sudden interest in his culture like you’re about to write an essay on it—classic pining.”

You scowl. “I do not have a crush on Geo.”

“Uh-huh.” She takes a slow, smug sip of her drink. “And I totally don’t owe six months of rent.”

“Perssila.”

“I’m just saying!” she grins, propping her chin up with her hand. “If you wanna get all up in his business, just ask him out already. You’d get answers and possibly a rich boyfriend. Win-win.”

You groan, dramatically slumping forward. “I hate you.”

“No, you love me,” she sing-songs, swirling her drink. “And you love Geo, too. It’s okay. You’re in a safe space.” Perssila is still grinning like she just won the lottery at your expense when you sigh and swirl the wine in your glass.

"First of all, I don't love Geo. Second of all, Crowe is also lowkey rich. You know that, right? He was in high society before he got kicked out—same as Geo."

Perssila snorts and leans back in her chair, balancing on the two back legs like she has no regard for gravity or her spinal cord. 

"Yeah, but Crowe humble with it. You can tell he grew up rich. Man’s got that ‘I was raised with money but still humble enough to not be a complete dick’ energy." She explained, "Geo, though? Geo acts like he just spawned into existence one day with a full bank account and a bow. He’s a smug asshole."

You exhale sharply through your nose. "Okay, but seriously—you know anything about Geo's past? I feel like Crowe knows, but he just refuses to tell me. Like, I get it—privacy and all that—but it’s weird how little anyone knows about this guy."

Perssila tilts her head, tapping her chin. "Mmm... Well. Yeah. I know a little."

You nearly choke on your drink. "Are you serious?”

"Why do you think I let you buy me this wine?" she says, smirking. You narrow your eyes. "That was not the deal."

"It is now," she shrugs, taking a slow, smug sip. "Anyway," she continues, resting an elbow on the table, "Geo’s the same as Crowe. Formerly ranked as High Class—was probably on his way to being untouchable, too. But then there was this incident—a near accident or something—and Subaru’s status plummeted. Next thing you know, he's been transferred down to the Low-Class building, and boom—mystery man appears."

You sighed, listening, "Okay and…?"

She rolled her eyes at you. "And my point is—dude went from being top of the world to low-tier real quick. So yeah, it makes sense why he keeps to himself. Probably doesn’t want people prying into his past. Which, by the way—" she levels you with an amused look, "—is exactly what you're trying to do."

You groan, sinking into your chair.

"I just want to understand him."

Perssila snickers. "Yeah. That’s what they all say before they fall madly in love." You consider throwing your entire glass of wine at her.

Just for a second, anyway. Perssila twirls her wine glass between her fingers, watching you with the kind of smirk that suggests she’s having the time of her life watching you suffer.

"Look," she says finally, leaning forward. "If you’re that curious, why not just hang out with him more? I mean just go over his place, bothering him about Japanese culture of all things—might as well keep the momentum going."

You shoot her a dry look. "Bothering?"

She grins. "Annoying. Pestering. Loitering in his presence like a cat that refuses to be kicked out—take your pick."

You take a long, long sip of wine, debating whether or not it's worth the effort to argue. Spoiler: It’s not.

Perssila props her chin on her hand, watching you with an unreadable expression. "But honestly? I think he might actually be more willing to talk if it’s you."

You blink. "…What?"

She gestures vaguely. "I mean, I’ve seen the way he acts around you. The way he actually responds instead of just ignoring people into oblivion. He listens to you. He pays attention to you. You think I don’t notice the way his eyes flick over when you’re talking? Like he’s actually engaged?"

You scoff. "He insults me half the time."

"Yeah, but in a constructive way," she says, dead serious.

"What does that even mean?"

Perssila shrugs. "I dunno, man. He doesn’t tolerate anyone unless he has to, but you? You’re like this weird exception. He puts up with you—voluntarily. That’s gotta mean something."

You stare at her, processing. "…So what, you think if I just keep hanging out with him, he’s gonna start spilling all his secrets?"

She smirks. "I think if anyone’s gonna get him to talk, it’s you."

You squint at her. "You’re saying this. You, who just five minutes ago was laughing at me for giving a single shit about this man’s life."

Perssila grins, sipping her wine. "Yeah, but now I’m having fun watching you spiral."

You groan, slumping onto the table. "I hate you."

"No, you don’t," she sing-songs.

You do not dignify that with a response. But as much as you hate to admit it… She might have a point.

You’ve spent most of your time around him, yet most of what you know about him has been pieced together through sheer observation, like you’re some amateur detective tailing a particularly secretive suspect. 

Sure, you’ve figured out some things—his absurd wealth, his love for bow and arrow, his absolute refusal to react to most human emotions—but beyond that? The man is practically a ghost.  

So one day, curiosity gets the better of you. Instead of coming at him with a grand interrogation plan—because, let’s be honest, he’d shut that down immediately, you decide to start small. Real casual. Real low-stakes. Just like what Perssila said. 

"Hey, Geo, can you teach me more about Japanese culture?"  

You brace yourself. You expect something—a deadpan stare, a scoff, maybe even a sarcastic ‘Oh sure, let me clear my nonexistent schedule for that.’ But no. Geo doesn’t even blink. He just looks at you, considers it for all of one second, and says—  

"Yeah, sure."

Just like that. No hesitation. No follow-up questions. No cryptic conditions or exasperated sighs. Just a casual agreement, like you’d asked him to hand you a napkin or something.  

And now, here you are.  

Dressed in a dark purple velvet top, the fabric rich and soft against your skin, its lace-trimmed V-neck adding just the right touch of elegance without feeling overdone. Sleeveless, effortlessly stylish, yet comfortable enough to move in.

Then there are the denim shorts. Not the stiff, awkwardly long kind that makes you look like you borrowed them from a lost tourist. Not the aggressively high-waisted ones that practically scream ‘I’m trying too hard’. No, these fit just right—cuffed at the hem, hugging your thighs in a way that’s both flattering and casual. The kind of fit that feels natural, like they were made just for you.  

To pull it all together, you pair them with deep purple tights, perfectly matching your top—subtle, yet polished. A balance between laid-back and put-together, casual but undeniably ‘intentional’.

You weren’t dressing to impress, per se. But if Geo happened to take notice? Well… that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

What...?

Don’t look at yourself like that.

It’s not like you're not here for a date or anything. It’s just a casual cultural lesson, nothing more. But let’s be honest—if you’re going to spend time with Geo, a man who looks effortlessly cool even while glaring at people, you might as well put in some effort.  

Now, getting to this moment? That was a whole other battle.  

Standing in front of his door now feels like a victory because getting into this building was a nightmare. 

First of all, Geo’s place isn’t just some high-end apartment. No, this place is fortified. Locked down tighter than a government facility. You half-expected to see snipers on the roof and retinal scanners at the entrance.  

The lobby alone had more security than an underground vault. And let’s talk about the front desk—the lady sitting there? She took one look at you, scanned you up and down like she was a human lie detector, and immediately hit you with:  

"Do you have an appointment?"

And, of course, because Geo is Geo, he wasn’t answering his damn phone.  

The first call? Ignored.  

The second? Straight to voicemail. 

By the third, you were starting to wonder if you should just accept defeat and go home before you got physically removed from the premises.  

“If you don’t have a resident escorting you in, I’ll have to ask you to leave—"  

Then, finally, Geo picked up. "Yeah?" 

"Geo, open the damn door before I get tackled by security."  

There was a pause. A long one. You could feel him debating whether or not he actually cared enough to let you in.  

Then, at last—the golden words. 

"You can come up." Click. 

No ‘sorry for the wait,’ no ‘I was busy,’ just those four words, and he hung up. And now, after making it through what felt like a high-security clearance checkpoint, here you are. Standing in front of his door, mentally preparing yourself for whatever the hell this cultural lesson is going to entail. 

The door swings open, and there stands Geo—towering as usual but looking noticeably different from his usual composed, almost untouchable self.  

Black sweatpants hanging low on his hips. A tight, black sleeveless workout shirt that clings just right to his broad chest and toned arms. And the finishing touch? A white towel lazily draped over his head like he’s some kind of retired warrior fresh out of battle or, more accurately, a guy who just took a shower and couldn’t be bothered to dry his purple-bluish hair properly.

"Hey," he says, voice deep and casual. "Sorry, I just got out of the shower."  

Your brain? Gone. 

Just poof, Out the window.  

Because first of all, when the hell did Geo have muscles like that? You always knew he was strong—archery class legend and all—but this is next-level. Broad shoulders. Defined arms. That tight shirt clinging like it was custom-made for him. The kind of physique that makes it very clear he doesn’t just train for precision—he trains to kill. 

And second of all—this man really just answered the door looking like this, completely unfazed, like he didn’t just hit you with a full visual assault. Meanwhile, you’re standing there, struggling to form a coherent thought, your brain short-circuiting like an old Windows XP system.  

Geo, of course, notices immediately. Because of course, he does. He quirks an eyebrow, giving you that unreadable, slightly judgmental stare of his. "...You good?"  

You blink rapidly, realizing you’ve been staring for way too long. "Huh? Oh—yeah. Yeah, I’m good. Totally normal. Yep."  

Geo doesn’t look convinced. "...You sure?"  

"Yes, absolutely, 100% fine, nothing weird happening here at all," you say, definitely not sounding like someone who just had an internal crisis over their best friend’s post-shower look.  

Geo shrugs, seemingly letting it go, before stepping aside with that effortless, unbothered grace of his. "Come in. Make sure to take your shoes off."  

The moment you step inside, it’s like entering another world—one that is so distinctly Geo that it almost feels surreal. His apartment is nothing like the cold, modern, minimalist penthouses you’d expect from a ridiculously wealthy guy.

No obnoxious glass walls or sterile, personality-devoid furniture. Instead, it’s an elegant, traditional Japanese-style home, infused with warmth and quiet sophistication.  

Dark brown wooden floors stretch across the space, polished to perfection, so smooth they practically reflect the soft, ambient lighting. The walls are lined with beautifully crafted wooden panels, accented with shoji screens that subtly filter the sunlight, giving everything a serene, almost dreamlike quality.

It smells faintly of cedar and something else—maybe incense? Or maybe it’s just the natural scent of the place, like old books and earth after rain.  

Everything is arranged with the precision of a man who either has way too much self-discipline or secretly enjoys interior design.

The furniture is low to the ground—traditional tatami mats, a perfectly placed chabudai table in the center of the living room, and plush zaisu chairs without legs inviting guests to sit comfortably.

A bonsai tree sits on a small wooden stand near the window, pruned so meticulously that you wouldn’t be surprised if Geo meditates over it in complete silence for hours at a time.  

And the plants—oh, the plants.  

Lush, thriving, impossibly well-cared-for.

A variety of potted greenery lines the corners of the room, each one placed with almost suspicious intent as if they weren’t just decoration but rather a carefully curated collection. They look too healthy, their leaves glossy and vibrant.  

You narrow your eyes. 

This man definitely talks to them when no one’s around.

No dust. No clutter. Nothing out of place. It’s so perfectly maintained that you wouldn’t be surprised if he has a precise time schedule for cleaning, organizing, and making sure everything remains in its exact position.

Even the books on the low wooden shelves are arranged with an almost obsessive precision—some in height order, others in a specific color gradient.  

It’s the kind of home that feels like it belongs to someone with complete control over every aspect of their life. Someone disciplined. Someone who doesn’t let chaos seep in.  

Geo doesn’t give you time to keep gawking at his ridiculously well-put-together apartment. Instead, he just gestures lazily toward the open sliding door leading to his private balcony.  

"You wanna sit outside? The weather’s nice."  

You nod, mostly because you're still trying to process the fact that you're even here in the first place. Geo invited you over. He didn’t scoff, roll his eyes, or hit you with the usual "Why do you care?" deflection. Nope. He straight-up agreed. 

And now, you’re in his very Japanese—let’s not overthink that—ich-person apartment, about to learn more about him in the only way you could think of—by asking about his culture.  

Because let’s be real.  

You had no clue what else to ask him.

You could've asked him about his interests, his childhood, his favorite color—literally anything that would make this mission of ‘Figure Out Geo’ easier. But no. Your brain completely short-circuited, and the first thing that tumbled out of your mouth was:

"Teach me about Japanese culture."

Which, looking back, is hilarious.

Because let’s be real—Geo’s entire life is already Japanese culture. That’s not some hidden interest of his; that’s just his reality. It’s like walking up to a fish and asking it to teach you about water.

But hey—if nothing else, at least it gave you a solid reason to be here. And considering how rare it is for Geo to willingly spend time with anyone, you were not about to waste this opportunity.

"Is there anything specific you wanna learn?" Geo asks, already making his way toward the kitchen, rolling his shoulders like he’s still shaking off the remnants of his shower. "Or are we just gonna chill until something comes up?"  

You thought for a moment, “Not sure yet, still thinking about it.”

You follow him, stepping out onto his private balcony—because of course he has one. And not just any balcony. No, Geo’s balcony is a whole experience.

The dark wooden floors extend outward, resembling a carefully crafted deck that seamlessly blends into a patch of neatly maintained artificial grass. It's modern but still carries that traditional Japanese touch, like the rest of his immaculate apartment. 

A soft breeze rolls through, bringing with it the scent of greenery—mini bonsai trees placed with precision, a perfectly arranged rock garden that looks like it belongs in a meditation retreat, and even a few bamboo plants swaying gently as if they, too, had been trained to stay in line with Geo’s whole aesthetic.

And then, there's the setup.  

Off to the side, there’s a neatly spread blanket on the ground, surrounded by a few pillows that look way too comfortable to be casually ignored. You squint at it. Did he… did he actually set this up ahead of time? For you? 

Geo, the same man who doesn’t even like answering basic questions about himself, prepared for this? You glance at him, but he doesn’t acknowledge your obvious staring.

Instead, he casually lifts the towel from his head and drapes it around his neck like some kind of makeshift scarf before heading toward the kitchen.

As if he didn’t just casually prove that he does put effort into things when he wants to.  

"I’ll make lunch," Geo calls over his shoulder, already moving with the kind of quiet efficiency that tells you he’s got a plan. "Might as well feed you while you’re here."  

You blink. "You can cook?"  

Geo stops mid-step. Turns his head slightly. Levels you with an expression so flat it could press a shirt. His eye twitches. Just a little. The slight downturn of his lips—the barest hint of a frown—tells you everything.  

He is not happy.  

"Of course, I can." His voice is sharp, clipped—cool in that ‘I’m one second away from throwing you out’ kind of way. "I’m not so useless that I don’t know how to cook."  

Right. Of course. Rich, hyper-competent, and mildly terrifying. It was stupid to assume he wouldn’t know how to cook. What else was he going to do in his free time when he wasn’t being a god-tier archer or brooding in corners like some tragic anime character?  

Geo gives you one last, unimpressed glance before continuing toward the kitchen, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off the audacity of your question.

He pulls open a cabinet with precision, grabbing ingredients with the same efficiency you’ve seen him use with a bow. There’s no hesitation, no wasted movement—like he’s trained for this.  

You watch as he moves, effortlessly switching between prepping ingredients and heating up the stove, his focus entirely on the task at hand. He doesn’t need a recipe and doesn’t even pause to think.

Everything is second nature.  

You settle onto the blanket outside, still processing the fact that this is actually happening. You are here. Geo is willingly spending time with you. And now, he’s cooking for you.  

All right. Step one of ‘Figure Out Geo’ is officially in motion. Now, the real fun begins.

With Geo busy in the kitchen, you take the opportunity to ‘explore’—not snooping, of course.

Just… observing.  

You step lightly down the hallway, the soft padding of your feet barely making a sound against the dark wooden floors. The place is eerily silent, save for the faint sounds of chopping from the kitchen. Geo’s apartment is massive, and yet it feels too orderly like every single item has been placed with careful intent.  

The walls are adorned with sleek, traditional touches—dark wooden beams, sliding shoji doors, and minimalist decor that screams expensive.

The warm glow of soft lighting casts gentle shadows across the space, adding an almost serene atmosphere. Potted plants rest in the corners, each one thriving in a way that suggests meticulous care. 

Everything about his home is clean, and precise.

Just like him.

But as you move deeper, something feels …off? Like there’s l no family photos. Not a single framed memory, no candid snapshots, no evidence of a past beyond the person he presents to the world. Instead, the walls are lined with framed art—landscapes, abstract pieces, and traditional Japanese prints. Beautiful, sure. But impersonal.  

No childhood photos. No family portraits. No friends. Just silence and a carefully curated existence. Weird. Your curiosity gets the best of you, and before you can fully think it through, your fingers move on their own—lightly gripping the handle of a sleek wooden dresser drawer and pulling it open just enough to peek inside.  

What you find makes you pause. Rope. A lot of it. Neatly coiled, stacked with precision, different thicknesses, and textures. Some of them have knots already tied—intricate, practiced, deliberate.  

Your brain short-circuits.  

Why… does Geo have so much rope?  

Is he an extreme camping enthusiast? A *very dedicated climber? Does he secretly moonlight as a sailor?  

…Or worse.  

Has he been preparing for something?

Your mind spirals through every possible scenario, and none of them make sense. You reach for one of the coils, running your fingers over the smooth, tightly wound fibers. The knots aren’t random; they’re specific—intricately done, almost decorative. Like whoever tied them had skill.

That’s… concerning.

You need an outside opinion. Grabbing your phone, you quickly type out a message to Perssila. 

You: Hey, random question—what does it mean if someone has, like… a concerning amount of rope in their dresser?

You hover over the send button, still staring at the strangely organized collection of rope. Your thumb twitches, hovering just above the message. What the hell is Geo into? You can't help but wonder. You're so lost in thought that you don't even notice the heavy silence settling in around you.

And then it hits you.

That presence.

The unmistakable, terrifyingly silent presence of Geo standing directly behind you.

You freeze. Your heart leaps into your throat, and your phone feels suddenly too heavy in your hand. You don’t dare move—just stare at your phone, unable to even blink, your thumb still lingering a breath away from sending the text.

Slowly—very slowly—you turn your head.

Geo stands there, towering over you, his tall frame casting a shadow that seems to fill the entire room.

He leans slightly forward, his hands pressed flat against the dresser, a move that traps you in place.

You can feel the heat radiating off him, the slight tension in his muscles that only emphasizes just how much bigger he is than you. 

His presence alone is overwhelming—an unspoken dominance that somehow manages to feel both protective and intimidating. His expression is unreadable—his features smooth, his eyes sharp, with that cold intensity that’s become all too familiar.

But his gaze? Heavy. Like he’s weighing you, evaluating you, and you’re not sure you’re winning this game.

"Aren’t you nosey," he murmurs, voice impossibly calm, almost too soft. "You find something you like?"

You swallow hard.

Oh. Oh, you messed up.

You don’t even get the chance to respond. The next thing you know, you’re gently nudged out of the room and back onto the balcony, your feet barely brushing the floor as Geo wordlessly leads you outside. You sink onto the blanket, feeling the cool fabric beneath you like it's somehow a symbol of your failure.  

Geo follows you out with a tray in hand—cut-off sandwiches—seriously, did he cut these into perfect triangles just to mess with you? And a steaming cup of green matcha tea that looks like it could’ve been brewed in a high-end Japanese teapot or straight from some Zen temple. 

He sets the tray down next to you, and you swear you feel the weight of his gaze even before you look up. You sit with your arms crossed over your chest, awkwardly trying to look like you're not completely out of your depth here.

The sandwich corners are a little too neat, and the way the matcha steam rises is almost a little too calm. Your eyes avoid his—because the last thing you want is to see that expression.  

Geo sits right next to you, arms crossed, then turns and looks down at you with a silent intensity that feels more like a lecture than anything else. His gaze isn’t soft. It’s deliberate, calculating like he’s waiting for you to say something, anything, that doesn’t sound like an awkward mess.  

You stare at the sandwiches. They’re perfectly arranged—just like everything else in his life.  

He doesn’t break the silence.  

Finally, after a moment that feels like an eternity of pretending you’re not absolutely freaking out, you glance up at him. You have to. He’s just sitting there, legs spread wide, shoulders broad, looming over you, radiating a sense of control that makes you feel even smaller than you already do. His eyes—cool, dispassionate—lock onto yours.  

"Are you going to eat or just sit there and stare?" His voice is as sharp as ever, but there's a hint of something you can’t quite place.  

You blink, then look down at the platter again. The sandwiches look innocent enough. You pick one up, hesitating for just a second before taking a bite. It’s delicious—of course it is.

The kind of simple yet elegant meal that somehow makes you feel like you’ve stepped into a high-class tea ceremony instead of a quiet afternoon with a guy who’s clearly got way too many layers for your brain to handle.  

Geo keeps watching.  

Geo’s eyes don’t leave you as you struggle to form a response. The air between you both is thick, every second stretching longer than it should. He doesn’t even blink, waiting for you to find your words.

"You know," Geo’s voice cuts through the silence again, low and sharp. "You came here to learn about Japanese culture, right?"

You nod, though it’s more of a reflex than any solid commitment to the plan.

"But..." He raises an eyebrow, his voice turning slightly more curious, but still with that edge. "Do you actually want to learn about Japanese culture, or is it just an excuse to figure me out?"

The question hits you like a bucket of ice water. Your breath catches in your throat as you freeze, staring into his unreadable eyes. You open your mouth, but no words come out at first. You’ve got no idea how to respond. Not without sounding like a total idiot.

"Well?" His voice is quieter this time, the same calm tone, but there's something deeper—something that feels a little too close to the truth for comfort.

You shift uncomfortably, your fingers nervously tapping the side of your tea cup. Your heart rate picks up, and your mind starts scrambling. 

What did you even come here for? 

To understand him? To learn about his life and mind? Or maybe—just maybe—you were trying to learn something else. Something about Geo that you knew he wasn’t just going to hand over easily.

The silence stretches on. And then, all at once, you give in.

"Okay, fine," you blurt, not caring how much it sounds like you're confessing something you’ve kept hidden for a while. "I… I wanna know more about you…” You started before adding, “Not just Japanese culture. I mean, I do want to learn about that too, but it’s kind of hard not to get curious about you when you're this impossible to figure out."

The words tumble out of you faster than you can stop them. The rush of honesty almost makes your head spin. You haven’t admitted this to anyone, and now it feels like you've exposed yourself in front of someone who could probably read you like an open book.

You finally glance up at him, expecting some kind of judgment or mockery, but instead, Geo’s expression doesn’t change. He’s still watching you closely, not saying anything. His eyes are calculating, sharp as ever, but there’s a faint softness in them. Just a flicker of understanding. 

And then, just when you think you’ve completely bared your soul to him, Geo does the unexpected. He leans back slightly, a small but knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Mhm,” he says again, but this time, it’s not quite as cold. "So you’ve been trying to figure me out all this time, huh?"

You feel the heat rising to your cheeks, and you quickly take another sip of matcha to hide the embarrassment.

Geo shifts, his posture still relaxed but somehow more at ease now. "Well, you’ve got a whole rest of the day. But I’ll warn you," he adds, his voice low and serious, "I’m not as simple as you think I am.”

You narrow your eyes at him over the rim of your teacup. "Yeah, no kidding. You’re like one of those 5,000-piece puzzles with no edge pieces and half the picture missing."  

Geo snorts, just barely, but you catch it. A tiny victory.  

"I’ll take that as a compliment," he said.

"Wasn’t meant to be," you mutter, stuffing a sandwich into your mouth before you say something else that could get you kicked out.  

Geo watches you chew like he’s evaluating your life choices, then tilts his head slightly. "So, since you’re so determined to learn about me, go ahead. Ask something."  

You swallow your bite too fast and nearly choke. Great. Fantastic start.  

Geo waits, unimpressed, while you regain control of your breathing. You rack your brain for something that won’t make you sound like an idiot. "What’s your favorite color?" Too basic. "Have you ever been in love?" It’s too invasive—you’re not trying to get kicked out twice in one day.  "Why do you own an unsettling amount of neatly coiled rope?" 

…Yeah, no. That’s gonna have to stay a mystery for now.  

So instead, you blurt out, "Do you talk to your plants?" Geo blinks. Slowly.  

Then, in the most deadpan tone possible, he says, "Do you talk to your plants?"  

"That’s not an answer!" 

He raises a single, judgmental eyebrow. "That’s not a real question."  

You gape at him. "Excuse you, I think it’s a very real question. Considering the fact that your plants look like they get more love and affection than most people." Geo doesn’t even try to argue. He just shrugs, gaze flickering out toward the balcony where his suspiciously thriving potted plants bask in the sunlight like spoiled little creatures.  

"I read that talking to them helps them grow," he finally admits, voice casual, but his eyes dart to the side like he knows you’re about to make this a Thing.  

"Oh my god," you gasp dramatically, leaning forward. "What do you say to them? Do you whisper sweet nothings? Give them motivational speeches?"  

Geo exhales through his nose, the closest thing to a sigh you’ve heard from him so far. "You are unbelievable.”  

"I need to know. Do you call them by name? Compliment their leaves? Tell them you’re proud of their progress?" He levels you with the flattest look imaginable. "Are you done?"  

You beam. "Not even close."  

Geo stares at you for a moment longer, then—without a word—reaches forward, plucks a sandwich from the tray, and shoves it directly into your mouth. Your muffled protests do nothing.  

"You talk too much," he mutters, leaning back like he didn’t just feed you like a disobedient pet. You chew aggressively, glaring at him the entire time, but you can’t even be that mad. Mostly because the sandwich is good.  

Geo lets out a deep, drawn-out breath like he’s regretting every decision that’s led him to this moment. Instead of answering your barrage of ridiculous questions, he shifts positions, stretching out fully onto the blanket, arms folded behind his head as he gazes up at the sky.  

The warm sunlight filters through the clouds, casting soft shadows across his face. His aquamarine eyes catch the light, the color deep and almost translucent—like the ocean before a storm. You take in more details now that he’s still, noticing the sharp structure of his jaw, the slight upturn of his nose, and those plumper-than-expected lips.

The dark bluish-purple strands of his neatly tied ponytail contrast against the light fabric of the blanket. His long, rectangular earrings shift slightly as he settles/ 

And, well… you definitely staring.  

Geo cracks one eye open. "If you’re going to hover like that, at least make yourself useful and block the sun." He exhales sharply through his nose, something between a sigh and a quiet laugh, before tilting his head back against the blanket. His eyes flicker to yours, sharp and assessing, before he shuts them completely, soaking in the sun once more.  

You, on the other hand, are very aware of how precarious this position is. Your knees are dug into the blanket, your hands braced beside his head, your face way too close to his. You hadn’t even realized how low you were leaning over him until now.  

Your body jolts slightly when the realization hits, and the movement doesn’t go unnoticed. 

His lips twitch, just barely. "Something wrong?"  

"No," you say, too quickly, shifting slightly, but not enough to actually move away. His eyes are still closed, but the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing. And then, because you refuse to lose whatever this weird battle of wills has become, your mouth moves faster than your brain.  

"Just wondering when you’re going to start interrogating your plants since you're obviously dodging my questions."  

His expression doesn’t change, but there’s a noticeable pause before he speaks. "They’re still better questions than yours," he mutters.  

You gasp in mock offense, shoving at his shoulder—not hard enough to move him, just enough to make a point. "Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t come prepared with an official interview sheet, Mr. Mystery."  

Geo finally cracks an eye open, unimpressed. "Maybe you should’ve."  

You huff, shifting again, but instead of moving away, you lower your weight onto your elbows, your face hovering just a little closer over his. You don’t miss the way his brows twitch slightly at the movement, but if he’s uncomfortable, he doesn’t show it.  

Your gaze flickers over his features. His dark bluish-purple hair is fanned slightly against the blanket, framing his face in a way that makes him look softer, and more relaxed. The sunlight catches on his aquamarine eyes as they track your expression, the color so vivid it almost looks unreal. His septum piercing glints when he shifts, and the earrings dangling from his ears sway slightly with the movement.  

You clear your throat, trying to steer your thoughts back on track. "So what, you want me to ask—what? Your deepest fears? Your worst childhood memory?"  

Geo hums thoughtfully, tilting his head just enough to make it obvious that he knows exactly what he’s doing. "Better than whatever nonsense you’ve been throwing at me."  

"Fine," you challenge, narrowing your eyes. "What’s your biggest regret?"  

For a second, just a second, something shifts in his expression. His gaze sharpens like he’s considering whether or not to answer. Then, his lips curve into something that isn’t quite a smirk but isn’t entirely neutral either.  "Letting you into my apartment."  

You gasp, scandalized, pulling back slightly. "You’re so mean!" Geo exhales a long-suffering sigh and drags a hand down his face. "You really don’t know when to quit."  

"Not when I sense weakness." You grin, watching the muscles in his jaw twitch. Slowly, he pushes himself up onto his elbows, closing the space between you again. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes glint with something that makes your stomach flip.  

"Then I suggest you stop poking at things you’re not ready to handle," he murmurs, voice low, deliberate.  

Your breath catches for just a moment. You narrow your eyes at him, shifting slightly but still keeping your position above him, bracing yourself on either side of his head. 

His answer doesn’t really answer anything, and that smug little smirk tugging at the edge of his lips tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing. You hum, pretending to think. Then, because you know you’re pushing your luck, you grin. "Fine. Why on earth do you own so much rope?"  

Silence. 

Geo’s expression doesn’t change. Doesn’t shift. Doesn’t so much as flinch.  

And yet, you feel a distinct shift in the air as his eyes half-lid in something that looks suspiciously close to amusement. "Why do you think I own so much rope?" he asks, voice smooth—too smooth.  

You immediately regret your curiosity. Your brain conjures up a hundred different answers, none of which you should be saying out loud. Unfortunately, silence isn’t an option either, because Geo is just waiting, watching, unblinking, and enjoying this way too much. You shift, eyeing him with exaggerated suspicion. “…Rock climbing?"

A barely-there twitch of his lips. "Try again."

"Crafting?"

"Be serious."

You narrow your eyes, gaze flicking toward the closet where you first spotted the neatly coiled bundles of rope. "Do you… tie up intruders?"

Geo exhales sharply, a breath of quiet amusement through his nose. "Depends on the intruder."

Your body stills, heartbeat ticking just a little louder in your ears. His tone is too even, too unbothered. He didn’t say no. Your eyes flick back to his, scrutinizing. "That is not a denial."

And then—he smirks. A slow, lazy, knowing half-smirk. One that curls at the edges just enough to make your stomach dip slightly before you shove the feeling away.

"Geo," you say, scandalized. "Are you—are you a kidnapper?"

He groans, tilting his head back against the blanket, hands covering his face like the sheer force of your stupidity is physically painful. "Oh my god."

"You are!" You gasp, jabbing a finger into his shoulder. "I knew it. You totally—"

You don’t get to finish. Because a hand moves. Fast.

Before you can react, your wrist is caught in a firm grip, momentum flipped with practiced ease. The world tilts abruptly, breath-catching as your back meets the blanket in an unceremonious sprawl. You barely register the shift before you’re caged. Geo looms above you, one arm braced beside your head, the other still securing your wrist against the fabric. His weight barely touches you, yet the closeness—the gentle control—presses into the air between you like something tangible.

You blink. His expression is unreadable. Calm. Studying. There’s no smugness, no teasing grin—just a quiet, sharp scrutiny that makes your breath hitch despite yourself. A test. A silent now what?

Your throat bobs as you swallow, suddenly very aware of every inch of space—or lack thereof—between your bodies. Geo tilts his head just slightly, watching you in that infuriatingly composed way, before finally speaking. "Instead of throwing random questions and assumptions at me," he murmurs, voice low, measured, "I need you to think—why do I own rope?"

Your lips part, mind racing through every possible implication before landing on the most obvious one. You stare up at him, blinking rapidly, feeling the heat creep up the back of your neck.  

Geo doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word—just waits, eyes closed, basking in the sun, perfectly content in his victory while you sit there malfunctioning.  

Your breath catches slightly as you shift beneath him, just enough to test the hold he still has on your wrist. His grip is firm but not painful, a simple, unspoken reminder that he had flipped you onto your back with barely any effort. You feel the weight of his presence, the way his body shadows yours, his long fingers still loosely wrapped around your wrist.  

You swallow. Then, in a moment of pure, unfiltered realization, your eyes widen. "Oh." Geo hums, the sound deep in his chest, a silent acknowledgment that he knows exactly what just clicked in your brain. "Oh." You swallow again, blinking up at him. "You… you like tying people up."  

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t deny it. Your stomach does something weird. Not bad, not unsettling—just… weird. Geo finally opens his eyes, looking down at you with an expression that is both unimpressed and deeply entertained. "That took you longer than I expected."  

You huff, willing the heat in your face to die down, but it’s no use. "I was trying to give you the benefit of the doubt."  

He sighed, tilting his head slightly. "That was your mistake."  

You scoff, shoving at his shoulder with your free hand, and to your mild frustration, he doesn’t budge. "So what, you have some secret collection of knots you practice? Like, ‘oh, here’s my specialty hostage tie’—"  

"Shibari."

You freeze mid-sentence, your brain hitting a wall. "What?"

Geo’s gaze remains steady, unreadable, his voice a little too casual—too smooth. "The word you’re looking for. It’s called shibari."

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. "Oh." A pause.

Geo just watches you, waiting, his expression calm—expectant. The realization fully dawns, your mind short-circuiting as pieces snap together at an alarming rate. And because your brain has officially abandoned all common sense, your mouth moves before you can stop it. "You practice?"

Geo exhales a sharp, amused breath that’s almost a laugh before he finally releases your wrist. He shifts effortlessly onto his side, propping his head up with one hand while the other rests lazily against his stomach. He looks relaxed—too relaxed—like he’s completely enjoying watching your mind self-destruct. "Wouldn’t you like to know?" 

You groan, dragging your hands down your face, already regretting everything. “Fuck. You totally do." Geo just smirks—entirely unbothered—as he reaches for a sandwich from the tray, taking his time, fingers deliberate as they pull it apart slightly before bringing it to his mouth. He chews, slow, unrushed as if this entire conversation hasn’t completely derailed your ability to function.

You watch him, brain still spinning, words refusing to string together properly. Finally, you take a deep breath, collecting yourself, sitting up slightly. Your eyes narrow. "So…" You tilt your head. "How good are you?" 

Geo stops mid-bite. For the first time, his composure cracks—not much, just the briefest flicker of something in his expression before he chokes on his sandwich. He coughs once, sharply, hastily covering his mouth, eyes momentarily widening as he tries to recover.

Geo’s gaze sharpens, his smirk turning razor-sharp, like a cat that’s just cornered something far too cocky for its own good. He stretches his fingers slowly, considering his next move with the kind of deliberation that sends a shiver down your spine. Then, he tilts his head, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Since you’re so curious," he muses, voice smooth like silk, "Want me to show you my skills?"

Your stomach does a flip. A nervous flip. This could go very, very wrong.

Without thinking, the word slips out of your mouth before your brain has a chance to catch up. "Yes."

You instantly regret it. Almost.

Geo looks at you, his gaze flickering with something unreadable, something that makes your heart skip in a way you really don’t want to acknowledge. Then, he exhales through his nose, amusement glinting in his eyes. "Brave."

No. Stupid, actually. You realize just how far you’ve gone now.

Geo moves with an ease that shouldn’t be this intimidating. One moment, he’s leaning back on the blanket, casually finishing his sandwich, and the next, he’s pushing himself up onto his knees with the same fluid grace he’d exhibited when first walking into the room.

Suddenly, the air feels heavier. You blink, realizing you’ve just entered a zone you didn’t even know existed. And now, standing over you, Geo looks… dangerous.

His fingers brush against your wrist with startling precision, his touch cold and deliberate as he gives you a look that sends an unspoken message straight to your gut.

Without a word, he takes your wrist, his grip firm, like he’s done this a thousand times before. You go rigid for a moment, heart racing. It’s not that you’re scared—well, not exactly—but there’s something about the way Geo moves, the way he controls every single moment, that sends a chill down your spine.

He stands up, pulling you gently yet firmly along with him, leading you towards a door at the far end of the room you hadn’t noticed before. There’s something darkly intriguing about it—something about the way he moves, how confident he is in his space, that you can’t help but be drawn to it. 

Geo opens the door to reveal a room you can’t even begin to process at first. 

The air smells like straight rope, and in the center of the room, there a different types of ropes and several other tools--neatly arranged on shelves. "Welcome to my practice space," he says casually as if this is all completely normal. 

Your brain takes a moment to catch up. This is real. This is actually happening. 

You’re standing in Geo’s personal bondage room.

He looks at you, sensing your hesitation but not saying a word. Then, with the flick of a wrist, he unhooks the nearest length of rope, a purplish one, and begins unraveling it, the motion fluid practiced.

"So," he starts, voices casually again as he turns to face you. "You were curious. You want to see how it’s done?"

You swallow, trying to regain control of your brain which seems to have temporarily shut down. "Do you practice on others?" you ask, voice more steady than you feel.

Geo doesn't answer right away. He simply raises an eyebrow and finishes pulling the rope taut in his hands. When he does speak, it’s calm, but with an underlying tone of something deeper, something that makes your heart rate spike again.

"I used to take classes," he admits, his gaze never leaving you. "But eventually, I taught myself. After a while, I didn’t need anyone else." He steps closer, his presence overwhelming in the best and worst ways. "I practice on myself now."

The words settle like ice in your stomach.

"You practice… on yourself?" you repeat, trying to grasp the weight of what he’s just said.

Geo nods, his expression unreadable. "It’s... efficient." He moves towards the bench, the sound of the rope sliding against itself making your chest tighten. "But if you really want to know what I’m capable of, you’ll have to trust me."

You blink, realization dawning on you. 

This is no longer hypothetical. No longer a curiosity you can walk away from. 

This is real, and you’re in it now.

Geo watches you for a moment longer, waiting for your response. His fingers gently twirl the rope, giving it a little snap as if to remind you of its presence.

"I think you’ll find that trust is a pretty key ingredient here," he adds, voice low, almost predatory.

Your heart skips a beat, the weight of his words hanging heavily in the air. 

Trust. 

The room feels smaller now, and your breath seems louder as you take in the ropes and tools scattered around the space. It’s not like you hadn’t known what you were walking into when you’d asked—no, you were fully aware—but actually being in this moment, in this room, with Geo, makes everything feel so much more... real.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—something patient but knowing, as if he’s watching you carefully, measuring your every move. He’s not in a rush, and that’s what makes it worse. You know he’s waiting for you to make the next move, and yet you’re caught in this swirl of confusion and curiosity.

"I..." you start, but the words feel clumsy in your mouth. You don’t know what to say, how to ask, or if you even want to ask any more questions. You were just playing around before, throwing out a joke, trying to break the tension. Now, it feels like you're treading water in a deep ocean, and you're so out of your depth.

Geo doesn’t speak for a moment, just watches you, his expression unreadable. It’s like he’s giving you space, the kind of space that feels so heavy you can’t even breathe. Then, he moves again. It’s fluid, and smooth, with the same effortless grace as before. He steps closer, narrowing the gap between the two of you until you can feel the heat of his body in the space just in front of you. 

"Would you like me to tie you up?” he asks, his voice a soft drawl, almost teasing. His words send a ripple of something sharp through your chest. You’re dying to know more, to ask more, but something in the pit of your stomach warns you that diving deeper into this conversation might lead you somewhere you can’t come back from. 

You glance at the ropes hanging from a hook by the wall, the tools that could easily be used to restrict, to bind, to hold. But the question still lingers in the air: Are you willing to be tied up?

"So..." you murmur, trying to keep the shakiness out of your voice, “That”’s what you gonna do to me? …Tie me up?”

Geo tilts his head slightly, watching your eyes flicker between him and the room around you. He knows exactly what you’re doing, exactly what’s running through your mind. He sighs and steps even closer now, reaching for the ropes, his fingers curling around the smooth, coiled lengths as if they’re an extension of him. 

"I’m not going to do anything with you," he says, low and almost comforting, as if trying to ease some of your panic. “I can tie you and explain to you how this works, we can go through it. If not, we can pretend none of this happened,” 

And with that, he steps back, letting the ropes fall slightly into his hands. His eyes search yours with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken. 

“I’ll let you decide how deep you want to go,” he says again, his tone calm and almost soothing. “No pressure. No rushing into anything. I’m not going to force you, okay?” His eyes are steady on you, searching for any sign of hesitation, and you can feel the sincerity in his words. 

You nod, understanding the subtle care behind his words. He’s not trying to control this moment; he’s giving you space to back out if you need to. But, something inside you makes the decision, and you meet his eyes with quiet determination. 

Trust, like he said, is mutual. 

You don’t have to dive into something you’re not ready for.

After a breath, you whisper, “Okay. Please show me, Geo.”

Geo’s lips quirked into a soft hum, a sound that almost felt approving, but it was casual, with no force behind it. He nods as if you’ve passed some kind of unspoken test. 

The rope in his hands makes a satisfying snap as he tightens it, and his movements are slow, and deliberate, like he’s trying to make sure you’re okay with everything that’s happening. “Let’s take it slow, all right?” he murmurs as he guides you down to the floor, gently encouraging you to kneel. He follows your lead, his body moving with purpose but no rush.

“Is there a specific way you want me to tie you?” Geo asks, watching you closely. His gaze is soft, but the way his eyes study you says he’s waiting for your answer, giving you control in this situation. His voice is unhurried, and there's no pressure behind it—just genuine curiosity.

You swallow, feeling a sudden warmth spread through your chest. 

"Not sure," you admit, your pulse quickening as the anticipation starts to settle in. "Pick for me." A flicker of something crosses his face—maybe interest, maybe amusement—but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he just nods, seemingly satisfied with your response. 

Without skipping a beat, he reaches for the coil of rope beside him, his movements fluid and practiced. He holds the rope for a moment, running it through his fingers like it’s second nature. “Ushiro takate kote,” he murmurs quietly, almost to himself, as he gathers the rope in his hands.

It’s a technique you don’t fully know yet, but the sound of it, the way he says it, almost feels like an invitation to trust him completely. Then, meeting your gaze, he explains, "It’s foundational. Classic. It controls the upper body, secures the arms behind the back in a balanced U-shape… and it’s one of the first ties I ever learned."

You swallow, watching his hands with quiet intensity as he begins to unravel the rope. The fibers slide smoothly through his fingers, each coil effortlessly falling into place like a dance. There’s a calm, steady confidence in his movements as if this is second nature to him—no hesitation, no rush.

“Hold still,” he says, voices soft but firm, and you do as you're told, heart, picking up just slightly.

Geo moves behind you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his presence without him touching you. His breath brushes against your neck as he reaches for your wrists in front of you, and for a moment, you freeze. His touch is gentle, but firm as he guides your arms behind you, positioning them to rest one on top of the other. 

His fingers brush your skin as he pulls the rope taut for the first time. It’s not painful, but you feel the pressure, the way the fibers bite into your skin just enough to make you acutely aware of each movement. His touch is careful, deliberate, adjusting and readjusting, as if he’s taking the time to make sure everything aligns perfectly.

"This tie," he says, voice low and smooth, "is the foundation for a lot of shibari forms. It's about balance. Control. Presentation." The rope winds around your arms, pulling them into position. Each pass tightens just a little more, and you feel the steady pressure increase, the sensation settling across your muscles. It’s precise and controlled, and you can feel the thought behind each knot, each loop.

He doesn’t fumble, doesn’t hesitate. 

Every movement is calculated and effortless.

You shift slightly, feeling his breath warm on the back of your neck. You move just enough to give him space, and he works, tying the rope around the top of your arms, and lacing it across your chest. The rope swings behind you, crossing over your back before he brings it back to the front again. Each movement is purposeful, each knot placed with a careful consideration that leaves you breathless.

Geo’s hands never rush. There’s something almost meditative in the way he works, his fingers moving with quiet intention. He pulls the rope under your arms, adjusting, making sure the fit is even. The rope brushes against your skin in a way that feels almost too intimate, but it’s not uncomfortable. There’s a raw emotion in the way his hands move—each tug, each twist, feels like it has its own weight, its own purpose. It’s not just about tying knots; it’s about creating something—something deeply personal.

Your fingers twitch slightly, the only sign of your growing awareness of how tightly secured you are, but the pressure is balanced—just enough to feel the restraint, but not so much that you’re overwhelmed. 

As Geo finishes the final section of the knotting, he shifts slightly in front of you, his hands moving with a practiced, fluid grace. He pulls the rope snugly, adjusting the tension with precision, focusing on each curve and contour of your body. 

You can feel the weight of his careful attention, the way he enhances the shape of your breasts with the gentle pressure of the rope, each loop placed with purpose but never rushed.

The quiet in the room feels heavier now, almost suffocating, and you can hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears, a soft, rhythmic thrum that echoes against the stillness. 

“You’re really good at this,” you murmur, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

Geo pauses, his hands lingering on the rope for a beat longer than necessary. A soft exhale escapes him, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, as if amused by your comment. “I should be,” he replies, his voice smooth and warm with amusement, but it’s not arrogance. No, there’s just a quiet acknowledgment, a hum of experience behind his words. 

You can’t help but notice the way his touch seems to linger a fraction longer than required, his fingers grazing your skin as he double-checks his work. Every motion is careful, almost reverent, ensuring the ropes are secure but never too tight, and that everything sits just right. He moves like this is second nature to him, yet with an intimacy that makes you feel as if you’re the only one who matters at this moment. 

When he leans back slightly to admire his handiwork, you feel the subtle shift in the air—the space between you expands, but it feels like an unspoken agreement that this space, this connection, is something shared. 

His gaze sweeps over you, lingering for a moment on the knots, his eyes scanning the ropes with the quiet intensity of someone making sure everything is perfect.

You shift a little, testing the ropes again, feeling the tension and the tightness wrapped around you, but there's a steady calmness that follows. You meet Geo’s eyes and ask, almost shyly, "Hey, can you... can you take a few pictures of me? I want to see how it looks, like, all of it. My phone’s in my back pocket." 

Geo’s expression softens, but there’s a flicker of curiosity in his gaze. He doesn’t respond immediately, just watches you with a quiet intensity as if weighing your request. His hands, which had been making final adjustments to the ropes, now still for a moment. 

"Yeah?" His voice is low and thoughtful. "You want to see it that badly?" 

You nod slowly, a faint blush creeping up your neck, suddenly aware of how exposed you are in the moment—physically, sure, but also emotionally. Still, the strange sense of comfort you feel keeps you grounded. 

Geo sighed before his lips curled into that subtle smirk again—the kind that makes you feel like he knows something you don’t. 

"You got it," he says, leaning forward, his hands moving with practiced ease to slide your phone out from your back pocket. His touch is gentle, but there’s a confidence in it, a steadiness that matches the way he’s holding you all along.

As Geo adjusts the phone, getting it in place, you sit still, your breath slowing as you prepare to see the image. You feel strangely exposed, but not in the way you'd imagined. Instead, it’s as if a new part of yourself is being revealed, not just to Geo, but to you as well.

The click of the camera snaps you out of your thoughts, and before you can say anything, he lowers the phone, locking eyes with you. “You ready for your reveal?” he asks, his tone teasing, but there’s a slight softness there too. 

"Yeah," you reply quietly, and when you glance down at the screen, your breath catches for a split second. It’s not just a picture; it’s a snapshot of vulnerability, of a moment you didn't think you’d be able to capture. You’re wrapped in those ropes, but somehow, you look... confident.

Even empowered in a strange, sexy way.

Geo watches your reaction carefully, his fingers grazing lightly over your arm. “How does it feel?” he asks again, a little more curious now as if he’s checking in with you in this new space you’re in together.

You swallow, your heart racing a little faster at the image in front of you, the surreal combination of submission and control. 

"It feels... right," you admit, your voice quiet but steady. "I didn't expect it to. But it does."

Geo’s eyes linger on you for a moment, as if committing the sight to memory, before he sets the phone aside. But before he can move on, you shift slightly against the ropes, tilting your head as an idea pops into your mind.

"Hey, can you take a few more?" you ask, glancing up at him.

Geo raises an eyebrow, his lips twitching with amusement. "More?"

You nod, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious under his gaze, but the desire to see more of this side of yourself outweighs the embarrassment. “Yeah, I... I just wanna see how it all looks. Like, from different angles or something.”

Geo exhales a slow, dramatic sigh, shaking his head. "You're lucky you're cute," he mutters, but there’s no real annoyance in his voice—if anything, there’s a hint of fondness.

Still holding you in place, he shifts slightly, reaching for your phone again. With the practiced ease of someone who’s far too used to indulging your whims, he angles the camera, snapping a few more pictures—some closer, some showing the full extent of the bindings.

Every now and then, his eyes flicker back to you, silently making sure you’re still comfortable. And each time, you nod, feeling more at ease than you ever thought possible in this kind of setting.

After a few more clicks, Geo finally sets the phone down for good and shakes his head, smirking. “All right, you got your pictures. Happy now?”

You grin, cheeks warming at the nickname. “Yeah, I think so.”

He huffs, but the corner of his mouth betrays a hint of a smile. Then, without another word, his fingers begin to work at the knots, skillfully undoing them with the same precision he had when tying them. 

His fingers working with the same precision and care they had when tying them, you can’t help but let your mind wander. The way his hands move so naturally, unhurried yet efficient, has you thinking more about the quiet intimacy of the moment. 

Your mind wanders to the question that’s been nagging at you, the one that you can’t quite shake. You hesitate for a second, but then the words come spilling out, almost like an afterthought.

“So,” you start, voice a little tentative, “why are you into this stuff? I mean... I get the skill part, you’re really good at it. But what about the... whole thing?” You gesture vaguely at the ropes, unsure how to articulate the question any better, but hoping he understands what you mean.

Geo doesn’t immediately respond, his hands still working to untangle the ropes with careful precision now behind you. It’s almost like he’s contemplating the answer, taking his time. When he finally looks up at you, his expression is thoughtful, almost distant.

Geo’s hands work methodically, each pull of the rope gentle, his fingers tight and precise. He speaks in a low, steady tone, but there’s a certain edge in his voice like he's trying to keep control of something else.

“It’s not about... what you think it’s about,” he says, his gaze focused on the ropes, but there’s a subtle tightness in his jaw, as though he's fighting to keep his composure. “It’s the process. The control. The trust. The way it all comes together. It’s calming, something I can’t really explain to anyone else.” His hands don’t waver, but you notice the muscles in his arm flexing just a little more, a slight tremor that betrays his calm façade.

He doesn’t look up as he continues, but his voice falters ever so slightly like he’s trying to keep it even. “I’ve never really... shared this hobby of mine with anyone before, not even Jericho.” His gaze flickers to yours, but he doesn’t hold it, his eyes quickly darting away. The vulnerability in them is fleeting but undeniable—something he doesn’t show anyone.

“This part of me? It’s just... for me. I keep it to myself.”

The ropes fall away with each tug, and even though he’s untying you, there’s an odd sense of tending to you in the way he works. His hands are sure but gentle like he's aware of every inch of your skin, the subtle pressure of the rope, the way it all connects. It's intimate in a way that makes your pulse quicken—like he's paying attention to things that no one else ever has.

The words he shared hang in the air between you two, heavy with meaning. You feel a shift in the atmosphere like you've crossed a line—one that was never meant to be crossed, yet somehow, you’ve managed to find your way through it. 

And you're here. 

With him. 

A place that not even Crowe has been allowed to reach. A small, half-joking thought slips past your lips, an attempt to lighten the mood. “Well, at least I’m ahead on Crowe.”

Geo’s lips twitch in response, the corner of his mouth pulling up into the faintest of smiles. “Don’t get any funny ideas,” he mutters, his voice low and soft, though the amusement is unmistakable. There’s no malice in it, just playful restraint like he’s trying to keep his composure in check despite everything.

You shift slightly, feeling the weight of your body settle against Geo’s chest now that the ropes have been fully untied. It’s not uncomfortable, but there’s something almost grounding in the position. Something soothing. His chest rises and falls beneath you, steady, but there’s a tightness in the air, something suspended, like an unspoken tension that hangs between you both.

You glance at his hands again, watching as they smooth over the final knots, the last of the rope slipping away from your skin. You can’t help but lower your voice, soft and thoughtful, as you speak.

“You know,” you murmur, “it’s kind of fitting that you’re into this. I mean, you’re good with your hands, you’re patient. It makes sense.”

Geo’s chest tightens beneath you, the breath in his lungs hitching ever so slightly. It’s subtle, but you feel it—his body betraying something. His fingers twitch, flexing as if battling against some internal war. His voice drops, so low, it’s almost a whisper, and you feel the warmth of his breath against the back of your neck as his arms hover around you, hands frozen, not daring to touch, yet not pulling away.

“You’re right,” he says, voice almost strained. “I’m good with my hands. I’m patient. But... it’s not just that.”

Your curiosity piques, and without thinking, you shift, turning in his lap so that you’re facing him. His breath catches again, just barely, and you can feel the way his muscles tense with restraint, but it’s fleeting. His arms still hover, uncertain, like he’s fighting against something more than just the physical proximity. 

You tilt your head up slightly, eyes meeting his as you wait for him to finish his thought. Your patience is wearing thin, the space between you both growing more charged with each passing second.

"Then..." you murmur, voice soft yet teasing, "What is it?" 

Geo inhales sharply, his body shifting beneath you, muscles tensing as if fighting off the urge to move, to react in ways that would break whatever fragile control he’s desperately clinging to. 

His gaze falters, darting away for a second, like he’s trying to understand the intensity of what’s happening between you two, trying to fight back whatever feelings are rising to the surface. His fingers twitch at your waist, and then, as if losing that battle, they curve around you, pulling you closer.

There’s a slight shift in the air as his face nuzzles against the nape of your neck, the warmth of his breath brushing against your skin. You can feel the weight of him against you, his body leaning in, pressing against you like he’s desperate for something he’s unwilling to admit. His lips hover near your ear, his words laced with an honesty that surprises you.

“I don’t let people in like this,” he murmurs, voice rough and vulnerable in a way that makes your pulse skip. “Not like this... not ever.” He exhales, shaky, before continuing. “You’re the first.”

There’s a vulnerability in his tone, a rawness that cracks through whatever walls he’s tried to build around himself. His admission hits you harder than you expected, leaving a knot in your chest that you can’t untangle. The realization that you’re the first person he’s let in like this—that you’ve somehow managed to get past every guard he’s built around himself—settles over you like a heavyweight. 

It’s a strange feeling, one that both unsettles and comforts you at the same time. For a long moment, you’re still, trying to process everything. You knew something was there, some sort of pull, but this? 

This is something else entirely.

Geo’s grip tightens, fingers pressing just a little deeper into your waist, like he’s trying to anchor himself—trying to hold onto something steady while his world tilts in a way he wasn’t expecting. His forehead rests against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, slow and measured, like he’s trying to keep himself in check. 

“I’ve been trying to figure this out... for a while now,” he murmurs, voice rough, hesitant. “I don’t really understand us…”

His words sit heavy between you, threading through the quiet like something fragile. You pull back slightly, just enough to look at him, to meet that storm behind his eyes, but you don’t hesitate. 

You don’t second-guess. 

Instead, you lean in, closing the distance and pressing your lips to his—soft, unhurried, but firm enough to leave no room for doubt. It’s not desperate, not rushed, just something real. Something that’s been waiting to happen for longer than either of you probably want to admit. 

Geo stills beneath you, breath catching for just a second before he melts into it, his grip shifting, hands splaying over your back like he’s memorizing the way you feel in his arms. He doesn’t kiss back right away, like he’s trying to make sense of it, trying to process the fact that this is happening. But then, his lips move against yours—gentle, cautious, like he’s testing the weight of the moment. Like he’s afraid to break it. 

And it’s good. It’s slow and warm and careful in a way that makes your stomach flip. His fingers curl slightly against your skin, hesitant but firm, and there’s something about the way he holds you—like he wants to pull you closer but doesn’t quite know how. 

When you finally pull back, you’re both quiet, breath mingling in the space between you. His eyes flicker, searching yours, still trying to catch up with everything that just happened, his cheeks were flushed slightly and he was looking at you with a flustered expression.

“You’re not the only one who’s been trying to figure out what’s between us,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper, your fingers still resting against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm. “I like you, Geo. I do. The question is do you like me back...”

Geo blinks at you, lips slightly parted like he’s still working through the weight of your words. He remained quiet for a moment before he spoke softly.

"I do... I do like you,” he says slowly, his voice steady but quiet. “But I don’t really know how to show it.” His brows furrow slightly like he’s frustrated with himself. “Not like… like that, at least.”

You watch him for a second, then huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “You don’t have to do anything, Geo.” Your fingers brush lightly against his shirt, grounding yourself in the warmth of him.

Geo exhales, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. His arms are still around you, still holding on, even though he’s not entirely sure what to do with himself. 

But he doesn’t let go. 

“I still want you,” he mutters after a pause, almost like he’s testing the words, trying them out before fully committing. His gaze flickers to yours, hesitant but steady.

“But you already have me,” you whisper, forehead resting against his. “And that’s okay.”

Geo exhales, his arms tightening around you for just a second before he shifts—sudden, decisive. His grip is solid, and firm, and before you even register what’s happening, your feet leave the ground.  

“What the—Geo?” Your voice comes out half a sputter, half a breathless exhale as your hands instinctively clutch at his shoulders.  

He doesn’t falter. He doesn’t hesitate. Carrying you is effortless like you weigh nothing in his arms. The way he holds you isn’t rushed or careless—his grip is secure, steady like he’s making sure you’re safe, making sure you know he won’t drop you, won’t let you go.  

And yet, his face is unreadable.  

His jaw clenches slightly, his brows drawn together in the way he gets when he’s overthinking something. His arms remain firm around you, one hooked beneath your legs, the other supporting your back, fingers pressing lightly into the fabric of your clothes as he walks. The silence between you is thick, charged with something you can’t quite place, and you barely register the way the space around you changes until he steps into his bedroom.  

Wait. His bedroom?  

Your back meets soft sheets as he lowers you onto the bed, his movements gentle, careful—like he’s afraid of startling you, of doing this wrong somehow. His hands linger at your waist, just for a second, before he steps back, rubbing the back of his neck. There’s something hesitant in the way he shifts, something uncertain in the way he avoids your gaze.  

“I—” He exhales sharply, shaking his head like he’s trying to gather his thoughts like he’s trying to piece together the right words. His shoulders tense before he finally speaks.  

“Look, I don’t… need this,” he says, his voice quieter now, rough around the edges. “I don’t crave it. Sex. Any of it. I don’t think I ever have.”  

You blink, your brain lagging a second behind. “Okay…?”

“But,” he continues, eyes flickering to yours, hesitant but serious. “If you wanted it… I’d do it. For you.”

You stare at him. And keep staring. Because—what?

Geo shifts under your gaze, growing visibly uncomfortable. “What?” he mutters, crossing his arms like he’s suddenly feeling too exposed. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because that makes no fucking sense, Geo.” You sit up, your mind still scrambling to piece together what he’s saying. “You just said you don’t want it, don’t need it, but you’d still do it? For me?” 

He doesn’t answer right away, his expression twitching into something like frustration—at himself, not at you. His fingers flex, like he wants to do something with his hands, but he doesn’t move.

“Yeah,” he finally mutters. “I would.”

Your head tilts, trying to wrap your brain around this. “But… why?”

Geo lets out a sharp breath, dragging a hand down his face. “I don’t fucking know,” he admits, his voice edged with frustration, though not directed at you. “I just— I like you. A lot. And I wanna… I don’t know, make you happy?” 

Your stomach flips at that, at the sheer honesty of it, but you’re still trying to piece it all together. “So you’d do something you don’t even enjoy just because I wanted it?”

He shrugs, looking away. “Yeah.”

“That’s stupid.”

Geo whips his head back to glare at you. “Fuck off.”

You snort, but there’s warmth behind it, something fond as you shake your head. “Geo. You know you don’t have to do that, right? I don’t want anything from you that you don’t want to give.”

“I know that,” he grumbles, rubbing at his temple. “It’s not like I’d be miserable or anything, I just… It’s not something I think about. But if it was with you, I wouldn’t mind.”

You watch him carefully, the way he keeps shifting, the way he refuses to look at you directly, and it clicks. He’s not just saying this out of obligation. 

He means it. 

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur, but there’s no bite to it, no real complaint.

You reach out, grabbing his hand, and pulling him just a little closer. “You really don’t have to prove anything to me, you know.”

His shoulders drop slightly, some of the tension bleeding out. “I know.”

But then—he moves. Before you can process it, Geo’s hands are on either side of you, pressing into the mattress as he leans over, caging you in. His weight shifts just enough to pin you in place, and your breath catches.  

His gaze finally meets yours.  

There’s something unreadable in those deep, aquamarine eyes of his—curiosity, maybe, or something tangled and complicated that even he doesn’t fully understand. His lips press into a thin line, his expression flickering between hesitant and determined.  

You swallow hard. “Geo—”  

“I just…” He trails off, exhaling through his nose. His head tilts slightly, studying you. “I’ve never really wanted it before. Never needed it. But with you…” His fingers flex against the sheets, like he’s testing the waters, testing himself. “I don’t know. I kind of want to try.”  

Your pulse thuds against your ribs, a slow, steady drumbeat of disbelief. Because what the fuck? Geo—the man who barely lets people touch him, the one who’s always kept this sort of thing at arm’s length—wants to try?  

It’s not desire in the traditional sense. Not some burning, uncontrollable need. But it’s something.  

Curiosity, maybe. 

The old saying comes to mind, unbidden. Curiosity killed the cat.

You search his face, trying to find some kind of hesitation, some sign that he’s unsure. But he just looks… focused. Determined.  

You wet your lips, your voice quieter now. “Geo, you don’t—”  

“I know,” he cuts you off, shaking his head slightly. “I know I don’t have to. That’s not the point.” His voice drops just a little, something softer threading through it. “I want to see what it’s like. With you.”  

Your heart stutters. Not because of the words themselves—but because of the way he says them. The way he’s looking at you, like you’re the only person in the world.  

Like this—whatever this—actually matters to him.  

His fingers brush against your wrist, light and careful like he’s still figuring out how this is supposed to go, “If that’s okay with you,” still navigating the unfamiliar weight of what he’s just admitted.  

Then, you decide to push your luck. 

You tilt your head slightly, your voice smooth and even, testing the waters. “If you wanna try… maybe you can blindfold me and tie me up, please?”

Geo stills, his reaction immediate, brows furrowing as he processes your words. His grip tenses slightly, his entire body caught somewhere between confusion and intrigue.  

“…You thought of that way too fast,” he mutters, staring at you like you just threw a wrench into his entire thought process.  

You blink up at him, watching as his mind visibly short-circuits, gears turning in real time. It’s rare to see him this thrown off, and you fight the smirk tugging at your lips.  

“What?” you say, feigning innocence. “You did say you wanted to try.”  

Geo narrows his eyes slightly like he’s trying to see through whatever game you’re playing. “And what exactly does that do?”  

You tilt your head, your voice smooth as you explain, “So you can focus on the feeling instead of overthinking everything.”  

His expression shifts—just slightly. His fingers tap idly against your waist, and his lips press together as he exhales sharply through his nose.  

“You’re serious?”  

You shrug beneath him, but there’s no true nonchalance in the gesture.

Soon the room is quiet, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the faint sound of your breathing. Geo sits on the edge of the bed, his hands lingering on the silk blindfold as he finishes tying it securely around your eyes. The smooth fabric glides over your skin, cool and delicate, before darkness envelops you completely. 

Your world narrows to the sound of his breathing, the warmth of his body so close to yours, and the faint scent of him—something clean and faintly musky, grounding you in the moment.

Your arms are bound behind you, the rope firm but not uncomfortable, a reminder of his control and your trust. You shift slightly, testing the restraint, and feel the subtle bite of the rope against your wrists. It’s enough to make your pulse quicken, your skin tingling with anticipation.

Geo hesitates for a moment, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders as if unsure what to do next. You can feel the tension in his touch, the way his fingers flex slightly before stilling. The silence stretches, thick and charged, until you break it.

“Here,” you murmur, your voice soft but steady. “Let me face you.”

You start to move, but your lack of sight makes you clumsy, and you fumble slightly. Geo’s hands are there in an instant, guiding you with a gentleness that belies the intensity of the moment. His palms are warm against your hips as he helps you turn, his touch firm but careful.

When you’re settled in his lap, your legs straddling his, you feel the heat of his bare skin against yours, the intimacy of the position making your breath catch.

He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his gaze on you, tracing the lines of your body. The rope around your wrists, the blindfold covering your eyes—it’s all so deliberate, so purposeful. You can almost hear the thoughts racing through his mind, the way he’s trying to reconcile the sight of you like this with the part of him that’s still unsure.

Is it wrong that he likes seeing you like this? Bound, vulnerable, yet completely trusting? 

The question lingers in the air, unspoken but palpable. He shifts slightly beneath you, his hands resting on your thighs, his thumbs brushing against your skin in absent circles. The touch is light, almost hesitant as if he’s still processing the reality of the moment.

You feel him exhale, a slow, measured breath before he lifts one hand to cover his face. His forearm rests against his forehead, his expression hidden, but you can sense the conflict in him. He knows why you asked him to do this—it wasn’t just for you. 

It was for him, too. For his enjoyment, his curiosity, and his desire to explore this side of himself. And that realization seems to weigh on him, even as it excites him.

You lean forward slightly, your movements slow and deliberate, and feel the way his body responds to yours. His breath hitches, his hands tightening on your thighs as if to steady himself. The air between you feels electric, every touch, every shift of your body against his, sends ripples of sensation through you both.

“G-Geo,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. You lean in, your lips brushing against his ear as you whisper, “…You can put it inside me if you want.”

The words hang in the air, soft but deliberate, and you feel him tense beneath you. His hands still on your hips, his fingers flexing slightly as if he’s trying to process what you’ve just said. For a moment, he doesn’t respond, and you can almost hear the gears turning in his mind.

“Don’t you need to be, uh… wet for that?” he finally asks, his voice low and hesitant, tinged with a mix of curiosity and disbelief.

You can’t help but smile, your forehead resting against his shoulder as you let out a quiet laugh. “I already am,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “You tying me up earlier… it did things to me.”

Geo pulls back slightly, his hands moving to your shoulders as if to steady himself—or maybe to get a better look at you. Even through the blindfold, you can feel the weight of his gaze, the disbelief written across his face. 

“Wait, seriously?” he asks, his voice rising slightly. “That… that really turned you on?”

You nod, your cheeks flushing as you feel his eyes on you. There’s something about the way he’s looking at you, the way his voice cracks slightly, that makes your stomach twist in the best way. 

“Yeah,” you murmur, your voice soft but steady. “It did.”

For a moment, he just stares at you, his expression a mix of shock and something else—something warmer, more intense. Then, slowly, his hands slide back down to your hips, his touch firmer now, more deliberate. “Okay,” he says, his voice low and rough. “Okay.”

You feel him shift beneath you, his hands guiding you as he positions himself. The first touch of him against you sends a shiver through your body, your breath catching in your throat. And then, slowly, he pushes his cock inside, the sensation of him filling you making your head fall forward onto his shoulder.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice strained. “You’re so… warm.”

You can feel the way his body tenses, the way his hands grip your hips tighter as he adjusts to the sensation. His breath is uneven, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tries to steady himself. “You’re pulsing around me,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible. “How are you… how are you doing that?”

You bite your lip, trying to suppress a smile. “I’m not doing anything,” you say, your voice teasing. “That’s all you.”

Geo lets out a shaky laugh, his hands moving to your back as he pulls you closer. “Stop teasing me,” he says, his voice rough but playful. “You’re going to make me lose it.”

“Sorry,” you murmur, though there’s no real apology in your tone. You shift slightly, feeling him twitch inside you, and hear him groan softly.

“You’re not sorry,” he says, his voice low and amused. “But… I’m not complaining.”

The moment stretches, heavy with anticipation, as you settle more firmly into his lap. The warmth of his skin against yours is intoxicating, and you can feel the way his body tenses beneath you, his breath hitching as you shift your weight. Slowly, you begin to move, pressing with your legs and knees to lift yourself slightly before sinking back down. The sensation is electric, a slow, deliberate rhythm that sends shivers through both of you.

Geo’s hands tighten on your hips, his fingers digging into your skin just enough to ground you, to guide you. You can hear him—quiet, restrained moans escaping his lips, each one sending a thrill through you. 

God, you wish you could see him, see the way his face twists in pleasure, the way his eyes might darken with desire. But the blindfold forces you to focus on everything else: the sound of his breathing, the way his hands tremble slightly against your skin, the heat of his body beneath yours.

“Geo,” you murmur, your voice breathless but steady. “Grab my ass. Help me move.”

He hesitates for a fraction of a second, his hands stilling on your hips, before sliding down to cup your backside. His touch is firm, almost possessive, as he lifts you slightly, guiding your movements. The added support makes it easier to bounce, to set a faster pace, and you can’t help the soft gasp that escapes your lips as the sensation intensifies.

His quiet moans grow louder, and more frequent, and you can feel the way his body responds to yours, the way his hips jerk upward to meet your movements. It’s intoxicating, the way he gives in to the rhythm, the way his hands grip you tighter, pulling you closer with every thrust.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice rough and low. “You feel… incredible.”

The praise sends a jolt of heat through you, and you lean forward slightly, your chest brushing against his.

“G-Geo,” you whisper, your voice trembling with need. “For the love of god, play with tits… please.”

He doesn’t respond right away, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s going to refuse. But then you feel his hands shift, one sliding up to cradle your back as the other moves to your chest. His touch is tentative at first, his fingers brushing against your breast before his mouth follows. 

The first swipe of his tongue is slow, almost teasing, and you can’t help the sharp intake of breath that escapes you.

“S-shit,” you murmur, your voice barely audible. 

He doesn’t need further encouragement. His mouth closes over your nipple, his tongue swirling in slow, deliberate circles that send sparks of pleasure shooting through you. The sensation is almost overwhelming, the combination of his mouth on your chest and the way his hands guide your movements making it impossible to think, to focus on anything but the way your body responds to his.

You can feel the tension building in both of you, the way his movements grow more frantic, more desperate. His moans are louder now, more like grunts less restrained, and you can’t help the way your sounds of pleasure escape your lips, mingling with his in the quiet of the room.

“I’m coming…” You mumbled as you felt your body tense, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as pleasure surged through you, overwhelming and electric. You come undone on his cock, your hips stuttering against his, your bound hands twitching behind you as waves of sensation crash over you. 

For a moment, the world narrows to nothing but the feel of him inside you, the way your body clenches around him, and the sound of your ragged breathing.

Geo doesn’t move, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he lets you ride out the waves of your climax. His breath is uneven, his chest rising and falling rapidly, but he hasn’t come yet. 

You can feel the tension in his body, the way he’s holding himself back, and it only makes the moment more intense.

When the last tremors of your orgasm finally subside, you tilt your head slightly, your voice soft and breathless. “Do you want to keep going?”

He doesn’t answer with words. 

Instead, his hands shift, gripping your hips firmly as he guides you off his lap. Before you can process what’s happening, you feel the bed dip beneath you, and then you’re being moved, your body repositioned with a confidence that leaves no room for hesitation. Your face presses into the pillow, the soft fabric muffling your surprised gasp as your hips are lifted, your ass in the air.

The room is a cacophony of sounds—your ragged breaths, the sharp slap of skin against skin, the creak of the bedframe as it strains under the weight of your bodies. The air is thick with heat and heavy with the scent of sweat and desire, and every noise seems to amplify the intensity of the moment. 

You’re both drowning in it, overwhelmed by the raw, unfiltered connection between you. Muttered curses slip from your lips, half-formed and breathless, as Geo’s hands roam your body with a possessive urgency. His touch is everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding down your thighs, tracing the curve of your back before settling firmly on your ass.

The heat of him is undeniable, his presence consuming you as he leans in, his gaze burning into your skin. You feel the blunt pressure of his cock as he pushes back inside you, and the sensation is immediate, electric. 

“F-fuck…” A moan escapes you, unbidden, as your body arches instinctively toward him. 

His movements are quick, each thrust deep and measured, and you can’t help but wonder how he knows exactly how to angle your body, how to control the pace, how to pull the rope binding your wrists to adjust your position. It’s too precise, too instinctive, and the realization sends a shiver down your spine. 

He’s a natural at this, and it’s both thrilling and unnerving.

The rope tightens as Geo pulls you back against him, the soft fibers biting into your skin just enough to remind you of his control. His grip is firm, grounding, a counterpoint to the dizzying pleasure coursing through you. Each tug of the rope sends a shiver down your spine, and your moans grow louder, each one seeming to spur him on, his rhythm shifting to match the urgency building between you.

“Fuck…” he mumbles, his voice rough and low, almost lost in the sound of skin against skin. His thrusts grow more demanding, the obscene, rhythmic slap of his hips against yours echoing in the room, a visceral reminder of how close you are, how connected. You arch your back, pushing yourself closer to him, desperate for more, for everything.

“Geo,” you gasp, his name a plea and a prayer all at once. He responds with a low groan, his hands tightening on your hips as he drives into you harder, faster, each movement deliberate and unrelenting. 

The pleasure builds again, slower this time but no less intense, and you can feel yourself teetering on the edge once more. It hits you with a jolt that he’s not just doing this for himself—he’s doing it for you, too. Every thrust, every pull of the rope, every sound he draws from you is part of the trust you’ve built, the connection you share.

Your back arches like a bowstring as his hands grip your hips, guiding you back into him with every motion. Then, he reaches down to remove the blindfold. The fabric slips away, falling from your face, and the sudden flood of light makes you blink, your eyes adjusting to the room. You turn your head slightly, your face now visible to him, and the sight of you—flushed, breathless, utterly exposed—sends a jolt of electricity through him.

Your hair is a riotous halo, strands sticking to your forehead and temples, and your lips are parted, your expression a mix of vulnerability and defiance. His movements falter, his breath catching in his throat as he feels himself teetering on the edge. His muscles are taut as steel cables under sweat-slick skin, one hand splayed possessively over the small of your back. 

His other hand grips your bound wrists, fingers digging in just enough to make you shiver. He leans over you, his breath audible, ragged, and unsteady, his head dipping like he’s muttering a prayer—or a curse—against your shoulder.

With a low groan, he pulls out abruptly, his release spilling onto your back, hot and urgent. The sensation makes you shiver, your own arousal undeniable as your body throbs, slick and sensitive, a testament to the pleasure he’s drawn from you. 

For a moment, the room is silent except for the sound of your shared breaths, heavy and uneven, the air thick with the weight of what just passed between you.

Geo’s hands move to untie the rope, his touch gentle now, almost reverent, as he works to free you. His fingers ghost over each impression, tracing them with something almost like reverence like he’s committing them to memory while simultaneously regretting their existence. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse but tender, and you can’t help but smile, your body still humming with the aftershocks of what you’ve shared.

“Does it hurt?” His voice is quiet, softer than you’re used to, like he’s unsure if he even wants the answer.  

You shake your head, offering the smallest of smiles. “No, it’s fine.”  

He doesn’t look convinced.  

Geo exhales through his nose, his thumb sweeping gently over the inside of your wrist before he presses a lingering kiss there—chaste, careful, as if to silently make up for every tight knot, every press of rope that had bound you.  

Then, without a word, he shifts off the bed, disappearing for only a moment before returning with a warm towel. The scent of his soap lingers in the fibers as he drags it over your skin, slow and methodical, wiping away any lingering sweat, any remnants of the intensity that had filled the air just minutes ago.  

His touch is purposeful—gentle but firm like he’s grounding you both. There’s no rush, no urgency. Just him, taking his time, making sure you’re okay.  

When he finally sets the towel aside, He leaves you briefly to tug on faded gray sweats and a soft cotton tee, the fabric clinging to his broad shoulders. Returning with an oversized shirt for you, he avoids your gaze, cheeks flushed as he helps you into it. 

“There,” he says gruffly, tugging the hem down to your thighs. “Better.”

You bite back a small laugh. He rolls his eyes at the sound but doesn’t stop, ensuring you’re comfortable before finally settling beside you.  

You arch a brow, biting back a grin. “Aw, can’t handle a little temptation, Sir?” 

Geo huffs, clearly unamused by your teasing, but he doesn’t let go. His fingers stay firm against your skin, his thumbs idly tracing over your jaw like he’s debating something.  

“You’re pushing it,” he mutters, voice lower now, the weight of it settling between you. His eyes flicker, dark and unreadable, lingering on your lips for just a second too long before he exhales, shaking his head.  

You grin despite yourself. “Or what? You’ll tie me up again?”  

You laugh—a bright, teasing sound—until he closes the distance in one swift stride. His palms cradle your face, thumbs brushing your jawline as he leans in, your laughter dissolving into a gasp.

Geo kisses you.  

It’s soft, but firm—like he’s shutting you up in the most effective way he knows how. His lips linger against yours, warm and unhurried, the teasing edge melting from the air as something softer settles between you. When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet space between.  

“Better?” he murmurs, voice low, slightly rough around the edges.  

You blink up at him, dazed, before breaking into a slow, knowing smile. “That’s one way to do it.”  

Geo huffs, shaking his head before shifting, pushing you back onto the mattress. His weight pins you down—not heavy enough to trap you, but enough that you feel the heat of him pressing into your skin. His arms wrap around you, strong and steady, and before you can react, his face is buried against your chest, his body fully relaxed against yours.  

You freeze for half a second before your lips twitch, barely containing your amusement. “Geo,” you mumble, voice muffled against his tousled hair.  

He doesn’t respond.  

Instead, he just tightens his hold, burrowing closer like he’s refusing to acknowledge whatever flustered thoughts are undoubtedly racing through his head. His grip is warm, and grounding, the steady rhythm of his breathing settling into something slow and even.  

And then, quietly—so quietly you almost don’t catch it—he mutters, “...Can you stay?”  

You blink. Then blink again. Did he really just—  

Your shoulders shake, your hand coming up to cover your mouth as you hold back another laugh. The way his entire body tenses just slightly tells you he knows.

“Shut up,” he grumbles before you can even get a word out, his face pressing further into you, practically smothering himself against your chest in embarrassment.  

You wheeze, trying to compose yourself, but the way he’s acting—the way he asked—has you grinning like an idiot. “I didn’t even say anything.”  

“You were going to.”  

You hum, clearly unconvinced, but let it slide. Instead, you run your fingers through his hair, feeling the tension in his shoulders slowly ease as you rake your nails lightly against his scalp.  

His breath slows. His grip stays firm. 

And in the dim quiet of his room, you murmur, “Yeah, Geo. I’ll stay.”  

Meanwhile, somewhere else, Perssila lay on her bed, her phone gripped tightly in her hand. She stared at the text message you had sent earlier, her brow furrowed in confusion. 

Perssila: You’re asking about rope? At Geo's place? 

It didn’t make sense to her—Geo was a mystery, sure, but ropes? What exactly were you getting into over there? It had been hours since she last heard from you, and her mind was starting to spiral. A million thoughts ran through her head. 

Had something happened? 

Was Geo... too much for you? 

The worst-case scenarios played out in her mind, one after the other. She bit her lip nervously, already preparing a second text, but she stopped herself. 

Before she could hit send, she heard footsteps behind her. Crowe’s presence was unmistakable, and in an instant, he was lying beside her, his weight sinking into the bed as he settled on top of her, arms wrapping around her like a shield. His breath brushed against her ear, and she could feel the heat of his body pressing against hers. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked softly, his voice low, but filled with concern. 

She didn’t answer right away, her eyes still locked on the screen of her phone, the message lingering there like a question she couldn’t solve. She was worried—so damn worried about you. Geo is quiet and somewhat unpredictable. The fact that you went over there to get to know him more... it was risky. You were her friend, her responsibility, and yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had gone wrong. 

“I just—” she started, her voice tight. “I haven’t heard from them in hours, Crowe. They went to Geo’s place, and I haven’t gotten any updates. I sent so many texts, and nothing. I—” She cut herself off, turning her head so her face was buried in the pillow, trying to shake off the gnawing feeling in her gut. 

Crowe didn’t say anything at first, just tightened his arms around her, his hands rubbing soothing circles on her back. She could feel the steady beat of his heart against her own, the rhythm steady and reassuring. 

“Geo’s not the kind of guy to hurt anyone,” Crowe murmured, his tone low and steady like he was trying to calm her with his words. “He’s… different. But I’m sure they’re fine. Geo’s not like that.” 

Perssila let out a shaky breath, not fully convinced. She knew Crowe was trying to comfort her, but the lingering doubt still gnawed at her. 

“Yeah, well,” she said, voice muffled into the pillow. “I’m still worried.” 

She could feel Crowe shift, his lips brushing against the back of her neck in a soft, comforting kiss. It was gentle, meant to reassure her, to calm her fears. His lips were warm against her skin, and the way his breath ghosted over her ear made her body relax, if only slightly.

“Don’t worry so much,” Crowe said, his voice almost a whisper. “They’re tough. Geo wouldn’t hurt them, and if something was wrong, they would’ve called. You’ll hear from them soon, I promise.” 

Perssila let herself breathe out, her body slowly relaxing under his touch. 

Crowe stayed there for a moment longer, his arms wrapped securely around her as if trying to shield her from the worrying thoughts swirling in her mind. He kissed the back of her neck again, the soft pressure of his lips lingering just a bit longer this time before pulling away.

“Come on,” he said softly, his voice a little warmer now. “Let’s get our minds off this, yeah? Takeout’s on the way.”

Perssila let out a small, tired laugh, finally lifting her head from the pillow, her eyes meeting his. There was still some unease in her gaze, but Crowe’s presence was grounding. As much as she was worried about you, she knew she needed a break from the tension.

“I’m not hungry,” she muttered, though her stomach gave a soft, almost imperceptible growl, betraying her words.

Crowe raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “You know we both ordered, right? And you can’t sit there and pretend you’re not starving. You’ve been running on stress all day.”

She huffed, but there was no real bite to it. She just didn’t want to admit that she was, in fact, hungry—just didn’t feel like she could relax, not when she was so caught up in thoughts of you.

“I don’t know,” she said with a little shrug. “Just... worried. About them. You know how they can get when they dive into something.”

Crowe nodded, looking sympathetic but determined. “Yeah, I get it. But hey, you can’t control everything. Sometimes you gotta just trust they’ve got it covered.” He gave her a soft but teasing smile. “Besides, you need energy to deal with me later.”

Despite herself, Perssila rolled her eyes, but the tension in her shoulders loosened, just a little. Crowe always had a way of getting her to laugh, even in moments when she felt like the world was too heavy.

“I’m not in the mood for your shenanigans,” she replied dryly, but her voice was softer now.

Crowe stood up from the bed, stretching his arms out above his head as he moved toward the door. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll warm up to them. Takeout’s here in fifteen. I’ll be in the kitchen setting it up.”

With that, he left the room, and Perssila lay there for a few moments longer, her mind still stuck on you. But she knew Crowe was right—she couldn’t keep worrying herself sick over things she couldn’t control.

Slowly, she pushed herself off the bed, grabbing her phone one last time to check for any updates. Nothing. But she didn’t have the energy to keep checking. Instead, she slipped into her slippers and padded into the kitchen, where Crowe was already arranging the takeout on the counter, the smell of hot food filling the air.

Ding!

Perssila’s heart skipped a beat as the soft ping of the message broke the silence. Her fingers moved quickly, swiping to unlock her phone, and she practically tore open the message as soon as it appeared on her screen. Relief flooded her chest when she saw that it was from you.

You: Yeah, I’m chilling now.

Perssila exhaled in a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The knot of worry in her stomach loosened, but only just a little. She quickly typed her response, her fingers almost moving too fast for her to catch up with herself.

Perssila: So... did you find out what the rope was for?

She bit her lip as she hit send, the question lingering on her mind like a thorn. She knew you were fine now, but her curiosity couldn't help but get the best of her. The thought of you over at Geo’s place, dealing with whatever the hell was going on there—it didn't sit right with her.

She sat back against the counter, her fingers drumming impatiently against the side of her phone as she waited for the reply

Her phone buzzed again, snapping her back to reality. Perssila’s eyes snapped to the screen, her heart quickening a little as she saw your message pop up.

You: Not what I expected... Let’s just say Geo’s got some interesting hobbies.

Perssila raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a slight smirk. Interesting hobbies? That’s one way to put it.

Perssila: Interesting how? You’re not in any kind of danger, right?"

She chewed on the edge of her thumb, hoping that she wasn’t reading too much into the cryptic message. She really didn’t want to sound like she was overthinking things, but she couldn’t help it. The idea of you over there, with Geo and whatever it was that he did... it didn’t sit right. 

You: God no, he would never ! Kinda the opposite !

Perssila paused, trying to decipher what you meant. It sounded vague, and that only made her more curious. 

She stared at the screen for a moment, fingers hovering over the keyboard, unsure of how to respond. She didn’t want to sound like she was pushing, but she couldn’t stop herself from asking the next question.

Perssila: What the opposite?? Girl explain…

Her stomach churned, a mix of concern and confusion settling in. She didn’t know what you were getting at, but it sounded like things had shifted in a way she hadn’t expected.

Geo’s 'interesting hobbies' and the way you'd worded things made her think that maybe you were a little more tangled up in all this than you were letting on.

You: Just... a lot of stuff I wasn’t expecting.

The suspense was killing her. What did that mean? 

Ding!

You: sent images !!!

Perssila let out a strangled noise, somewhere between a gasp and a scream, her phone slipping from her fingers and clattering onto the counter. 

“What the actual fuck,” she whispered to herself, staring at the device as it had personally committed a crime against her. But despite her body’s visceral reaction, her hands itched to pick the phone back up, to confirm that she hadn’t just hallucinated whatever the hell you had just sent her.

Slowly, hesitantly, she snatched it back and forced herself to look at the images again.

The first one was already enough to make her brain melt—your arms bound behind your back, the ropes so expertly placed that they framed your body like something out of a goddamn high-fashion photoshoot. The tension in the bindings was obvious, snug but not harsh, emphasizing every curve and dip in a way that was almost too intimate. It was... artistic. Too artistic. 

She swallowed hard, her fingers gripping the phone like it was the only thing grounding her in reality.

Then the second photo. 

Perssila slammed a hand over her mouth to muffle the horrified squeak that nearly escaped. Geo’s goddamn foot was planted firmly on your back, pressing you down against the floor in a way that was undeniably dominant. The bastard wasn’t even looking at the camera properly—his gaze was fixed on you, half-lidded and unreadable, like he was admiring his own work. 

"Oh my god," she muttered, her brain absolutely refusing to comprehend the implications. 

But then—the third image.

Her stomach dropped. She should ignore it. She really, really should. But of course, she didn’t.

With trembling fingers, she tapped on the notification, opening the third picture.

Perssila regretted everything.

Geo was seated behind you, his pale hand curled loosely around your throat, fingers pressing just enough to tilt your chin up. Your lips were parted slightly, your expression unreadable but undeniably relaxed, almost like you belonged there. Like this was normal. 

And the ropes? The way they framed you? The way they emphasized every inch of your body?

Her soul left her body.

Perssila: WHAT AM I LOOKING AT. HELLO??? 

She barely had time to process it before another message popped up.  

You: Just Geo and I playing around. I learned some things about him. About myself too, I guess. 

Perssila: LEARNED WHAT???

Perssila: THIS IS A CRIME. I’M GOING TO JAIL JUST FOR WITNESSING THIS.

You: Noooo, you’re fine. It’s all fun. Geo has taste.

Perssila: TASTE??? THAT MAN JUST USED YOU AS A GODDAMN FOOTREST.

Perssila screamed into her hands, her stomach twisted in confusion, concern, and the undeniable urge to scream. What kind of ‘learning’ was this?? What did you mean you were learning about yourself?!  

Meanwhile, Crowe, who had been quietly watching her meltdown from across the room, finally leaned over, his curiosity piqued. 

"What’s got you all worked up?" he asked, his tone far too casual.

Just as she was about to throw her phone across the room, Crowe’s voice sliced through the tension in the air, his frown deepening as he noticed her sudden, extreme reaction.

"Everything okay?" His voice held a soft, concerned edge as he set his food down and leaned forward. 

Perssila jerked, her face heating up even further. She quickly tried to swipe the phone out of view, hoping he wouldn’t see what she was looking at, but it was too late. Crowe squinted. His eyes flicked between the images, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he sucked in a breath through his teeth.  

“Damn.” He leaned back, nodding to himself. “Did not have that on my bingo card.”  

Perssila slapped his arm. “This isn’t funny, Crowe!”  

He chuckled, rubbing his arm as he stole another glance at the screen. “I mean... it kinda is.”  

Perssila groaned again, dropping her head onto the table. “I hate everything.”  

Ding!  

Another message.  

You: Don’t worry. It’s all safe, promise. Geo’s a real perfectionist when it comes to this. It’s called ~shibari~. 😌

Perssila lifted her head just enough to type out a response.  

Perssila: I’M SURE HE IS. BUT WHY DOES IT LOOK LIKE YOU'RE HAVING A DAMN SPIRITUAL AWAKENING IN THESE PHOTOS.

You: Because I am !  

Perssila: I’M GOING TO THROW UP.

Perssila stared at her message, her mind struggling to comprehend what she was reading. Her phone buzzed again with another reply, and against her better judgment, she looked.

You: sent an image !

A selfie from you popped up, your face in a peace sign, a grin stretching across your face, while Geo lay on top of you—completely out of it, arms wrapped around you like a teddy bear, his face nestled against your neck, dead asleep. You looked half-amused, half-chilled, while Geo was in another world, like a snuggly corpse.

Perssila: …Mission success, huh? 😑

You: Yeah. He’s a snuggly corpse now. 10/10.

Perssila groaned and dropped her face into her hands, completely mortified. 

Perssila: BUT NEVER SEND ME YOUR KINKY SHIT. MY EYES HAVE TRAUMA. 🔪

Crowe’s gaze was still locked on her, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "You okay there, love?" He asked his tone teasing but with an undercurrent of genuine concern. 

She glanced at him, blushing hard, but the absurdity of the situation made her crack a smile. “…I’m never going to unsee that," she muttered, rolling her eyes. 

Meanwhile, back with you, your eyes lingered on your phone, a mix of emotions twisting in your chest. You hoped Perssila knew you hadn’t meant any harm with the pictures—you thought it was funny. But despite that, an awkward tightness settled inside you, making it hard to shake the unease.

Just as you were about to type something else, Geo suddenly reached up and snatched the phone straight from your hands. The sudden movement startled you, your body freezing for a moment as your gaze snapped to him.

He still held you tightly, one strong arm wrapped securely around your waist, keeping your back pressed against his chest. The warmth of him was grounding, but his grip on the phone was firm, ignoring any protest you might’ve made.

You blinked in shock, barely able to process what just happened before his fingers curled around the back of your neck, pulling you in closer. The motion was gentle but deliberate, keeping you locked against him. 

“Be still,” he murmured, his voice low and unwavering, carrying a quiet authority that made it impossible to ignore. His thumb absently brushed over your wrist, the same one that had been holding your phone just moments ago. You could feel the subtle tension in his muscles, the way his body stayed attuned to yours as if making sure you didn’t slip away. 

“No texting Perssila right now.”

You stared at him, confusion flickering across your face. "How do you even know I was texting her?" you asked, your tone just a little accusing.

Geo exhaled sharply, amusement flickering in his eyes as he kept his hold on you. "Because," he said, tilting his head slightly, "I saw the messages and missed calls from her earlier—before we took those pictures of you." 

Your stomach flipped.

Wait. 

What?

Your mouth opened, but no words came out at first, your mind scrambling to catch up. "You—what?" you finally spluttered, unable to hide the shock in your voice. You’d assumed he was just letting you send a few messages, not that he had been paying attention the entire time.

Geo exhaled, shaking his head, though the subtle smirk tugging at his lips gave away his amusement. "You really thought I wouldn’t notice?" ��

Your face heated instantly. “I’m sorry, Geo, I—”  

He cut you off with a quiet chuckle, his grip on your waist unwavering. “Relax. I don’t really care if it’s just between her.” His voice was calm, almost too casual. “And I’m sure Jericho saw too.”  

Your stomach dropped.  

He gave the slightest squeeze, his fingers pressing against your side, grounding you in place. “I just have to make sure they keep quiet about it.”  

You swallowed hard, pulse hammering in your ears. There was something about the way he said it—so effortless, so damn confident—that sent a shiver down your spine.  

This man was impossible.  

And yet…  

Who would've thought a little bondage would lead to this?

[chosove]

*tw!!! daddy kink!!! + a lotttt of size kink stuff!!! fem bodied reader*

I know he gets such a like…almost ‘selfish lover’ rep but in my humble daddy issue biased opinion, toji would 100% talk you through it like…

Everyone already finds him so intimidating, if not from his stature and general appearance, its his gruff voice and combative personality. He doesnt even mean to do it, he just always has that trademark scowl on his face that makes people afraid to say excuse me in grocery stores :(

Not you though, you still served him with your bright smile as he checked out of the store. You asked how he was and giggled at his flirty response of ‘why, ya wanna make my day better?’. I mean…other than his kids he never had people willingly make small talk with him, let alone laugh at his old man jokes.

Godddd he just gets so flustered when you look at him with your big doe eyes and say have a fantastic day :(

Thats why when he sees you on the dating app megumi downloaded for him (against his will), he feels his heart skip a beat. I just know he’s all nervous, thinking how dirty he is as a self proclaimed ‘old man’ finding such a pretty young thing attractive- i mean you could literally be his daughter. All these worried thoughts flitted through his head while he tried to decide, not realizing his thumb was just a littttttlllleeeee too close to the screen as he accidentally matched with you.

Oh.

Oh.

I mean it was an accident for him, but was it an accident for you? It couldnt be if you were texting him already, a message reading “hey there stranger :)” popping up on his phone.

And when you liked his simple response of “Hello.”, responding with “anything i can do to make your night better, toji?”, that couldnt just be a typo or misclick, right?

You made him feel like a teenager again, the butterflies he felt only becoming more intense when you asked him to come over n’ tell you in person :( he nearly jumped out of his skin trying to get ready, hands fumbling with that pinstripe button-up he’d been saving for something special (gumi’s grad or….i guess his first date in forever). It was only at times like this he wished he had someone to call to help him chill out.

Maybe after tonight that’d be you though? He hoped so at least, and even when you pulled him into your apartment, pushing him on the couch while he stuttered about getting to know each other first, he knew you were the girl for him.

It did take a while for him to actually get up to your speed- he didnt wanna break you or anything. You were just so, so desperate for him, tugging at his shirt while you grinded your clothed cunt against his beefy thighs, filthy words coming out of your mouth only making it harder for toji to take it slow with you.

“God you’re so big toji, feel like even jus’ your fingers can split me in half.”

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you, knew you’d treat me better than all the guys my age. Ya gonna fuck me right toji? Please?”

“C’mon toji…know you wanna breed me, bet it’ll only take one time for me to give you a baby. D’you want that daddy?”

It was no later you said that word that he was picking you up, throwing you onto the tiny mattress your studio apartment held. Yeah, he definitely wasnt getting out of this alive- but neither were you judging by the way his big hands began to unbuckle his belt, unzipping the pants you so graciously left a giant wet stain on, the outline of his cock in his boxers making your mouth water.

“See what ya do to me, pretty?” His deep voice spoke, one hand giving his throbbing dick a few much-needed strokes while he stared down at you like a wolf. “Nothin’ to say anymore, hm? C’mon, i liked hearing it all.”

He hadnt even pressed himself against you before you let out a whine, his hands resting themselves on your sides already being enough to make your hips jump. If it weren’t for the fact he was now intent on hearing more of those pretty sounds from you, he’d have let out a whine himself from how soft your skin felt against his worked hands. And when he slowly pulled your panties down your thighs, clenching his jaw at the sight of strands of wetness sticking to your pussy, he nearly came in his pants.

“Poor girl, bet this sweet pussy hasnt been treated right in forever hm?” The question nearly brought tears to your eyes, both from the truth of it and from the fact he began to thumb at your glistening cunt, the rough pad of his finger being the exact pressure you needed on your pulsing bundle of nerves. “T-toji i might cum alr-”you began, but you werent able to get your sentence out before his hand came down to slap against your cunt.

“What happened to my good girl from earlier? Y’know not to call me toji, little bird. Whats my name?” He whispered against the shell of your ear, fingers covered in your wetness now coming to play with your hard nipples.

Clinging to his shaggy hair like it was your lifeline, you nearly cried out as you came undone for him, the desperate moan of ‘thank you daddy’ falling from your lips. He smiled as you writhed below him, your body convulsing while he let you ride what would be the first of many orgasms that night.