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novascharms · 5 months ago

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teach please me — tutor!reader x soccer player!rafe

reader's life is meticulously planned, from high school to becoming president of the country—she knows exactly where she's headed and every step to get there. but her airtight plan hits a snag when the principal ropes her into tutoring rafe cameron, the school’s star soccer player, who’s failing algebra and at risk of being benched next season. the team needs him on the field, and reader needs the principal’s glowing recommendation to secure her spot at her dream school. balancing her ambitious goals with rafe’s chaotic charm might just throw her perfectly crafted plan off track.

word count — 2.1 chapter index — prev. chap. — next chap. masterlist

three

sunday, january 19th

rafe shifted in his chair, pencil tapping rhythmically against the edge of your desk. "hey, can you help me with this one?" his voice cut through the quiet of your room, where you'd stretched out on your bed, flipping through your notes.

"mhm, just read it out," you replied without looking up, too comfortable to move.

"nah," he said, leaning back in the chair and tilting his head toward you, "come over here."

you sighed dramatically, rolling off the bed and padding over to where he sat. "fine," you muttered, leaning against your desk. "what's the problem?"

he pointed to a particularly messy equation on the page. "this one. i don’t get it. like, where do you even start?"

you leaned in to look, but suddenly all you could notice was him. he looked good today, better than he usually did and you'd done a pretty good job of not making it noticeable that it was affecting you but the sudden proximity completely took you out of the loop. his hair still slightly damp from practice, the faint scent of soap mixed with something deeper, something earthy and warm that reminded you he’d been sweating just hours ago. it should have been gross. it wasn’t. it was distracting.

his shoulders stretched against his hoodie, his jaw tense as he stared at the paper, and you caught a hint of his cologne lingering underneath it all. god, why did he smell so good? your brain stuttered over itself, a series of fragmented thoughts replacing any coherent explanation you were supposed to give.

"so, do i start by dividing or…?" his voice pulled you back abruptly.

"what?" you blinked, realizing he was looking at you now, an amused expression tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"i said," he repeated slowly, "do i start by dividing?"

you stared at him, blank for a moment before forcing yourself to focus on the equation. "uh, no," you stammered, cursing yourself for losing track. "you..simplify first. combine the terms on the left."

"combine the terms," he echoed, his smirk growing. "got it."

you tried to look anywhere but at him, but he shifted closer, his elbow brushing yours. "you good?" he asked, clearly entertained.

"i’m fine," you lied, straightening up and pointing at the page. "just… d-do..focus. combine the terms and go from there."

he gave a low chuckle but went back to work, leaving you to silently pray he didn’t notice how flustered you were.

you shifted back to your bed, lying on your stomach and propping yourself up with your elbows, but your attention kept drifting to him. the way his hands moved as he flipped through his textbook, the slight smirk tugging at his lips, his hair falling just perfectly into place—it was all too much. rafe seemed to notice your lingering gaze, his smirk widening ever so slightly.

"you’re staring," he teased, his tone light but his eyes sharp, almost daring you to deny it.

"am not," you countered quickly, flipping open your planner to avoid his gaze. your cheeks were warm, and you hated that he could see right through you.

"right," he said, leaning back in his chair and stretching, the movement making his hoodie ride up just enough to expose a sliver of skin. "if you say so."

you groaned internally, forcing yourself to focus on anything else. "so, how do you feel about what we’ve covered so far?" you asked, trying to steer the conversation back to algebra and not his stupidly distracting everything.

"i feel like i’m actually getting it," he said honestly, sitting up straighter. "like, for real. it’s weird, though. i’ve never had someone explain stuff like you do."

"what do you mean?"

"i dunno," he shrugged, looking at you. "it’s just… different. better. like you’re not just repeating what’s in the book, you actually make it make sense. you don’t give up on me when i don’t get it right away."

"well, that’s kind of the job," you replied, your voice softer. "i’m supposed to help you, not give up on you."

"yeah, but you’re not just doing the job," he said, his eyes meeting yours. "you actually want me to understand it."

you swallowed, his words hitting deeper than they should. "of course i do," you mumbled, looking away.

"you’re something else, you know that?" he said suddenly, and when you looked back at him, he was smiling—soft, genuine, and completely disarming.

"don’t try to charm your way out of studying," you said, trying to sound teasing but failing to hide the slight waver in your voice.

"who says i’m trying to get out of studying?" he shot back, his smirk returning. "maybe i just like seeing you flustered."

"flustered?" you repeated, your voice going an octave higher. "i’m not flustered."

"uh-huh," he said, leaning forward, his elbows on the desk. "whatever you say, teach."

"focus, cameron," you said, forcing yourself to look at your planner instead of his stupidly perfect face. "next session, i’m making you do extra problems for wasting time."

"can’t wait," he said, his grin widening

"though you don't really need it..you're learning pretty quickly" you add softly.

rafe’s grin spread slow, lazy, and just cocky enough to send a strange flutter through your chest. “well, i’ve got this tutor who explains things better than any teacher ever has. plus, she’s patient and never complains when i need her to go over something twice.”

your eyebrow lifted, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “or, in your case, thrice.”

“is that a real word?”

“thrice..? yes, of course.”

he leaned forward a little, his elbow brushing the edge of the table. “okay, so… i once had this drunk argument with two of my friends where we all ganged up on one of them, swearing it wasn’t a word. i think i owe him a beer now.”

you laughed softly, shaking your head. “mm, that sounds like my kind of party. i love proving people wrong.”

“and you’re good at it,” he said, voice dropping slightly.

your gaze flicked to him, surprised by the weight of his tone. “how do you know?”

“cause you’re good at everything.” he replied smoothly.

you rolled your eyes, a small laugh escaping despite yourself. “everything’s a bit much, don’t you think?”

“not really,” he said, his voice dipping. “i’ve only known you for, what? two weeks? and you’ve already made me smarter than i was four months ago. you’re… impressive, hard-working, disciplined. honestly, i think my coach would exchange me for you if he had the chance.”

you laughed at the mere idea of you kicking a ball. it would be a safety hazard for everyone involved. “there’s plenty of stuff i’m not good at, trust me. my parents just drilled it into me that there’s nothing you can’t learn with enough time, effort, and training. same goes for you, you know. i’m not some genius or anything.”

he ran a hand through his hair, his expression softening. “i guess i’ve always been good at soccer. and once everyone realized that, it was kind of decided. i was the soccer guy. but i do love it.”

“you can love soccer and still be good at other things,” you said, tilting your head. “like algebra.”

he groaned, letting his head drop dramatically onto the desk. “algebra and i have a toxic relationship.”

“at least algebra can’t give you a concussion,” you teased lightly.

his head shot up, a grin tugging at his lips. “you kidding? have you seen the size of this book?”

you laughed, shaking your head. “okay, fair point.”

he leaned back in his chair, arms crossing as he studied you. “i’m gonna be honest with you.”

you set your pencil down, mirroring his posture. “okay, shoot.”

“i never even tried to study for algebra before this. didn’t think i could get it, so i just… didn’t bother. the book’s basically brand new. well, except for day one. i opened it then.”

your jaw dropped, and you sat up straighter. “rafe! are you serious? you have to at least try. even if you think you’ll mess it up.”

“yeah, yeah, i know that now,” he said, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips.

you sighed, though your expression softened. “honestly, i’m giving you credit for pulling a 2.5 without even trying. that’s… not terrible.”

his face lit up. “see? that’s what i’ve been saying! thank you.”

you smirked, shaking your head. “don’t let it go to your head. no more slacking, though. i think you can do way better. in fact, i know you can. and i’ll help you get there.”

his smile shifted, quieter, sincere. “yeah, i know you will.”

"and you'll get your glowing recommendation." rafe says and you couldn't even believe you'd almost forgotten about that part of the deal.

"and it better actually glow." you added as you closed your planner. rafe chuckled, "you know you've got principal oakley by the balls?" he says and you gasp at his language. "don't say something like that!"

he laughs, sinking into his chair. "the way you hold yourself around him? the way you walk around the office like you own the place?" he's still grinning and you sit up, trying to think back to that day. were you actually that bad? "you were essentially bossing him around. it was so fucking se—" rafe stops in his sentences and you frown at his abrupt pause. "sick..it was really sick. i think he and i were both at a loss for words."

you agree that they did say a lot less than you did but that tended to happen whenever you were in a room. you could just get so carried away and end up talking people's heads off. you had a lot of thoughts that refused to stay inside of your head like ever.

"i guess it's just..very important to me. his recommendation will make me stand out. it's only the beginning of my 30 year plan. he cannot mess this up." you sigh throwing yourself back onto your bed, stomach twisting at the thought of a less than perfect letter being sent.

"tell me about your thirty year plan." and that, that was something no one ever asked. they asked why and feigned interest for a second but no one ever really asked you to talk about it.

you sit up turning to him, "really?" you ask, a little stunned and he nods and moves to your bed to look at your planner. you'd had it since you were ten, always adding things whenever your mind went places too far to see in the near future. it was your whole life, literally. a little battered but loved nonetheless. you weren't joking when you said you would run into a burning house for this book.

and rafe looks sincere when he urges you to tell him about it again so you start and you talk and talk and talk and you don't stop until almost an hour later and realise a couple of things at the same time.

rafe sat there and not only did he listen attentively, he asked questions and constantly assured you that he was listening.

he'd moved from your desk to your bed, lying on it like he owned, pillow rested under his neck whilst you sat cris crossed by his side, close enough for your knee to knock against his side a couple of times.

you were extremely late for your community service at the retirement home.

"wait, wait.." you glanced out your window to see the sky looking darker than it should. rafe looks at you in confusion, rasps out the softest, "what?" that almost stops you in your track but you keep going and reach for your phone. your eyes widen when you see the time. "oh, no, no. i'm late.." you groan jumping out of bed and pulling your knit jumper over your head.

"late..? time s'it?" he asks and when you say seven pm, his brows raise in surprise. time had gone by so insanely fast. you had blinked and an hour and a half passed.

as you hurriedly grab your bag, rafe grabs his book off the desk, "come, i'll drive you." he offers and you're shaking your head but he's already grabbed your wrist and is dragging you down the stairs. "rafe, you don't even know where i'm going. it's okay." you try but he's pulling on his shoes and essentially ignoring you. you don't like it. you stop in your tracks and he looks at you after a beat. "y/n, put your feet in those little flats and let's go."

you blink at the demand, surprised with his tone but find yourself putting your flats on without another word and then he's driving you to the retirement home.

chapter index — prev. chap. — next chap. masterlist

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thedbahub · 1 year ago

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The Impact of Modern Fast Storage on Clustered Columnstore Index Fragmentation in SQL Server

Introduction Recent advancements in storage technology have greatly enhanced database performance. This raises an important question: Does the fragmentation of clustered columnstore indexes have the same minimal impact as the fragmentation of non-clustered indexes in SQL Server, especially with today’s high-speed storage options? We will delve deeper into this subject to understand it…

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#clustered columnstore index #index fragmentation #modern fast storage #query performance #SQL Server

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leehnz · 2 months ago

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lips like hers

taesan x fem!reader

summary: you lose yourself trying to become the girl taesan will never stop loving.

wc : 3.2k

the soft patter of rain thumped delicately against the glass of the window pane. taesan’s lip curled into a frown, his dark eyes narrowing at the sight.

he had never been particularly fond of the rain—its presence serving as a constant reminder of the tears that used to brim his eyes everytime he thought of the past. the past in which his heart was shattered by the girl he thought he would hold in his arms forever.

the girl he sought to marry one day. but it was over now—his dreams, his hopes, his aspirations. she had taken his fragile heart and crushed it into a lifeless and meaningless disarray of fragments.

and now who was he to trust? what was he to trust? nothing. nobody.

his slender fingers found their way into the stitched lining of his denim jean pockets, fishing for the familiar cardboard pack of marlboros. he knows he should quit—that he should have quit ages ago.

smoking wasn’t good for him. that’s what she’d always tell him. her soft whisper, lighter than a fluttering feather. her long hair, silky and smooth, draping over his neck as she softly angled her face to kiss him.

then she’d whisper sweet nothings—words of encouragement—to get him to stop. for her. for their future. but none of that exists anymore, not when she left him.

he finally finds it, forcefully smashing his thumb into the opening of the box before pulling a cancer stick out. he eyes it for a moment, holding it between his middle and index finger with practiced familiarity.

a lighter. he needs a lighter. his eyes scan the dimly lit classroom. neatly arranged wooden desks, all in rows of five vertically and horizontally. he knows he’s bound to find a lighter in someone’s desk, but he can’t feel it in him to get up.

his legs feel frozen—locked into place. as if someone had played a sick prank and dissected his body, disabling all of the nerves inside of him. his lips purse as he exhales in frustration.

who knew love could be so crippling? outside, the rain began to fall incessantly—harder—on the window pane as if mocking him. the roar of thunder sounded, as more clouds began to clump together, forming a blanket of gloom over the once clear sky.

what was the point of it all, he thought to himself. the ache of the dark bruise on his face permeated through his skull. his head pounded, and for a moment he was in disarray; completely unaware of his surroundings.

the cancer stick between his fingers wobbled dangerously, as if about to fall. his eyes fluttered shut, about to give in to the pain that his adrenaline had bid him to forget.

then everything went black.

—

taesan’s eyes felt as though they were being pinched shut when he gained consciousness. the pain on the left side of his eye had subdued, surprisingly, and beneath the splotches of colors that came from his eyes being shut too long, he could see light.

then he felt it. a ghost of warmth brushing against his thick layered tufts of hair. his eyes shot open at the feeling, a sharp pain coursing through his skull as he did so.

then he saw you. the girl he had only noticed maybe once or twice in his two years at the academy. you were quiet—almost invisible—mainly keeping to yourself and staying in the shadows.

come to think of it, taesan didn’t think he’d ever heard you speak at all. but here you were, your soft round features peering down at him as if he were a helpless creature. “where the hell am i?” he croaked, attempting to lift his body.

your palm gently pressed against his chest, your eyes shifting away from his cognac ones in embarrassment.

you had come upon taesan simply by chance. today you had stayed after school, deciding to spend a few hours in the library revising for an upcoming exam. a few hours turned into five,, and you weren’t even sure if the school was still open.

nonetheless, you packed up and headed out of the library. you had made sure to bring an umbrella, aware of the rainy forecast for the day. however, just as you stepped outside and into the rain, you noticed a slumped figure against the window sill of the classroom, prompting you to check it out.

it was taesan, his body seemingly lifeless, slumped against the window. his sharp features and high cheekbones appeared more relaxed in the dim lighting of the abandoned room, and yet you could still see the turmoil that stirred beneath his unconscious face.

the first thing you noticed was the angry purple bruise forming around his left eye as you dropped your things to tend to him. taesan had always been one of the more popular boys. he was good at sports, handsome, smart, and funny.

everyone liked him—including you. but you were the opposite. in the shadows, always making yourself smaller so as to not stand out.

you knew you probably shouldn’t have done it. that you probably should have left him there alone. you barely knew him, and he definitely didn’t know you.

but you couldn’t. not when he looked so vulnerable with his eyes clamped shut and his lips parted open as if he were in pain. not when you loved him.

you swallowed thickly, feeling his eyes burn holes into the side of your face. you couldn’t find it in you to look at him. to see the lack of recognition etched on his face.

“in the classroom.” you say almost inaudibly, your hand still lightly dotting the bruise on his face that had begun to subdue. taesan only studied you, his eyes blank with confusion.

he had no idea why you of all people were the one to find him here. or why you had him in such a compromising position—his head gently resting against your lap and the fabric of your skirt.

your fingers worked diligently, massaging the ointment from your first aid kit into the wound on his face gently. taesan clenched his teeth lightly hissing at the sensation.

“all done,” you whisper, your hands clasping the side of his head to lift him off your lap. taesan protests for a second before letting up, his vision blurring for a moment as he takes in his surroundings.

you’re busy packing up your first aid kit when he speaks. “why did you do this for me?” you avert your eyes to him, a pinched expression on his face as he questions you.

exhaling deeply, you simply shrug jumping off the ledge of the window. taesan’s eyes follow your every movement, the way you slightly cower under his gaze, pulling the ends of your oversized uniform cardigan over your hands as you hug yourself for solace.

he finds it surprisingly endearing. “i couldn’t just leave you like that…” you trail off, your voice low as you keep your head down stepping back a little.

taesan scoffs, his eyes drifting back to the window. rain still poured against the ground heavily, with bright streaks of lightning painting the dreary sky. he realizes he probably kept you from getting home, and despite himself he feels bad for it.

“got a lighter?” it’s the first words he speaks after a long silence. you nod at him, fishing in your bag for the familiar green decorated lighter you kept on you.

handing it to him, you watch his eyes gloss over in recognition before returning to their usual emptiness. you were hoping he’d remember it. it was the same lighter he had dropped a couple of months earlier.

you had tried to return it to him, racing after him, your lungs burning as you struggled to catch up to him. but he was so far ahead at the time—so far removed from you. even now.

holding the lighter to the end of his cigarette, he flicks the switch igniting it, before he inhales, tossing the lighter back to you. you nearly miss the catch, fumbling with it before tucking it securely back into your bookbag.

he exhales deeply, tilting his head back, his adam's apple on full display. you tuck a single strand of hair behind your ear, wringing your hands together as you gaze at him.

you hated cigarettes. you hated the smell, the look, the taste. everything about them. and yet taesan made them tolerable. so much so that you wouldn’t even mind if he kissed you right now, his cigarette ridden breath enveloping yours.

your cheeks burn at the thought, and you shift your weight from foot to foot, looking down as if taesan could somehow read your mind. taesan takes a few drags before jamming the butt of his cigarette against the window sill, a final billow of smoke seeping through his parted lips.

he looks down at you from under his lashes, studying you. just as he expected, you were nervous. fidgeting from side to side, your eyes never meeting his.

and he knows he shouldn’t, but he likes it. the feeling of having power—control—over something, anything in his life. even if it was you, the girl he never had a conversation with. the girl he never spared a glance at.

“what’s your name,” he questions, dropping the cigarette onto the ground as he steps off the window sill stamping it out.

“y/n” you answer coyly, your hands folded behind your back.

he merely chuckles, his molten eyes struggling to meet yours.

“it’s rude not to look at someone when they’re talking to you,” you shift uncomfortably, your cheeks burning at the condescending tone of his. you knew it wasn’t right for him to speak to you like this, but you were okay with it. because it’s taesan. the boy everyone likes. the boy you’ve liked since grade 6.

“i’m–i’m sorry.” you sputter, your hair falls over your face as you bow.

he hums in response, his shiny black loafers taking slow, measured steps closer to you. taesan knows he shouldn’t even think about doing what he’s about to do. but he can’t stop.

he’s drunk on the feeling of having access to you. the feeling of control.

he’s right in front of you now, the rich scent of ambrose wafting from his body infiltrates your nostrils as your breath hitches. his slender fingers cup just under your chin, lifting your head up to face him.

you’re close now. really close. closer than you’ve ever been to a boy.

“you’re cute. be my girlfriend.”

he says it casually, as if its not the question you’d been fantasizing about, daydreaming about almost every night as you lay your head to rest. your heart hammers in your chest, your mind running a thousand miles a minute.

“i–are you sure? no-one really knows–”

he cuts you off, leaning closer to your face. you smell the cigarette from earlier on his breath as he places his lips on yours–slow and smooth. his arm snakes around your waist, clasping it firmly as he pushes you into him.

your head tilts unconsciously giving him access to make the kiss deeper. his fingers scrunch the fabric of your cardigan, nails lightly digging into your back as he kisses you hunrgily.

he pulls away, his breathing heavy, and you swear you see a certain glint in his eye. one that sort of scared you. but you weren’t sure why.

“you’re my girlfriend now.”

—

taesan hadn’t meant it. he hadn’t found you cute, he didn’t truly want you to be his girlfriend. he just needed someone to fill the void.

you weren’t ugly, by any means. just plain. and taesan hated plain. he hated timid, he hated shy, he hated everything she wasn’t. and strangely enough, you were exactly that. you lacked any assertion—letting him speak to you in any way. when taesan told you to jump, you asked him how high.

it had gotten so bad that you even started smoking. he remembers it clearly. the two of you were snuggled up on the school roof, the cool crisp breeze creeping through the thin fabric of your polo causing you to shiver.

you were sat in taesan’s lap, your head nuzzled in his chest while he smoked a cigarette.

“why don’t you try one.”

his voice cut through the silence, soft and inviting. that’s how it always started. he would introduce you to something, make it seem like an option.

you shook your head, burying your face in his chest even further.

“c’mon don’t be a child, try one for me. just for me, baby,”

he’d always do that. call you sweet little pet names, make you feel like you weren’t enough if you didn’t do what he said. you sighed, your fingers shaking as you held your hand out to take the cancer stick.

“good job, that’s my girl.” he whispered into the nape of your neck, his long fingers closing around your own, situating the cigarette correctly.

“that’s it, just inhale. don’t choke, baby.” he coached you, his eyes glued to your lips as you pathetically attempted to inhale the smoke.

you sputtered out, coughing uncontrollably, tiny tufts of smoke leaving your mouth. your chest burned as you dropped the cigarette into his hands, leaning over to take a breath of air.

taesan knew he shouldn’t have been annoyed, but he was. it was like you couldn’t do any little thing the way she did. no matter how much he tried to change you, it would never work.

he thought you hadn’t noticed. that you hadn't noticed the bored and irritated look in his eyes. but you had. and it scared you.

scared you that you might lose him if you didn’t do everything to appease him. so you learned. later that night you went to a gas station, purchasing a pack of cigarettes by flirting with the creepy old clerk.

as soon as you got home, you snuck into the bathroom, grabbing the same green lighter before lighting a cigarette. you tried many times.

fail after fail after fail. eventually, you learned.

you practiced every night, coughing through each drag until the burn in your chest didn’t feel like hell.

you started wearing the lipstick he said he liked on his ex. let your skirt ride a little higher, your words fall more assertive. you even started laughing like her.

because even if he never said it aloud, you knew. he didn’t want you.

he wanted her, repackaged in your skin. and still, you stayed.

because even an illusion of the love you so desperately yearned for from him felt better than the emptiness waiting for you at home.

the broken, sad excuse of a place you called home. where your parents acted as if you never existed, except to badger you with words more hurtful than life.

“why can’t you be normal?” and “no wonder no one likes you.”

you thought maybe if taesan liked you—if someone, anyone, liked you—you could believe you were worth something.

but love built on lies always sours.

—

you started noticing it in the little things. the way he never looked at you when he said “i love you.” the way his fingers twitched with frustration when you said the wrong thing. the way he flinched when you reached for his hand in public.

he never meant for it to be this way.

at first, it was just comfort. warmth. you were quiet, and quiet was good. quiet didn’t fight back. quiet didn’t scream or cry or throw things.

quiet didn’t break his heart the way she did.

but soon, your quietness became suffocating. you weren’t her. you never would be.

and taesan hated that.

he hated the way your eyes followed him like a lost puppy. hated the way you tried so hard to be someone he could love.

and hated himself even more when he started to notice. because one day, he noticed. the way you lit his cigarette before he even asked. the way your body curled into his like a puzzle piece that had always belonged. the way you’d say his name in the same tone she would.

he noticed. and it scared the hell out of him.

so he pushed harder. treated you colder. and waited.

waited for you to finally crack and let him go.

and you did.

not all at once—but slowly. like a fraying thread pulled too tight.

you stopped talking as much. your grades dropped. you came to school with dark circles under your eyes, eyes that no longer lit up when he entered the room. you looked like a ghost in your own body.

taesan barely noticed the shift. he was too busy convincing himself he didn’t care. until the day you stopped showing up.

at first it was just one day. you must have been sick, he convinced himself as he settled into his seat ignoring the joyful greetings of your classmates.

but one day turned into days.

days turned into weeks.

no messages. no calls. silence.

until he finally found the note.

the note you placed in his locker, folded neatly with his name written in your handwriting—before he had ruined you.

he didn’t even realize his hands were trembling until he opened the note and read it.

taesan,

i’m sorry i wasn’t what you needed.

i thought if i tried hard enough, if i loved you enough, i could be. but i know now that i was never meant to be her. and i don’t want to be anymore.

i’m tired.

you told me once i was cute. that i was your girlfriend. you kissed me and made me feel like i mattered. but it was never real, was it? i don’t hate you. i think a part of me never could. but i hate who i’ve become around you.

so i’m leaving. not just school, but all of it. everything that’s made me feel small i hope one day you find her again. maybe she’ll be enough for you, because i never was.

goodbye, y/n

he read it once. then twice. the words swimming in his mind.

he laughed. a hollow, disbelieving laugh that got stuck in his throat.

then he crumpled it in his fist and pressed it to his lips, as if somehow he could still taste you there.

it all hit him like a punch—a punch that created the same bruise that ached incessantly that very day he asked you to be his girlfriend.

—

he missed you.

he was finally able to admit it. after days of convincing himself he didn’t care, that it was your fault, that he hated you.

he missed you.

not the fake version of you. not the replacement. not the obedient shell of a girl he had forced you to be.

no, he missed the girl who found him broken and still tried to fix him. the girl who lit his cigarettes with shaking hands. the girl who loved him when he didn’t deserve it.

but it was too late.

you were gone.

and you weren’t coming back.

and for the first time since his ex left, taesan cried.

not because someone broke his heart.

but because this time, he was the one who broke someone else’s.

a/n: I love writing angst :( my bby taesan would NEVER act like this 💔 check out my wp: jaeyuniism and if you have any reqs, please feel free to lmk!

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jungkoode · 2 months ago

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THE 25TH HOUR | O8

“𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐒”

"Your coffee is exactly the way you like it, though you do not remember having a preference over it, nor knowing Agent Min's. Just like you don't remember the coffee shop, or the barista. Or how, apparently, certain phrases trigger certain protocols."

next | index

— chapter details

word count: 5,4k

content: coffee details, sugar slander, yoongi hiding the softness (i see u mf), him leaving in the worst moment possible (oh no can you believe that), a barista thinking he's john wick and yoongi showing him he's indeed not (why am i laughing at this i'm so funny), idk fleeing, superpowers, golden tendrils/tentacles/traces and they're sensitive bc i'm a horny slut who loves drama, yoongi explaining his abilities and basically both of them being somewhat stranded.

— author’s note

OKAY OKAY OKAY—wow. phew.

Lemme just say I had to speed write this chapter like I was being chased by CHRONOS itself because I was NOT prepared for y’all to hit the chapter goals in like… two days. TWO. DAYS. Both on Wattpad and Tumblr. Kinda insane honestly but also like… slay Kiki Nation, we are so back.

This was a severe underestimation on my part and it 100% reflects in the goal numbers I set this round. Don’t look at me like that. This is entirely your doing.

NOW. As for this chapter: WOAH. I was so itchy to finally get into some action-packed scenes!!! I know it’s not a full-blown Marvel throwdown or anything but ughhhh I love the way it’s parried with uncovering new truths, a little sprinkling of Yoongi’s abilities, and just the faintest nod at Noma’s. We’re getting there, babies. We’re cooking with unstable temporal gas.

Sci-fi + superpowers = my drug. Inject it directly into my brainstem. This fic is honestly just me going full feral in my favorite genre and I love that you’re all just vibing with the chaos.

And hey—just a heads up—those golden traces / tendrils / tentacles / whatever-the-fuck you wanna call them? Yeah. They’re important. Not just plot-wise.

Oh no. We’re going smut-wards. You remember that little detail about them being sensitive? YEAH. Narrative seed. Planted. You’re welcome, you horny-ass goblins. I love your deranged asses because they are as feral as mine and I respect that.

Anyway. I’m gonna make that man suffer through overstimulation and there’s NOTHING you can do to stop me. Whoops. Who said that??

Godspeed and love. <3

— read on

ao3

wattpad

You’ve never registered an aversion to coffee.

Analysis confirms your preference: black, minimal dilution via milk, zero sweeteners. Sugar introduces an artificial variable, a taste profile your palate rejects as inefficient data.

The cup sits between your hands now, untouched. Heat radiates outwards, a minor thermal signature registering in your system. You stare into the dark liquid, a reflective surface showing nothing but distorted ceiling lights. Your mind searches for a focal point, a problem to solve, but the what remains elusive, fragmented.

Beside you, Agent Min occupies the adjacent stool. His presence is a known variable, yet the proximity registers as… different. Static cling without the static.

His coffee mirrors yours in its lack of sugar, but deviates in the absence of milk. Plain black. Stark. Your internal database flags this information, yet registers no 'new entry' timestamp. It’s data already logged, sourced from… where?

The query returns a null set.

Error. File not found.

“Good?”

The query comes from him. Low frequency, minimal inflection. You lift your gaze, meeting his across the short distance. Dark eyes, partially obscured by mint smudges of hair that have fallen across his forehead.

Analysis identifies a lack of direct eye contact, his focus aimed somewhere near your left temple.

A defensive posture? Or observational?

You tilt your head, a minor adjustment of 15 degrees. Querying his query.

The corner of his mouth flickers. A micro-expression, barely perceptible, suppressed almost instantly. He’s withholding an upward curve, a smile response.

Why?

“I mean you,” he clarifies, voice maintaining its low, even tone. “Not the coffee.”

You redirect your focus to the cup. The brown surface ripples slightly as you shift your weight. You deliberately defocus your vision, blurring the edges of the ceramic rim.

Unconscious action.

Flagged for later analysis.

“Yeah, just…” The sentence terminates prematurely. Insufficient data to complete the thought. Or perhaps, excess data causing system overload.

He mirrors your earlier gesture, head tilting towards you. An eyebrow arches. A non-verbal prompt for continuation. Standard interrogation technique.

“I knew Robin.” The words emerge, low volume, clinical detachment coating the raw data point.

He nods once. A slow, measured movement. No verbal response. He allows the silence to expand, granting you control over the data flow.

“And now he’s gone.” You complete the statement.

Flat delivery. Fact confirmed.

His gaze drops to his own cup. He lifts it, takes a sip. The motion is fluid, economical. He places the cup back down without a sound. Four seconds pass. Five.

“I got him erased.” The statement escapes as a whisper, approximately 17 decibels.

A conclusion reached through flawed logic, yet carrying an unexpected physical weight. Something constricts within your chest cavity, pressure.

His response is immediate. No processing delay.

“No.”

The word is rough, textured like sandpaper against concrete. A rasp that cuts through the low hum.

“CHRONOS got him erased.” He pauses, intake of breath audible. “That’s what they do.”

"I mentioned the temporal anomaly to him." You mutter, the unidentified strain expanding behind your sternum. "Probability suggests that's why they targeted him."

"They were already watching him," he says, voice calibrated to exactly 40 decibels. "Your conversation may have accelerated their timeline, but he was already flagged."

You process this new data point, running probability calculations against known variables.

"How can you be certain?"

His eyes meet yours—pupil dilation increasing by 7.3% in the 0.7 seconds of direct contact.

"Because I've been tracking their erasure patterns for longer than you've been alive."

The statement contains multiple logical inconsistencies.

Agent Min does not look significantly older than you.

Yet your temporal analysis centers don't flag it as a falsehood.

Your glance moves back to the cup.

"Robin kept succulents on his desk," you say, the information surfacing without clear relevance markers. "Three of them. Arranged by height. He watered them every Tuesday at 14:27."

Yoongi's face produces some series of micro-adjustments in 17 distinct facial muscles that combine to form something your pattern recognition identifies as... compassion?

The classification feels incorrect, but alternatives rank lower in probability.

"You're processing grief," he observes, voice modulating to a softer cadence. "It's normal."

The diagnosis feels foreign. Incorrect. Your emotional processing centers operate at 98.7% efficiency. You would recognize grief.

Wouldn't you?

"I barely knew him," you counter. "We shared 17 lunch periods over 4.7 months. Total interaction time: 23.8 hours. Insufficient for meaningful emotional attachment."

Yoongi takes another sip of his coffee. The liquid level decreases by exactly 12 milliliters.

"Grief isn't always logical," he says after 2.3 seconds of silence. "Sometimes it's just... human."

The cadence in his last word triggers some unexpected response in you.

"I'm not experiencing grief," you insist. "I'm experiencing statistical anomalies in my cognitive processing."

His eyes meet yours again—0.9 seconds of contact that somehow feels heavier than its temporal parameters suggest.

"Call it whatever you need to. The result is the same."

Your fingers adjust on the cup again—pressure decreasing by 0.2 kilograms as your muscles unconsciously respond to his voice.

"What is the statistical probability that my conversation with Robin directly caused his erasure?"

Yoongi's expression darkens—brow lowering by 0.4 centimeters, jaw tensing with 31% more force.

"You're looking for a percentage to quantify your guilt," he observes, voice edged. "It doesn't work that way."

"Everything works that way," you argue. "Reality is quantifiable. Causality is measurable. Effect follows cause at precisely calculable intervals."

"Not in the 25th hour. Not with CHRONOS."

Silence spreads as his thumb traces the rim of his cup-three precise rotations counterclockwise. Then, he speaks again, needing to make a point.

"Consistency matters now more than ever. CHRONOS is auditing behavioral patterns with 62% increased scrutiny since last quarter."

You frown. "Source?"

"Erratic temporal enforcement." His finger taps the ceramic once—sharp, percussive. "Fourteen percent spike in memory wipes. Thirty-three percent decrease in Outlier survival rates post-detection."

The numbers land like ice chips down your spine. "Correlation doesn't imply causation."

His eyes narrow by 0.3 millimeters. "You think they're redecorating parks for aesthetic purposes?"

You ignore the rhetorical jab. "Recommended behavioral adjustments?"

"Normalcy. No deviations from established routines. No unscheduled interactions. No..."

His gaze flicks to your hands.

“...idle curiosity."

You follow his line of sight.

Your fingers have been tracing infinity symbols in condensation on the table.

A subconscious pattern emerging at 2.7-second intervals.

"Noted."

You wipe the moisture away with a napkin, friction coefficient registering 0.4 higher than standard paper stock.

"They're cross-referencing biometrics with temporal signatures now. Elevated heart rate during routine scans triggers immediate audits."

Your pulse spikes by 11.2 bpm at the implication. "You're suggesting emotional suppression."

"I'm suggesting survival. Your body can't afford inconvenient truths right now."

The phrase 'inconvenient truths' lodges in your cortex, sparking 37 simultaneous neural queries.

All return access-denied.

"Define 'normalcy' parameters."

"Wake at 06:00. Work until 18:30. Consume 427 calories at designated intervals. Report all temporal irregularities except the ones we cause."

"Compliance seems..." You search for the optimal term. "...counterintuitive to resistance efforts."

“You think rebellion looks like fireworks and manifesto drops?" Leather creaks as he leans closer, mint and ozone sharpening the air between you. "Real resistance happens in the microseconds they don't monitor."

Your retinas capture the exact moment his pupils dilate—3.2% expansion correlating with proximity increase.

"Such as?"

"The 25th hour. The only time they can't see us."

Your watch beeps softly—temporal variance: 0.89%.

He pulls back instantly, posture reset to neutral. "Stick to the numbers. The patterns. The lies they've programmed you to live."

The coffee turns bitter on your tongue, pH shifting by 0.2.

"And you?"

“I'll be the ghost in their machine."

Ghost.

The word settles in your chest, impossibly making it warmer.

Then, the lights flicker—a couple times—as CHRONOS agents pass outside the window. Their shadows stretch across the floor in elongated distortions, limbs warped by the glass's refractive index.

You count their footsteps.

He counts your breaths.

A soft exhale from his lips—a controlled release of 1.2 liters of air over 2.4 seconds.

Rising from the stool, he stretches his neck 37 degrees to the left, then 42 degrees right. The vertebrae produce three distinct clicks at frequencies between 73 and 81 hertz.

His cup sits empty. Yours remains 73% full.

That same suppressed curve at the corner of his mouth does a reappearance.

Your pattern recognition flags it as the third occurrence of this specific micro-expression in the past 18 minutes.

“I need to use the restroom.” His statement is direct, efficient. “Wait here.”

You nod once—a 15-degree downward tilt followed by an equivalent upward correction. Optimal response to a simple directive.

He moves 1.7 meters toward the back of the establishment before pivoting 170 degrees. His eyebrows lift by 0.4 centimeters, creating three distinct lines across his forehead.

“You’ll be okay?”

The question registers as anomalous. Its premise suggests a concern disproportionate to the circumstances. Your brow furrows, creating a 0.3-centimeter depression between your eyebrows.

He shakes his head, dismissing the moment, and disappears behind the door marked RESTROOM—white letters, slightly chipped, 7.2 degrees off center.

You pivot on the stool, body angled toward the counter.

The coffee sits there, cooling. You sip. It’s gone tepid. Your thumb traces the rim, mapping the circumference for the third time.

The bartender approaches. Male, mid-thirties, dark hair, clean apron. Smile at 65% intensity.

“Not a fan of the coffee?” he asks, voice pitched for casual friendliness. “You’ve been staring at it longer than drinking.”

You blink twice. Processing. “No, it’s fine.”

He leans in, elbows on the counter. “You sure? Most people ask for sugar. Or something sweet.”

You shake your head. “I don’t like sweeteners. They distort the baseline flavor profile.”

He laughs, easy. “That’s… specific.”

His gaze lingers, searching for something.

“You come here often? I don’t recognize you.”

You hesitate, brain skipping. “Not that I remember.”

The words fall out, unfiltered. He goes still. Smile vanishes. His hand drops below the counter—movement too smooth.

Cold metal presses to your temple. Soft click.

You catalog the sensation.

Barrel diameter: 9mm.

Temperature: room.

Pressure: firm, not shaking.

His voice drops, all pretense gone. “Don’t move. Don’t speak.”

You comply.

Data input: threat detected.

Output: unknown.

Your retinal sensors register gold first—erratic sparks at 11 o'clock, 43 centimeters from your focal point.

The barista's weapon hand undergoes rapid cellular decay: skin desiccating at 3.7 millimeters per second, muscle tissue liquefying with 92% efficiency. His scream measures 114 decibels—pain response authentic, but temporal signature reveals 0.8-second delay.

Agent Min's grip materializes around your wrist before the decay reaches radial artery. His fingers burn at 39.1°C, golden threads weaving through his leather gloves. The world blurs—not from speed, but temporal interference.

Your internal chronometer confirms: local time dilation of 47%.

"Move." The command vibrates at 87 Hz, bypassing auditory processing to embed directly in your motor cortex.

Your legs comply before conscious thought engages. Adrenaline spikes—17.3% above baseline. The cafe exits warp as you pass, doorframes appearing to bend at 12-degree angles—an optical illusion caused by the temporal distortion field surrounding you.

CHRONOS agents materialize in peripheral vision, their movements unnaturally segmented—3.1 frames per second versus standard 24. Their comms chatter fractures into your awareness:

"—emporal breach Sector 4-Alpha—"

"—arget exhibits Reality Shifter signatures—"

"—containment protocol Theta-7 authorized—"

Yoongi pivots 170 degrees, dragging you into an alley where air molecules vibrate at 0.7x normal frequency. His free hand glows faintly gold, pressed against the brick wall. Mortar ages backward then forward in precise spiral patterns—2.3 revolutions per second, creating a passageway exactly 0.9 meters wide.

"Don't breathe," he warns as you pass through particulate matter suspended in his temporal field.

Your lungs register 14% oxygen decrease.

Insufficient for hypoxia.

Sufficient for discomfort.

The alley deposits you onto a street where Agent Min(?) has slowed time by 23%. Pedestrians move at imperceptible rates, their coffee cups appearing frozen at 37-degree angles. His temporal manipulation leaves gold afterimages—3.2-second persistence in your peripheral vision.

Your Chrono-Sync Watch beeps erratically:

TEMPORAL VARIANCE: 4.89%

ANOMALY DETECTED

His grip tightens—42.7 kilograms of pressure now, necessary to anchor you against increasing temporal distortion. Without his stabilizing touch, you assume your untrained body would suffer severe temporal drag.

"Focus on my voice," he commands, words layered with harmonic frequencies that stabilize your inner ear fluid against the disorienting effects of his temporal field.

CHRONOS drones breach the time dilation field behind you, their propulsion systems screeching at 17 kHz—the exact resonant frequency that makes your temples protest.

They're designed to track and pursue through temporal distortions. You know this from your training, what they taught you. Or at least, what they wanted you to be taught.

But Yoongi never looks back; not even once.

Nature’s lumbar support leaves much to be desired.

The wall at your back is jagged, scraping through your shirt, stone biting into skin. Yoongi’s breath saws out next to you, sharp, furious. He rounds on you, eyes wild, voice pitched higher than baseline.

"What the fuck did you do?"

The question isn't a question—it’s an accusation wrapped in 87 decibels of controlled fury. You straighten 2.3 centimeters, ignoring how the rock tears at your jacket.

“I answered his query within established social parameters."

His laugh is all sharp edges. "Parameters? You told a CHRONOS informant you didn't remember him!"

"Statistical probability suggested—"

"Probability?" He steps into your space, mint and ozone overpowering the cave's damp musk. "They've activated civilian reporting protocols! That bartender was required to log every customer interaction!"

Your pulse spikes-+18bpm. "Unforeseen variable. You didn't brief me on—"

"I literally just said don't deviate from normalcy!" The wall cracks behind him, hairline fractures spreading at 3mm/second. "Normal people don't have memory gaps about coffee shops!"

You catalog the wall damage—microcrystalline structure failure inconsistent with human strength.

Fascinating.

New data point: Agent Min's capabilities exceed known parameters.

"My response was logically sound," you counter. "Approximately 72% of humans experience—"

"Logically suicidal." Gold sparks dance in his irises now. "They train those informants to flag exactly that phrase."

The revelation triggers 23 simultaneous neural queries.

"Why would 'not that I remember' trigger—"

"Because Outliers say it when their memories glitch!" He's closer now, 47cm instead of 72. "Basic fucking tradecraft, Noma."

You flinch at the nickname. "You expect me to intuit unpublished surveillance tactics?"

"I expect you to listen when I say CHRONOS is hunting us." The gold intensifies, threads weaving through his clenched fists. "That man wasn't armed until you turned him into a threat."

"Correlation fallacy." Your voice drops to 19dB. "You lack evidence that—"

The cave wall explodes.

Not literally—just Yoongi's fist connecting with stone 3.2cm from your head. Dust cascades downward as he withdraws his hand, skin unmarred.

"Evidence?" His breath ghosts across your lips, warmer than human biology allows. "You think decay patterns manifest spontaneously?"

Realization crystallizes.

The bartender's rotting hand. The gold threads. The temporal distortion.

Your eyes narrow. "You altered his cellular decay rate."

"To save your statistically suicidal ass."

"Without consent."

"Without options.”

The standoff lasts 4.7 seconds.

"You're an anomaly," he growls. "Stop acting like one."

"Variables require data." You match his glare. "Which you hoard like a fucking dragon."

His hands rake through mint hair, leaving it standing at precisely 47-degree angles.

"Because I have no other fucking choice!" The words explode from him, raw and jagged. "Every piece of information I give you is another potential trigger. Another way for CHRONOS to find you. To erase you. Again."

That word. ‘Again’. He keeps saying it, like it’s something he can’t lodge out of his throat.

Yet, for his incredible powers, he seems unable to prevent what he fears most.

What ‘again’ means to him.

Your eyes narrow, recalculating.

"So your ability..." You pause, watching his muscles tense. "Time manipulation?"

His eyes flick to yours, then away. A non-answer that answers everything.

"You aged his hand by 70 years, at minimum." Your voice steadies as you shift to analysis mode. "Accelerated cellular decay, targeted temporal field. Fascinating."

"83 actually." The correction is automatic. Petulant. He slides down the wall beside you, knees cracking at 73 and 81 hertz. "Time Anchor. That's the technical classification."

You catalog the term, cross-referencing against known temporal phenomena.

No matches found.

"I can't create or destroy time." His voice drops, rougher now. "I can only... redistribute it. Accelerate decay in one place, slow it in another."

Your fingers twitch with the urge to document, to measure. "Conservation of temporal energy."

"Something like that." He flexes his right hand, and you notice the faint gold shimmer beneath his skin—network of lines like circuitry, pulsing at 0.7-second intervals. "Every action has a cost."

"The gold." You gesture toward his hand. "Temporal bleed?"

His eyebrow lifts 0.3 centimeters. "For someone who claims to know nothing, you make impressive leaps."

"Pattern recognition is my primary function." You shift, angling your body 12 degrees toward his. "What's the cost?"

His laugh lacks humor, registering at 42% below standard mirth indicators.

"Depends on what I'm doing. Age someone's hand? Minor headache, maybe some joint pain. Stop time completely?" He taps his temple. "Migraines that would kill a normal person."

You process this, calculating energy transfer ratios.

"And the 25th hour?"

"That's different." His voice drops another 3 decibels. "That's not me. That's... a system error. Something CHRONOS never accounted for."

"That you exploit."

"That we exploit." He corrects, eyes meeting yours. "Some of us, anyway."

"How many like you exist?"

"Time Anchors?" He shrugs, the movement exact despite its casual appearance. "Only me, that I know of.”

The admission feels sad.

Terribly lonely.

"And me?"

The question emerges before your logic centers can evaluate its prudence; and his eyebrows twitch, eyes staring directly onto the ground.

"You're something else entirely."

"Define 'something else,'" you request, shifting your position against the wall to better observe him.

The movement causes a minor increase in discomfort—rock surface irregularities creating pressure points along your vertebrae.

But they do not register as important in the face of acquiring new information.

Agent Min finally exhales—which suggests internal debate about information disclosure parameters.

"I can show you," he says finally, voice dropping. "But you need to understand that what I'm about to do is extremely detectable. If there are any CHRONOS agents within 400 meters, they'll register it."

You calculate risk factors, weighing variables against known CHRONOS response protocols.

"Current location provides approximately 87% concealment from standard monitoring," you observe. "Probability of detection: 13.2%."

His mouth quirks—almost-smile that never fully materializes.

"Always with the numbers," he mutters, but it doesn't register as annoyance—rather something warmer.

He extends his right hand, palm up, and focuses his attention on it with an intensity that alters his breathing pattern by 0.4 seconds per cycle.

At first, nothing happens.

Then—

Gold.

Liquid light emerges from his fingertips, tendrils of energy that move with fluidity. They spiral outward in clockwise rotations, creating phenomenons that defy any standard classification parameters.

Your pupils dilate by approximately 28%, heart rate increasing by 17 beats per minute.

"Temporal energy," he explains, voice steady despite the obvious energy expenditure. "Direct manifestation of my ability."

The golden traces move like extensions of himself, responding to minute shifts in his focus. They emit no measurable heat signature yet appear fluid, almost liquid in their movement patterns.

"Fascinating," you breathe, leaning closer to observe better. "How do they work? What's their composition? Can they interact with physical matter or are they purely energetic manifestations?"

Your questions tumble out in rapid succession, each one triggering three more in your mind. The analytical part of you wants to measure, catalog, understand—but something else, something less quantifiable, simply wants to touch.

He watches you cautiously, measuring your reaction.

"They're extensions of temporal force," he explains. "I can manipulate objects through their timeline states—age them forward or backward, freeze them in their current temporal position."

The golden traces curl and twist above his palm, creating complex patterns that seem to follow mathematical principles.

"Can I—" You hesitate, unusual break in your typically decisive speech pattern. "Would contact damage them? Or me?"

"No damage," he says carefully. "But they're... sensitive."

The word choice seems odd, triggering your curiosity further.

"Sensitive how?" you press, eyes tracking the golden movements.

He sighs—perhaps denoting exhaustion.

"They're direct extensions of my temporal energy. I feel what they feel."

You process this information.

"Like nerve endings," you suggest.

"Yeah… Something like that."

Decision made, you extend your hand toward the nearest tendril, moving slowly to allow him time to withdraw if needed.

He doesn't.

Your fingertip makes contact with the golden energy.

The sensation is... unexpected.

The trace feels solid yet fluid simultaneously, warm without heat, substantial without mass. But what registers most prominently is Yoongi's immediate reaction—sharp intake of breath, pupils dilating by approximately 32%, micro-tremor in his left hand.

You pull back instantly, recalculating.

"Did that hurt?" you ask, cataloging his physiological responses.

"No." His voice drops by 2.7 hertz. "Not hurt."

No further clarification.

Your own pulse increases by another 8 beats per minute in response.

Oh.

You reach out again, this time with intent, and trace your finger along the golden tendril. It responds to your touch, curling around your fingertip like it's greeting you.

Yoongi's breathing pattern alters—inhalation extending by 0.7 seconds, exhalation shortening by 0.4.

"They recognize you," he says, voice rougher than before.

"That's impossible," you counter automatically. "We've never interacted like this before."

His eyes meet yours, holding for 2.3 seconds—longer than his usual 0.8-second maximum.

"They recognize you," he repeats, simply.

The golden trace wrapped around your finger pulses slightly, the rhythm matching your heartbeat with 97.3% synchronicity.

"What else can they do?" you ask, scientific curiosity temporarily overriding everything else.

He flexes his fingers slightly, and the traces extend further, creating a complex network of golden energy between you.

"They can interact with physical objects," he demonstrates, directing a tendril toward a small rock.

The stone ages rapidly, crumbling to dust in 3.2 seconds. Another rock reverts to its geological past—crystallizing into a perfect quartz formation.

"Temporal manipulation at a distance," you observe, mind going through all possible applications, limitations, variables.

"Yes."

You watch as the traces move with increasing confidence around you, never touching without your initiation, but clearly... aware of your presence.

"And these are unique to Time Anchors?" you ask, testing another hypothesis.

"Each type of Outlier has their own manifestation," he says carefully. "Mine happens to be temporal, and in tendrils of different sizes."

You detect deliberate vagueness, information being withheld.

"What's mine?"

The traces flicker briefly, responding to some change in his emotional state.

"That's something you'll have to discover yourself," he says finally.

You frown, dissatisfied with the non-answer.

"More cryptic responses. Inefficient communication strategy."

His mouth quirks again.

"Some things can't be told, Noma. They have to be experienced."

You reach out again, this time allowing your entire hand to pass through the network of golden energy. The traces respond immediately, wrapping around your fingers, sliding between them.

Yoongi's breath catches, the sound barely audible at 17 decibels.

"These are... remarkably sensitive," you observe.

"Yes." The word emerges strained, tightly controlled.

A hypothesis forms. You test it by deliberately trailing your fingers through the traces with a bit more pressure.

His reaction is immediate—pupils dilating to 7.1 millimeters, pulse visible at his throat increasing to approximately 92 beats per minute, a muscle in his jaw tensing with 47% more force.

"Interesting," you murmur, filing away this reaction for future analysis.

"We should stop," he says, voice rougher than before. "Extended manifestation increases detection risk."

Logical. Rational.

Yet you find yourself strangely reluctant to end the experiment.

"One more question," you negotiate, still not withdrawing your hand from the golden network. "Why do they move in clockwise patterns specifically?"

His eyes meet yours again, unreadable.

"Because that's how time moves," he says simply. "Forward. Clockwise."

You correlate with your observations.

"And if something moved counterclockwise?" you ask, the question emerging from some intuitive part of your mind rather than your analytical centers.

The traces flicker again, responding to something in his emotional state.

"That would be something else entirely," he says, echoing his earlier statement.

Before you can press further, he withdraws, the golden traces retracting into his skin. The absence leaves the air feeling strangely empty, lacking some vital element you hadn't noticed until it was gone.

Your fingertips tingle with residual sensation—a ghastly feeling you don’t know how to categorize but for some reason find yourself missing.

"We need to move," he says, voice returning to its normal cadence. "We've stayed in one place too long."

He is right.

You don’t know why you still want to touch those golden traces.

You rise instead, calculating the most efficient exit route while your mind continues processing this new data point: Agent Min’s golden traces recognize you, despite having no logical reason to do so.

Another anomaly to add to your growing collection.

He presses his right wrist with two fingers, applying precisely 2.1 kilograms of pressure to the outer edge of his Chrono-Sync Watch. The device responds with a soft sound—around 17 decibels, so barely perceptible even in the cave's acoustic environment.

A holographic display materializes 4.7 centimeters above the watch face, projecting a three-dimensional map of Sector 4 with pulsing red markers scattered across its surface.

You lean forward, immediately registering the discrepancy: standard Chrono-Sync Watch models lack holographic projection capabilities.

"What is that?"

Yoongi doesn't look up, his focus entirely on the floating map as he rotates it 37 degrees with a precise finger movement.

"Modified," he says simply, the explanation as efficient as always. "I told you."

You study the hologram, cataloging design parameters and technical specifications with automatic precision.

"Quantum-projection module integration into a Chrono-Sync interface would require bypassing at least seven encryption protocols," you observe, mind already mapping the engineering challenges. "The power requirements alone would necessitate a modified lithium cell with 347% increased capacity. Not to mention the spatial compression algorithms needed to maintain holographic integrity without..."

Your analysis trails off as your eyes meet his over the floating display. The corner of his mouth twitches once more.

"You helped create this," he says quietly, fingers still moving through the projection.

The statement registers, but fails to connect with any accessible memory database.

"I did not." Your contradiction emerges automatically, precisely calibrated to express certainty.

He doesn't argue. Doesn't press. Simply continues manipulating the map with those agile, gloved fingers, eyes occasionally flicking to your face as if contemplating your reaction.

Silence expands between you for exactly 4.3 seconds before your curiosity overrides caution.

"Where are we going?" you ask, redirecting the conversation away from memory discrepancies that trigger uncomfortable neural responses.

"I'm mapping our closest access point," he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

His index finger traces a route through the holographic streets, calculating distances with the same analytical precision you recognize in yourself.

"We need to reach one of the travel spots within the next 37 minutes. Our temporal signature trail is too fresh after that... incident."

"Travel spots?"

You catalog the unfamiliar terminology, cross-referencing against known CHRONOS lexicon.

No matches found.

Yoongi's fingers pause at exactly 23 degrees northeast of your current position. His throat works—a slight contraction suggesting hesitation.

"I..."

His voice hovers over the simple noun. He swallows once, recalibrating.

"Travel spots are access points," he continues, voice modulated in a way that suggests internal editing. "Strategic locations throughout the city that allow direct transport to the 7th Hour headquarters."

"Teleportation technology? That's theoretically impossible given current quantum limitations."

"Not teleportation. Temporal-spatial warping." His finger taps a pulsing blue marker on the map. "These portals use existing weak points in CHRONOS's reality grid."

Theoretical models. Probability factors. Energy requirements.

"The energy necessary to maintain stable reality tunnels would exceed—"

"That's why they're not tunnels," he interrupts, eyes still fixed on the map. "They're more like... doors. Open only when needed, closed immediately after use."

You lean closer, studying the blue markers. Their distribution follows no discernible pattern—a deliberate randomization algorithm to prevent predictive tracking.

"Why can't CHRONOS detect them?" you ask, probing for weaknesses.

"They can detect the activation," he answers, voice tightening slightly. "But not follow through. The portals are specially calibrated to recognize Outlier temporal signatures. Anyone else attempting to pass through would trigger an immediate collapse."

You frown, recalculating. "But my temporal signature is registered in the CHRONOS database. Wouldn't that trigger their defense systems?"

His eyes flick to yours briefly—0.7 seconds of direct contact.

"Your official signature is a fabrication. The real one..." He pauses, choosing his words with unusual care. "The real one is already authorized in our system."

Another anomaly to catalog.

Another fragment that doesn't fit your accessible memory database.

"So we access one of these points, and it transports us directly to your headquarters?" you confirm, redirecting toward practical logistics.

"Yes." He closes the holographic display with an easy gesture. "But we need to be careful. After what happened at the coffee shop, they'll be scanning for temporal disturbances with heightened sensitivity."

You tilt your head, considering.

"And why haven't you contacted your team? Surely they could provide assistance or extraction."

His eyes flicker to you. Presses his lips together. Then, answers.

"Communications are compromised in this sector," he explains. "Any encrypted transmission would register on CHRONOS monitoring systems. They'd triangulate our position within 3.7 seconds."

"Your golden traces," you observe, connecting variables. "The temporal display at the coffee shop would have triggered every sensor within 1.5 kilometers."

"Precisely why we need to move quickly." He cracks his neck again, just like he did back in the coffee shop. "Our window is closing. That display was necessary but costly from a strategic perspective."

Your mind reconstructs the coffee shop incident—the bartender's decay, the golden traces, the immediate pursuit.

"You risked substantial exposure to extract me," you state, the realization forming fully. "Statistically, that decision carried a 78.3% probability of compromising your entire operation."

He doesn’t explain. Doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t try to correct you. Just lets silence stretch for three seconds.

"Some variables outweigh probability," he says finally.

"I still don't understand why you can't simply use your temporal abilities to transport us directly. If you can manipulate time—"

"I manipulate time, not space," he sighs. "I can slow it, accelerate it, even stop it briefly. But I can't move through it. That's..."

He hesitates again, that same weighted pause.

"That's a different ability entirely."

You catalog this limitation, updating your mental model of his capabilities.

"And these portals combine both temporal and spatial manipulation," you deduce, connecting data points.

"Yes." The confirmation is clipped, efficient. "They were designed specifically to compensate for the limitations of individual Outlier abilities."

"Designed by who?"

His eyes meet yours again—1.4 seconds this time, 75% longer than his usual pattern.

"By us," he says simply.

The pronoun registers with unexpected weight.

Us. Collective. Collaborative.

You and him.

Your Chrono-Sync Watch beeps softly: Temporal variance: 1.07%.

"We need to move," he says, already turning toward the cave entrance. "The nearest travel spot is 1.7 kilometers northeast. If we maintain optimal pace while avoiding main thoroughfares, we should arrive within the acceptable window."

You follow, legs automatically adjusting to match his stride, body responding to cues your conscious mind hasn't processed.

Another anomaly. Another piece of the puzzle.

You catalog it alongside all the others, building your database of inconsistencies, contradictions, and inexplicable familiarities.

Someday, you'll find the pattern that connects them all.

But for now, you follow the ghost with golden traces, moving through a city that feels increasingly like a simulation with every step.

goal: 250 notes

next | index

— taglist

@cannotalwaysbenight @taevanille @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @ktownshizzle @yoongiiuu93 @billy-jeans23 @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @hobis-sprite0218 @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @cristy-101 @mellyyyyyyx

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

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inprogresspokemon · 10 months ago

Text

Berylian Pikachu

Electrodent Pokémon Type: Electric/Dragon Size: 2'00" | 26.5 lbs Ability: Fluffy or Thunderous: The Pokémon electrifies its body, allowing it to deal additional Electric damage with its physical moves and to attackers that make direct contact. The effect increases with an active Electric Terrain, but is canceled by sandstorms and other sand and mud-based moves. Hidden Ability: Electric Surge Evolution Method: Evolves from Pichu by leveling up with high friendship while in the Beryl Region

Description: Berylian Pikachu, unlike their temperate forest-dwelling counterparts, are adapted to the harsher, less wooded environments of Beryl. By changing their diet and becoming gluttonous, they have evolved to be larger, fluffier, with more muscle and fat, sacrificing speed and agility for enhanced physical attack, defense, and stamina. This allows Berylian Pikachu to deliver powerful blows, run long distances, and better protect young Pichu from predators. The mystical energy of the Beryl region also granted this line a Dragon-type, making them more aggressive and hostile towards most Pokémon, except other electric rodents. Berylian Pikachu's fluffy fur retains the electricity that is discharged from their cheeks, enabling them to electrify their physical moves or generate an electric shield when overcharged. Unlike the common Pikachu, the Berylian variant is nomadic, rarely staying in one place for long. When colonies meet, half of the newly evolved Pikachu migrate to new groups. Annually, during the rainy season, the oldest Pikachu gather in crystal-rich areas, causing storms as they dance until triggering their evolution into Gorachu.

---

Gorachu

Jackalope Pokémon Type: Electric/Dragon Size: 4'07" | 154.3 lbs Ability: Fluffy or Thunderous Hidden Ability: Electric Surge Evolution Method: Evolves from Berylian Pikachu while using Dragon Dance with an active Electric Terrain

Description: After completing the mysterious ritual, Berylian Pikachu evolve into Gorachu. While Gorachu become more friendly towards other Pokémon, they remain fiercely protective and aggressive when their colony is threatened. They develop belly pouches to carry young Pichu and their food, ensuring safety from any dangers during travels. In the wild, Gorachu collectively care for all the young Pichu, treating others' offspring as their own. Once trained, they become loyal partners, even babysitting their trainers' own children and other baby Pokémon. Using their powerful legs, Gorachu are able to leap great distances; however, their large size and lack of agility make it hard to stop or change direction quickly. When facing an opponent, they can lash by bashing them with their fluffy, electrified tails and jabbing with their horns, which are made of crystallized electric energy. If their horns break, they will grow back larger than before, symbolizing strength and experience. Berylian people craft accessories from these horn fragments, believing they bring luck and happiness. Some researchers speculate that Berylian Pikachu and Gorachu are the original forms of Pikachu and Raichu, with common variants being adaptations to less harsh environments; Kantonian myths and an article in the Scarlet book support this theory.

Berylian Pikachu and Gorachu were commissioned, designed by, and belong to Daraen. Thanks!

- - - - - - - - - -

Follow for more fake Pokemon evolutions!

FAQ | Social Media | Pokemon Index | Commission Information

#pokemon #fakemon #in progress pokemon #pikachu #gorachu #berylian pikachu #regional variant #regional form #dragon type #electric type #commission #Daraen #IPPcommission #long post

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recareels · 10 months ago

Text

it’s a craving, not a crush

so anyway, i have an obsession with sunday’s white trousers and i rly just wanna make him make a mess in them (*ﾉωﾉ) | title credit: lunch by billie eilish

character: sunday warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, dom/sub power dynamics, daddy kink, talks of punishment, cock worship if you squint, noncon/dubcon as reader refuses to take no for an answer, cum licking/swallowing, pet names (darling, sweetheart, etc), bratty reader, one use of the word sir, overstimulation words: 2.6k

“Sweetheart, come now,” Sunday says, glancing over at you—splayed on your tummy across the carpet, elbows bent and chin in palms, a fraying novel open in front of you—with a small grin. “What are you doing? The floor is not a proper place to read—especially not when there are so many suitable alternatives.”

Sunset eyes sweep across the circular room, pointedly lingering on the various chairs and couches scattered about—plush blue velvet, overstuffed and detailed in gold, with freshly fluffed pillows arranged meticulously, accentuating them.

With a huff, you look down at your book, index finger outlining the edge of the page idly.

“What if I prefer the floor?”

“Oh?” he turns toward you, placing his pen down on the desk. “And why is that? Are the couches not to your liking?”

Amusement tugs at the corners of his mouth, his head tilting in question. You stare at him for a moment, your own mirth glimmering in your eyes, before finally pushing yourself up onto all fours.

“Well,” you drawl out, crawling on your hands and knees toward him, something sly smeared across your face. “Maybe there’s something I want on the floor.”

A soft chuckle vibrates in his throat as you reach his knee, propping your chin on his thigh and gazing up at him.

“Whatever could that be?” he hums out the words, sweet as honey, a gloved palm coming to smooth baby hairs back from your brow.

“To kneel between your thighs,” a hand begins creeping up his leg, tracing the inseam of his immaculately pressed trousers, “and play with you a little.”

“You know that isn’t appropriate, darling,” he says, his voice paradoxically both stern and soft. “I’m working right now, and you promised to behave.”

“What?” you pout, finger stopping a millimetre shy of the growing lump in his pants. “Sucking your cock through your trousers doesn’t make me a good girl?”

Sunday’s eyes refocus on the papers strewn in front of him, beginning to gather them in a haphazard pile.

“Not when Daddy’s trying to sift through these documents, no. There is a time and a place for everything, you know that.”

“But—But what if I really want to?”

He sighs, squaring up the papers between his hands and tapping them on his desk a few times to align them before placing them back on the surface, conscientious not to mess them up. Features gone hard and flat, he casts you another glance, bordering on exasperated.

“When has whining ever gotten you what you want? Hm?”

Never, of course—that would instil bad habits in you, and Sunday can’t have that.

Doesn’t mean you’ve stopped trying.

“Please, Daddy,” you whimper, index finger sketching out the shape of his cock, touch feather-light. “Please, let me suck on it, just for a little bit? You don’t even have to take it out! I just wanna—”

“It seems the word no has vanished from your vocabulary. Does Daddy need to reinstate it?”

“No,” you look away, cheeks burning at his reprimand, eyes downcast as a finger draws nonsensical shapes on his flesh. “I just wanna be close to you, that’s all.”

The pout in your voice is palpable, heavy and contorting your words into something shy and mumbled. Your eyes shift up, shining with sincerity, beseeching him to understand.

“I love being close to you; I love making you feel good.”

You also love pleasing; this he knows for a fact. You love bringing him moments of pure bliss, creating them using your body as your tool and gifting him fragments of absolute rapture in the rawest, most authentic sense.

A large sigh crushes his chest, the edges of Sunday’s resolve beginning to melt beneath your veracity.

“I swear I’m not trying to be bad or upset you,” you say, voice painfully earnest. “I just want you.”

The hunger in your eyes is saturated in desire, deep and intense and almost scathing with it’s craving. Your pupils have teeth, your ardency having swallowed up any remnants of mischief, leaving behind nothing but genuine want.

“How about…A compromise? You can suck my cock when I’m finished with my work.”

An enticing offer, to be sure. But not what you want.

He sounds unaffected, voice cool and crisp as if he’s striking a business deal—but his cock tells you otherwise, already half-hard and beginning to strain against white linen; yearning, and you’ve barely even touched it yet.

Daddy wants it just as bad as you do; you know he does. He just happens to possess a stricter sense of self-control and a stubborn dedication to his work, that’s all.

“But that could take ages,” you groan out dramatically, brattiness beginning to seep back into your tone; inherent, irreverent, revived by the prospect of not getting your way. “I’ll probably have to go to bed before you’re even close to finished!”

Austerity returns to his face, unimpressed by your unwillingness, gaze set in stone once again, and he returns to his work, resolute and relentless.

“I am tiring of this conversation,” he says, vaguely spit from his tongue as he cards through manilla folders.

“Your cock isn’t—”

“And I have better things to do than go in circles with a little girl intent on misbehaving,” he speaks loudly over your voice, drowning it out.

Something barbed sinks in your chest, the watery sting of refusal beginning to well up beneath your tongue. It seems he’s made up his mind, a certain finality ringing in his decision—a finality you know intimately, a finality that is engraved in permanence.

Because once Daddy’s decision has been made final, you know there’s no chance of revising it.

You are not getting what you want—not with permission, anyway.

“M’sorry, Daddy,” you murmur softly, true remorse in your voice.

Sunday doesn’t answer, but to your surprise he doesn’t demand you remove yourself from between his legs, either, an act you perceive as a non-verbal allowance to stay there.

And, for a little while, that’s all you do, resting your head on his thigh as your fingers map out nonsensical patterns along his other leg, lips occasionally planting a smattering of kisses to his warm, clothed flesh.

You’re drifting between states of consciousness when his voice sounds again, smooth and soft, a palm cupping the crown of your head.

“My, you really do miss me.”

“Told you so,” you drool out, the words slurred and sleepy. “Still wanna suck you off, too.”

A sigh depresses his chest, chased by a disapproving click of his tongue. “Stubborn little thing.”

And although it’s an insult, his voice is tender, his fingers doting, his eyes filled with fondness.

“You aren’t going to give up, are you?”

Sowing a trail of kisses up his thigh, you shake your head, accompanied by a quiet sound of denial. Laying your cheek on his firm muscle again, your tongue darts from between your lips to poke lazily at the bulge between his legs.

His cock is already filling again—gosh, for someone who claims they don’t want it, you sure are easy to arouse, Daddy—jumping a little beneath your dreamy coo, damp breath seeping through his pants to warm his most intimate parts.

Another sigh leaves his lips, charged with resignation and surrender.

“Stop that.”

A hum of mock contemplation vibrates on your tongue, eyes closing briefly as you nuzzle into his groin.

“Doesn’t feel like you want me to stop.” The tip of your tongue slips past your lips again, tracing a slow, lazy circle around his clothed head. “Doesn’t really seem like you want me to stop, either.”

And it’s true, he doesn’t seem like he wants you to stop, refraining from administering his usual warnings or enforcing his usual preliminary discipline, instead doing nothing at all.

“It has been made clear to me that you won’t learn your lesson if I forcibly stop you. Only when you do it of your own volition can I be sure that you’ve actually learned.” He pauses, allowing room for a response, but you only burrow your face further into his lap. “Manually halting you doesn’t seem to help.”

Your lips traverse the trajectory of his cock, now fully hard, planting another row of soft, wet kisses across it as he speaks, more intent on your work than his words.

“You know if you go through with this there will be consequences, yes?”

“I’m aware.” Your tongue curls, a sweet little flick over the head, punctuated by another peck.

“So long as you’re—ah—aware.”

The promise of punishment weighs hefty in his tone—it will come, and it won’t be fun, you can be certain of that.

But in this moment it doesn’t matter; in this moment you don’t care, too enamoured with him to be concerned about the inevitable consequences looming in the future, too starved for an ounce of him, any way you can have him. It’ll be worth whatever punishment he conjures up, you’re sure of it. His cum is worth anything.

And you tell him so, a half-swallowed moan wadding up in his throat in response.

“Anything for attention, huh?”

“Any attention is good attention when it comes from you,” you murmur, nestling your cheek into his thigh.

A hand pets your head, gentle and warm, his stern tone mollified by love. “That’s no reason to misbehave, though.”

You answer with a kiss to his cock, followed by one slow, heavy lave over the lump, dragging your tongue along the curve and leaving a wide streak of saliva in your wake.

You’re done talking.

Sunday sucks a hiss through his teeth, a jolt of rigidness freezing his entire body for a moment before he forces it to relax—legs, thighs, arms, fists, face—and exhales a drawn out breath, long and controlled.

His eyes, unblinking, stay trained on the documents spread across his desk, but his gaze is motionless, stare focused on a singular spot.

A smile spreads across your lips, still pressed to his cock, and you stifle a giggle, remnants of it still playing on the back of your tongue, planting another hot, damp open-mouthed kiss to his clothed head.

Your pace stays leisurely at the start, tongue rolling over the length of his cock in lazy repetitive laps—up, down, up, down, savouring the soft noises you manage to elicit from him with each cycle through the routine; those little hitches of breath, stuttering in his throat on the inhale, those faint whimpers that vibrate in his chest, snuffed out long before they can reach his lips.

All non-verbal pleads to go faster.

But you don’t. You won’t, not until his trousers are thoroughly drenched, your saliva stretched thick and sticky on the linen of his pants, aiding your tongue in its slick glide.

Only then do you begin to accelerate, tongue flattening against the straining lump and massaging in broad circular motions, gaining speed with each lick. It hurts, scalding little pricks erupting across your sensitive flesh, tastebuds beginning to chafe from being repetitively ground into the starched fabric. But you persevere, unperturbed by the pain, dedicated to your pursuit of pleasure.

Head tilting upward, your tongue flexes, stretching itself taut and tense as you endeavour to stare up at him. And oh, what a breathtakingly beautiful sight you are, eyes glittering with a coltish mischief and lips spread into a wide, open smile as your tongue works, hard and fast, smearing a dense lacquer of spit across your chin.

There’s something desperate in your gaze, wanton and wanting, your need to please contradicting your misbehaviour, and Sunday’s hips twitch, an involuntary action that only serves to spur you on further, nurturing your enthusiasm.

It’s nasty and messy and so fucking hot, Sunday just barely able to smother the groan that claws at his chest when he glances down at you again, looking up at him with such potent devotion it almost feels suffocating, pouring from your eyes and permeating the air, curling around his neck and squeezing.

Blood rushes from his brain and leaves his skull full of tingles, stalling his breath in his lungs and feathering the edges of his vision.

“Ha-ah, fuck,” he chokes out, hips jerking again and you whine a little, nose nuzzling into him in a yearning caress.

He’s been trying to keep quiet, you can tell; murdering his sweet sounds of pleasure by clenching his teeth and swallowing firmly, intent on not giving you the satisfaction of knowing that it feels good, that he’s enjoying it.

Because, really, what kind of deterrent is that?

An unconvincing one, that’s what.

And you prove his hypothesis, slick tongue curving around his cock as best it can, embracing the shaft in tight, wet warmth and siphoning it into your mouth, drawing him in as far as his pants will possibly allow.

Lips puckered and cheeks hollowed, you suck on his clothed cock, the force of your suction keeping it steady as the tip of your tongue flicks over his soaked slit, outlined by the fabric clinging to his flesh.

Another moan pries past his lips, fading into something airy and light, and the speed of your motions increases, tongue rubbing over the head in strong, tight little licks.

You’re mouthing at his cock with a vengeance now, starved for more of his delicious noises, eager to tug another from him in spite of his strives to restrain them—each sound a prize to be coveted, cherished and collected—lips slurping at his head in thick smears while that slick muscle continues to work, smoothing over his leaking slit in sloppy little strokes.

You can taste his pre-cum, oozing through drenched material and watered down with your own spit, a whimper sounding deep within your throat, a greedy plea for more.

It’s sweet and tangy on your tongue, infused with his favourite roast of coffee and the copious amounts of sugar he drowns it in, and another little whine reverberates against his cock, loud and drawn-out.

Three more swipes over the head of his cock have him cumming with a sharp gasp, pristine trousers stained hot and sticky as he fills them, hips bucking into your face.

But you don’t dare move, eager to lap up and swallow down every drop he’ll give you, desperate tongue blotting up the thick dribbles of cream oozing through linen.

So devoted, so desirous.

That avid tongue continues to lave and suckle until his thighs are jerking with each flick, his breath stammering with shocks of overstimulation, a gloved hand rooting in the hair at the back of your skull and pulling gently.

“Hungry?” he asks through a smirk, the question a wispy chuckle.

“Always for you, Sir,” you garble, words tangled in spit, sounding as if you’re drunk on him, eyes gone dreamy with lust-tinted love.

The palm at the back of your head follows the curve of your cheek in an affectionate caress, coming to cup your jaw, thumb running along your bottom lip.

“Are you sated now?”

“Mm, never,” you hum out, lips puckering against his thumbprint in a sloppy kiss, blinking up at him with star-encrusted eyes.

His thumb presses against your mouth in response—a chaste kiss of its own—as he stares down at you, lips mollified into an endearing smile, eyes gone melty with absolute adoration, resting tenderly on your face for a moment.

They’re mostly pupils now, gaping orbs outlined by a thin ring of gold. They linger on each of your features, devouring your devout expression with a careful meticulousness, before sweeping to his crotch, now saturated with his cum and your spit, glazed material shimmering delicately beneath the lamplight of his office.

“You sure did make quite the mess,” he muses, eyes surveying the damage slow and thorough, hips shifting a little, as if to assess from all angles.

His gaze flits back to you after a moment of contemplation, something glinting in his irises, mischief toying with a corner of his lips.

“Now it’s time to clean it up.”

#sunday smut #hsr sunday smut #hsr sunday x reader #hsr sunday x you #sunday x reader #sunday x you #hsr smut #honkai star rail smut #hsr x reader #hsr x you #inky.sunday #tw:daddy kink

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angeliteeyes · 3 months ago

Note

Hi hi, love your writing.

If it’s okay with you could you do smth for a long lived character like Yae Miko or herta or Ganyu(preferably at least one of these three or your choice really it’s your blog) with a gn partner who’s insecure bc they’re in the mindset of “omg they’re so (respectfully) much older than me they must have lots of experience how could I compare to that?” How would they react to partners fears? What comes out of that? Hope you have a lovely evening/morning/night/ timezone

Aww thank you so much, you're too kind 🩷

We must've been on the same wavelength cause I was thinking of writing something for Yae Miko next! So I'm extra thankful for the scenario (*＾▽＾*) here you go!

Yae Miko x Insecure Reader

♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤

You never expected her to accept your confession.

All you intended was an opportunity to get your feelings off your chest, a way to inevitably be let down so that you could move forward with no regrets. So when her eternally perfect lips curved into a smile and you two became lovers, you were... a little unnerved, honestly. Grateful, of course, but it left you with many questions lingering in your mind.

For starters, there was the fact that you were of a much shorter lifespan. You had expected someone of her immense wisdom and experience to only go for equally mature partners. Not someone like you. In comparison, you were a mere minuscule blip in time, someone so minor that you'd hardly even be worth acknowledging.

And yet she did anyway. She even went as far as to instruct you to visit her at the shrine every single day—not that you minded, of course. You always adored the elegance she would exude whenever you visited the shrine to pray.

As you tenuously made your way up the steps, a certain pink-haired kitsune caught your eye. She appeared busy speaking to another shrine worker. You looked away. Of course, there's nothing wrong with her talking to other people, it's just... well, you fell in love with her so easily. Why wouldn't others? And if one of them decided to shoot their shot, maybe she would—

"You're overthinking again, aren't you?"

You jumped as you felt a sudden hand touching your shoulder, before realizing who it was. Looking up at her perfect face, your heart melted a little.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to ignore you. Just zoned out a little." Telling her the full truth, especially in such a public place, would be far too embarrassing.

"Well, if you're that keen on getting lost in your own head, why don't you take a stroll with me? There's a spot nearby with a lovely view." This wasn't a request, as you quickly learned. Without giving you a chance to respond, she tugged you along a path, eventually finding yourselves at a grassy hill. You turned to look at Yae.

"Why did we stop?" In response, she lifted her index fingers to your lips.

"Shhh. Keep talking and you'll miss it."

Just a moment later, you heard a strange sound. Your eyes followed the noise up. Before you could ponder its source, a cascade of flashy, colorful lights bombarded your senses with beautiful images—each one in some way pertaining to your interests. First, your favorite food, then various hobbies-related ones, and so on. They were absolutely mesmerizing, like nothing you'd seen before. Slowly, they began to fade and fizzle out.

"Do you think less of them for how short-lived they are?"

The question perplexed you. If you were honest, you nearly forgot you were even here with company given how enthralled you were.

"What do you mean? Uh, I guess not..." She smirked at you with her signature all-knowing smile.

"Of course you don't. Although they only remain in the sky for a tiny fragment of time, that merely makes them shine brighter. Funny... we live in the land of eternity, but here we are awestruck by the most temporary of things." You nod timidly.

"Humans are much the same way, don't you think? Especially you, darling. Your life will come and go quickly, and yet while you're here, you glow so brightly I can hardly look away."

Her proclamation made your stomach flutter a little. How could she mean that? You could hardly even imagine the amount of people she's met, and the number of people who must've asked her out... it made you queasy.

"I don't... I don't know about that, Yae. I mean, I'm just so simple compared to you. You've lived so long and done so many great things, and I'm just—I don't know. I can't compare to you or other people."

Yae, predictably, frowned at you and adorned her face with a cold glare she often puts on during frustrating situations.

"And since when do you get to decide my opinion of you? Honestly."

But as much as she disapproved, you couldn't shake off what you deemed as the undeniable truth.

"Yae, be honest. Why did you really go out with me? I've seen how many people you've rejected before, so it doesn't seem like just pity, and I know my life hasn't been all that special. So... what is it about me?" The words you'd been holding in rapidly flowed out of you as tension weaved through you. Yae, on the other hand, looked oddly pleased. Happy, even.

"Hm. If I were to alter it to fit our current metaphor... I suppose you're like a firework that has yet to be lit. You may not see it yet, darling, but you're full of potential." She leaned closer to you, bumping your foreheads together gently.

"And trust me, I will stop at nothing to bring that bright light out of you."

#genshin #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #yae miko x you #genshin x reader #yae miko x reader #yae miko #female x reader #insecure reader #genshin impact x you #genshin x you

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sasheemo · 6 months ago

Text

Friday Thoughts

Chapter 2

Chapter Summary: You struggle to focus during your morning shift after a restless night, thoughts lingering on the evening before. A text arrives, set to alter the course of your weekend.

Word Count: 4.3k

Chapter Index

Read on AO3

You wake up with a start, your chest rising and falling rapidly as your heartbeat pounds in your ears. The room feels stifling, your skin is damp with sweat, and a faint shiver runs down your spine despite the warmth of your tangled sheets.

For a moment, you lie there, disoriented, clutching at the fading fragments of a dream that slips through your grasp.

Images of Agatha flash in the haze of your half-formed memories, vivid yet blurred. You can almost see the teasing curve of her smile, the glint of her icy blue eyes catching the light, and the cascade of her dark hair falling untamed. Her voice echoes faintly, curling around you like a spell, though you can’t remember what she said. It’s maddening, this lingering sense of her, the indelible mark she seemingly left on you.

The night has been nothing short of unbearable. Each time you’d stirred awake, it was as if her presence still clung to the air around you, intangible but oppressive. You tossed and turned, trying to shake her loose, but she always crept back in. A shadow in your subconscious, drawing you deeper every time you closed your eyes.

Your bed feels heavier than usual, like it’s trying to hold you down. Your body begs for another hour of sleep, just a little more time to recover, but your brain is already awake, unkindly replaying the events of the previous night.

“Maybe, I should ask you out next time.”

Agatha’s words echo in your head and you groan, pressing your palms into your eyes in a futile attempt to block it all out, as if willing the memories away could undo the knot in your stomach.

You check the clock: 6:30 a.m. The shift at the café starts in thirty minutes. A tired chuckle escapes you—there’s no time to process anything, no time to wallow, just time to get up and keep moving.

For a brief moment, you consider calling in sick. Would it be so bad to stay in bed, avoid the world, and pretend that none of this happened? But the thought of lying there, alone with your thoughts, feels worse.

With a heavy sigh, you force yourself to sit up. The dream, the memories, the exhaustion—they’ll have to wait.

You shuffle out of bed with all the grace of a zombie, your limbs heavy and reluctant to obey. The cold floor jolts you, drawing a sharp breath as you force yourself toward the bathroom. A quick shower will have to do, there’s no time for anything more, even though what you really want is to stand under the steaming water until you feel human again.

The spray of lukewarm water stings your skin, a poor imitation of comfort, but you bear it. Shampoo, rinse, towel—everything feels mechanical. Your mind is still clouded, replaying snippets of your restless night and the weight of her voice, her presence, her gaze.

The mirror fogs over as you step out of the shower, and you stare at your reflection with a faint grimace. You look as exhausted as you feel, the bags under your eyes a testament to the chaos in your head. You wrap a towel around your hair and shuffle back to your room, pulling out the first set of clothes you can find: a pair of jeans, a hoodie, and sneakers.

Still towel-drying your hair, you glance at the clock. Shit, it’s already 6:50.

You hurl the damp towel on top of your bed as you shove your feet into your sneakers, barely tying one while the other remains stubbornly untied. Grabbing your bag, you throw it over your shoulder and head for the door.

The crisp morning air bites at your damp hair as you step outside. A chill runs through you, but you tell yourself you’ll warm up on the walk to work. Westview may be small, but it’s convenient. The café is only a few blocks away, and you almost never need your car.

Your steps quicken as you make your way through the quiet streets, the town still waking up around you. The sun barely peeks over the horizon, painting the sky in pale shades of gold and pink. Normally, you’d take a moment to admire the view, but not today. Today, you’re too focused on putting one foot in front of the other, trying not to think about how unprepared you feel—both for your shift and for the emotions swirling in your chest.

But work doesn’t care if you’re tired. Work doesn’t care if you didn’t sleep. And work definitely doesn’t care if your thoughts are consumed by someone you probably shouldn’t even be thinking about.

You push the door open and step inside, bracing yourself for the morning rush.

The café is already buzzing, the smell of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries greeting you like an old friend. You grab your apron from the hook in the back and tie it around your waist, fingers fumbling slightly as your body struggles to keep up with your mind.

“Morning!” your coworker greets, already busy steaming milk for a cappuccino.

You manage a small smile in return, mumbling something resembling a greeting before slipping behind the counter. The machine hums steadily, blending into the chatter of early risers and the clinking of mugs. You know this rhythm by heart—take the order, pour the coffee, hand it over with a polite smile. Repeat.

But today, your focus is nowhere to be found.

“Two lattes and a muffin, please.” a customer says, pulling you back to reality.

“Right, uh, coming right up.” you stammer, forcing a smile.

Your hands move almost on autopilot, scooping grounds into the espresso machine and steaming milk. You should feel at ease here, this is muscle memory by now. But your thoughts keep slipping away, drawn back to her.

You can’t shake the image of Agatha from last night: the way she moved through every room with effortless grace, like she owned every inch of space without even trying. Her voice was a contradiction—smooth and lilting, yet sharp enough to cut through the air, through your thoughts, through you.

And her eyes… God, her eyes. The way they always seem to linger on yours for just a heartbeat too long leaves your mind in chaos and your cheeks burning with heat just thinking about it. There’s something about her gaze that never fails to make you feel exposed, as if she sees right through the practiced smiles and careful words, unraveling every layer she can find.

But it’s not just how she looks at you, it’s the way she always seems to know, to touch something buried deep within, something you’re not sure you want anyone to find.

You let out a quiet sigh as you finish the lattes, sliding them across the counter to the waiting customer. “Here you go, enjoy!” you mutter, though the words feel hollow.

The minutes stretch into an hour, and the café grows busier. You try to focus, really, you do. But every so often, your mind drifts back to her. And to the couple of days ahead.

Normally, you’d welcome the weekend. For the past four months, weekends have been predictable—Agatha never asks you to babysit Nicholas. Saturdays and Sundays are her time with him, and you stay out of the way. It’s been that way since the beginning, and you’ve never thought much about it. But today? Today it feels… different.

You wipe down the counter during a lull, the rag moving in slow circles as your thoughts wonder.

The idea of not seeing her for two days feels inexplicably strange. You tell yourself it’s a good thing, that you won’t have to face her again so soon after last night, after the way she made you feel—like you were living in some wild parallel universe where Agatha would actually ask her younger babysitter out so casually.

But there’s another part of you, a quieter, more desperate part, that hates the idea.

You picture her at home with Nicholas, probably reading or cooking something together. You’ve seen glimpses of their weekends before, little clues in the way Nicholas talks about them on Mondays. It’s their time, just the two of them. No babysitter needed.

You should feel relieved. Relieved that you won’t have to navigate the weight of her presence so soon. Relieved that you’ll have space to breathe.

But… what if you don’t want space? What if relief is the last thing you feel? What if the only thought consuming your mind is the pull of her orbit, the irresistible gravity that is drawing you back to her, no matter how much you try to resist? What then?

Your coworker’s voice breaks through your thoughts, snapping you back to reality. “You good?”

“Y-yeah…” you say quickly, forcing a smile. “Just tired.”

They raise an eyebrow but don’t push it, which you’re grateful for.

Tired. That’s an understatement. But it’s easier to blame exhaustion than to face what’s really gnawing at you.

You glance at the clock, counting the hours until your shift ends. Until you can go home, close your eyes, and maybe, just maybe, find some way to keep her out of your head.

It’s nearly halfway through your shift when your phone vibrates against the counter. You glance at it, expecting a spam notification or a weather update, but your stomach drops when you see the name on the screen.

For a moment, you just stare at the notification, frozen in place.

Agatha never messages you outside of scheduling changes, and even then, it’s rare. You wipe your hands on your apron before picking up the phone, your thumb hovering over the screen for a second longer than necessary before you unlock it.

Her message is brief and straight to the point, as always, but it’s enough to send your mind spiraling.

-Morning, hon. I’ve got some work to catch up on this weekend. Think you could keep Nicholas company for a few hours this afternoon? Let me know.

Your heart skips a beat as you read it, then reread it, and then—just for good measure—read it again. She’s never asked you to babysit on a weekend before. Weekends are her time with Nicholas, untouchable and sacred. Why now? Why today?

The rational part of your brain tries to take control, telling you it’s probably nothing. Maybe she’s really just busy, or maybe Nicholas asked for you. But the other part of you, the part that’s been living rent-free in your head since last night, is already racing ahead, imagining every possible subtext and intention behind her words.

You glance at the clock. Five minutes have passed since the message arrived, and you haven’t responded yet. She’s probably expecting an answer.

Quickly, you type back, your fingers fumbling over the keys.

-Of course, just let me know the time.

You hit send and immediately regret the phrasing. Does it sound too eager? Too formal? You shake your head, trying to push the doubts away.

Her reply comes almost instantly.

-Perfect. 4 PM?

The casual ease of her response does nothing to calm you. You feel the heat rise to your cheeks as you quickly type your reply.

-Sure, see you later.

You slide your phone back into your pocket, trying to focus on the tasks at hand. But it’s no use. Your thoughts are already drifting to the afternoon, to her house, to her.

You spend the rest of your shift caught in a whirlwind of emotions, memories and anticipation creating a deadly mix that throws your usual rhythm at the café completely off balance. Every time the bell above the door chimes, signaling a new customer, your heart jumps, half expecting to see her walk in, though you know she won’t.

You try to focus on the tasks at hand, but your thoughts keep pulling you back. You catch yourself biting your lip as you replay the messages in your head for the tenth time. It’s nothing, you tell yourself. She just needs a little help. But a tiny, most definitely delusional, part of you refuses to believe it’s as simple as that.

By the time the shift ends, you’ve convinced yourself that you’re overthinking it. It’s just a normal day, just a normal message. And yet, as you clock out and head home, the weight of anticipation settles heavier in your chest.

The walk home doesn’t do much to clear your head. If anything, the crisp air only sharpens the edges of your thoughts, making it impossible to push them aside.

Once inside, you toss your bag onto the couch and collapse beside it, letting out a long, frustrated sigh. The message from Agatha keeps playing in your mind, looping endlessly, until it’s almost like you can hear her voice saying the words instead of you reading them.

You tell yourself to relax, to just sit down, maybe eat something, and stop overthinking. It’s just babysitting. Just Nicholas.

You try scrolling through your phone, but the screen blurs as your thoughts drift. You grab a book from the coffee table, but the words don’t stick. After twenty minutes of pacing the living room, you give up entirely and head to your bedroom, determined to at least figure out what to wear.

It should be easy, you’ve done this many times before—picking comfortable, practical clothes you can move around in while keeping up with an energetic eight-year-old.

You pull a few options from your closet, laying them out on the bed as you stare at them like they hold the answer to some unspoken question. A hoodie and jeans? Too casual. A sweater? Maybe, but which one? You catch sight of a blouse tucked in the back of the closet and hesitate. Too much?

You shake your head, frustrated with yourself for even thinking about it. Agatha’s not going to care what you wear. She’s probably too busy with her work to even notice.

But then again…

Your fingers brush over the fabric of the blouse, and for a brief moment, you imagine the way she might look at you. Would she say something? Would she even notice?

You groan, tossing the blouse back onto the bed and grabbing your favorite sweater instead. The soft, worn, deep purple fabric feels like a quiet reassurance as you pull it over your head. It’s familiar, it’s reliable, comfortable without making a statement. It’s a safe choice. Just what you need.

By the time you’re ready to leave, your stomach is in knots, twisting in ways you didn’t think were physically possible. When you woke up this morning, you’d told yourself nothing could feel worse than how you felt then. Turns out, the day had other plans, and it’s really outdoing itself.

The house looms ahead as you walk up the path, your heartbeat quickening with every step. You tell yourself it’s just the cold air or the anticipation of dealing with Nicholas’ boundless energy, but deep down, you know better.

When you reach the door, you hesitate for just a second before knocking. It’s a firm, polite knock, nothing too eager. You shift your weight, staring at the faint glow from the windows as you wait.

The door opens a moment later, and there she is.

Agatha is on the phone, her gaze flicking to yours briefly as she raises a finger, gesturing toward the device by her ear to signal it’s a work call. Without missing a beat in her conversation, she steps aside to let you in, her tone clipped yet composed as she discusses deadlines and budgets.

She gives you a small nod, gesturing toward the living room, before closing the door behind you and disappearing up the stairs, her heels clicking softly against the steps.

You can’t help but marvel, briefly and absurdly, at the fact that she’s wearing heels. At home. While working. For no one but herself. Who does that? Then again, it’s Agatha. Of course she’d find a way to make “business casual at home” look not just effortless, but devastatingly good.

You stand there, the faint echo of her voice drifting down from the second floor as you awkwardly toe off your shoes. It’s not the first time you’ve been greeted by her while she’s on the phone, but today it feels… disappointing.

For a moment, you linger in the entryway, half expecting her to finish the call and come back down. But minutes pass, and the only sound is her voice murmuring faintly in the distance.

Nicholas barrels into the room, breaking the silence. “You’re here!” he says, his face lighting up as he grabs your hand, already tugging you toward the couch. “Come on, I’ve got something to show you!”

His enthusiasm is a welcome distraction, and you let him pull you along, trying to focus on his chatter instead of the constant awareness of Agatha somewhere above you.

But even as you sit down and try to focus on the toy he’s enthusiastically explaining, her presence clings to the edges of your mind, refusing to let go. Her voice seeps through the ceiling like an uninvited melody, pulling your thoughts upward when they should be grounded here, with Nicholas.

You’re here for him, after all. And yet, no matter how much you try, you can’t seem to fully tune into his chatter. A pang of guilt settles in your chest as you realize how distracted you are today, how unfair it feels to him. He deserves your full attention, and instead, all you can think about is the woman upstairs. His mother nonetheless.

Nicholas doesn’t seem to notice how distracted you are—at least, not at first. He’s too busy running circles around the living room, bouncing between a pile of toys on the carpet and his favorite spot on the couch.

“Look at this!” he says for the fifth time in ten minutes, holding up a plastic spaceship with a proud grin.

You smile and nod, mustering a “Wow, that’s so cool!” reaction that you hope sounds convincing. But even to your own ears, it feels off, like the words don’t quite land the way they should.

It’s not his fault. Nicholas is as bright and full of energy as ever, his enthusiasm spilling into every corner of the room. But your mind keeps slipping. Every time he holds something up for you to see, you catch yourself glancing toward the ceiling, half-listening for the faint sound of footsteps or the low murmur of a voice that isn’t his.

Nicholas plops down beside you, tugging at your sleeve. “You’re really distracted today.” he says, his tone more observant than accusing, though it still hits like a punch.

“Am I?” you ask, trying to sound casual, though the knot of guilt in your chest tells you he’s right.

He tilts his head at you like he’s trying to figure something out. “Yeah. Usually, you’re way more fun.”

You let out a soft laugh, ruffling his hair to hide the fact that the comment stings more than it should.

“I’m sorry, buddy. I guess I didn’t sleep great last night.” It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth either.

Nicholas doesn’t press the issue, already leaping to his feet to grab another toy. He’s resilient like that, bouncing back faster than you feel like you deserve.

For a while, you try to lose yourself in his energy, letting him pull you into his games and stories. He shows you his drawings—one of which features the two of you as stick figures, standing side by side under a cartoonishly bright sun.

“See? That’s you!” he says proudly, pointing to the taller figure with messy hair.

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I don’t think I’ve ever looked better.”

His giggle is infectious, and for a fleeting moment, the weight in your chest seems to loosen.

By the time you hear the soft rhythm of footsteps on the stairs, a couple of hours have slipped by. Nicholas has kept you busy, his enthusiasm boundless as always, but your focus has been flickering on and off, caught somewhere between him and the occasional echo of Agatha’s voice from upstairs.

Agatha appears with an effortless grace that borders on unfair, one hand resting lightly on the railing as if she doesn’t actually need it. Her dark hair shifts with each step, a wild, natural wave that catches the light briefly before falling back into place. The heels she’s wearing—a sleek, elegant pair that look more suited for a runway than a staircase—click steadily against the wood. You can’t help but think about how you’d probably twist an ankle just trying to stand in them, let alone descend a flight of stairs with such poise.

Her face, illuminated by the warm glow of the overhead lights, carries a quiet fatigue. There’s no irritation, no sharp edge to her expression, only a subdued calm, like someone who has carried the weight of a long day and has decided not to let it show. It’s Saturday, and you know she’s been working, but somehow, she looks composed, refined, and entirely unbothered, as if the very concept of exhaustion has learned to negotiate with her.

You try to busy yourself with the blocks Nicholas has scattered across the carpet, but it’s impossible not to steal another glance as she steps into the room.

Her gaze sweeps over the scattered blocks, the half-built castle, and finally settles on Nicholas, who is still enthusiastically adding to his masterpiece.

“Everything alright down here?” she asks, her tone smooth and even, though there’s a touch of warmth in the way she looks at her son.

“Mom, look at my castle!” Nicholas exclaims, waving toward his creation without missing a beat.

Her lips curve into the faintest smile as she nods.

“Impressive.” she says, the word carrying a weight that makes Nicholas beam. Then, her attention shifts to you, her smile curving just slightly deeper, with an edge of amusement that feels as though it’s meant just for you.

“And you?” she asks, her head tilting slightly. “Are you surviving?”

You clear your throat, trying to ignore the way her gaze makes your pulse stutter.

“Yeah, I think so.” you manage, a warm smile forming on your lips as you glance affectionately at a very busy Nicholas, though your voice feels too small for the space.

She hums softly, the sound thoughtful as it drifts through the room, before turning and heading toward the kitchen. You take it as your cue. Standing, you brush your hands against your sweater.

“If you’re done for the day, I can head out now.” you say, keeping your tone polite, casual. “Give you two some time to catch up.”

Agatha stops mid-step, turning her head just enough to glance at you over her shoulder.

“Head out?” she repeats, her voice carrying a note of surprise, as though the thought hadn’t even occurred to her.

“I just thought…” you falter under her gaze, your words tangling. “Since you’re done working, you wouldn’t need me anymore.”

She turns fully now, leaning against the counter, her movements as composed as her expression, her eyes scanning you like she’s trying to read between the lines of what you’re not saying.

“It’s getting late.” Agatha says, her tone deceptively casual as she ignores your reasoning entirely. “You probably have plans for the evening. A date, maybe? It is Saturday night after all.”

The question rolls off her tongue with practiced ease, airy and playful, but her gaze fixes on yours with unsettling intensity, as though she’s already unraveling your reaction before you can form it.

“No!” the word bursts out of you, too loud, too fast, and you immediately feel the heat rush to your face.

“I mean- no, I don’t. I wasn’t- there’s no date.” You’re rambling now, tripping over your own words, each one more unnecessary than the last. “No plans. Just me. Alone. Tonight. At home.”

Oh my god. Please, stop talking! Your brain is screaming now, waving an emergency shutdown flag you’re clearly ignoring. Forget a facepalm, you’re ready to dig a hole in the floor and disappear forever.

Her lips curve into a satisfied smile, the kind that makes your stomach twist in ways you don’t entirely understand. She tilts her head slightly, her voice dipping into something almost indulgent.

“Well, then.” she says, her tone steady, laced with a quiet finality that makes her next words feel inevitable. “Stay for dinner. It’s only fair after pulling you away on a Saturday.”

It’s not a question—it’s a statement, smooth and effortless, like the decision has already been made for you. And before you can find a way to respond, she turns back toward the counter, pulling open a cabinet to retrieve a bottle of wine.

You’re left standing there, frozen in place as your mind races to catch up. She’s never invited you to dinner before—or any meal, for that matter. Sure, she’s a human being and eating is, obviously, a basic necessity, but the thought of Agatha Harkness doing something as casual as sharing a meal feels almost surreal.

Your plans for the evening are rewritten in an instant. You weren’t planning on doing much, just collapsing on your couch and replaying the last twenty-four hours in your head. But this… this is something else entirely.

You glance at the clock, as if grounding yourself in the reality of the moment, and then back at Agatha. She moves through the kitchen with her usual grace, completely unfazed, her movements as fluid and intentional as her words.

It feels like a door you didn’t even know existed has been cracked open, and you’re standing on the threshold, unsure of what’s waiting on the other side.

#agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness x you #agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha x reader #agatha x you #agatha x y/n #aaa fanfic #Agatha Harkness au #agatha coven of chaos #agatha harkness #agatha all along #agatha all along fanfic

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pointbreakvhs · 1 month ago

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Sacred Obsession

A gift I wrote for @casuallyobssessed 🤍

Pairing : David Allen Griffin x female!reader Genre : headcanons Note : Keep in mind, I've never watched the movie. I'm writing this from intuition. Warning : needles

Divider by @enchanthings-a

David Allen Griffin loved the sight of the needle piercing the flesh. The needle pierced slowly, deliciously penetrating the flesh. Penetrated the person. It was almost intimate, like sex, he thought. But he preferred the fear or the thrill before sex. It was more alive, more intense. More exhilarating when two contradictory emotions collided. When the needle penetrated the skin, it was slow. Each time, a sick rush twisted his insides, whether he was a witness, a recipient, or, most often in his case, dealing with one of his victims. Whether it was drawing blood for a health check or, more commonly, using an anesthetic to drug his victims, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the needle of the syringe as it pierced the skin while the victim began to fall asleep, sinking into a kind into slumber before waking up later. A form of dark communion, a moment where he holds absolute control over life and consciousness.

You were an angel. All you lacked was your halo. But he saw it, unlike you and the others. You had become an obsession for him. He couldn’t stop thinking about you, about your very being. He had to watch you from a distance. You were supposed to be his next victim, but something unfamiliar stirred in him. Of course, he first wanted to indulge in the pleasure of the sensual hunt, to draw you to him. To possess you. He had met you by chance in a supermarket while doing his own shopping. Your aura had drawn him in for a reason he could hardly explain, despite the cliché of the situation. Yes, all those romantic movies with the clichéd meetings when the two protagonists were shopping or something else. He hated that kind of forced situation. And yet… he couldn’t help but approach you, despite the absurdity of a situation he initially despised. You were struggling to reach a high shelf of canned goods. He approached you stealthily and took the item you wanted. A startle overcame you as your large eyes turned to him, a mask of innocence on your face. Genuine. He could never forget your grateful smile, your deep eyes, when he handed you the item with a charming smile you couldn’t ignore. You thanked him with an adorable little laugh that shook him deep inside as you walked away to continue your shopping. A new obsession, a new victim.

Of course, he had taken care to photograph you from every angle, each one he found perfect. The photos were displayed on a wooden board, hung on one of the walls in his dark apartment, like an altar devoted to you. He would trace your lips in the photos with his gloved index finger, slowly, reverently, imagining his own lips in place of that touch. His lips against yours. Would fate bring you together? He didn’t believe in fate. If anything, he believed in force. In control. He would create his own destiny, to feel his lips on yours, not muffled by tape meant to silence your screams.

Sometimes, he would sneak into your apartment and shift things almost imperceptibly to unsettle you. Sometimes, he took objects you considered insignificant, long forgotten, their absence barely noticeable. Vacation trinkets long tucked away in a closet that you wouldn’t notice missing. Sometimes, he was a bit bolder, stealing some of your underwear. He loved watching you go about your little routines: waking up late on weekend mornings, padding across the floor barefoot, or lounging on the couch with your breakfast.

He had started leaving you small messages. Not love letters. Fragments of sentences you couldn’t understand. A word scrawled on the back of a receipt. A phrase etched faintly into the condensation on your mirror. Things no one else would notice, but that unsettled you. The message was never direct, always vague, like a whisper. He wanted you to feel a presence without being able to name it. He wanted your paranoia to grow slowly. For you to doubt yourself before doubting the world. He wanted to be felt. One morning, you found a note on your table: You forgot to close the curtains. The light suits you so well. You double-checked the locks. You glanced over your shoulder. You started to wonder if you were imagining things. But deep down, you know you're not.

He had followed you into the alley behind your place that night. Everything was ready. The syringe in his pocket. The glove already on. You were alone, as expected. And yet… he hesitated. His finger trembled on the plastic of the syringe. Warmth. Fragility, maybe. He couldn’t do it. Not yet. He turned away, dissolving into the shadows. He had given in. He didn’t know why. He only knew it was stronger than him.

After failing to kidnap you in the alley, David begins to punish himself for his weakness. He pricks his own skin with a needle, not to draw blood, but to feel the pain of his failure. He does this in front of your photos, as if offering his pain to your image. Each prick is a reminder that he must regain control, but it also deepens his obsession, as he imagines sharing this pain with you someday, not to harm you, but to merge your experiences in a perverse act of intimacy, to bind you to him. In his mind, it would be a merging of sensations. A communion. A perverse kind of intimacy that only he could understand.

He fantasized a scenario where you find his shrine and, instead of fear, feel flattered by his devotion. He fantasizes about confessing everything to make you see the “art” of his obsession, the careful attention.This fantasy is why he can’t bring himself to kill you; he wants you to choose him. The question about “pure love” in his mind is his desperate attempt to justify his actions as something other than destruction.

He had kept one of your scarves. Stolen, of course. Imbued with your scent, soft, indistinct, unique. He brought it to his face like an offering. He closed his eyes. He breathed deeply. There was no longer David Allen Griffin, only a being suspended between reality and fantasy. The scent brought him back to you more violently than any image. Something that urged him to get even closer, yet also to hold back from destroying you. He wanted to keep that scent with him forever. He had never felt such intoxication. He no longer knew if he wanted to love you, kill you, or simply… keep you frozen in that eternal scent.

#david allen griffin #keanuverse #keanu reeves #the watcher 2000 #fanfic #headcanons #reader insert #my writing #david allen griffin x reader

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polarisjisung · 10 months ago

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BEST THING I NEVER HAD

synopsis: the line between giving up and seeing how much more you can take had always been blurry, tonight it seems nonexistent

wc: 3.1k

pairings: jaemin × fem!reader

genre: angst, hearbreak

warnings: mentions of violence, jaemin's injured, use of petnames, jaemin's oblivious and annoying, jaemin sucks, basically a situationship, slight gaslighting

notes: HAPPY JAEMIN DAY, i have a love hate relationship with this work (I suppose you could say its bittersweet 🤭) anyways here's part one! pls notice the beyoncé inspired title

Despite its softness, you can't help but jump at the sound of knocking against your front door.

just loud enough that you'd hear, but quiet enough that your parents wouldn't. It was a specific pattern of 5 knocks, delivered through the knuckles of an index and middle finger, in true jaemin fashion.

You wonder if its healthy, to be able to recognise the hooded silhouette that stands outside your door, to know someone from nothing but the tapping of their knuckles against a slab of wood, to know exactly the state you'll find him in if you swing the door open like you usually would.

It isn't, you suppose. but healthy had never been the word to describe you and jaemin. not the ungodly dessert bowls you made as midnight snacks together, not the lounging around all day doing nothing and certainly not the cycle of longing you found yourself in.

Time and time again you found yourself tearing yourself apart for him, for his love, and each time it would end with you slowly putting those broken pieces, shreds, of yourself back together, alone and all by yourself.

Though you're not sure you did ever recover fully, like a piece of your heart was lost every time jaemin turned his back to leave and never come back.

Like the tiny fragments of a broken glass, the ones you could never quite see as you sweeped up a mess of shattered glass and would find yourself stepping all over days later.

But he did come back. You suppose that was the problem, he came back every time.

Jaemin had this perfect ability of keeping you on edge, never pushing you far enough to leave, never pushing himself far enough to stay. It was the way he did most things, showing up at your door at a time you weren't sure was morning or night, coming back just before you'd manage to convince yourself he wouldn't, leaving just before your hope that he'd stay would come true. jaemin took this middle path in life that lead to the worst of both worlds, best of none. and it left you unsatisfied every time

Regardless, you'd been craving, almost desperate for his presence, anticipation bubbling in your chest every night since the last you'd seen him, in hopes you'd find a wounded jaemin helplessly stood at your doorstep with sparkly eyes and a smile that told you it would all be alright. it seemed that was the only way you saw him anyways, the way you hated most, injured that is.

So you'd prayed day and night, clasped your hands together and had gotten down on your knees and begged that he'd stay true to his word, that he wouldn't leave and that this wouldn't happen— yet here you were.

You haven't seen jaemin in weeks, but you still remember it all the same, the spark of glee that would ignite within you whenever you heard him at your door.

Tonight his presence makes your chest tighten and your mouth dry up— you feel the way your breaths force themselves through the confines of your throat, almost choking you.

The feeling is foreign and a sharp contrast to the way your cheeks would flush over and your heart would once race at the thought of jaemin.

Tonight you stray far from that love struck awe, eyes clenched so hard you were beginning to see colour. there's a growing lump in your throat that doesn't seem as negligible as before, with each shortened intake of breath it doubles maybe even triples in size— your vision, in spite of your shut eyes, blurrs into an abyss of absolute nothingness

And despite the thick wooden door that separates you, tonight na jaemin's presence feels suffocating.

You're not sure you'd describe it as love, certainly it wasn't that warm feeling of butterflies in your stomach and giddiness you knew before, like you were star struck, instead it was this feverish conjugation that made your hands clammy and your ears ring. Like the butterflies now had broken wings. You felt ill.

It had always been that way, only your heart would wrench after jaemin left and never while he stood expectant on your front porch. You suppose when he leaves for so long and stays for so little, your heart doesn't bother to acknowledge his visits anymore, like some form of a self-defense mechanism that protects you against yourself. because you never really could protect yourself against him

Suddenly, the difference being lovestruck and lovesick had never been clearer.

It had been three months.

A whole three months since you'd last seen him and tonight, tonight was the night he came back— unannounced, unexpected, and finally, finally, after days and weeks of convincing yourself, unwanted.

You know better than to let him in, not just into your home, but into your heart. And if you had learnt anything in your lifetime of knowing na jaemin, it was that those two were absolutely synonymous

Your heart that had only just now begun to learn that it could survive without him, thrive without him in fact.

You know that this is it, tonight would make it or break it— either way you know it would break you.

In the long run, it's not hard to figure out what you should do but you're a creature of habit, compelled by nothing more than muscle memory and indecision.

Your shaking hands reach for the door and begin turning the lock faster than you can convince yourself against the idea.

sure enough there he is, not an inch of skin that isn't painted in the cold shades of purple and blue yet hes staring up at you with so much warmth.

"How do you always get yourself like this, how do you get worse everytime" your words came as whisper.

You're not sure if your words hold the alternate meaning you hope they do, but as you take in the image of jaemin in front of you, you swear he's almost unrecognisable, so far beyond bruised that you wonder if you should be so cruel as to slam the door in his face.

He shrugs in response to your question, the cold breeze that brushes past the two of you biting at your skin, the thin material of your pyjama shorts doing little to nothing to keep your warm.

You're not supposed to let him in, but surely, you could always find a way to push him out, right?

There's some sort of a cheeky grin on his lips as you step aside to let him in, perhaps if he knew this was the last time he'd be stepping through the double doors of your home he would've worn an expression a lot different— you hoped he would at least.

But you know better than to occupy yourself in thoughts of what ifs.

Jaemin makes a beeline for the couch, as you do for the first aid kit that rests atop the kitchen cupboards, wordlessly.

Though the silence is nothing new, jaemin doesn't feel the welcoming atmosphere around him as he steps further into your home, in fact he feels nothing at all.

He looks over at you.

It's not tiredness that sits atop your features, the details of your pretty face all committed to his memory, yet the slight furrow of your brows and the way your lips pinch into a tight line aren't familiar to jaemin at all. There's something he can't quite put his finger on that sends him into a frenzy of panic and worry

"Hey doll?" you hum in response "are you okay?"

"Am I okay?" you chuckle wryly, "shouldn't I be asking you that jaemin?"

"Touche" you assume he lets it go, but jaemin doesnt know how, pushing a little further

"You just seem a little, off?"

After all, limits weren't something jaemin recognised well

You hate that he can't recognise the plain, simple and painfully obvious look of disappointment that's written all over your face either

Regardless you don't worry enough about his words to credit him with a response, rubbing the antiseptic roughly into his skin before reaching for the tube and letting it fall into the empty trash can, the thud as it hit the bottom filling you with ease.

You hate waste just as much as the next person, but wasting a little medicine was fine, just as long as you didn't waste anymore time on him.

Jaemin's brows knit together in a tight knot, watching you make your way back towards him with full consciousness, though there's something about the way you walk, trudge even, maybe its the way your feet drag across the carpet or the way your steps seem smaller, less eager, that has his heart sinking a little

"Doll, I'm not sure you meant to put that there" he says, attempting to brush a stray hair from your face, though you turn your head before he gets the chance

"Hmm?" your eyes trail over to the bin "oh, I just thought if I'm never going to use it again, there's no point keeping it around" you shrug

But you always kept it around, you kept it for him— remember he was allergic to the regular stuff.

What did you mean you'd never use it again?

Jaemin licks his lips, letting a soft sigh escape them as he watches you hurriedly place band aids over his cuts

"What's got you like this?" he says, you play innocent, shooting a look of confusion his way— jaemin doesn't expand, you don't answer

The room is cold, or at least it feels that way, despite the fire that's burning just a few feet away from him. The chill of silence is overwhelming, and the warmth you'd once emit in your words, in your actions, in your gaze, they're all missing.

"Did I do something wrong?" he whispers, innocent beady eyes forced into your face as he holds you close, not letting you slip through his hands— ironically you're already too far out of reach

All it takes is for you to bite at the left corner of your bottom lip for jaemin to know you're deep in thought

You wonder if he's just playing oblivious or if jaemin really and truly thinks that his little back and forth games don't have any consequences.

Either way, you shake your head at him— it wasn't all his fault.

Really you had no one to blame except yourself, you should've known better than to be so vulnerable to the likes of him.

You know better than to tell him what's wroong. You know that you can't risk receiving an apology from him, because if he made even the slightest inclination to sorriness, you'd accept it.

That's how you loved him. How much you loved him.

At one point you swore you'd let him drag you down to hell if it meant you could hold his hand on the way down— you're not sure the life you're living is much different though

You're not entirely sure you wouldn't let him drag you down now either, but the lack of certainty is the only push you need to know that this time, it's your turn to be selfish.

"All done," you whisper, his wounds quickly tended to with little precision and perhaps even less care, absentmindedly wrapped in a loose gauze.

This time, jaemin catches onto the ulterior meaning of your words, watching the way you head towards the staircase.

"Doll, talk to me what's wrong?" it's that tone laced with all forms of concern and worry that has the tears welling in your eyes

If jaemin hadn't reached out for your wrist and stopped you, you'd have made your way back up to your room without another word

But he does, he does stop you and it stops you from walking away

"I don't think I can" you say and all jaemin can do is tug at your wrist to finally get you to face him, a dull expression on your face. Every feature he knows and loves and remembers contorted into a look of nothingness.

"Y/n, please"

"Just go jaemin, you know the way out" you sigh, your speech is tired and lacks energy, a deep reflection of your soul and how you felt about the routine the two of you had established. If only Jaemin could see that.

"I can't just go when you're so clearly upset" he says— oh, but he can

You knew that better than anyone else.

"You let yourself believe that"

The words come as a whisper, like you almost hope he doesn't hear them, fast off the tongue but meant with true intent

And to jaemin they tasted bitter, superficial, like you didn't speak with your heart, but your mind, the sweetness he knew of your speech so severely lacking.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that you're so oblivious to how—" for a moment you're ready to tell jaemin all there is to know about the two of you, but you know its no use, jaemin would feed you the sweetest lies and you'd mistake them as the truest of promises.

"Actually you know what never mind what I mean, just go jaemin" you sigh, raking your fingers through your hair

You take his silence as reason to continue, maybe because talking is the only thing you know will keep the tears in your eyes from falling or maybe it's the look in his eyes that urges you to continue

"We're stuck in this never-ending loop, can't you see that?" the control you had over the volume of your voice diminishes with each word, but you're not sure you care, "just stop jaemin"

"Stop what?"

"Coming back" you suck in a harsh breath "just leave like you always do but this time, don't come back, please please please don't come back" you hate the way your voice cracks and your speech almost falters, burning your throat.

"I'll do whatever you say doll, just tell me what this is about and I prom—"

You cut him off before he can let the word fall from his lips, eyes widened before being clenched shut in the span of a few seconds

"Don't promise jaemin, you never stick to them" you sigh again "just go"

"You know I can't"

"you do it every time, what makes this time so different?" your tone is sour and jaemin knows better than to dispute your words, harsh but so painfully true

"You're upset" he tries, but it doesn't seem enough when you scoff right in his face and the feeling that follows only makes you hope you'd done this all so much earlier.

"Yeah? well that's nothing new, just walk out the door and break my heart like you always do— I'm begging" you shut your eyes, a harsh deep breath taken in before you continue "I need time to heal, you never give me time to heal, so I'm begging you this time, just don't come back"

"Break your heart?" the words echo from his tongue in fragments, like he's still piecing together your sentences to make sense of them. Jaemins eyes are soft and glossy as he looks up at you a couple steps away

"yeah"

"But I love you doll, I only come back because I love you" that's something you wish jaemin could've said sooner, maybe it would've meant something then.

It's a lie, you know it is, you're sure it is and despite all the lies he tells you, you'd never wished more than this for his words to be true.

"Then stop" you say, trying to shoot off up the stairs but jaemin's fingers remain wrapped aorund your wrist, grip firm and unwavering

"So what? you're just going to throw it all away? all this time we've known each other, all the memories, you're just going to pretend it doesn't exist?" he finally argued back, mouth slightly ajar as his breaths grew deeper "like we don't exist?"

"We don't jaemin, reality is that you're not mine and I'm not yours as much as I let myself be— you and I we just don't work" you wonder if he's even listening when he turns his head, scoffing to the floor with a tongue running across his inner cheek "we're not good for each oth--"

"How can you know that when we've never even tried" his voice is loud, the loudest you've ever heard, a deep booming from the pit of his stomach that has you reeling back, gulping as he cuts you off

"I don't know about you jaemin but I tried jaemin, I did but now I'm tired"

"How can you be tired of us?" his voice shakes, he seems feeble despite what he was just a few moments ago— you realise it's one of jaemin's best tactics, making you pity him when it's the last thing you should be doing.

Somehow despite how aware you are of it now, your heart still wrenches at the thought of upsetting him.

"it's not us" you defend, knowing full well that that's exactly what it was " I just, I don't deserve this jaemin, I don't deserve someone who keeps coming back" the glossiness of his eyes grows further " I deserve someone who never leaves"

"Then why are you telling me to go?" his eyes are telling, red and his heart, even if just for a moment rests on his sleeve.

"Because I know you, you're not capable of staying. You can't" his grip loosens, he takes a step back and though he argues again, you know this is it.

"I can. I will. I'd do anything for you" he says, and you swear your gulp is audible, you almost hear it echo through the room. Your stomach churns. You feel the way your insides tip upside down and back over again at the site of jaemin's furrowed brows and narrowed eyes, those pouty lips that you once loved bruised and trembling. His gaze though fixated on you is aloof, like he's not present at all. Suddenly it all feels too real. The way he pulls back, the spark in his eyes dimming and the confidence in his stance diminishing. Jaemin was giving up. But he wasn't giving up without a fight.

"You would?" you don't know why you ask, but jaemin nods anyway, and perhaps it soothes your broken heart ever so slightly to live in the blissful ignorance of thinking that his words were true. That he meant what he said.

To think that he ever loved you, even if for just a fraction of a moment, gives you reason to believe that this had all been worth it.

But you know better than to let a moments love turn into a lifetime's regret.

"Yeah" jaemin's words escape him in a sharp breath.

He finds himself holding onto the last thread of hope in your eyes that tells him that you feel the same. He holds your stare in his own for a while and though it was not warm, and it certainly was not kind— it was loving. And love was all jaemin had ever known from you.

"Then go" You say, and despite the various other words resting at the tip of your tongue, it's all you say.

Jaemin is left to do nothing but watch. You had taught him love, and now you had let him go.

The front door slams shut before you reach the top of the stairs, and it finally hits you that this is it.

Jaemin was gone, and just like you asked, he never came back.

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