#ANYWAY OBSESSED WITH HIS FIT GOD | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nanaslutt · 2 years ago

Note

PLEASE write more of geto being a perv🙏🙏

“pt.1” here

Geto x reader, in showing you how sorry he is for being a creep<3

perv!geto is my obsession atm

contains: fem reader, non consensual photography (reader is kinda ok w it), pervy roomate!geto, crack, gojo makes an appearance, talk of gojo wanting reader, sexual tension, cunnilingus, masturbation(geto), degradation, soooooooo much dirty talk, sweet!geto at the end<3

MDNI

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔

About a week ago you were watching a scary movie with geto on your laptop, drinks placed on the table next to it; dumbly.

So of course when the scariest jump scare you’ve ever seen in your life occurred, your legs jerked into the glass of liquid, spilling it all over your laptop and absolutely ruining it.

“God- Fuck! Noooo! nonono!” you shot up to grab a blanket, pillow, anything, to soak up the liquid, “TAKE YOUR SHIRT OF NOW,” you yelled in a panic to your dark haired roommate, who; you noticed throughout this entire excursion had barely moved a muscle to help, besides the muscles used to laugh at you.

“Babe I hate to be the one to tell you this, but that shit is beyond saving,” he laughed, placing his hand over his chest while he did.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuck, I use my laptop every single, and day I absolutely cannot afford to buy a new one right now.” you placed your head in your hands in defeat.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” geto said, at the end of his fit of giggles at your expense.

“Yeah right, ur broke as shit too, that’s why we’re living together.” you said, muffled into your legs as your body had now fully collapsed in on itself.

“Yeah ur right, but that kinda hurts my feelings,” he said, smirk showing through his faux pout, “thought you liked livin’ with me,”

The two of you bickered back and forth for a while. You ended up putting the laptop in a bag of rice; to no avail, it was completely ruined.

Geto had been nice enough to let you use his laptop in the meantime; only when he was with you though, which you found slightly weird but at least you had access to it to some degree.

Right now you had the house to yourself though. Satoru had picked him up half and hour ago, saying something about wanting to try some new coffee shop with word famous sweets; that meant you had free range of his laptop.

You knew how to clear search history, so you would be fine. You just wanted to watch a movie anyways, nothing criminal.

Sneaking into his room, you unplugged the silver electronic, sliding it under your arm as you took it back to your room. Placing the laptop on your bed and getting comfortable against your pillows, you cracked it open, You had accidentally seen him type in his password before, so getting in was no problem.

What was a problem is what was on the screen when the laptop came to life. An entire folder of up skirt panty shots; and not just anyone’s panty shots; they were yours.

Scrolling through the decently filled folder, you noticed ones that dated back months ago. You saw a picture of you laying on your bed, head in your hands while you kicked your feet behind you; the short skirt you were wearing gave geto the perfect view of your unobstructed ass, slight pink peaking between your cheeks.

Other too, you doing more mundane things like sitting on your knees on the barstool you had in the house, poking out your ass, once again giving that dark haired pervert the perfect shot of your clothed mound.

You were almost impressed at how many there were, and how make different angles he was able to get without your knowledge.

Trying to wrap your head around the idea that yes, your sweet roommate who has never attempted to come onto you once, had a secret folder filled with lewd photos of you.

Saving the file, you sent it to yourself. Once you heard the chime on your phone you quickly copied the link, and sent it to the culprit himself, no other message attached to it but the folder alone.

——

“Ummm ooh, I’ll also get the triple chocolate cream filled crepe cake please! What do you want suguru?” gojo chirped.

Geto started at him with disbelief, he had just ordered 5 full size deserts with the longest name he’d ever heard; all sounding like a stomach ache and a half; and they were all for himself.

“Right..uh, i’ll just get the vanilla scone and a black coffee please.” Geto politely spoke to the man taking his order.

Gojo continued conversing with the cashier, finishing up ordering any last minute items and paying.

Geto felt his phone buzz in his pants, checking it quickly while gojo finished up the interaction; both of them starting to walk to booth in the corner of the cafe.

Suguru’s heart sank to his balls when he opened your message. He knew you were mad too, because you didn’t say anything else other than a link to his private folder of your panty shots. “Fuuuuuuuuuck haha,” geto laughed, hand coming up to cover his smirk as they slid into the booth.

“Huh? let me see, what happened?” Gojo nosed, trying to peek over the table at geto’s phone when he noticed it was the source of his distress.

“I might have to sleep at your house tonight, maybe for the rest of my life I don’t know.” he said, hand dropping back into his lap as he shut his phone off.

“Did you forget to do your dishes or somethin’?” he asked, knowing how angry you got at Geto when he didn’t pick up after himself.

“Yeah maybe, or maybe my roommate just found the upskirt pics i’ve been taking of them for the past couple months.” he giggled, slight remorse in the back of his head. Not from doing it, but from being caught.

Gojo’s jaw dropped, covering his own mouth as he let out a boisterous laugh. “Hahaha oh man, you really are fucked.” the blonde slapped his own knee, “I’ll let you co-sign my lease tonight,” he said, scared that if suguru went home, he might actually get murdered.

Geto kicked satoru’s shin underneath the table, making him wince. Their giggles died down at geto’s misfortune after awhile. “So..” gojo started, “Yer’ gunna let me see the pics right?” he asked, “Already hurt you didn’t tell me about this,” he pouted,

“In your fucking dreams satoru,” geto snorted. He already saw the way gojo looked at you when he was over, always making passes at you and touching you any chance he got.

He would be damned if his bestfriend got his hands on you before he did. “WHAT???” gojo yelled a little too loud for the tiny space they were in, resulting in him getting shushed by geto, “pleaseeeee, I know how good you are at taking pictures I bet they’re soooo gooood.” gojo wined, crossing his arms on the table and laying his head against them.

“Keep dreaming satoru.” he laughed. The whine haired man kept his pouting up for awhile, calling Geto selfish and unfair, his sorrow immediately being forgot about when the massive tray of his deserts finally came out.

——

When you heard the front door to your shared apartment finally crack open open a couple hours later, you were in your bedroom.

His laptop had been tucked away in your bedside table in confiscation, while you awaited with a racing heart, for him to knock on your bedroom door.

You heard him place his keys on the table through the thin walls, then you hear his heavy footsteps as he starts to make his way to your room.

The air was still when the footsteps came to a stop in front of your door. You were feeling a lot less confident than you were before he got here, now the thought of confronting him made your mouth feel dry; heart beating out of your chest.

Finally, the knocks were being rapped on your door, you swear you died for a second when you heard his familiar voice call your name, followed by him asking politely if he could come in.

"Its open," you yelled back. When the wooden door creaked open and his frame came into view, you had to fight off all the neurons in your brain telling you to look away from his hooded eyes.

You felt like you couldn't breathe, the tension in the room was so thick it could be cut through with a knife. You had no idea why, but the current situation was admittedly arousing.

You stayed silent for a while, just staring at each other, neither one of you daring to break eye contact first, "So? What do you have to say for yourself?" you asked, voice coming out a lot less confident than you wanted.

"Im sorry." he replied, swallowing thickly, quickly sucking his lip into his mouth to wet it.

"You're sorry for what?" you asked clarifying, This wasn't going how you expected.

"I'm sorry for being a pervert and taking panty pics of my roommate." He said, taking a couple steps towards where you were sitting at the edge of the bed.

"Are you really sorry?" You asked, voice full of need, as you did your best to supress it, trying to ignore the growing heat in your stomach.

"So sorry" he answered, having made his way inches away from you, eye contact still not being broken. You both noticed how heavily you were breathing, his eyes flitting down to your lips for a second before he sucked his lip into his mouth again, and letting it slide out, dark eyes meeting yours again.

The only thing you heard was your heart beat loudly in your ears as you spoke your next words, "Show me how sorry you are."

----

"Mm so fucking sorry," geto's voice vibrated against your clit.

"F-fuck ohmygod," You moaned at the feeling of him wrapping his lips around the bud, tongue peeking through to flick at it.

"A-again-" you whined,

"'M sorry," he groaned, staring up at you with a smirk as he released your clit, flattening his tongue over the sensitive bud.

You were laid back, ass placed at the end of the bed, Geto was sitting back on his heels as he perched himself on the floor between your thighs, hand rapidly stoking over his throbbing cock.

"W-wipe that sm-ile off your face" you wined, trying to keep the little hold you had over geto.

He didnt stop smiling, but you could'nt tell when he burried his tongue inside your pussy, pressing his face hard into your wetness and shaking his head. His pointed nose rubbed your clit in the most delicious way when he did that.

"S-so fucking dirty" you chastised at how sloppily he was eating your cunt. He was trying to fuck his apology into your pussy with his tongue, really trying to prove how sorry he was.

Loud slurping noises bouncing off the walls and going straight to your head; and to his cock; making you both dizzy at the situation.

"Sorry I'm so nasty," he groaned, muffled by your folds as he tongue fucked you like his life depended on it.

Quickening the pace of his hand against his cock, he was squeezing it the same way your walls squeezed his tongue, trying to mimic the feeling. Pre was dripping steadily from his cock and onto the floor, leaving a little puddle there.

Geto was getting off on this so hard.

Every time you squeezed your thighs around his head and degraded him, his abs clenched, balls tightening with the need to blow his load.

"O-only thing youre good for is eating my pussy, f-fuck" you said meanly with a whimper, eyes dropping down to his handsome face and seeing how fucked out he looked from your words, as he nodded his head and moaned into you, agreeing with you.

He needed to you keep talking to him like that, to keep humping his face, suffocating him, treating him like a bitch, he needed it.

"Use me-" he cut himself off as he moved his mouth back up to your clit, making out with the little bud messily, "wanna show you how sorry I am." he drunkenly smiled at you.

You gripped his hair in a makeshift bun, rolling your hips against his face as he stuck his tongue out for you to get yoruself off on.

Groans of "mhm mhmm" could be heard from Geto between your legs, pumping his cock impossibly faster feeling your wetness gush out of you from his minstrations.

"Ohmygod feels so good- shit-" You wined, tipping your head back, feeling your orgasm build quicky as you rubbed against his tongue just right.

His chin was absolutely covered in your slick, pretty eyes rolling back in his head as he felt himself get pushed towards the edge as well, abandoning his hand keeping your thigh spread to join his other between his legs. He massaged his balls between his fingers, increasing the pleasure he felt while you worked towards your end together.

"Fuck t-tell me your sorry again," you whimpered out, teetering on the edge of your orgasm, "Sorry" his deep voice immediately groaned out, cock throbbing when you yanked on his hair.

"Ag-ain" your moans broke up your speech,

"Sorry, m' sorry, sorry-" He kept babbling against your pussy, sending delicious vibrations through you.

You were feeling hotter at the strange power dynamic going on, using that to your advantage as he kept mumbling the word into you, sending you straight into the most mindblowing orgasm of your life.

"Coming f-uck fuck f-" your voice getting cut off as your stomach started contracting and jerking, you rode your high out on his tongue while he groaned a lengthy moan into you.

Behind where your vision was blocked by the bed, Geto was cumming all over his hand and the bottom of your comforter.

Geto's eyes repeatedly rolled back in his head, hand massaging his cum out of his balls as he stroked himself roughly through his orgasm.

Finally being able to breathe when you loosened your legs from their hold on his neck, dropping your hands from his hair as you laid back on the sheets. Geto's hands wet with his seed came up to massage your thighs, his head rasing from between them.

You both took a second to breathe heavily into the open air, your cunt as his cock alike twitching in the aftershocks of your orgasms.

You felt his hold on you cease for a moment, a couple seconds later something was bouncing heavily next to your head. When you turned your head you were faced with a brand new, rose gold laptop, still in its packaging.

You looked back up at geto, who was now standing, running one of his damp hands through his hair, "If me eating your pussy didnt prove how sorry I am, I hope this will." He smirked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Fuck, Geto are you serious?" you beamed, picking your limp body up from the sheets and holding the package in your hands, he smiled at you fondly, watching you tear it open like a kid on Christmas.

Peeling the plastic from the cardboard you spoke, "Still making you delete all those photos by the way," resulting in him tipping his head back in a loud groan of defeat.

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temporarytemporal · 1 year ago

Text

cling to me

I know I said I was going to distance myself from this piece of media because of all of its terrible connections, but these two characters seem to have taken root in a permanent place in my heart, and I can't let them go.

Anyway, here's some character design notes below the cut for the one person out there who's obsessed with these characters as much as me.

Early DSMP: the era of childhood innocence

Bandanas: They sport each other’s bandana’s (they’re hidden in the design for every era). I love character designs with complementary colors (and I love how red and green are also cranboo’s colors)

Disks: Early on, cat and mellohi represent the peaceful moments ctommy shared with his favorite people, but they went on to be a symbol of victory and independence from the people who have hurt him.

Flowers: Ctubbo collects flowers and tries to memorize the meanings and symbolism tied to each type of flower. He also collects them for his bees.

L’manberg: the era where children became soldiers

Horns: Ctubbo’s horns start to grow in here.

Pogtopia: the era of an exile and a secretary of state / spy

You can tell I joined the fandom at the end of this era because I don’t have many notes here or for the l’manberg era.

Exile: the era of an exile once again and and a president too young

Hair: Ctommy’s hair starts to grow longer as he neglects taking care of himself.

Clothes: Ctommy’s clothes are tattered; one shoe is destroyed and he took to wearing cw-lbur’s (f-ck ccw-lbur btw!!) trench coat.

Bandages: Ctubbo’s wrapped in bandages from his recently earned firework burns. He’s gone blind in his right eye, and he’s missing the ring and pinkie finger on his right hand.

Compasses: They share their matching ‘your tommy’ and ‘your tubbo’ compasses

Hog Hunt: the era where one sought to kill the blood god while the other sought refuge there

Stolen goods: Ctommy’s has his antarctic empire outfit plus all the goods he stole from ctechno like the turtle helmet, golden apples, and the axe of peace.

Bedrock: Ctommy wears his counterpart piece matching techno’s from his ear.

Prosthetic: Ctommy’s right foot had to be amputated after he loses it to frostbite in the trek to cemeraldduo’s cabin. Ctechno gives him a simple prosthetic.

Disc Finale: the era of mended relationships and a final stand

Headband: Ctommy begins to wear a devil headband to fit in more, as he’s one of the few humans on the server. The devil horns were chosen to resemble ceryn’s real ones.

Patchwork: Ctommy learns to sew, and he fixes his tattered clothes from exile.

Post Revival:

Devil horns: Ctommy’s devil horns (plus a tail) become real after revival, and he gets a white streak in his hair.

Prime cross: The bad things that have happened to them both that they survived strengthen ctommy’s faith in prime, whereas they weaken ctubbo’s faith.

Sweater: Ctommy makes himself a sweater from friend’s wool.

Mechanical inventions: Ctubbo pursues his passion for engineering more as he makes mechanical bee drones and studies nuclear physics. He also makes himself prosthetic fingers, and he upgrades ctommy’s prosthetic foot.

Marriage ring: Ctubbo marries cranboo platonically and wears the ring on his horn. He also founds snowchester so he can have a place to protect his loved ones and raise his son. He grows out his hair to avoid eye contact for cranboo and to cover his scars.

Body type: Ctubbo gets chubbier and gains some muscle as he gets a bit happier in life.

Post DSMP:

The prison break and everything after it never happened. These are my OCs, and I make the rules because every actor/writer who played a part in their creation either abandoned them or turned out to be a terrible person. Cbenchtrio live happily ever after and begin their journey of healing while cdream rots in prison forever.

#dsmp #ctommy #ctubbo #tempo art

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kivrumi · 3 months ago

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GEEK! SATORU GOJO / FEM! READER ᗢ𓄹 ׅ ࣪ ˖ ⊹

⚠️ WARNINGS: masturbation, dirty fantasies and thoughts, pervert behaviour, down bad Satoru, submissive Gojo, no actual smut (smut in part 3), very suggestive, NSFW, virgin Gojo who is severely downbad for reader. fluffff. sub gojo

A little bit of Geto x reader

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3

geek!gojo who is entirely obsessed with anime, video games, and whatever weird shit he can find on the internet. He can play boring simple games but they are nothing compared to the ones with heavy lore. Is it weird he is also obsessed with the lore behind all of these games? How the games were founded, what they mean, the creators themself, why was it made and the depth of every character.

whenever he found something new and intresting it will take over his entire personality.

geek!gojo would know weird facts about the creators of his intrests too. Like who bothered to find out or who even cares to find out that one of the creators of animal crossings birthday is April 7th? If you ever had a birthday that was the same as one of them he is IMMEDIATELY informing you.

geek!gojo who rambles to Geto about fortnite lore and any other lore he needs to tell someone, no one else cares to listen to him. Hell even Geto don't give a fuck but listens anyways (his ass is NOT listening and Gojo knows that).

geek!gojo who is in college and is a known loser. Glasses, Dragon Ball Z wallpaper, and a fucking random dinosaur as his phone cover. Trust me, that dinosaur has a lot of lore too that you WILL be informed about if you are anywhere near him.

Hence why no one goes near the guy.

geek!gojo who sees you for the first time, a transfer student. You are so utterly beautiful in his eyes he is already thinking how to ask you out with cheesy pick up lines that refrences his favourite game at the moment.

geek!gojo who seethes with jealousy seeing how easily you fit in with normies, its not like he knew if you had intresting taste, he just gave you his own little headcanon on some things he assumes you will share intrest with him.

annoyed!geto who has to not only hear about Satorus geeky ass topics, but now a girl he has never spoken to being his potential future wife. Sure you were overly pretty, but would you really want a geek like Satoru?

geek!gojo who has been eyeing you for almost a month now, same classes as you but never had the chance to utter a word at you. Instead he sits at the back with Geto, staring daggers at you (his way of rizzing) for not paying attention to him. He is mad how you found yourself in a big popular friendgroup, and seated sooooo far away from him.

geek!gojo who knows YOUR lore. Geto says its creepy but Geto doesn't know anything. Gojo is aware of how many siblings you have, your favorite food, drink, color and everything he could possibly grab by purposely earsdropping on your conversations.

Yet no sign of you sharing geeky intrests with Gojo... oh well, if you really are just an extremely pretty and cute normie, he will just have to teach you about everything he likes one by one!

geek!gojo who gets teased and bullied by the other people in your friendgroup, it was never physical, just constant nagging comments.

"Whats the nerd doing here" they would say, or "Isn't that the guy that has a roblox girlfriend?" He didn't have a roblox girlfriend that was just a rumour! It was just his own Miku avatar they got confused with! He hopes to god you dont believe that rumour! He is single and looking, looking at only you!

YOU who never batted an eye at him when your friends would tease him. It bothered him, not exactly how you would think...

Yes, he would love if you defended him, he would cry tears of joy. He wants that more than anything.

But you wouldn't give him that, the least you could do is join in the teasing. He ached for you to give him any sort of attention. Why were you standing there minding your own business when the rest of your friends are gossiping about him! After all this time do you not care to know about him? Even if it is to laugh about how much of a loser he is?

nerd!gojo who starts trying to find ways for you to notice him. Did you not realise how lately he only wears your favorite color? Look! He is eating your favorite snack!! Don't you want to ask for some? Ask him how much he likes them? Where he bought them? If you want to get some with him? Date him?

tired!geto who constantly bugs Gojo to forget about you, as the two sat in class. The teacher was reading out who gets paired with who for some project. Wait!! This is it!!! The sensei is obviously going to pair you and Gojo, thats how the fanfictions go... right?

geek!gojo whos ears perk up at the sensei calling your name, then swears someone shot him 568 times when he hears the name to go along with it.

"Suguru Geto"

geek!gojo is fuming, this is not how it's supposed to go! What happens if you get too close with Suguru during this two week project?

"Satoru and Sukuna" of course, he has to be paired with your annoying friend. There were even rumours of you two dating! Does this mean he is paired with your maybe secret boyfriend?

geek!gojo who suffered the two weeks of dealing with Sukuna and his friend getting you in all your glory. He would beg for Suguru to ramble on about you. But of course Suguru never gave much information to feed Gojo's curiousity.

geek!gojo who has never had pussy in his life. Actually, he was never one to think about girls that much. His games were far more important, and catching up on the authors life from his favourite underground manga sounded better than dreaming about girls.

But damn his mind never forgets to think about how cute and sexy you look everyday.

You come in every day with a skirt, he thanks the heavens when it looks a little shorter then the last time he saw you. When you wear baggy shirts and hoodies is allows him to fully visualise how you would look in his, and that just aches his cock...

The days you wear knee high socks its like you decided to gift him with life, blessing him, giving him a reason to come into college, reason to live. Don't get him started on the days you wear slightly revealing tops, or extremely tight ones.

Hell when you wear a baggy shirt that shows your shoulder he is fucking losing it, mumbling under his breath about how much he wants to lick and bite your exposed skin. He can see your bra strap and its driving him critically insane, why does he act like such a loser virgin teen. Well, he is two of those things.

geek!gojo who has all the compliments in the world to give you when he sees you walk through the doors, sitting far away infront of the class with your lame friends. But he cant bring himself to utter a word to you, how dare he be the first to speak to you, a lowly thing like him.

geek!gojo who is ripping his hair out at the back of the class, as much as he loves your laugh and giggles, it poisons his heart knowing they are all towards... Nanami? What the fuck! You even started speaking to Nanami before him!! Did you really look down on him, to the point you would neither pay positive or negative attention to him?

Oh well... because geek!gojo has many fantasies of you in his head, curing him from the loss of your attention and touch. Sure, his thoughts of you spiral in his head whilst in your presence and he can't contain himself nor his constant boners in class from the sight of you. But once he is all alone in his dorm room he can finally releif himself from his dirty thoughts.

Hand on dick, biting down on his lips, pants discarded.

geek!gojo was never one to masturbate that much, the sensation from how he used to do it before you to now is totally new and much better and sensitive because he actually had someone in mind, someone who deserved to be the one to make Gojo feel like this. So whiny, so needy, so.. submissive...

"ah- pleaseee let me come"

"ahh! ngh i need it baby"

He begs as if your there, the one toying with him. His hand is fast and he is getting more desperate. He cums quick by visualising your soft lips, nice smelling hair and wide innocent eyes.

Fuck. He was in deep...

What would you be like in bed? Submissive? would you be shy when he enters you or would you shout at him for taking so long? Would you be more dominant? Order him around, straddle his face and crotch. Tell him to be good for you for a treat? Bark Beg for you? Oh and now he's hard again...

consultant!geto who tells Gojo to

"start giving up, seriously. I dont want to see you hurt Satoru"

Is Suguru right? Gojo asks himself...

Maybe... he should try to stop... thinking about you so much... you're out of his league anyways and you've made it clear you want nothing to do with him. Gojo can take a hint, right?

geek!gojo who is sprawled on his bed again the same night, hand moving in a fast pace, moaning and screaming for you in pleasure. He misses you despite never getting to be around you. He needed you so bad.

geek!gojo who is panicked in class. Not only is Suguru off sick, making him alone, but you weren't in today. What was the point of him coming in? What was the point of him practicing how to talk to you infront of his mirror like he does everyday before college?

His heart is tainted, looking at your friend group bunched around together but your seat staying empty.

The lights in the class dimmed, a short film the sensei is playing about some aspect of human biology. Whatever, he wasn't one to study much or pay attention, he thinks as he carelessly pulls out tetris. Around seven minutes go by and right beside him the door opens. Gojo's seat is right by the entrance of the door, so he got a good view of you walking in, out of breath, tight top, knee high socks and messy hair.

Apologies to your teacher were said, the sensei dismissing your poor sense of time as you were usually never late. Gojo is extremely curious on why you were late, wants to question you like an insecure clingy boyfriend.

"Its fine, just quickly find a seat and dont interrupt the film" The teacher says to you as your eyes scanned the room for an available seat. Walking to your usual seat would be a nuisance... you would have to embarrassingly walk in front of everyone and interupt the film again, and Sukuna was near your seat, you dread to sit next to that weirdo.

geek!gojo who is ultimately curious at the sound of Sugurus chair being pulled back, and someone else taking it.

"Is Geto in today?" you ask quietly. You were staring... right... at him... Gojo was silent, still staring. Your first words ever to him. Even if it is about Geto, you spoke to him. That's all he cared for in the moment. It took him 13 seconds to respond to your question by shaking his head 'no'. You looked at him awkwardly, obviously you were weirded out by him being so... dumb? silent? lost? out of it?

He can barely function in your presence, and your words and your lingering eyes and your attention.

He finally gets what he has been wanting for ages but hes being all shy and weird about it, you were probably regretting your decision of sitting by him.

But geek!gojo was jumping and frolicking in joy in his head. YOU were sitting right beside him. You looked in his eyes, talked to him (even if he didn't say anything back) and is sitting by him for the rest of the film. He hops to god this film would never end.

"You are fine with me sitting here, right?"

you whisper again, eyes glues to his face, worried if Gojo is annoyed by you and thought you were overstepping his boundaries. This time he nodded his head 'yes' a little too fast, scared if he was hesitant you would leave. You gave him a quick smile before turning all your attention to the film. You smiled at him?! His fingers are already fidgeting with the desk, his tetris long and forgotten about.

its been about 4 minutes and geek!gojo wont stop geeking. He smiles to himself, leg bouncing up and down. His poor heart can't handle this.

He can tell you were bored out of your mind, he watched you pull out a peice of paper from your bag and start to... doodle?

He feels like a fake fan for finding out so late that drawing is one of your hobbies.

He desperately needs to see and praise every art work you've ever made, his eyes continously peek at your paper.

geek!gojo who immediately recognises the characters you drew. Kirby? Six from the game my little nightmares? Hello kitty doodles and stars everywhere. His heart melts, he loves your little style and finding out you share a few intrests of his make his heart bounce everywhere in his body. He is afraid he cant control his racing heart and only you can catch it.

"kirby" he says. It's all he says to you.

You two share an awkward silence, but Gojo can't back down now.

"Sorry i uhm i uh- i uhh" he stutters, he cant make the decision to look straight into your eyes or his fidgeting hands "uh i also like kirby. Although, i wouldn't grant kirby to be my favourite character from the kirby games, he is infact a good main character and i hold no dislike for him but i do find meta knight to be a much better character. Not for the main character lead, just in general, meta knight has a very intresting, cool character design and i find him to balance out the game correctly and appropriately. I think meta knights introduction to the game definitely holds-" He was interrupted by a giggle by you, your smile wider than ever. Hell, he never knew you could smile like that, all it does is make his hear flutter and face flustered. He got to be the reason you're giggling and smiling at him like that?

"I agree meta knight is awesome, although, i personally like waddle dee the most. His character design may be simple but i still-" Hearing you ramble on not only surprised him, but made him happier than ever. This entire time you truely was his dream girl? His headcanons about you were canon.

geek!gojo who got to talk to you for the rest of the lesson, quietly of course. You two talked about things you shared intrest in, and he talked about stuff he likes that you've never heard of. He loved how you would question stuff about his intrest, showed intrest in what he was talking about and actually listen to him. You cared for what he had to say about his useless stuff.

geek!gojo who paid attention to everything you say. When you hit him with a fun fact about something he already knows and thinks its bare minimum knowledge for real fan, he is acting like it’s all new to him. You talked about topics he never really knew of too, every word spoken by you made him fall for you deeper and harder.

geek!gojo who is now rambling on about you to Geto after Geto asked why he was so smiley over facetime.

"Idiot Suguru! You said i never had a chance with her, look at us now"

jealous!geto who immediately knew you and Gojo would hit it off if you guys spoke to eachother once. Spending time with you during the two week project let Geto realise how great the two of you would be together, yet, Geto wanted to... gatekeep you? Who knew Geto would start feeling something for you too.

note: i have much more to yap about, there WILL be a part 2

part 2 is out :p

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3

@kivrumi do not steal / copy / reword / translate my work

861 notes · View notes

vibelladonna · 23 days ago

Text

✑ 𝓁𝓊𝓈𝒸𝒾𝑜𝓊𝓈 𝜗𝜚 𝓉𝓀𝒶𝓉𝒷 𝓂𝑒𝓃

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: The TKATB men are so into people of all sizes, and honestly, it’s kinda refreshing to think about how each of them would be low-key obsessed with their partner’s body, but in a way that totally fits their vibe. Like, I can so see it—each of them having their own quirky, unique way of being all about it...

But in their weird, lovable ways ! !

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

Honestly, it’s just too cute how they’d love and appreciate their partner no matter what! But ngl, I was a little nervous writing and posting this because, like, I kinda have body issues myself, and this is such a touchy topic. I honestly have no idea how my dearest readers are gonna feel about it, so just consider this your warning!

[ 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ]

✑ 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

Crow’s the type to compare you to the stars and gods before you even get a chance to complain.

You shuffled around your room, digging through your clothes for something cute but effortless.

You and Crowe didn’t need a reason to go out—any excuse to be together worked. Tonight, it was just a quiet evening under the stars, the kind of night that made the world feel a little more intimate, where it was just the two of you, no pressure.

Truth be told, the date was more of an excuse to hang out, but with Crowe around, even the simplest plans felt like an adventure—whether it was a quiet walk in the park or something a little more exciting.

Crowe leaned against the doorframe, arms casually crossed, his eyes following every movement you made as you sifted through your wardrobe. He had this look on his face—a quiet admiration, the kind that made your pulse quicken and your cheeks flush, even after all this time. Like there was something about the way he looked at you, like you were the most captivating thing in the room, and it made everything inside you feel just a little bit lighter.

"Hey," Crowe’s voice broke through your thoughts, smooth and warm, the kind that made your heart skip a beat. "You look absolutely stunning today."

You glanced over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow with an amused grin. "Crowe, I’ve been wearing this all day. Are you seriously still going to compliment me like I’m some cover model?"

His smile widened, that mischievous gleam never leaving his deep blue eyes. "Well, if you were in a magazine, it’d be the one everyone’s been dying to read. Trust me, dearest, you always look like a million bucks."

You laughed, rolling your eyes.

It was ridiculous how easy it was for him to get under your skin in the best way possible. "You’re soooo impossible, you know that?"

Crowe just shrugged, a playful grin tugging at his lips. "Impossible? Maybe. But you love it."

He pushed off from the doorframe and strolled into the room, his presence filling the space with ease. His gaze never left you as he leaned against the dresser, arms folding casually.

You noticed how he was always so effortlessly cool—never rushing, never anxious, just... there.

So certain of himself, yet always so attuned to you.

"Seriously though, for me,” You started, voice lowering just a little, that familiar warmth in it, “Personally for me, I can’t get over how you move. Like... the way your hips sway when you walk? The whole room might as well stop for a moment. You know that, right?" You joked. No, you not because you swear Crowe can be a damn model himself if he wanted to, he’s simply so pretty to look at, fuck.

A laugh bubbled up in his chest, though he tried to hide it with a dismissive wave. "Oh, stop it. Who’s gonna believe you? You’re trying to take my charmer side anyway. You’d have anyone eating out of the palm of your hand if you tried hard enough."

Crowe’s eyes softened, and there was a flicker of something deeper in his gaze. It only lasted for a second, but it was enough to make you pause. He took a step closer, his fingers brushing against your arm as he gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The touch lingered just a beat longer than necessary, and your breath caught in your throat.

"Maybe," he said quietly, his voice more sincere than you expected, "maybe they’re all just intimidated by how amazing you are. But you don’t need to worry about that. I’ve got your back. Always."

The words hit you harder than you anticipated.

For someone who didn’t ask for help, Crowe had a way of offering it without hesitation. You couldn’t help but feel a little lighter in his presence like all the weight you carried was a little easier to bear when he was around.

"Why do you never ask for help, Crowe?" you blurted out, the question slipping before you could stop it. "You do everything for everyone else, but when it comes to you… it’s like you don’t want anyone to see you need anything."

Crowe let out a soft chuckle, his usual teasing smile curling up at the corners of his lips. "What can I say? I’m your knight in shining armor. I’m here to protect you, not the other way around."

You shook your head, affection flooding your chest despite his teasing. "You're not just a knight, Crowe. You’re my savior," you whispered, meeting his gaze with a look that felt a little too intense. "But that doesn’t mean you have to carry everything on your own."

He leaned in just slightly, his playful grin slipping into something more tender. "I know, I know. I just don’t want to burden you with my stuff. Besides..." He stepped closer, the air between you two thick with that warm energy he always carried. "I don’t mind being the one to take care of you. Who wouldn’t want to look after the most amazing person in the room?"

You blinked up at him, about to respond, but his gaze shifted. "Hey," he said, his tone suddenly more serious. "What's going on? You’ve been quiet for a bit."

You sighed, shrugging.

"I dunno, just… I’ve been feeling off. About my body, I guess."

Crowe’s brow furrowed, instantly on alert. "What? What’s wrong with your body?" His voice had this sharp concern in it that only made your stomach flip, though you tried to push it away.

"Just... not feeling my best," you muttered, clearly frustrated.

The second the words left your mouth, Crowe’s eyes lit up with pure determination. He took a step back, scanning you like you were the most captivating thing he’d ever seen, his gaze never leaving you.

"Okay, hold on," he said, taking a dramatic breath like he was about to drop the most epic revelation of the century. "Do you hear yourself? You—" He paused, eyes sparkling as if he were about to tell you a secret that would change your life.

"You’re like... a celestial being of pure power and grace. Honestly, I’m pretty sure Anubis would be jealous. Or like... every celestial god ever, really. You’re out here walking into a room and making time stop, love.”

He flung his arms out dramatically as though trying to capture your essence in the air. "The way you move? It's like you're in an art gallery, and the world is your canvas. Like, are you sure you’re not secretly a god in disguise? 'Cause I'm starting to believe it."

You blinked at him, struggling not to burst out laughing, a rush of warmth in your chest.

"Crowe, you are so over the top."

He sighed dramatically, shaking his head as though you were the one being ridiculous. "And you’re really gonna argue with me on this? Have you even seen how perfectly you fit in my arms? I’m the lucky one here. I get to hold you.” He said.

“You’re the definition of perfection. There’s no one like you."

Crowe’s voice was low, almost hypnotic, as his hand brushed across your side, his fingers tracing along your waist in a way that made your skin prickle.

You gave him a soft smile, but inside, you were fighting the urge to blush, to get all sentimental. Instead, you turned back to your closet, trying to keep things casual.

"Well, if you're gonna keep looking at me like that, I’m never gonna finish getting dressed," you said, trying to sound unbothered. "We’ve got a date night to get to, remember?"

Crowe chuckled, stepping closer, his hand lingering on your arm before sliding down to your hip. "Right, right. How could I forget? The stars, your company... it’s literally the best combination."

You turned to face him, giving him a pointed look.

“Keep it in your pants, Crowe.”

His smile? Immediate. Unrepentant.

That look in his eye practically screamed ‘I heard what you said and I’m choosing violence anyway.’ He leaned against the doorframe like he was posing for a fantasy romance cover, smirking with the confidence of a man who absolutely should not be trusted near you.

“Oh, I’d gladly take you down under the stars,” he said, voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. “You and me, the moonlight, a blanket, zero regrets. It would be perfect.”

You deadpanned. And then you launched the nearest pillow at his smug face with all the grace of divine judgment. Sins begone.

Of course, because he was Crowe, he dodged it with annoying precision, laughing like you’d just confessed your undying love rather than threatened him with soft furniture.

“Seriously?” you muttered. “You were literally raised by etiquette textbooks. How are you still this—this?”

He waggled his eyebrows. “Sinful? Irresistible? Blessed by the stars and burdened with unholy charm?”

“Unholy something,” you mumbled.

Crowe placed a hand over his heart like you’d just stabbed him—dramatically, of course. “You wound me. I’m simply a man in awe of a goddess.”

You sighed, dragging a hand down your face. “You’re so extra.”

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping just enough to be dangerous again. “Yeah, but you love it.”

You groaned like your soul was trying to leave your body, and he took that as a yes, the audacity radiating off him like heat off asphalt. With a wink and a mock salute, he opened the door—pausing dramatically in the doorway, because of course he did.

“Now, please hurry. We’re getting you out there like the celestial deity you are.”

And just like that, your infuriating, charming disaster of a man disappeared down the hallway, probably to go flirt with the moon or compose love sonnets in your name.

You couldn’t even be mad. He really did have a loving heart… buried somewhere underneath the twenty layers of dramatic flair, star metaphors, and relentless flirtation.

Ugh, Crowe knows how to work his charm with those words.

I’ll never forget my first love, I missed writing him.

✑ 𝓈𝑜𝓁

Sol’s the type who can see every curve of you effortlessly.

Sol stood back, his brush poised in the air as he looked at the canvas in front of him, deep in thought.

The faint hum of the radio playing some emo-ass music added an artistic charm to the atmosphere. He was always so serious about his art, and you loved how passionate he could get when he was working on something.

"Hey," he finally spoke, his voice soft but filled with curiosity, "I need your help with something... and it’s a little out of the ordinary."

You looked up, a bit confused. "What do you need help with?"

He hesitated for a moment, eyes flickering between you and the canvas. "I want to paint you," he said, gesturing toward the canvas with a flick of his brush. "But not just any regular painting... I want to cover your body in paint. Think of it like... a living piece of art."

You blinked, trying to process what he meant. "Wait, like... actually painting my body? You want me to stand still while you paint me?"

Sol gave a shy, almost embarrassed smile, his green streaks shifting slightly as he adjusted his half-up-half-down hair. "Yeah, I know it’s a bit unconventional, but... I think it’ll be beautiful. The way the paint will move with your body... it’ll be like... history in motion." He hesitated again, as if second-guessing himself. "If you’re comfortable with it, of course."

You could see the sincerity in his eyes, the quiet passion for his art, and how much he valued your trust in him. You took a deep breath, trying to hold back the nervousness creeping up your spine. "Okay, Sol, let’s do it. Just... no weird historical poses, all right?"

He chuckled softly, his crimson-red eyes lighting up. "I promise, no Renaissance art poses... unless you want me to," he teased, giving you a playful wink.

You laughed, the tension in your shoulders easing. "All right, all right, I’ll trust you with this. But you better make me look like a masterpiece."

Sol moved around you, his movements fluid and focused, as he carefully applied the paint to your skin. The quiet hum of classical music filled the room, but his presence—his calm, steady presence—was what made everything feel still and serene.

You stood there, wrapped in a moment that felt intimate in a way you hadn't anticipated. It wasn’t just about the painting; it was about the way he made you feel: seen, appreciated, cherished.

But as you stood there, exposed and vulnerable in front of him, a nagging thought crept into your mind.

What if you’re not good enough?

You shifted uncomfortably, your thoughts turning inward as Sol’s brush strokes continued.

What if your body isn’t the kind of art he deserves to paint?

You began to pick apart every little imperfection, feeling the weight of your insecurities pressing in.

Sol paused, sensing the change in your energy. He tilted his head slightly, studying you with those intense, almost ethereal eyes—one orange, one color—and then gently placed his brush down. He took a slow step closer, his gaze never leaving you. His hand, warm and soft, found its way to your waist, the touch small but grounding.

"Hey," he said, his voice thoughtful, a slight warmth in it that only seemed to intensify the affection he always had for you. "I can tell what you're thinking. But listen to me, all right?" He took a breath, his expression softening even more.

"You’re... beautiful, in ways that can’t be captured by any brush or canvas. Not even the greatest painters could do justice to how... real you are."

His hand slid up your side, just a simple, reassuring gesture, but the warmth of it wrapped around you like a blanket. You opened your mouth to protest, but he shook his head gently, his fingers brushing your skin in a way that made you stop.

"You remind me of something... a quote from one of my favorite writers," Sol murmured, his voice just above a whisper. "Edgar Allan Poe once wrote, 'Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.'"

You met his gaze, a flicker of confusion in your eyes.

Sol’s lips curled into a small smile, and his hand cupped your chin gently, guiding your face up to meet his gaze fully.

"He meant that real beauty isn’t just about what you see, but how it makes you feel. How it moves you. And you, in your own way, are the kind of beauty that excites the soul—makes it feel something deep."

The quiet sincerity in Sol’s voice caught you off guard, his usual playful demeanor nowhere to be found. It wasn’t the loud, dramatic show of affection you’d expect from him—it was deeper, more subtle. So much deeper, in fact, that it almost took your breath away.

Sol was always ready with a quip or some teasing remark, his sense of humor a shield against vulnerability. But in this moment, he didn’t need humor. He didn’t need to hide behind sarcasm or wit. His love, his admiration, was felt in the smallest gestures: the way his fingers brushed the side of your waist, the way he leaned just a little bit closer during moments of silence, and the way his eyes never seemed to stray from you when you were together.

“You’re perfect just the way you are,” he whispered, his voice warm, and surprisingly serious. His hand traced the curve of your waist slowly as if memorizing the feel of you under his touch. "Nothing about you needs to change, not a thing."

You blinked, caught off guard by the weight of his words.

There was no teasing, no lighthearted comment to follow.

Just a simple truth that settled in your chest, easing the tension you didn’t even know was there.

"You don’t need to be anything else," Sol added softly, his voice so low it was almost a murmur.

"You already are such a wonderful masterpiece."

You stood there, stunned for a moment. His fingers lingered on you like a quiet promise, and your insecurities—the ones that had been gnawing at you all day—seemed to melt away.

There was no need for you to hide or change.

In his eyes, you were enough. Perfect.

As he took a step back, his eyes moved over you again, but this time, it wasn’t the eyes of an artist, studying a piece of work. No, this time it was the look of someone who had already decided you were beautiful, flaws and all. Every curve, every imperfection was part of something that made you real, something that made you whole.

He gave you a smile—soft, almost proud.

“You’re more beautiful than any painting I could ever create,” he said, his words coated in genuine admiration, the kind that made your chest swell with something almost too tender to describe.

“And I’m lucky I get to call you mine.��

Your heart warmed at the sentiment, but then, the mischievous glint returned to his gaze. Just as quickly as the vulnerability appeared, it was replaced with his usual cocky swagger. But the words still lingered, melting the tension in your chest.

You took a step back, shifting your body slowly, deliberately.

A wicked grin spread across your face as you rolled your hips, just enough to send him a signal—something that would make him squirm.

“Lucky, huh?” you purred, voice smooth and teasing, your movements slow as you turned your back to him, knowing full well he was watching. You exaggerated the sway of your hips, pushing your body against him just enough for him to feel it. The way his breath hitched told you everything you needed to know.

His face turned crimson almost instantly, and you could see the telltale signs of him trying to play it cool like he hadn’t just been put on the spot.

“Careful there,” you teased, stepping closer again, your body brushing against his with purpose.

“You might just find out how lucky you really are.”

Sol’s jaw clenched, eyes widening as he tried to regain his composure. But it was obvious. You had him flustered. The cocky grin faltered just slightly as he cleared his throat, a sheepish laugh slipping past his lips.

“I—uh—I'm always lucky, right?” he said, his voice faltering for a second before he cleared his throat again, cheeks still flushed. “You’re just, you know... distracting.”

You turned back to face him with a playful, knowing smile, eyes flickering over him. “Distracting?” You raised an eyebrow, lips curling into something more mischievous. “I’m not that distracting.”

“Y-You are,” he sputtered, his face burning brighter as he tried to backpedal, but his words were slipping out in a tangled mess. “I’m just trying to say—I mean, you’re—uh, distractingly... perfect. Happy?”

You could see the way Sol was trying to keep it together, his usual cocky demeanor slowly unraveling under the weight of your teasing. His face was flushed, and his breath was a little shallow—oh, you had him right where you wanted him.

You couldn’t help but let a small, satisfied grin slip across your face as you brushed a finger down his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your touch.

“Happy, but I think you’re still a little... flustered,” you whispered, your voice low and teasing, barely above a breath.

Sol’s lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, he just stood there, cheeks flaming red, clearly at a loss for how to keep his cool. His usual confident swagger had disappeared, leaving him with nothing but his flushed skin and that almost desperate look in his eyes.

“Shut up,” he muttered, his voice gruff, though it didn’t quite match the tenderness he was clearly trying to hide. That smile—just the slightest tug at the corner of his lips—gave him away.

“I think you’re enjoying this a little too much,” he added, his words soft but full of warmth, like he couldn’t quite decide whether to laugh or pull you closer.

“Well,” you purred, leaning in so your lips were almost touching the shell of his ear, your voice barely a whisper. “Maybe I’ll stop distracting you... if you can keep your cool next time.”

Sol’s throat tightened as he struggled to form a coherent response, his eyes still fixed on you with that heated, almost predatory intensity. He cleared his throat, his hands finding the back of his neck in a desperate attempt to regain some control.

“No promises,” he muttered, his voice slightly strained, clearly trying to hold it together. “But, uh... you’re lucky I don’t mind a little distraction... with you.”

You smirked at his struggle to hide his arousal, stepping back just enough to give him a little space. But not too much. You wanted him to feel it, feel how much you had him on the edge.

“Mmm, I think I’ve got you figured out,” you said with a sly grin, letting your words settle in the air between you two.

Sol let out a soft laugh, but it didn’t sound as confident as before. “Yeah, you do,” he said, still a little flustered, his cocky edge barely hanging on. “And if you keep this up, you might just make me say something... really cheesy.”

Your eyes sparkled with mischief as you took a step back, your body deliberately moving in a way that made his eyes follow your every movement. He didn’t even try to hide the way his gaze lingered on you, the heat of his stare nearly tangible.

“Maybe I’ll make you,” you teased, your voice dripping with mock sweetness. “We’ll see how much you can handle.”

And just as he took a breath to respond, you pounced.

In a flash, you had him pinned beneath you, his back hitting the ground with a soft thud as you straddled him with confidence. His breath hitched, a surprised gasp escaping his lips, but you didn’t give him time to adjust.

You leaned in close, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as you whispered, “Now, tell me, Sol... can you finish your artwork now? Or will I be too much of a distraction?”

Sol’s eyes widened, a mix of frustration and desire flickering in his gaze as you pressed your body into his, feeling every inch of him tense beneath you. His hands hovered just at your sides, like he was trying so hard to keep them from pulling you closer—yet, you could feel the unspoken tension in his every muscle.

“I—I’m trying to focus,” he stammered, his voice lower now, almost a growl, but the way his hips shifted told you everything. “But you’re making it... really hard to concentrate.”

You smiled, leaning down to brush your lips across his jawline, just soft enough to send a shiver down his spine. “You’ll deal with it later, Sol,” you teased, the promise of something far more tantalizing hanging between your words.

“Finish your art. And then, we’ll see what happens next.”

You could feel his restraint crumbling beneath you, and for the first time in a while, you saw Sol’s usual cockiness falter completely. It was a thrilling, heady sensation—watching him lose control, and knowing you were the one who had done it.

Who would've thought the artist would paint you like this, huh?

See? I’m not always mean when it comes to writing Sol. I’ll admit, he’s a cutie—though, we still have some unfinished business.

✑ 𝑔𝑒𝑜

Geo’s the type whose sharp eyes catch everything.

You and Geo were on one of your usual thrift store trips, strolling down the quiet strip just a few blocks from your place. The sun was starting to dip, casting a soft golden hue over the old, eclectic shops.

Geo, however, was clearly not thrilled. He was practically dragged here, grumbling under his breath as you walked past the piles of secondhand clothes and dusty shelves.

“God, this place is a hellhole,” he muttered, his nose wrinkling as he glanced around with disgust. “It’s like someone’s idea of a landfill masquerading as a boutique.”

You rolled your eyes, pretending you didn’t hear him complain every single time. “Come on, Geo. You might actually find something cool.”

He shot you a look, his arms crossed like he was waiting for an excuse to leave. “Cool? Cool? This place is so fucking dirty. The air smells like regret and broken dreams. It’s a maze of filth,” he scoffed, making a show of wiping his hands like he'd just touched something radioactive.

You smirked, unfazed. “Well, you’ll survive. I’m taking you to one of the nicer ones today, alright? You’ve got no excuse.”

Geo shot you a side-eye, clearly unimpressed. “Expensive thrift stores are still thrift stores. Don’t try to trick me into thinking they’re anything special.”

You shrugged. “Hey, it’s cleaner. And you can’t argue with the fact that you always end up paying for everything. So really, what’s the harm?”

He groaned, clearly not thrilled with the idea, but you knew how this would go. As much as he hated it, Geo was a sucker for your little adventures. You’d pick out a few things, he’d end up covering the bill, and you’d both walk out with something—him reluctantly admitting it wasn’t all bad, though he’d never say it out loud.

“Fine,” Geo grumbled, his gaze sliding across the racks with disdain. “But if I end up covered in dust and smelling like something dead, I’m blaming you.”

You grinned, knowing exactly how it would play out.

Even if he hated it, Geo would never let you pay. As smug as he was, he always made sure you didn’t spend a dime—something about “his pride,” or whatever.

It was so classic Geo.

The soft jingling of a store’s bell announced your arrival at yet another quaint little shop, and as usual, Geo wasted no time diving into the racks. You followed behind, casually scanning the shelves for anything that caught your eye.

Geo, however, was on a mission. “Don’t even think about it,” he muttered, his eyes flickering over to the fast food stand on the corner of the street as you passed by.

“I wasn’t going to,” you shot back, rolling your eyes.

“Good.” He gave you that look—the one that screamed, I know better. The guy was an archer, after all—his entire lifestyle revolved around staying in top shape. Hell, he probably had a personal trainer on speed dial.

“Stay away from that junk,” he added, nodding toward the fast food stand, his tone like he was advising you on life or death decisions. “It’s just gonna sit on your hips.”

You shot him a teasing glance, the corner of your lips lifting. “Not everyone’s obsessed with being ‘perfect,’ you know?”

Geo huffed, a dramatic eye roll matching yours. “I’m just saying, you’ve got a good thing going,” he said, flicking his hand at your body like he was some sort of health guru. “Don’t ruin it with greasy fries and burgers.”

You smirked, crossing your arms. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were the authority on perfection. Should I start taking notes on your diet and workout routine?”

Geo shrugged, before looking at a rack of clothes, “I mean,” he said nonchalantly, “if you want to look like me, sure.”

“You’re so humble,” you shot back sarcastically, you shook your head, amused at how seriously he took it all.

After a few more minutes of browsing, you spotted a cute outfit in the corner and grabbed it, excited to try it on. You made your way to the fitting rooms, with Geo trailing behind. He stayed near the entrance, leaning against the wall like he couldn’t care less about what you were doing. But you knew better—he was always paying attention. Even when he tried to act bored, his eyes still flickered around, making sure everything was in place.

It was one of the things that made Geo so undeniably… Geo.

Once inside the fitting room, you stared at yourself in the mirror, a familiar wave of self-doubt creeping up on you. The outfit fit fine—better than fine, really—but something about it didn’t feel right. You pulled at the fabric, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, but your eyes kept drifting to the parts of yourself you didn’t quite love. The parts you wished you could change.

The outfit? It was cute.

You just… weren’t sure you were. Maybe you do eat too much fast food, you thought, your fingers lightly brushing your stomach as your insecurities whispered in the back of your mind.

As you stared at your reflection, lost in your own head, the soft scrape of the curtain being pushed aside snapped you out of it. You turned quickly, heart skipping a beat, expecting an employee. But no—it was just Geo, tall and unimpressed, his sharp eyes flicking over the cramped fitting room like it offended him. He stood there like he owned the place, his arms crossed, with his usual air of perpetual irritation.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” you snapped, defensive and flustered.

Geo didn’t even flinch. His tone was dry, like he was bored of the question already. “You’re taking forever. And... you sounded upset. Figured I’d come in before you started crying and ruined the outfit.”

You rolled your eyes. “Geo, you can’t just barge in—”

“I just did.”

He stepped inside fully, letting the curtain fall behind him. The air in the small space changed the second he did. It was suddenly warmer. Closer. He scanned you from head to toe, but not in a crude way—he was calculating, studying, like he was mapping out your insecurities before you could say them aloud.

You crossed your arms over your chest instinctively.

“You look fine,” he said, blunt as ever. “Better than fine, actually. But you're standing there like you're about to throw up.”

You looked away. “It’s just— I don’t feel…”

Geo exhaled through his nose, annoyed, stepping in until he was right in front of you. He reached out, uninvited but unthreatening, and adjusted the strap of your top, letting his knuckles brush your shoulder. The touch was light, almost imperceptible. But it grounded you. He always knew how to do that—make a mess feel stable without saying much at all.

“Shut up,” he said gently, though the edge in his voice never softened. “You're fine. You always are.”

But that wasn’t enough. Not today.

You pulled away, sinking onto the small bench in the corner, your face twisting with something hurt and frustrated.

“You’re always such an asshole,” you muttered, arms crossing tightly. “I should’ve taken Crowe with me on this thifting trip. At least he wouldn’t make me feel like garbage.”

That stopped him.

Geo stared at you. Not in anger. Not even in annoyance. Just… still. Then, quietly, he crouched down in front of you, folding his long limbs with unnatural grace, eyes level with yours. It was startling. Geo never lowered himself. Never came down to anyone’s level.

He didn’t believe in it. And yet—here he was.

Sitting in front of you like he was trying to offer you something raw.

“You want me to say sorry,” he said, more a statement than a question.

And you… nodded. Slowly. Hesitantly. Because yeah, it did hurt. You didn’t care what most people thought of your body. But him? He could wound you without even trying.

He sighed again, but not in exasperation. In surrender. “Fine,” he said suddenly, voice barely above a murmur, “we can have fast food.”

You blinked, stunned. That was so not the point—but before you could respond, his hand lifted.

His fingers—rough, calloused from years of archery and too many fights—skimmed lightly along the side of your neck. A breath caught in your throat. He traced the curve of your collarbone, like he was memorizing it all over again. Deliberate. Gentle. And then he touched the chain you wore—the one he gave you.

The pad of his thumb ran along the charm resting just above your heart, as if to remind you: he chose this for you. A twin to the one hidden beneath the collar of his hoodie, always worn, never shown. Just like his affection.

“You like where we go,” he said, voice low and steady, “You like the way I treat you when we’re out. I know you do.”

Your breath hitched, eyes wide, lips parting—but he was already closing the space between you.

“You like,” he continued, leaning forward, “that I know what makes you feel safe…”

And then his face—his sharp, pretty face—pressed into the curve of your shoulder blade. Not your shoulder. Not your collar. But the space right between—intimate, vulnerable. The tip of his nose grazed your skin, breath warm as it spilled across your back.

“I know what makes you feel good,” he whispered, the words shaped more from instinct than desire, “what makes you feel wanted… even when I don’t know how to want people the way everyone else does.”

You felt the shift before you saw it—his body bracketing yours, hand pressed to the wall beside your head.

Not caging. Not crowding. Protecting.

Always that careful restraint, like he was made of sharp edges but would never dare cut you.

“I’ll say sorry,” he murmured, voice rough silk, his lips so close now they practically breathed against your skin, “a thousand times if that’s what it takes. For making you think I see you as anything less. I don’t.”

He pulled back just far enough to meet your eyes, and when he did—God. Geo didn’t just look at you. He studied you.

His expression stayed unreadable, that same carved stone stoicism—but his gaze roamed, reverent and scorching, memorizing the parts of you he’d always admired but rarely said aloud.

“You don’t get it,” he said, voice lower now, almost reverent.

“I see everything.”

His eyes flicked downward. Not in a crude way—no. It was hungrier than that and deeper. A slow drag of attention across the slope of your shoulders, the curve of your chest, the way your waist dipped into your hips. Every place your body softened, or pressed tight against your clothes, or creased when you moved—he drank it in like he owned the knowledge of you.

“Doesn’t matter what you're wearing. You could be in a hoodie three sizes too big or nothing at all, and I’d still be trying to memorize the way it fits around you.”

His hand ghosted along your side, not quite touching, but it made your skin light up anyway.

“I’ll let you hit me, if that’ll help,” he said, and this time his voice cracked, just a little. “I’ll get on my knees. I’ll beg.”

You could feel it—his tension.

The weight of it in the way his jaw clenched, like it killed him to say that but he meant it.

“Whatever you need,” he said again, eyes flicking to your lips. “You can wear anything. I’ll still admire you for it. Every damn time. And I’ll keep buying you old and used shit if it makes you feel good.”

His head tilted, eyes narrowing, locking onto yours with that signature deadpan focus—cold, but not cruel. Just… impossibly precise. As if the rest of the world had blurred, and only you remained in focus.

“…But don’t pretend like you want anyone else but me,” he added, voice dipping. Something raw coiled underneath the words.

Possessive. Territorial. “Especially that charmer.” That last word landed like an arrow—clean, direct, and deliberate. It struck where it was meant to, buried deep.

“That’s the only thing I won’t apologize for.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your lips parted slightly, but nothing came out. Your face was burning, heat creeping down your neck, blooming across your chest. And your heart—God, your heart was a mess of stuttering beats and heavy thuds, too loud, too much.

Still, you held his gaze. Those sharp, hunter’s eyes—focused, unflinching. An archer’s eyes. The kind that made you feel bare and known and hunted all at once.

Okay… maybe you did feel a bit better.

Because Geo never missed his mark, certainly not with you.

Blushing at this part… didn’t think it would land that hard—damn.

✑ 𝒽𝓎𝓊𝑔𝑜

Hyugo’s the type who always had a way of touching you.

The textbooks were open, sure. Highlighters are scattered across the coffee table. There were even half-finished online flashcards pulled up on your phone.

But the studying?

Yeah, that died the moment Hyugo showed up with that lazy grin and a bag of snacks he definitely wasn’t supposed to bring near the couch.

“You know,” you said, nudging him with your knee as he flopped beside you, “we’re supposed to be reviewing the chapter on cognitive development, not watching cat videos on your phone.”

He didn’t even flinch. “I’m multitasking,” Hyugo said, one hand holding up his phone as a kitten somersaulted across the screen, the other casually reaching into the bag of chips. “Besides, you said we were studying. I already finished that unit last night.”

You blinked at him. “You what?”

“Yep,” he popped the ‘p’ smugly. “Got bored. Knocked it out at like, 2AM.”

“You—? Hyugo, we have a test today. You’re supposed to be panicking with me, not acting like it’s optional.”

He finally set his phone down, turning to you with that annoyingly bright, cheerful face of his—the one that screamed, I’m way too charming to ever suffer consequences. “Why would I panic? I’ve got you. Worst case, I cheat off your paper.”

You shoved his shoulder, and he laughed, leaning his head back against the couch like he hadn’t just confessed to academic fraud.

“You’re such a menace.”

“Yeah, but I’m your menace.” He grinned sideways at you, hair slightly messed up from how he’d flopped into the cushions. “Besides, don’t act like you don’t like having me around when you’re stressed. I make good noise-cancelling background static.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I know.” He winked. “That’s why you let me distract you instead of forcing me to open a textbook.”

“Because I know you’ll ace it anyway.” You paused, sighing. “Seriously though, how do you always finish everything without looking like you try?”

Hyugo shrugged, eyes twinkling. “Magic. Or maybe I just hyperfixate until it’s done and forget to eat in the process. Who’s to say?”

You just stared at him for a beat, then leaned over to steal a chip from his bag. “I hope you fail the extra credit.”

“I won’t,” he said smugly, popping another chip into his mouth, “but thanks for the emotional support, babe.”

You rolled your eyes, frustration building as you tried to explain Piaget’s stages of development for the third time. You were so close to getting your point across, but then—there it was. That subtle shift in the air. Hyugo. You didn’t even need to look up to know what was happening. He was moving again. Not loudly, not jarringly, just that soft, insistent motion of his body sliding closer to yours.

Before you could even finish your sentence, his legs stretched out across the couch, and his head was nestled in your lap like it was his damn birthright.

“…Hyugo,” you warned, voice flat, trying to keep some semblance of focus while a textbook balanced precariously on your knees, the edge just missing the top of his head.

He didn’t even acknowledge you at first.

“Shh,” he hummed, his eyes already closed, the tips of his lashes grazing the tops of his cheeks, his expression soft and relaxed. "I study better like this."

“No, you don’t,” you muttered, shaking your head in disbelief.

"You don’t even study."

“I observe,” he replied nonchalantly, voice thick with that lazy calm he always had when he was too comfortable. “And absorb. Osmosis.”

You sighed heavily, rolling your eyes so far back you thought they might stay there.

But still—despite everything, you didn’t push him off. Not yet.

Your hand, as if on its own, drifted to his hair. It was a habit by now. His hair was always so warm, so soft, and you hated how comforting it felt between your fingers. He smelled like faint citrus and clean laundry, a scent that reminded you of sunlight on a lazy afternoon, wrapped up in hoodie form. It was ridiculous how nice he smelled.

And then, it happened.

Slowly, carefully, with the kind of audacity only Hyugo could get away with, he turned just enough to press his face into your stomach. His arms slid around your waist, pulling you in like you were a pillow he had no intention of letting go.

He just… settled there.

His body was warm and secure against you, like he’d staked his claim and expected you to accept it.

It was so casual, so effortless, that you almost didn’t know how to react. But your body knew. It tensed instantly like you had no control over how it responded to his touch. He was too close. Too present. The heat of him spreading across your skin made your breath catch, and your spine went rigid, all the while you were desperately trying to keep your composure.

The book you’d been holding slipped off your knees, tumbling onto the floor with a quiet thud. You didn’t even have the mental space to care. Instead, all you could focus on was the weight of his head against your stomach, the feel of his arms around you like some kind of anchor. His presence was all-consuming, and somehow you could never quite get used to it.

You didn’t understand why Hyugo was always touching you. You didn’t mind it, not in the way you should’ve. It wasn’t that it annoyed you—hell, there were times it felt like you didn’t mind it at all.

But why? Why did he always need to be so close?

You weren’t even sure why you didn’t push him off when you knew you should. Was he really that confident? Did he not see how ridiculous it was for someone like him to be so affectionate with someone like you?

You looked down at him, his face pressed against your stomach like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he could do this forever if you’d let him.

But how could anyone, especially him, be into someone like you?

Someone who was all sharp edges and curves and things that made you uncomfortable in your skin? How could he adore you the way he did when you didn’t even understand how to adore yourself?

And yet… you couldn’t help it.

The warmth of his body against yours, his gentle breath on your skin, it was like a constant reassurance. His affection, so soft, so unrelenting, was like a force you couldn’t escape.

Hyugo’s voice broke the silence then, soft and rumbling as if he sensed your thoughts and wanted to ground you in the present.

“You’re so quiet when I do this,” he muttered, his arms tightening around you just a little more. “

“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours, huh?” He added.

You swallowed hard, unsure how to explain. You didn’t know if you could even put it into words. “I—don’t get it,” you said, your voice almost a whisper. “Why are you always so close? I’m… I’m not like others, Hyugo.”

He pressed his face deeper onto your stomach, his eyes steady, warm, and intense. His gaze softened, that familiar tenderness you couldn’t seem to escape.

“Hyugo—” You pushed at his shoulder gently, a warning, a tremble in your voice you didn’t mean to let out. “Don’t. Stop”

He stopped moving. If anything, he just held you tighter.

“Stop it,” you whispered again, more to yourself than him, hating how your voice cracked. “That’s not fair.”

“Why?” His voice was muffled against your shirt, soft and steady. “Because I love you too much?”

You tried to pull back again, your hands moving to his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie. The movement was instinctive—trying to push him off, just a little space between you. But, damn it, he didn’t budge. Hyugo, always so damn stubborn, always so strong. Why was this short shit so damn solid?

His hand, warm and steady, slid down to the side of your hip, his touch slow, intentional, like he was tracing the outline of your body in the way only he could. Every inch of your skin, every curve, every line, he made it feel like it was meant to be touched.

You bit your lip, trying not to show how his closeness was making your heart pound. You weren’t sure why you still hesitated. But his warmth against your stomach was undeniable—something in the way he pressed his face into you felt different, familiar, like he belonged there.

"You don’t get to say that when you do this," you whispered, your voice small against the growing pressure of his presence.

"Not when I’m like this."

Hyugo shifted, his hand resting at your waist as if he could hold you there forever. "Like what?" he asked, voice low and curious, his gaze never leaving yours.

You didn’t answer, because, honestly, you couldn’t.

He knew what you meant. Hyugo always knew.

His breath hitched, and then there was the softest exhale like he was absorbing every moment, every inch of you beneath his touch. He always paid attention. So much attention.

"You think I haven’t noticed?" His voice was barely a whisper now, but it sent a shiver through your body. "You get quiet every time I touch you here," he murmured, his hand grazing your side, just enough to remind you of how it felt to be seen. "Like I’m not supposed to. Like I’ll notice something you don’t want me to see."

You tried to look away, but his eyes, those baby blue, soft eyes, never let you escape. You swallowed hard, heart thumping in your chest. He was so close, and everything about him made it impossible to hide how he was slowly unraveling you, piece by piece.

His fingers brushed your curves again, gently, as if exploring, and in that touch was a world of affection that you couldn’t deny.

“I love the way you feel,” he added, his voice tinged with something deeper than casual flirtation. "The way you’re built, the way your body speaks without saying a word. You have strength in every inch of you. And, that’s what gets to me. You don’t have to hide any part of you from me.”

Your stomach clenched, and this time it wasn’t with discomfort but with something that felt like relief—a soft weight that you didn’t realize you’d been carrying until now.

He wasn’t judging. He was worshipping.

Every curve of your body, every part of you he touched, he made it feel like you were a masterpiece in his eyes.

You didn’t say anything. How could you?

His words were making you feel too seen, too cared for, too cherished.

You never imagined this kind of affection would feel so overwhelming, so soft. His affection wrapped around you like a blanket.

"I’m not leaving," he murmured again, as his hands pulled you closer, wrapping around you like a shield, as if to say, I’ve got you. "You can hate it. You can push me away. But I’m staying. I won’t let you shrink back into yourself."

Your hands trembled against his chest, and his gaze softened even further if that was even possible.

“You don’t get to apologize for parts of you I already love,” he said, his voice a little hoarse now, each word carrying weight, like a promise. "I will cling to you like a damn leech because I want you to see yourself the way I see you. I want you to feel it. Feel the love I’m giving you until it seeps into your bones. Until your body feels the love, too."

His hand moved again, caressing the curve of your hip in slow, soft and slow strokes, as though he had all the time in the world to make you feel the warmth of his touch. There was a tenderness there that made you breathless, like he was trying to imprint that love into your very skin.

“You’re perfect, you know that?” he murmured softly, his genuine words making your heart flutter. “Don’t let anyone—especially yourself—tell you otherwise.”The way he said it, so casually, but with such an unwavering certainty, made your throat tighten.

You didn’t know how to process it, how to take in all the love he was offering.

It was too much. But in the best way.

His fingertips traced the line of your waist, a careful, intentional touch that sent a shiver through you. His body pressed so close to yours that you could feel the heat of his own skin, and that heat felt like a balm for every insecurity you’d ever harbored.

“Your body,” he continued, his voice soft but firm, “is a reflection of your strength, of your warmth.”

It was impossible to ignore the way those words resonated deep within you. He wasn’t just talking about your curves or the way your body felt beneath his hands.

He was talking about your spirit, your strength, the way you carried yourself in a world that often tried to tell you you weren’t enough.

You felt a flush creeping up your neck, a heat that had nothing to do with his touch and everything to do with the way his words were making you feel. The tightness in your chest only seemed to grow, a mixture of vulnerability and something else—something more powerful that you weren’t quite ready to admit.

“And I’ll be here,” he added, his voice softening even further, “always, loving you for every inch of it."

His words wrapped around you like a warm blanket, and you couldn’t help but close your eyes for a moment, trying to absorb everything he was giving you. The way he saw you, the way he adored every inch of you, it hit you deeper than you ever expected.

It made your heartache in the best way—this raw, aching love that you couldn’t escape, even if you wanted to.

And still, he didn’t let you go.

Hyugo’s arms remained wrapped around you, strong and secure, holding you close as though he never wanted to let you slip away.

It was like he was trying to make sure you never forgot how beautiful you were, how worthy of love you were. You couldn’t help but marvel at the way he held you like you were his teddy bear, his safe place. A person with a baby face like his, always so soft and warm, but with a heart that could hold the weight of your world.

He had a way of making you feel safe, cherished—like you were the most important thing in his life, and nothing would ever change that.

His presence was like sunlight, his affection the warmth you never knew you needed. And in that moment, as he held you there, you realized something:

Hyugo needed you, because, after all, you were his happiness.

I may have a few favorites when it comes to writing Geo and Hyugo…

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sleep-0-deprived · 4 months ago

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⋆˚࿔Brahms Heelshire thoughts~!𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Taglist: @asher-is-hotxp @unstab1eperson2 @kimisbunny @yyuinaa @silvern1006

A/N: jus some thoughts N’ personal feels bout one of ma fav boys, N’ written specifically for @creepy141dollie <33

𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚

Personally I like thinkin Brahms S’ a big Ol baby, he’s touch starved at’ death N’ when you’re his new baby sitter all he can wonder as’ why’re you a boy? Where’s his nanny at…he’s silent as always creeping through in the walls just watchin the way you do things- he can’t deny how good ya are at all tha domestic stuff, house hubby material S’ what he first thought when he seen ya. You’re a sassy man he can tell that much bout you from the way you scold him and push out your bottom lip when lookin up at him, he doesn’t know how you made it past his old fashioned parents- maybe ya charms work on everyone.

Brahms S’ a total creep, he gives no privacy he stalks ya like a dog, he lurks even when ya ask him not to, he is obsessed all tha time- his infatuation holds no bounds N’ he isn’t afraid T’ watch your most intimate moments in tha shower or when you touch ya’self, Brahms hates when you lecture him, talkin bout how you wont let his cock near you sayin stuff like, “I only reward good boys” even tho knowin you, you’d start T’ feel bad N’ give into him by the end of the night— how could ya not with the way he begs you, his voice cracks N’ you can practically feel his tears behind that porcelain mask.

Bein his babysitter means giving up your life- he’s crazy N’ he’s toxic for you but you can’t bring yourself to leave him…you jus feel bad- he holds you an’ praises you like a god when he wants but he screams N’ throw fits over you when he’s upset— Y’ know you should runaway but you jus can’t- you’re in too far now anyway S’ why even bother to try N’ leave him? Ever since you took that job everything feels cold- the air, Your body N’ it’s all porcelain like, just like his mask. You used T’ love shopping but the most you do is go out into town T’ pick up groceries then ya go back to Brahms…that house has made you isolated from th’ world N’ Brahms doesn’t care at all, he jus wants you to himself.

Brahms is a manipulator, he uses your soft spots to get his ways, he promises all ya wanna hear jus to get you T’ stay. Brahms acts all innocent like he isn’t tha reason for your change in personality N’ he isn’t the reason you’re starting T’ slowly lose that sass, he’s worn ya down into a tired parent like person. Brahms uses his tears T’ wrap you around his finger knowin you can’t resist the way he clings to you like a god, Brahms worships the ground you walk on when you give him what he wants which is to ultimately have you forever.

Brahms S’ pent up all the time, sneakin off into your room when he needs tha love, not Carin bout anything jus getting your shorts down enough T’ shove his dick in ya while you sleepily hiss into the pillows whining bout how he’s bein rough- Brahms whimpers- he try’s ta be quiet but when your hole sucks him back N’ he loses it like a puppy poutin and moaning away on top of you clutching onto you hard while his hips erratically fuck you in ya sheets

Brahms fav position is cowgirl tho it should probably be cowboy W’ you on top- your hand gripping his shoulders working up N’ down taking his cock with ease while his eyes hold contact W’ yours- his breath is shaky N’ he can’t control how weak he feels but somethin bout his fave being covered starin into your soul the whole time has ya buckin down on his cock wildly “please- please, I need you, only you- just you- please” your body melted when those words left his mouth oh so pathetically- how could this be the same man who broke you down? How could he.. before you know it his semen S’ floodin inside you filling ya all full.

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princessbellecerise · 1 year ago

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Snow With A Bimbo Reader

──── ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧ ────

summary | Coryo loves how dumb you are. It makes him look even smarter

warnings | toxic!coryo, dumb!reader, slight innocent!reader, smut, slight housewife!reader

this is an eighteen plus fic. minors do not enter

divider by @princessbellecerise

When he first met you at the academy, it was safe to say that from the moment he saw you, Snow was obsessed

You weren’t in the same class as him, though there was really no reason you ought to be because you were not nearly as smart as the other students, but he still noticed you in some classes

Coryo figured that your parents must have bought your way in, because bless your heart you are so dumb

When he first meets you, it’s almost pitiful how he notices that you’re nowhere near his academic level, but that’s okay because you sure are pretty

And despite being insanely attracted to power and intelligence, Coryo finds himself focusing all his attention on you

He can’t think of anything else in class other than the way your pretty little face scrunches up because you’re not understanding any of it, or the way your lips pout because you’re beyond lost

You’re just so beautifully stupid and cute and Coryo can’t stop thinking about how he can’t wait to get his claws into you

So at first he starts by tutoring you as way to get closer to you

God knows that you need it, and when he offers of course you accept because hello—everyone knows that Snow is on top

So, he begins to tutor you, and that’s all it is at first

A few flirty remarks here and there, like him telling you your hair looks pretty or your outfit fits you nice

Nothing too crazy, but the more time Coryo spends with you, the more you drive him insane

He has amazing self control because even though he wants to do nothing but grab you and kiss you the entire time you’re talking, he holds himself back

He takes it slow as to not scare you or confuse your dumb little mind. After all, you can only process so much

Which is why he doesn’t actually tutor you—not the hard stuff anyways. He just finds little easy thing for you to accomplish so he can watch as your face lights up when you solve something he’s done a million times before

He builds you up before he plans on breaking you down, before he plans on molding you into his perfect partner

Coryo will gain your trust at first and only when he’s got it will he strike

Like a snake, you don’t even see his plan or see him coming until he’s right there in front of you, poisoning you with his sweet lips and kissing you one day

It comes so sudden for you that you’re shocked, not even kissing him back till he’s squeezing your jaw a little so you let him in

He’ll kiss you deeply so that you can feel what he feels for you, so that you know just how desperately he wants you

Through his lips, he’ll spread his venom, and since you’re not smart enough to even know that you’ve been bit, you fall for it easily

You kiss him back, and your giggles when you pull away make Coryo smirk. He loves seeing you nervous around him and fuck; does he love tasting your pretty lips

Once you start agree to start dating him, it’s already too late for you. And for Coryo, it’s just the beginning

Coryo already has plans that you’re not apart of, but he’s excited to carry them out because you are everything that he needs

He needs someone that won’t question him, that will obey him and do everything he says. He needs to be in charge and with you, he is

Like a good little girl, you do everything Coryo tells you to do. Miss class for him, sit on his lap, stop doing your assignments

Pretty soon, he’s got it to where all you do is hang out with him. Make plans with him. Do things for him

He’s got you wrapped around his finger and you don’t even know it. You’re just so happy with him that you don’t even question it when he tells you to quit

“Leave the academy and I’ll take care of you. I promise,” Is what Coryo says, so you do

You stop attending class, you drop out and slowly you move from your home to be with Coryo in his

It’s a little packed, but you make it work especially with Tigris and his grandmother

They both adore you, though Tigris is a little concerned with you dropping out. She’ll try and persuade you to continue your education but don’t worry—Coryo will never let that happen

When you tell him Tigris’ words, he simply scoffs and tells you that pretty girls like you don’t belong in academics. You don’t belong in that terrible, toxic work force

No, no, you deserve to stay home and to serve him. An easy job, he convinces you, and a soft life

“It’s what you deserve,” He tells you, so you give up on the idea of returning

Instead, you stay at home and wait for Coryo day and night. During the days, you’ll cook, clean and during the nights you’ll be there for him

In the privacy of your now shared bedroom is where he fucks you, the mattress squeaking from how hard he pounds into your tight cunt

Coryo loves it when you whine and beg, crying out how he’s too big for you

He loves to hear you praise him and for you to stroke his ego. With a hand wrapped around your throat, he’ll fuck you until you’re screaming his name into the mattress and until you realize that you belong to him

The love bites and marks he leaves on your thighs are a constant reminder. He tells you that you should be lucky, grateful that you don’t have to use your head anymore

Grateful to have someone like him to take care of you, and you are. Coryo gives you a life that people can only dream about

Once he becomes President of Panem, you’re spoiled with riches that you didn’t even know existed. Diamonds, silks, luxurious foods

And the best part is, all you have to do is smile and wave. After all, you are his best asset

#tbosas x reader #coriolanus snow #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus snow smut #coriolanus snow x reader

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skitskatdacat63 · 2 years ago

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I realized I have the right clothes to dress like young Oppenheimer, so I drew my oc in my suit 🤭

I draw her in suits a lot, so the top drawing is her typical suit! But then the second one is based off my irl one 🤭

AAAAAAAAHHHHHHH MY BELOVED WIFE RÜßIE <3 SHE IS SO HANDSOMEEEE <3

I think every time I draw, I just feel more deranged about her(if that's even possible) 🥺 I love drawing her face sm

#her actual name is just Rüß btw(well technically nickname but)#but i call her Rüßie affectionately since she is wifey #some of you guys told me i should post my art so here you go !!#not to be vain but god im so obsessed w the outfit irl #not that im ever gonna wear it out or anything but its so gender yknow???#its my dad suit that he gave to me and i fit into the vest for the most part #but ive not ever really worn the pants bcs theyre huge on me #but then i realized theyre the perfect size for early 20th century pants!#bcs those pants are just soooo high waisted and pretty giant imo #and also i didnt draw it cause i hate drawing hats but i have a similar hat as well! stole it from my mom 😌#id include a pic of the oppenheimer outfit im referencing but theres literally no pics #i like his typical outfit for most of the movie its also a slay #but i especially love his outfits from when hes in college and when hes actively teaching...theyre so gender...#and also i realized now after actually wearing the outfit #the pants are so big and somewhat flare at the hips so thats why the sexy waist is so emphasized 🤭🤭#anyways Rüß is not beating the fav child allegations(its weird to say child about her but you get what i mean)#i hate picking favs but....i cant deny how much i lovu her <3 shhhhh dont tell the others #моя высокая русская любая жена 🤭🤭🤭#also if you saw this post earlier no you didnt.( i hate the way it sometimes tricks you into posting when youre editing a draft)#also i realized its funny for me to look btwn this and my recent oc drawing vs my fanart #idk if its obvious to others but its so obvious to me how much more comfortable and easy it is to draw my ocs #ive said but i dont ever really draw fanart and real people #so im happy to get back to drawing my blorbos!!!#catie.art.#oc art #art #rüß

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spaceyaemonds · 14 days ago

Note

god i love this premise, it’s so hilarious that Jack would wind up with a young baby mama. It’d be fun to think of this as pre-canon. So she can kinda fit in the whole first season, like a super young mom coming in to treat a burn or something with a little kid, she’s being seen by a resident whose like so unaware and then boom, Jack walks in and the gossip/stares start. I think Jack can’t really ignore what it looks like but would be annoyed by the stares but ultimately wouldn’t care. And she would just be like *shrugs* “he’s super hot”

Also I am eagerly waiting on the hilarious interaction of Jack telling Robby and Dana. “What’s worse than knocking up your one night stand?” “Um, she’s 23.” “Jesus Christ”

Or maybe when they go out they keep calling Jack grandpa. Or just the heavy looks when they see this very young milf smile around Jack. Just the heavy stares from Robby and Dana as they watch this young family grow lol.

I also think they could have this really cute but kinda dysfunctional family dynamic. Yes they have a healthy coparenting relationship. Dad is teaching the kid survival skills and taking him on camping excursions where they test said survival skills. Yes Mom is chill as hell, and spills tea about the crazy office dynamics while she crafts with her kid. And lowkey loves being a hot mom. Like yes mom and dad sometimes smash because they have needs and it’s just less mess and complication when they have this somewhat dysfunctional FWB situation, that has potential to blossom into something bigger.

Anyways I love this mini series it’s serious feeding me, that man is so fine with the salt and pepper hair. I can’t wait to read more.

hi friend!!! i am so so glad you have been enjoying this mini series!!!! i have loved sharing it with everyone here!! omg same, i am so obsessed with him he makes me SICKKK!

ahh!! i have a lot to say on this so answering under the cut!!

it is very funny to imagine jack getting off of shift on the day and hours into the day reader shows up in the ed with their (fat, because i love fat babies) baby, maybe two years old. baby slipped and bumped their head, and she doesn’t want to bother jack so she takes baby alone. she somehow misses robby and dana, ends up with whitaker, of all people. maybe perlah or princess notice baby abbot’s name on the board, immediately tell dana, who makes a quick call to jack. whitaker goes to check over the baby, and jack immediately jerks the door open, “get the hell away from my kid.” and whitaker just looks between reader, the baby, and jack, on the verge of throwing up. santos and mel are right outside when they hear everything and immediately are all 😮👀

dana and robby’s reactions are as expected. dana is majorly side eyeing, and robby is just like “jesus christ! twenty-three?!?!” and jack doesn’t even really try to defend himself. standing there like a puppy getting scolded lol.

i like to think that reader very often gets hit on, guys closer in age to her walking up to her when she’s with jack and baby abbot at the park, asking if her dad can keep an eye on the baby and maybe they can grab dinner. it always makes her laugh, and infuriates jack, has him mumbling all kinds of stuff like “sure, dad can watch baby.” because he understands that she’s a beautiful girl, but he can’t deny the jealousy he feels when people hit on her in front of him.

jack loves nothing more than spending time with his baby. more often than not, after a hard shift, he finds his way to her house, just asking to take a peek at baby but ends up sleeping on the floor next to the crib. and more often than not, he spends his nights off there, ending up in readers bed. he isn’t interested in seeing anyone else, and she can’t imagine dating when there’s so much tension and longing between her and jack.

i think it takes some time, but they do eventually end up together. they’ve lowkey just been together, though, just not official. jack never felt the need to try to put a label on it because he’s worried about “forcing” her into something she doesn’t want. he knows how he feels, and though is never 100% on how exactly she feels, he knows there’s something there. i also don’t think they ever really officially date. i like to imagine jack maybe just slips a ring on her finger one night, and they get married not long after!

#🐝 answers asks #🐝’s anons #bee chats 🐝#🐝 talks: the pitt #dr jack abbot #jack abbot #dr jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x reader #the pitt x reader #dr jack abbott x reader #jack abbott x reader #i do think they do eventually get married #and maybe have one other kid #but definitely get pregnant before the first baby turn 3 or 4 #because jack is like #i’m not getting any younger

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jungkoode · 1 month ago

Text

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 17

˗ˏˋ reconnecting ˎˊ˗

"Fridays are not always the best day of the week, you can vouch for this one at least. It's Emma's birthday party and you're not sure you two still vibe together or not after all this time. And coming home... you don't expect Jungkook to be awake, especially not with your cold war going on. But he is."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 9,6k

content: begrudgingly gift-shopping, hidden treasures, old vs new friendships, reconnecting, pretty girls and the inability to discern whether it's flirting or polite talk, AM talks, actually listening (thank god, progress!), and vanilla kink striking again because jungkook in this fic has free will and i cannot control him

✧ author's note ✧

WASSSSSUPPPP my peoplessss!!

Okay so here’s Chapter 17—aka the chapter where all of you start collectively projecting your unresolved issues with your high school best friend, your fuckboy roommate, and your local pastel/goth lesbian duo. I say that with love.

Now LISTEN. I keep raising the bar for this story like but honestly?? That’s on YOU. You absolute feral gremlins with your “when’s the next update” comments like I’m a vending machine that dispenses emotional damage. (It’s fine. I thrive under fear and pressure. You’re welcome.)

About this chapter!! So my initial plan was for Nix to buy Jungkook an actual vinyl player… until I did the research and realized those bitches go for 150-300 bucks even secondhand. Be fr. They are NOT in a relationship. This man is her hot emotional disaster roommate who’s been beefing with her for three days and literally slammed a door at her. I would not spend a single euro on that man beyond what is legally required. Fifteen dollars for a John Mayer record? That’s the sweet spot. It says “I hate you but I know what music you like and I think about you when you’re not around and that makes me want to bite drywall.”

Also: if you know that Inside Wants Out is an early acoustic EP that’s kinda slept on but has a few gut-wrenching tracks about vulnerability and romantic ambivalence… well. Have fun.

Now shut up because I love writing female friendships and this chapter is my offering to the goddesses of sapphic chaos. Yeji and Irya being absolute queens??? We love. But also EMMA. Emma and that awkward tension of do we still fit? Did we ever really know each other or was it just proximity and hormones and being stuck in the same suburban hellscape? That shit is SO REAL. Reuniting with old friends is like a spiritual liminal space and I needed to capture that gnawing weirdness.

AND JIMIN. The eyeliner scene??? I almost CRIED writing it. I had to pause. That man is so soft it makes me want to shove him into a pillow fort and protect him from the world. He’s so good. He sees her, without wanting anything in return. You better analyze it or I’ll strangle every single one of you.

Now. Regarding the very tense bathroom cologne scene. I was actually going to drag the cold war out longer, truly. I had plans. But Jungkook opened his slutty little mouth and said, “No, actually, I’m feral and I’ve been suffering in silence and she smells like sex and nostalgia and I must act.” And what was I supposed to do? Argue? Please. I have 0 narrative agency here. That much is clear.

Also his birthday is coming. So like. I didn’t want to enter that subplot with them still fake-ignoring each other like divorced parents. You’re welcome.

ANYWAY. The next few chapters are slower paced but VERY important. It’s all those little moments where the characters start changing without realizing it. The kind of growth you only see in hindsight. The slow part of the slow burn. But I swear to god I’m obsessed with how it’s turning out and I just want to share it with you and roll around in the angst like a dog in grass.

Okay that’s all. I love you. Go scream in the comments or eat drywall. Or both! <3 Mwah.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Fridays aren't supposed to sneak up on you like a debt collector with something to prove.

Usually, you spend the whole week crawling toward Friday like it's an oasis in the desert of your existence. Monday is hell. Tuesday is hell's waiting room. Wednesday offers a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, the week won't actually kill you. Thursday is its own special brand of torture—so close to freedom you can taste it, but still trapped in the purgatory of obligation.

And then: Friday.

Glorious, beautiful Friday.

Except this one. This one materialized out of nowhere, ambushing you with its presence and the sudden, horrifying realization that you have exactly zero hours to prepare for what's coming.

So here you are, somehow already standing in a flea market that smells like mothballs and questionable life choices, watching Yeji hold up a fishnet... something against her body while Irya coos over crystals that probably came from the dollar store.

"What do you think?" Yeji asks, draping the fishnet monstrosity over her shoulders. "Is it giving 'fashion-forward' or 'I found this in a dumpster'?"

"Definitely dumpster," you mutter, eyes scanning the crowded stalls without really seeing them.

Because your mind? Your mind is elsewhere—specifically on the fact that you still need to find a birthday gift for your insufferable roommate.

Jungkook.

Just thinking his name makes your jaw clench.

It's been three days since your argument, and the apartment has been a cold war zone of pointed silences and aggressive door closing.

He wants to be petty? Fine. You can be petty right back. Twice as petty, even. So you’re not talking to him either.

"Hello?” Yeji waves a hand in front of your face. "You've been staring at that old guy selling taxidermy squirrels for like, two minutes straight. Should I be concerned?"

You blink, refocusing. "What? No. I'm just... looking."

"For what exactly?" Irya appears at your side, a small purple crystal clutched in her palm. "You said you already got Emma's birthday present."

"Just browsing," you lie smoothly. "Flea markets are full of... treasures."

Yeji snorts. "Since when do you care about 'treasures'? Last time I dragged you to a vintage store, you said it smelled like 'dead people's closets.'"

“No I didn’t.”

"Right." Yeji doesn't look convinced, but she's already distracted by a display of chunky silver rings. "I'm gonna check these out. Meet you at the food trucks in twenty?"

You nod, grateful for the chance to browse alone. Not that you have any fucking clue what to get Jungkook. What do you buy for someone whose entire personality seems to be "brooding film student with inexplicably good taste in coffee"?

It is like an abandoned warehouse, this flea market—stalls crammed together in haphazard rows, hipsters and bargain hunters elbowing past each other, haggling over everything from antique doorknobs to hand-knitted beanies that look like they were made by someone's cat…

You wander aimlessly, passing stalls selling vintage cameras (too expensive), artisanal coffee beans (too obvious), and leather-bound journals (too pretentious, even for him).

Nothing feels right.

Not that it matters—it's just a stupid obligation gift. You shouldn't care this much.

But you do. And that's annoying as fuck.

Then, a rickety table stacked with milk crates catches your eye—or rather, the handwritten sign that reads "RECORDS $5-20" in faded Sharpie.

The elderly man behind the table looks like he's been selling vinyl since before your parents were born, his weathered hands carefully flipping through a box as a customer asks about some obscure band.

You wait until they leave, then approach, trying to look like someone who actually knows something about records. The crates are dusty, disorganized, with no apparent system. Just hundreds of albums crammed together like sardines.

"Looking for anything specific?" the old man asks, voice gravelly from what you assume are decades of cigarettes.

"Just browsing," you say, already flipping through the nearest crate.

Most of the covers are faded, corners bent, some with water damage or mysterious stains you'd rather not identify. You recognize maybe one in ten artists—a lot of jazz, classic rock, some folk singers your dad probably listened to in college.

This is stupid. You don't know what you're looking for. Jungkook collects vinyl but doesn't even own a record player. What kind of pretentious bullshit is that? It's like buying books just to display them on a shelf without reading them.

You're about to give up when your fingers pause on a familiar name.

John Mayer.

The album cover is slightly worn at the edges, but otherwise in decent condition.

"Inside Wants Out," it says in simple white letters against the picture of a dude (you guess it’s John) in the background.

You don’t recognize it at all.

But Jungkook listens to him. His vynil collection is basically a shrine to him.

So you ask "how much?", holding up the record.

The old man squints. "Fifteen."

Fifteen bucks. Okay, that’s... actually reasonable. Not so expensive that it seems like you care, but not so cheap that it looks like an afterthought.

Just a casual, "hey, saw this and thought of your weird vinyl collection" kind of gift.

Perfect.

"I'll take it," you say, already digging in your bag for your wallet.

The man slides the record into a paper sleeve, takes your money, and hands you your change with a nod.

Transaction complete. Gift acquired. Problem solved.

You tuck the record under your arm, feeling oddly satisfied despite yourself. It's just a record. Just a stupid birthday gift for your annoying roommate who thinks he knows everything about everyone, including your taste in men.

But as you weave through the crowd toward the food trucks, you can't help but wonder if he'll like it. If his face will do that thing—that brief, unguarded thing where his eyes light up before he remembers he's supposed to be all cool and detached.

Not that you care. You're just fulfilling a social obligation. That's all.

That's absolutely all.

"Did you actually buy something?" Yeji asks when you reach her, eyeing the record under your arm. "Since when are you into vinyl?"

"Just decoration. For the vinyl wall.”

Irya peers at it. "John Mayer? Isn't he like, your dad's music?"

"He's not that old," you find yourself saying, then immediately wonder why you're defending John fucking Mayer of all people. "And anyway, it was cheap."

"Whatever you say." Yeji shrugs, then holds up a small paper bag. "I got those earrings we saw last week. The ones that look like little daggers."

"Nice," you nod, grateful for the subject change. "I'm starving. Can we get food now?"

As you follow them toward the food trucks, you resist the urge to check the record again, to make sure it's not too scratched or damaged. It doesn't matter. It's just a record. Just a gift.

Just something to cross off your to-do list before Emma's birthday tonight and Jungkook's surprise dinner tomorrow.

Nearing the trucks, suddenly everything smells good. Too good. The kind of good that makes decision-making a fucking nightmare.

You slow your steps, scanning the options.

One truck’s got sizzling skewers of grilled meat, charred at the edges, dripping onto soft pita. Another is doing fresh arepas, the scent of melted cheese thick and indulgent in the air. A few feet away, some guy with tattooed knuckles and an unreasonably aggressive beanie is ladling out steaming bowls of Vietnamese pho.

And then there’s the birria taco stand—because of course there is—and the line is criminally long, people clutching Styrofoam trays of consommé like their lives depend on it.

Your stomach rumbles.

By the time you settle on something—one of those ridiculous but beautiful smash burgers, glossy brioche bun soaking up all that greasy, caramelized goodness—you barely get your wallet out before Yeji hip-checks you out of the way.

“I pay, I pay, I pay,” she announces, tapping her phone against the card reader with swift finality.

You blink. “Okay, what?”

Yeji grins, entirely too pleased with herself. “Well, I’m obviously paying for my beautiful girlfriend, and I kinda figured I’d put you in the package deal.”

You snort, giving her a shove. “Fine. But beers later on me.”

“Deal,” she says easily, tossing the receipt onto the counter like a Wall Street exec closing a million-dollar deal.

Irya latches onto your arm, steering you out of the way so Yeji can continue flirting with the guy behind the counter—some blue-haired, too-many-rings kind of guy who’s already leaning into it, smirking as Yeji compliments his “artistry” with the grill.

“She’s ridiculous,” you mutter.

Irya hums, but there’s amusement in her eyes as she grabs your food, balancing her own order on top of yours. “Just my type of ridiculous.”

You shake your head, leading the way toward a set of old picnic tables at the edge of the food truck lot. The wood is worn, graffiti-scratched and dented from years of use, but it’s clean enough. You drop into a seat, setting your tray down, and Irya follows, sliding in across from you.

She sets her elbow on the table, chin resting lightly in her palm, and smiles. A lock of blonde hair falls loose, catching the light, and she tucks it back behind her ear absently.

“So, Emma’s birthday tonight?”

You unwrap your burger, glancing up at her. “Yeah.”

She studies you for a second, eyes warm. “Excited?”

You hesitate.

“Yeah,” you say again, but it comes out different this time. Not untrue, exactly, but not as sure as it should be.

Irya notices. Tilts her head slightly, patient, the corners of her mouth tugging into something knowing.

“You don’t have to be.”

A breath of something close to laughter slips out of you.

“I mean, I am excited,” you say, because you are. “It’s just—it’s been a while. We used to be really close in high school, but then, you know… life.”

Irya nods, thumb idly tracing the grain of the table. “She’s in Columbia, right?”

“Yeah. I stayed in-state for a bit before moving here. Different cities, different schools, different everything.” You shrug, picking at the edge of the wax paper lining your tray. “We tried to keep in touch, but it’s not the same when you’re not living through the same things anymore. And then you just… don’t talk as much. And then that becomes normal.”

“And now?”

“Now she’s in the city, and I guess we’re both trying to reconnect.”

“That’s good,” Irya says, and she means it. “It’s nice when people want to find their way back to each other.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, glancing down at your food, pushing a fry through the puddle of ketchup on your tray. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

Irya watches you, quiet for a second. Then—

“She’s inviting a lot of people, right?”

You nod, grateful for the slight shift in direction. “Yeah. Told me to bring people, too, so I figured you and Yeji. Maybe Jimin.”

“Jimin would love that.” Irya grins. “He’s been in study-group hell all week. He deserves some fun.”

“You think?” You manage to say whilst chewing on the potato. “I thought I wouldn’t be doing him any favors. Like, he’s the type of person to say yes just out of obligation. And I didn’t want to pressure him into anything.”

Irya makes a soft sound of amusement, propping her chin in her palm. “Nah. If Jimin really didn’t want to go, he’d find a way to say no without actually saying no.”

You pause mid-chew. “What does that mean?”

“It means he’d do that thing where he apologizes like, three different ways in the same sentence, but somehow, you still walk away not totally sure if he said yes or no.”

You snort, swallowing. “Okay, yeah. That sounds about right.”

Irya grins, poking at her fries. “And anyway, he actually likes going out. He just overthinks it first.”

“You say that like you’re sure.”

“I am sure,” she says breezily. “I have classes with him. I watch it happen in real time.”

“Real time?”

“Oh, yeah. Like, someone invites him somewhere, and you can see him start to spiral. Like, ‘Okay, but what if I go and I regret it? But what if I don’t go and I regret that instead? But what if I go, but it’s not fun? But what if I don’t go, and it was fun, and now I’m missing out?’” She mimics his voice, exaggerated and tragic, and you can’t help but laugh.

“Okay, but that is a valid crisis.”

“It is,” Irya agrees, laughing too. “But the point is, once he actually gets there, he has a good time.” She levels you with a look, half teasing, half expectant. “So invite him.”

You sigh, reaching for another fry. “Fine.”

And then—

“I got us free dumplings.”

Yeji appears out of nowhere, sliding into the seat next to Irya and dropping a white takeout box onto the table like she’s just secured a goddamn business deal.

You blink. “How?”

She shrugs, already reaching for a dumpling. “Wouldn’t take my money.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

Irya hums, all faux-innocent. “Didn’t happen to have anything to do with that very long, very intimate conversation you were having with the guy behind the counter, did it?”

Yeji smirks around a bite of dumpling. “I dunno. Did it?”

You snort, shaking your head. “Men and their non-existent gaydars.”

“Right? Kinda sucks when she grabs all their attention,” Irya smiles, reaching for a dumpling of her own.

“Not my fault he was easy to entertain,” Yeji says, looking entirely unbothered. “Anyway, eat. They’re fresh.”

You don’t argue. The dumplings are good—warm, crisp at the edges, the filling rich with just the right balance of spice.

Yeji watches you for a second, chewing thoughtfully. “So what were we talking about?”

“Jimin,” Irya supplies.

Yeji groans. “Ugh. Tragic little academic. Is he still alive?”

Irya nods, popping a dumpling into her mouth. “Barely. But we’re dragging him to Emma’s party tonight, so he might actually remember what fun feels like.”

Yeji quirks an eyebrow, chewing slowly. “Emma?” She flicks a glance at you. “Your other friend? Birthday girl?”

You take a sip of your drink. “Mmhm.”

Yeji hums, tapping her chopsticks against the takeout box. “Bestie competition, then.”

You nearly choke. “Oh my god.”

Irya grins, delighted. “It is kind of serious. High school bestie versus new college besties.”

Yeji tilts her head, considering. “I don’t know, man. Legacy friends have an unfair advantage. History. Nostalgia.”

“Yeah,” Irya sighs, fake mournful. “How can we ever compete with the memories?”

You level them both with a flat look. “You’ve known me for a month.”

Yeji leans back. “It’s been a whole month already? Woah.”

“We’re joking. I’m sure we’ll get along.” Irya adds.

You snort, shaking your head.

Yeji watches you for a second, still smirking, but then the expression shifts—just a little.

“Are you excited?”

The question catches you off guard. Not because it’s unexpected, but because it’s… genuine.

You pause, setting down your cup.

“Yeah,” you say, slower this time. “I mean, I haven’t seen her in a while, so it’ll be—nice. A little weird, maybe. But nice.”

Yeji nods. “You gonna introduce us?”

You blink. “Uh. Yeah?”

Irya arches her eyebrows. “Yeah?”

You groan. “Oh my god, what is that supposed to mean?”

Yeji shrugs, reaching for another dumpling. “I mean, if she’s bestie material, we gotta vet her.”

“Shouldn’t she be the one vetting you two? She’s known me since I had braces and a regrettable side bang phase. Feels like she’s got seniority here.”

Yeji gasps. “Wow. So you’re saying we have no authority in this situation?”

“We really don’t.” Irya muses, almost singsonging.

“I don’t know,” Yeji muses, tapping a finger against her chin. “I feel like we bring some very important qualifications to the table. For example, we met Y/N when she was already in her fully realized, evolved form. We didn’t just settle for her because we grew up in the same town.”

You roll your eyes. “Jesus.”

Yeji nods, completely serious. “Yeah, we got to make an informed choice. Handpicked, if you will.”

“Wow, lucky me.”

Irya grins. “So lucky.”

You shake your head, reaching for another fry. “Just… behave.”

“I always behave,” Yeji says, smirking. “You’re just afraid we’ll be better besties than Emma.”

You scoff. “That’s not even remotely the issue.”

“Then what is the issue?” Irya prompts, head tilting to the side.

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know, but because saying it out loud feels like giving it weight. Giving it power.

You exhale. “It’s just—there’s a difference between keeping in touch and actually knowing someone after years apart. And I guess I don’t know if we still… fit the way we used to.”

That quiets them for a beat.

Yeji tilts her head, watching you with something unreadable in her gaze. Irya rests her chin in her palm again, a small, knowing smile playing at her lips.

“That’s fair,” Irya says, voice softer this time. “It’s weird when people grow in different directions. Sometimes you come back together. Sometimes you don’t.”

You nod, not entirely trusting yourself to speak.

“But hey,” Yeji cuts in, voice as casual as ever, “if she sucks, at least you’ll have us.”

You huff a laugh. “So generous of you.”

She winks. “I know.”

And just like that, the weight on your chest feels a little lighter.

You stare at your reflection, one eye perfectly winged, the other a smudged disaster—like your life, really: half put together, half absolute chaos.

You lean closer to the mirror, squinting at your uneven eyeliner with the kind of intense focus that FBI agents would reserve for defusing bombs or something. You've been at this for twenty minutes now, and your right eye is starting to look like it's been drawn by a five-year-old with a crayon during an earthquake.

"Fuck," you mutter, reaching for a cotton swab.

Third time's the charm, right?

Or maybe fifth.

You've lost count.

From the living room, Griffin's thunderous purr competes with Yeji's animated voice. She's been trying to convince Yoongi to produce some track for her for the past fifteen minutes, her persistence almost admirable if it weren't so clearly futile. Yoongi's monotone responses barely register over the distance, but you can picture his expression—bored, unbothered, probably wanting to kill himself before engaging.

"Orange cats are literally the basic bitches of the cat world," Yeji declares loudly enough for you to hear. "Black cats have personality. They have depth. They're mysterious."

"Tell that to Griffin," Irya responds, her voice warm and amused. "He seems pretty content being basic on your lap right now."

"That's cats for you," Yeji sighs dramatically. "The least person who wants them is the one who gets them."

You smile despite your eyeliner frustration. Because it’s ironic—Yeji, who swears black cats are superior, is now trapped under Griffin's substantial orange weight.

That's karma, feline edition.

You’re wearing a dress to the gathering—the same one from that night in January. You've worn it exactly once since buying it, and now it's making its second appearance.

It's not like you planned it this way. It just happened to be the perfect outfit for Emma's birthday dinner.

(At least that's what you tell yourself as you deliberately avoid examining your motives too closely.)

Emma. Your high school friend. Your only real connection to your life before college.

Before this apartment.

Before Jungkook.

You haven't seen her in months (since that night in January), and there's a strange anxiety bubbling in your stomach that has nothing to do with your makeup struggles.

You did vibe back then. But… was it a ‘we vibe because we are going out’ situation; or was it because you two actually connected?

People change. You've changed. The question hanging in the air is whether you've changed in compatible ways.

At least you won't be alone tonight. Emma said you could bring friends, so naturally, you are bringing them along.

You dab at your eyeliner again, smudging it further. Great. Now you look like you've been punched. Or crying. Or both.

A soft knock on the door interrupts your silent self-criticism.

"Come in," you call, not bothering to hide your frustration. It's not like anyone in this apartment hasn't seen you in various states of disaster before.

The door creaks open, and Jimin's face appears in the gap, his expression shifting from curious to sympathetic as he takes in your makeup situation.

"Having trouble?" he asks, stepping into the small bathroom.

The space immediately feels warmer with him in it. Jimin has that effect—like a human comfort blanket.

"What gave it away?" you deadpan, gesturing to your face. "The fact that I look like I let a toddler do my makeup, or the fact that I've been in here for half an hour?"

He laughs softly, the sound gentle and reassuring. "It's not that bad."

"Liar."

"Okay, it's a little uneven," he admits, moving closer to examine your handiwork. His eyes narrow slightly as he studies your face with unexpected intensity. "Let me."

Before you can respond, he's taking the eyeliner from your hand, his fingers brushing against yours in a brief moment of warmth.

"You know how to do this?" you ask, surprised.

"I have sisters," he says simply, which doesn't really answer your question, but you don't push it. "Close your eye," he instructs, his voice soft but confident.

You comply, feeling the gentle pressure of his hand steadying your face. His touch is light, precise—and you can’t help but feel this is some sort of significant moment.

"Stay still," he murmurs, and you can sense the smile forming on his lips.

The eyeliner glides across your lid with surprising smoothness. One stroke, then another. No hesitation in his movement. You're impressed and a little confused by his skill, but mostly grateful.

"Where did you learn to—"

"Shh," he interrupts. "No talking or I'll mess up."

You fall silent, letting him work. There's something about Jimin that's always made you curious. He's like a book with half the pages glued together—what you can read is beautiful, but you sense there's more to the story.

"Done," he announces after a moment, stepping back to admire his work. "Take a look."

You turn to the mirror and blink in surprise. The wing is perfect—sharp enough to kill a man, as Yeji herself would say. It matches the other eye exactly, creating a symmetry you couldn't achieve on your own.

"Jimin, this is..." you trail off, turning to face him. "How are you so good at this?"

He shrugs, a small, almost shy grin playing at his lips. "I just have a steady hand, I guess."

There's more to it than that—you can tell by the way he avoids your eyes, the slight flush creeping up his neck. But something tells you not to press further.

Everyone has their secrets.

Private pieces they're not ready to share.

You, of all people, know that.

"Well, whatever the reason, thank you," you say sincerely. "You just saved me from looking like a hot mess at Emma's birthday."

"Happy to help," he replies, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "You look beautiful."

The compliment is simple, genuine, without the weight of expectation or desire that usually accompanies such words from men.

It's refreshing. Because you feel like Jimin sees you—really sees you—without wanting anything in return.

"We should probably get going soon," he says, glancing at his watch. "Yeji's been threatening to leave without us for the past ten minutes."

"As if she would," you scoff, reaching for your lipstick. "She's too excited about meeting Emma and judging her worthiness."

Jimin laughs. "True. Though I think she's more excited about the free food."

"Priorities," you agree with a smile.

You apply your lipstick—a muted berry shade that complements your eyeshadow without being too dramatic. The final touch to your appearance. Not too casual, not too glamorous. Perfect for a birthday dinner.

You've always loved makeup, the ritual of it, the transformation.

Not because you're trying to hide or become someone else, but because it's an extension of yourself—another form of expression.

You're so tired of those cliché "not like other girls" characters in movies and books who supposedly wear nothing but mascara yet somehow have flawless skin and perfect brows.

As if enjoying makeup somehow makes you shallow or less authentic.

The truth is, most girls you know love makeup to some degree. Some for the artistry, some for the confidence boost, some just because it's fun. And you're no different.

That doesn't make you basic or vain—it makes you human.

A human who happens to enjoy the satisfying swipe of a good lipstick.

"Ready?" Jimin asks, holding the door open for you.

You take one last look at your reflection. The girl staring back looks put together, confident.

Whether she actually feels that way is another story entirely, but hey—fake it till you make it, right?

"Ready," you confirm.

You're halfway out the door when you pause.

Something's missing. The final touch.

"Oh, wait. Cologne."

Jimin nods understandingly, already retreating toward the living room. "Don't take too long or Yeji might actually follow through on her threats this time."

You turn back to the bathroom counter, sliding open the narrow drawer where your collection lives. Four different bottles stare back at you, each with its own personality, its own statement. Your fingers hover over them, indecisive, until they land on one particular bottle.

Amber, its color.

The golden liquid catches the bathroom light, glowing like trapped sunlight inside the crystal bottle.

You haven't used it since... well, since that night in January. You've been saving it for special occasions, though what constitutes "special" has remained conveniently undefined.

You lift the bottle, turning it in your hand. You apply it to your wrists, your neck, your ears. And before you can overthink it, you bring it to your nose, inhaling lightly.

Memories unfurl instantly, blooming in your mind like clouds puffing up in a winter sky. They tumble through your consciousness, overwhelming and vivid, making it hard to breathe—though you're not entirely sure you want to.

His hands on your hips, fingers pressing into your skin with just enough pressure to leave phantom marks that lingered for days afterward.

His slicked chin when he smiled up at you from between your thighs, all smug and proud for making you cum with his tongue.

His infuriating, satisfied smirk that somehow annoyed you, but also turned you on.

Rosy cheeks and disheveled hair, soft eyes in the aftermath.

You distinctly remember that was the first time you had thought Jungkook looked cute. Not just hot or sexy, but genuinely cute in a way that had caught you off guard.

And you didn't even know his name then.

The door swings open without warning.

You nearly drop the bottle, fumbling to catch it before it shatters against the tile floor. Your heart leaps into your throat as you look up, startled.

Jungkook peers inside, and you both freeze, staring at each other like you don’t know which one of you should stay and which one of you should leave. His eyes flick from your face to the bottle in your hand, recognition dawning in his expression.

A long pause.

Your eyes drift down his torso, inevitably.

He's wearing a black t-shirt that hugs his frame in all the right places, hair rumpled and messy. His rainy-like scent envelops the cramped space, mingling with the lingering notes of vanilla on your wrist like they’ve always belonged together.

His eyes drift too. Drop lower, taking in the dress hugging your curves, fingers tightening on the doorframe, knuckles whitening with the pressure.

You watch the subtle movement, the physical manifestation of restraint, and feel an answering tightness in your chest.

You haven't spoken since Tuesday. Since the fight about Jason. Since he suddenly starting talking about vibes like he’s the type of guy to trust his gut.

And maybe he is.

And maybe you aren’t.

"Sorry," he says finally, breaking the silence. "Didn't know you were in here."

He avoids your gaze.

You don’t know if that makes you angry or anxious. It’s hard to determine what’s crippling your chest.

"It's fine. I was just leaving."

Neither of you moves.

His eyes drift to the cologne bottle again. Recognition, desire, frustration.

Then, he masks it.

But you caught it.

He remembers the fragrance.

And how could he not? When he constantly praised it that night, how it rested on your skin, how good it made you smell, how fucking good you tasted.

"Going somewhere?" he asks then, interrupting your conflicting thoughts.

"Emma's birthday dinner," you reply, voice tight.

He nods slowly, gaze returning to the dress. The dress from that night. The dress he peeled off you with those same hands now gripping the doorframe like it's the only thing keeping him anchored.

You should move. You should cap the cologne, put it away, walk past him and join your friends who are waiting. You should maintain the cold war you've established since your fight.

Instead, you find yourself asking, "Did you need something?"

He purses his lips. "Just needed to pee.”

"Right," you say. "I'll get out of your way."

You cap the cologne, and you just know his eyes are tracking your every motion. Because that’s Jungkook for you—when he’s focused on something, it’s obvious.

You move toward the door—toward him—and it’s like suddenly, the small bathroom feels impossibly smaller. Like there’s not enough space for both of you and all the unspoken words crowding the air.

You'll have to squeeze past him. There's no way to avoid it.

His grip on the doorframe tightens further, as if he's holding himself back. From what, you're not entirely sure. Touching you? Yelling at you? Both seem equally possible.

"Excuse me," you murmur.

He steps back marginally, not enough to clear the path completely.

Like he’s hesitating.

Like he doesn’t know whether he wants to move for real, or stay rooted in place.

“Jungkook,” you say, and his name feels strange on your tongue after days of not speaking it. “Move.”

“You smell like that night,” he settles for staying instead of moving, voice dropping lower, annoyed. “You know that, right? You’re going to smell exactly like you did when I had you against that wall.”

Your breath catches. Heat blooms across your chest, up your neck.

“That’s not—” you start, but the lie dies on your lips.

Because it is. Of course it is. You knew exactly what you were doing when you reached for that bottle.

You see his jaw work. His tongue peek against the inside of his cheek. His eyes lock into yours like he wants to say something else.

But he doesn’t.

“Have fun at your dinner,” is all he comes up with, stepping aside.

The movement feels like it costs him something.

You move past him. Take a deep breath, pushing thoughts of Jungkook aside.

Tonight isn’t about him. It’s about Emma, about reconnecting with a part of your life that existed before this apartment, before him.

But as you step into the living room, you can still feel the weight of his gaze on your back, can still smell the amber scent on your skin, can still hear his voice in your ear.

You know that, right? You’re going to smell exactly like you did when I had you against that wall.

And the worst part is, you don’t know why or how—but maybe that’s exactly what you wanted.

The restaurant is too loud, too crowded, too New York—but Emma’s hug is warm, and that makes up for it.

“Finally.” She squeezes you tight, like she’s trying to merge your atoms together. “You took forever.”

Yeji, behind you, snorts. “Blame her eyeliner existential crisis.”

Emma pulls back, eyebrows raised. “Oh? We still doing that?”

“We are always doing that,” you deadpan.

She laughs—her laugh. It’s the same as it was in high school, loud and full, like she actually enjoys things instead of just tolerating them. That hasn’t changed. Neither has the way she looks at you, eyes scanning your face, taking you in like she’s checking if you’re still the same person too.

The answer? You don’t know.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you guys,” she says, looping an arm through yours.

You let yourself be pulled in—into the restaurant, into her world, into the crowd of fifteen fucking people all squeezed around a too-small table in the back corner. She moves through the chaos easily, hand on your wrist, steering you like she used to when you were seventeen and invincible.

“This is Yeji, Irya, and Jimin,” you say as you go, pointing them out like exhibits in a museum.

Emma grins at them, all effortless charm. “Your uni friends. I’ve heard so much.”

Jimin, ever polite, smiles back. “All good things, I hope.”

Emma does not confirm or deny, which says enough.

There’s a blur of names you won’t remember—Emma’s friends, classmates, people who probably have their lives together in a way you do not. Someone pulls her into another conversation, and you hover awkwardly at the edge of the group, watching her slip back into a world that isn’t yours.

It’s strange.

You used to know everything about her. Every inside joke, every dream, every late-night insecurity whispered over FaceTime.

But now—now you’re an observer.

A guest.

Still, when she sits, she grabs your wrist again and tugs you down next to her.

“So,” she starts, picking up her glass—red wine, something deep and rich. “Are you finally admitting that I was right, or are we still in the denial phase?”

You blink, thrown. “About what?”

She gives you a look. “Do I have to spell it out?”

Your stomach knots.

Jungkook. She means Jungkook.

You exhale through your nose, reaching for your water instead. “We are so not doing this here.”

Emma grins, but she lets it go—for now.

Instead, she leans back. “God, I forgot how exhausting socializing is. I swear, law school is turning me into one of those people who can only function in coffee shops and libraries.”

You snort. “You were already that person in high school.”

“True,” she concedes, tilting her glass toward you. “But now it’s worse. Now I actually enjoy tax law. Like, genuinely. It’s fascinating.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I refuse to believe that.”

“Swear on my life,” she says, amused. “You should see me in my internship. I get excited about deductions. I have a favorite tax loophole.”

“That’s disgusting.”

Emma just grins. “Give it time. One day, you’ll come to me, desperate for tax advice, and I’ll be your only hope. And I will lord it over you.”

“You wish.”

“Oh, I know.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the way your lips twitch. It’s easy, falling into conversation with Emma. Easier than you thought it would be, considering how much has changed since high school.

“So, what’s the plan then?” you ask, nudging your knee against hers under the table. “You still set on Seattle after graduation?”

Emma hesitates. Not in a bad way—more like she’s holding onto something, waiting for the right moment.

“Actually,” she says, twirling the stem of her glass between her fingers. “I’ve been thinking about Europe.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Europe?”

“Yeah.” She leans forward slightly, eyes lighting up. “I did a summer program there—France, Italy, Greece, Spain. It was insane. I loved it. I don’t know, I just—” She exhales, shaking her head like she can’t quite put it into words. “Seattle was always the safe plan, you know? The practical one. But now? I keep thinking about the Mediterranean coast. The markets, the people. It feels like people there work to live, not live to work like they do here in America.”

You watch her carefully. Emma has always been a planner, a strategist. She doesn’t make decisions lightly.

And yet—she looks alive talking about this.

“So, what?” you ask. “You’re gonna become a tax attorney in Greece? Help rich expats avoid paying their fair share?”

Emma snorts. “God, no. If I go, I’d probably work with international firms, corporate law, maybe even consulting. It’s different over there, you know? Taxes, policies, loopholes—everything shifts depending on the country, the treaties in place.”

“You realize you sound even worse now, right?”

“Shut up,” she laughs. “At least I’m passionate about something.”

You hum, thoughtful. “So, Europe.”

“Maybe,” she says. “Nothing’s set in stone yet.”

But you can tell, just from the way she says it, that it’s more than a maybe.

It’s funny. The last time you saw her, she was talking about Seattle like it was inevitable. Now she’s talking about the Mediterranean coast with the kind of quiet certainty that makes you think she’s already half there.

People change.

You’ve changed.

And yet, it feels like nothing between you two has changed at all.

Emma eyes you for a long moment, then smirks.

“Your turn.”

You blink. “What?”

“You’ve barely told me anything about your life,” she says. “How’s English? Still planning on breaking the hearts of young, impressionable students as a professor?”

“First of all, no. That is not the plan. And second—”

“You can’t tell me you don’t look the part,” she teases. “The eyeliner? The whole vibe? You’d have students falling in love with you instantly.”

“I hate you.”

She grins. “I missed you too.”

You feel it, then—the warmth of familiarity, of friendship. It settles in your chest, light and unburdened, and for the first time in a while, you think:

This is nice.

Even with the changes, even with the time apart, even with the half-truths lingering at the back of your throat—this is still Emma.

“Come on,” Emma nudges your arm, eyes gleaming. “Let me introduce you to my favorite tax nerds.”

You groan, but let her pull you toward the other end of the table. “If I die of boredom, I’m haunting you.”

“They’re fun,” she insists, dodging between chairs and half-full wine glasses. “For tax people, anyway.”

The group is mid-conversation when you arrive—something about offshore accounts, corporate loopholes, and why the ultra-wealthy pay less in taxes than you probably spend on coffee each year. (Fascinating.) Chris and Max, two guys who both look like they were born wearing pressed button-ups, are deep in debate, hands gesturing, voices overlapping.

But the girl sitting across from you—Nina—just listens, quiet, observant.

She clocks you the moment you sit down. And you clock her right back.

Dark brown skin, black curls tucked behind one ear, a delicate gold necklace resting just above the collar of an oversized sweater. The sleeves are pushed up to reveal slender wrists, and she has the kind of presence that doesn’t need to fill space to be felt.

There’s something measured about her. Something thoughtful. Like she only speaks when there’s something worth saying.

She’s pretty.

Really pretty.

But it’s more than that. She’s composed in a way that makes you hyperaware of yourself—your posture, the way you’re holding your drink, the way she looks at you with a quiet, unreadable expression.

“Hi,” she says, voice smooth, accent lilting ever so slightly.

It’s just that—simple. Friendly. Maybe.

You clear your throat. “Hey.”

Emma gestures between you. “Nina, this is my friend from high school—the one I told you about?”

Nina hums like she remembers, tilting her head. “The one who thinks tax law is boring?”

You blink. “Emma told you that?”

“She warned me in advance,” Nina says, lips twitching. “Said you might try to stage an intervention.”

You shoot Emma a look, but she’s already sipping her wine, unbothered.

“Well,” you say, turning back to Nina, “I was going to be polite about it, but now I feel like I have a responsibility.”

That gets a small smile out of her. Just a slight curve of the lips, like she’s amused but won’t give you the satisfaction of knowing just how much.

You don’t know why that makes you want to push, just a little.

“So,” you continue, tilting your head, “what is it, then? The thing about tax law that actually doesn’t put you to sleep?”

Nina considers this. Takes a slow sip of her drink. And when she speaks, it’s not rushed—it’s careful.

“It’s not about the numbers,” she says, setting her glass down. “Not really. It’s about human nature. About how people behave when they think no one is watching. Governments set up incentives, and people react accordingly. It’s a game of strategy. A reflection of what a society actually values, not just what it claims to.”

You weren’t expecting that answer.

Your fingers tighten slightly around your glass. “So, what—you think taxes are, like, a moral compass?”

Nina shrugs. “Not a moral compass. But they show you what people are willing to bend the rules for. What they think is worth cheating for. And that’s… interesting, I think.”

You watch her, trying to get a read on her. She’s got this almost effortless kind of intrigue—the kind of person who could make anything sound poetic if she wanted to.

Emma groans. “Oh god, don’t encourage her. She’ll start talking about capital gains tax next.”

Nina lifts a brow. “It’s actually fascinating, if you—”

“Absolutely not,” Emma interrupts. “Nope. I refuse.”

You smirk. “I don’t know, Em. I kind of want to hear her out.”

Emma glares at you. “Do not encourage the tax philosophy.”

But Nina is looking at you again. Not in a dramatic way. Not in a way that screams I’m interested. But in a way that’s… present. Attentive. Like she actually finds this conversation worth having.

And maybe that means nothing.

Or maybe it does.

You’re not sure.

Which—God, why is this always harder with girls?

With guys, it’s obvious. But with girls—well. You think she’s enjoying this. But is she just enjoying it, or is there something else there? Is this just conversation, or is it something that, in hindsight, will feel like a moment?

You have no fucking idea.

The conversation shifts after that—Emma talks about her summer in Europe, Chris and Max start debating New York’s best pizza, someone brings up an upcoming bar crawl.

And then, at some point, Nina glances at her phone before looking at you again.

“You mind if I get your number?” she asks.

Casual. Easy. Nothing in her tone suggests it’s anything more than that.

“Emma talks about you a lot,” she adds, mouth twitching slightly. “I feel like I should probably fact-check at least half of it.”

Emma swats at her, but you barely register it, already pulling your phone out.

You’re not reading into it. You’re not.

But also—

You kind of are.

Still, you hand your phone over, watch as Nina types in her number, then passes it back. Just a name in your contacts now. Simple. Unassuming.

You have no idea if you just made a new friend or if this is something else.

And honestly?

You kind of like not knowing.

“Well, well, well,” Yeji drawls, sliding into the conversation without invitation. “Are we allowed to sit, or is this a tax-exclusive gathering?”

You exhale. “Jesus, Yeji.”

“What? We were getting bored.” She drops into the seat beside you, tossing an arm over Irya’s chair. “Jimin’s been overanalyzing the condensation on his glass for the past fifteen minutes, and Irya’s just been smiling at people like a lost pageant contestant.”

“I was being friendly,” Irya corrects, unfazed.

“You were being too friendly.”

“Networking,” Irya insists, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I love people.”

“You do,” Emma says, delighted. “It’s terrifying.”

Irya beams, pleased. Yeji just sighs like she’s accepted her fate.

Nina watches all of this unfold with quiet amusement, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “You two are together?”

Yeji tilts her head. “That a problem?”

Nina meets her gaze evenly. “No. It’s nice.”

It’s a simple statement, but it rings genuine, like she’s not just saying it to be polite. Yeji studies her for a second longer before nodding, satisfied, and pulling Irya in to kiss her temple.

Emma turns to you, grinning. “Your friends are so much more fun than my law ones.”

You smirk. “That’s because they have souls.”

Chris, still lingering in the tax-law-heavy end of the table, lifts a hand in protest. “Hey.”

Yeji ignores him completely, waving to Nina instead. “So, you’re a tax philosopher?”

Nina looks faintly amused but nods. “That’s what they tell me.”

“Cool, cool,” Yeji muses, reaching for Irya’s wine and taking a sip before Irya can protest. “And do you also believe that money isn’t real?”

Nina tilts her head slightly, considering. “I think it’s real in the sense that it determines the way the world functions. But I also think it’s one of the biggest shared delusions humanity has ever committed to.”

Yeji brightens. “See? This is the tax conversation I want to be having.”

You roll your eyes, but Nina takes it in stride. She’s good at this, you notice—letting conversations unfold naturally, never forcing her presence but never fading into the background either.

Across from you, Jimin has settled into his usual quiet observation, sipping his drink slowly. He’s not uncomfortable, just taking it all in. He catches your eye at one point, a small look that says ‘you good?’

You nod, barely perceptible.

He doesn’t push. Just gives a small nod back and turns his attention back to the conversation. Just listening in.

Emma leans in slightly, nudging your arm. “I like them,” she murmurs.

You glance at her, raising a brow. “Yeah?”

She hums. “They make you lighter.”

It’s such an Emma thing to say—blunt in a way that doesn’t feel invasive, just observant.

You don’t respond right away, but you don’t need to.

She’s already grinning like she knows the answer.

The apartment is quiet when you finally get home, the only light coming from the TV screen where some game is paused.

Jungkook is sprawled on the couch, controller resting loosely in his hands, looking like he's been there for hours. He glances up when the door closes behind you, expression neutral.

"It's late," he says, not quite a question.

You drop your keys in the bowl by the door. "Yeah."

"Had fun?" He unpauses the game, thumbs moving lazily over the controller buttons. His character on screen walks aimlessly into a wall.

"Yeah," you say, kicking off your heels with a sigh of relief. "Emma's friends are cool. We ended up at this bar in Brooklyn after dinner."

He makes a noncommittal sound, still not looking at you.

"Jason wasn't there, though, so don't worry," you add, unable to help yourself.

That gets his attention. His thumbs still, and he scoffs, a short, sharp sound in the quiet apartment.

“You know I don't give a fuck about that guy, right?"

"Really?" You raise an eyebrow, heading to the kitchen for water. "Because you seemed to have very strong opinions about him on Tuesday."

The controller drops onto the couch as he turns to face you fully.

“Look," he says, voice tight with frustration. "I don't give a fuck who you fuck or who you date. Seriously. Not my business."

"Yup. Three rules," you start, unscrewing the cap on your water bottle.

"One, no one knows," he recites, cutting you off.

"Two, if somebody asks, we're just roommates," you continue.

"And three," he interrupts again, more forcefully, "no feelings. I know the fucking rules, Phoenix. I helped make them."

You take a long drink of water, studying him over the bottle. His hair is messy in a stupid endearing way, and there are shadows under his eyes.

"So what was Tuesday about, then?" you ask finally.

He exhales slowly, jaw working. "I told you. The guy gives me bad vibes."

"Bad vibes," you repeat flatly.

"Yeah. Bad fucking vibes." He rubs a hand over his face. "Look, I know how it sounded, okay? But it's not—" He stops, frustrated. "It's not about you. Or us. Or whatever the fuck we're doing."

You consider him for a moment, then set your water bottle down and cross to the couch, sitting on the opposite end.

"Explain."

"What?"

"Explain these 'bad vibes.' Because from where I was sitting, it sounded irrational."

"It's not—" He stops again, shaking his head. "You know what? Forget it. Not my problem."

"Jungkook."

He looks at you, surprised by the use of his actual name.

"I'm trying to understand," you say, softer than you intended. "So explain it to me."

He studies you for a long moment, like he's trying to decide if you're serious.

Finally, he sighs. "He's fake."

"Fake how?"

"The way he talks. The way he looks at you when you're not watching. The way he touched your arm in the car." His words come faster now. "The way he asked about your schedule, your classes. The way he positioned himself between us. It's all... calculated."

You frown. "That's a lot to read into a few interactions."

"I know what I saw," he insists. "Guys like that... they start small. Compliments. Attention. Making you feel special. Then it's suggestions about what you should wear. Who you should hang out with. What classes you should take."

His tone is raw, really raw, and you realize it’s the first time you’ve heard him talk like this.

Like it’s personal.

“You're saying he's controlling."

"I'm saying he could be." He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up further. "Look, I've seen it before, okay? People who seem perfect on the surface but underneath they're just... manipulative. They make you think everything's your idea when really they're pulling all the strings."

You're quiet for a moment, processing.

"This isn't just about Jason, is it?"

His eyes flick to yours, then away.

"I told you. It's not about you or us."

"But it is about someone."

He doesn't answer, but his silence is confirmation enough.

"Mia?" you ask softly.

"I don't want to talk about her."

"Okay," you say, respecting the boundary even as curiosity burns through you. "But that's why you're worried about Jason? Because he reminds you of her?"

"Not of her specifically," he says after a pause. "Just... the type. The signs."

You pull your legs up onto the couch, turning to face him fully. "What signs?"

He looks at you for a long moment, like he's deciding how much to share.

"The perfect act," he says finally. "The way everything seems rehearsed. The charm that never quite reaches their eyes." His voice drops lower. "The way they make you feel like you're the only person in the room, but it's not because they care about you. It's because they want something from you."

"And you think that's Jason?"

"I don't know," he admits. "Maybe I'm seeing things that aren't there. But my gut says something's off with him."

You consider this. "Your gut's been wrong before."

A bitter smile twists his lips. "Yeah. More than once."

Silence stretches between you, but it’s not the uncomfortable kind. It’s like you’re both still processing the words exchanged.

"I'm still going on the date," you say finally.

He nods, looking away. "I know."

"But I'll... keep what you said in mind. Watch for the signs."

He glances back at you, surprise flickering across his face.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You shrug, trying to keep it casual. "Contrary to what you might think, I don't actually enjoy being manipulated."

"Could've fooled me," he mutters, but there's no real heat behind it.

You kick his thigh lightly with your foot. "Asshole."

The corner of his mouth twitches upward. "Brat."

Silence again. His forearms are resting on his knees, hands crossed together as his gaze remains unfocused.

"So," he says eventually, "how was the birthday girl?"

You're surprised by the question, by his apparent interest in your life outside this apartment.

"Good," you say. "Different, but good. She's in Economics. Has a serious boyfriend. Wears a lot of beige."

"Sounds thrilling."

You laugh despite yourself. "It was actually nice. Weird, but nice. Like visiting a place you used to live but don't anymore."

He nods, understanding in his eyes. "Did your new friends play nice with your old friend?"

"Yeji, Irya and Jimin?" You smile at the memory. "They were on their best behavior. Well, Yeji's version of best behavior, which means she only made three inappropriate jokes and only drank half the table's wine."

He snorts. "Sounds about right."

"Emma liked them, though. I think." You pause, considering. "It's strange, bringing different parts of your life together."

"I bet it is," he agrees quietly.

You look at him, really look at him, sitting there in the dim light of the TV. For once, there's no smirk on his face, no challenge in his eyes. Just Jungkook, tired and rumpled and unexpectedly honest.

"Why were you still up?" you ask suddenly.

The question catches him off guard. "What?"

"It's 3 AM. Why are you still awake?"

He shrugs, defensive again. "Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd play for a bit."

You glance at the TV screen where his character has been standing in the same spot for the past ten minutes.

"Right."

"What?" he demands.

"Nothing," you say, but you can't help the small smile that forms. "Just... nothing."

He narrows his eyes at you, but doesn't press.

"I should get to bed," you say, standing up. "It's late."

He nods, picking up the controller again. "Yeah."

You're halfway to your room when his voice stops you.

"Phoenix?"

You turn back. "Yeah?"

He’s staring at you, but it’s not the usual smirk. No.

His eyes flick downward. To the floor, like he’s seriously considering his next words—or rather, if he should vocalize them at all.

But then he looks up at you again, seemingly decided.

"You..." he starts, licking his lips like he’s trying to pull himself together. But he’s failing. "You know you smell fucking delicious, right? Like, it’s so fucking unfair."

Your pulse stutters. "Excuse me?"

"The cologne," he says, standing up. "You’ve been driving me insane the whole night. The whole apartment smells like you.”

You blink at him, caught somewhere between disbelief and something hotter, heavier. "I didn’t wear it for you."

"No?” His lips twitch, almost a smile but not quite—like he knows exactly how full of shit you are. "The cologne from that night. The dress from that night. And I’m supposed to believe that’s just a coincidence?"

"It is," you snap back, defensive even as your pulse betrays you by speeding up.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head like he can’t believe what he’s hearing—or maybe just like he can’t believe you.

“Fuck, Phoenix," he mutters, voice dropping into something rougher, more dangerous. "Do you have any idea how good you smell? How much I’ve been thinking about getting my mouth on you again?"

Your breath catches somewhere in your throat—an audible hitch that makes his eyes darken further.

"We’re fighting," you remind him weakly.

"Are we?" He steps closer, until there’s barely a whisper of space between you. "Because right now all I can think about is how wet you were for me the first time I smelled that shit on your skin."

You retreat physically; even though mentally you’re honestly already naked for him.

"Four days," he muses, tone dripping with frustration, almost needy. "Four days of smelling your shampoo in the bathroom, that stupid body lotion, and now—now you pull this shit. That’s fucking cruel, Nix.”

"You could’ve apologized," you point out dryly.

"For what?" He scoffs like the idea itself is offensive. "For telling the truth? For saying Jason gives me bad vibes?"

"There it is again," you say, crossing your arms over your chest like it’ll protect you from whatever energy he’s radiating right now.

It doesn’t.

He exhales softly, eyes flicking to your lips before moving back up.

“I’m being for real, Phoenix. Your vanilla shit drives me nuts,” he confesses bluntly.

Then llicks his lips, considering what he’s about to say

But says it anyways.

“I jerked off after you left.”

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for air.

"Couldn’t help it," he continues. “The smell of your cologne... seeing you in that dress again... I couldn’t get the image out of my head."

"What image?"

"The first time," he says slowly, like he wants every word to sink into your skin and stay there forever. "In that room. The way you tasted... the sounds you made when I had my tongue inside you."

Your legs threaten mutiny.

"And now?" You force yourself to ask because silence feels dangerous—like it might give him permission to keep going without restraint.

"Now?" He repeats, almost hushed. "Now, I’m… really craving vanilla.”

You should walk away—should turn around and retreat into your room where things are safe and quiet and not vibrating with tension so thick it feels alive—but instead?

Instead, your feet betray you by staying planted firmly in place: "Eat some cookies.”

“I want to eat something else.”

“What if I don’t want you to?”

He purses his lips. Tongue drops to lick the lower one. Gaze flickers to your mouth again before they come back to your pupils.

“You don’t?”

And the way he exhales it, like the mere idea of you saying no pains him—it melts through you.

Especially when his hand finally finds its way to your waist (warm and solid and grounding despite everything else about this moment feeling anything but grounded).

All thoughts of resistance evaporate faster than they came.

"I do," you hear yourself reply.

And when his lips brush against the sensitive skin just below your jawline?

You realize two things simultaneously:

One: You were never going to walk away from this moment no matter how much logic tried to intervene earlier.

Two: Logic doesn’t stand a chance against lust when Jungkook looks at you like this.

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miedei · 2 months ago

Text

plots and plans

the team's gotten to know spencer's gf very well... but now there's a new face in the bau (aka emily gets initiated into the team... by meeting mystery girl!)

a/n: this fic took an ungodly amount of time its been in my drafts for months but <333 mystery girl <333 (this is fr just a bau team fic at this point)

(look at '#mystery girl!au' on my blog to see more musings about them <3)

cw: alcohol consumption, reader referred to as a woman, reader is around spencer’s age in s1/s2 (23-24), the team plotting, use of y/n eugghhhhh

wc: 3.4k

part one | part two | mlist

(reblogs are the only way to promote fics on tumblr! please reblog if you enjoyed it :) )

SSA Emily Prentiss is perfectly wonderful. Garcia thinks so, and so does Morgan. Sure, they miss Elle, and they miss working with her, but leaving the BAU was something she’d needed. Besides, Penelope wasn’t letting Elle out of the team’s outings anyway.

So, the two of them really have nothing against Prentiss. She’s kind, good at her job, and fits into the dynamic of the team well. However, at the end of her third case with the team, something of interest happens that makes them start to plot against her. Lovingly.

Morgan’s on the phone with Garcia, letting her know that the unsub was in custody, when Emily comes up to him, tapping his shoulder. Without hanging up, he draws the phone away from his ear, turning to her questioningly.

“Morgan. Can I ask you something? About Reid?” At his sound of agreement, she plows on.

“Does he… He’s so young. Do you think he’s had the social experiences he needs?” She shakes her head slowly. “He’s so sweet that it makes me worry. I mean, a kid going to university at 14, that’s got to make you miss out on a lot of things, right?” She gestures to Spencer, and Morgan turns to see him.

Spencer is fiending off the officers mobbing him with thanks and congratulations for his breakthrough on the case. A smile creeps up on Morgan’s face, watching him fiddle with his hands and bow his head nervously, trying to find a way out of the group.

“I mean, yeah, Reid’s a little clueless in some ways, but I don’t think it really affects him too much. He’s learned to adapt quickly.”

Emily frowns, still looking at Spencer. “I feel like there are things everyone deserves to experience, you know? He hasn’t been able to do so many things because he’s achieved so much. I mean, he’s never even dated someone, has he? Did you see the way he handled that witness?”

Morgan bites back the urge to laugh uncontrollably. Earlier in the case, Spencer was interrogating a witness, Morgan, Emily and Gideon watching through the one-way mirror. He recalls the way the woman grabbed hold of Spencer’s patterned tie, twisting the fabric in her fingers with a sly smile. Spencer, the sweetheart he is, had recognised the flirting, but did his best not to mention it, pulling his tie out of her grip multiple times as he stuttered through his questions, until Gideon came in to save him.

Morgan recognised that for what it was, Spencer’s incredulity that anyone other than you, the person he’s so obsessed with, would ever try something with him.

But Emily, poor, sweet, Emily, had assumed the same thing the rest of the team had, years ago. That Spencer was nothing more than an inexperienced nervous wreck, that had never even kissed a girl. Morgan shamefully remembers the time he’d been proven wrong of this same assumption.

Emily’s face is so earnest, that Morgan almost doesn’t want to pop the bubble, disturb her impression of Reid. Instead, he just pats her shoulder with the hand not holding his phone.

“Trust me, Prentiss. Reid’s missed a few things, but he’s fine.”

Walking away from her, he remembers that he didn’t hang up the phone, bringing it up to his ear to hear Garcia speaking rapidly, clearly having heard his exchange with Emily.

“-and she doesn’t know! Oh my god, you hunk, wouldn’t that be so good? She’d experience what we did back then and-” Morgan cuts her off.

“Babygirl, what? I didn’t catch that first bit, who’s going to experience what?”

Garcia takes a deep breath, and Morgan can picture her smile. “Okay, I know you're always thinking, ‘what is the wonderful thing about having the most beautiful and brilliant woman you’ve ever seen in your life?’, and, sweetheart I’ll tell you. It’s that I have a wonderful, wonderful brain, and I have a plan we have to set in motion.”

Derek sighs, but he knows he’s all in before she even says the word. “Alright, princess. Hit me with it.”

Garcia insists that the plan must be unfolded in three stages. Three stages, in order to make sure that Emily’s introduction to you will be just as bewildering as it was to them.

Stage 1: Confirmation.

Emily’s assumption of Spencer’s inexperience had to be nurtured, demonstrated to her, to lull her into a false sense of security, the way the team had for far too long.

Morgan and Garcia begin just one week after the case, a paperwork day where the team is confined to the bullpen for hours. Emily is sat at her desk, across the aisle from Morgan’s, when Garcia walks by, a phony excuse for her presence spilling out of her mouth.

“Just got to drop these files off to Gideon!” She speaks too loudly, to no one in particular, and Morgan groans internally at her unsubtlety. Emily quirks an eyebrow at him, but he doesn’t say anything, even when Garcia taps her nose in a very exaggerated manner.

No time to cover up for her, Morgan’s got work to do, and a time limit to boot.

“So, Prentiss. You’ve had three cases here so far, you’ve gotten to know the team. I wanna know, what are your impressions of all of us?” Emily narrows her eyes at him, but swivels her chair so she’s facing him. Bingo.

He grins as she leans forward, speaking lightly. “My impressions? What, you want me to profile you guys?”

He holds up a finger. “Ah ah ah. I’m a profiler too, don’t act like you haven’t been doing that to us since the day we met. Now, tell me. Why don’t you start with, say, Reid?” He winces internally, hearing the eagerness in his voice. Despite that, Emily replies readily.

“Well, I’m probably just going to tell you things you already know. He’s brilliant, insecure, anxious about not only himself but us, worries about his mother all the time. Socially unsure of himself, especially in non-professional settings.” As she speaks, Spencer walks into the bullpen from Gideon’s office, accompanied by Garcia, whose eyes are filled with poorly-contained mischief.

“...and, my good doctor, she was flirting with you! Didn’t you see the way she tried to give you coffee for free?” An expression of puzzlement flits across Spencer’s face, looking at Garcia as he grips the file in his hand.

“Garcia, why are we talking about this again? That happened weeks ago, and I still don’t think she was doing anything more than-” She cuts him off with a palm facing him, barreling forward with her rant, eyeing Prentiss blatantly as she speaks.

“You never think they’re doing anything more until they’re the ones gripping those little ties of yours. Spencer, you don’t think anyone is ever flirting with you!” Prentiss nods at Morgan, speaking under her breath with a smirk.

“Uncomfortable in non-professional settings, especially romantic ones.” She sits back in her desk chair, swivelling away as Garcia ushers Spencer to his desk, ignoring all of his questions.

Spencer sits with a huff, confused. He pulls out his phone surreptitiously.

SPENCE <3: They’re being weird. Again.

Garcia has filled JJ in, and she is ecstatic. She still remembers the horrifying embarrassment that she hadn’t realised something so huge about her best friend. It might be a little juvenile, but it will definitely bring her a little comfort if Emily, profiler extraordinaire, makes the same mistake.

It’s five days later, and they’ve moved onto the second phase of the plan.

Step 2: Doubt.

Garcia has decided that sowing seeds of confusion, the way the team had been confronted that one time at the bar, was the way to make sure Emily has the full experience of being one-upped by that infuriating man, according to her.

JJ’s role is the whisperer, making sure that Emily witnesses suspicious activity. She’s taking this immensely seriously, Garcia having impressed upon her the responsibility of this guise.

Walking past Spencer’s desk, she shoots a glance at Emily, confirming her distraction, before speaking into the room, “Everyone had a good day off yesterday? Spence, went to that exhibit at the Living Museum?”

A dreamy smile flashes over Spencer’s face, before he makes sure to school his features, allowing only a small grin to remain. “Um, yeah. We went to go see the aviary, they’ve got some new Southeast Asian birds in.” Yes. JJ resists the urge to smirk, but her hopes are quickly dashed when Spencer moves on without a word. “I think Gideon would really enjoy it actually, I’ve been meaning to…” She groans internally, tuning out of his meandering ramble about bird migration patterns. There’s no way Emily clocked that tiny ‘we’.

JJ isn’t one to give up easily, though. Any good plan requires patience, so she waits another day before attempting again.

The team is on the jet on the way to a case, and JJ is sitting strategically at the table with Emily, Derek, Spencer, and Garcia on the grainy laptop screen. Garcia’s hands fly around animatedly as she finishes describing the state of the case.

Hotch raises his head from the case file, proceeding to assign everyone preliminary tasks, when JJ nods at Garcia subtly, and watches as she begins to rush around her office in a whirl, finally snatching up her cell phone. It’s a wonder that no one else notices the rush of movement on the screen, leaving JJ holding her breath, hoping that Emily or Spencer don’t catch wind.

Finally, two minutes later, Garcia sits back down at her desk, feigning nonchalance.

“Yep! Okay, sounds like you guys all have it under control, so— I’m going to go, do my techy things in my techy room. Okay? Garcia out!”

The image of her disappears from the screen, and JJ grips her mug tightly, fearing that Garcia gave it away. Gideon chuckles, but other than that, it seems that everyone has written it off as a regular Garcia-ism. Thank god. Hotch continues his spiel.

A few seconds later, Spencer’s cell phone rings, the ringtone different from the one everyone is used to hearing when he’s called by one of the team members, but JJ recognizes the 8-bit rendition of Vivaldi’s Summer that you helped him set up for your number.

She can see Emily tilt her head from next to her, but JJ resists the urge to look up, keeping her eyes trained on the case file in her hands, and nodding along with Hotch’s words.

The sound of Spencer rustling around for his phone meets her ears, and the subtle sigh of happiness that he lets out when he sees the caller ID. The beep of him accepting the call and standing to walk to the kitchenette float through the cabin, and the whispered ‘excuse me’ when he walks into the curtained room.

JJ can almost hear the confusion radiating from Emily, knowing that the newer agent’s utterly baffled at the sight of Spencer missing out on the discussion currently happening.

She can only pat herself on the back for having maneuvered Emily into the seat closest to the kitchenette, too, because the way she stiffens when hearing Spencer’s saccharine-sweet voice say ‘hey, angel’ is just the cherry on top.

JJ whips out her cell phone, texting Garcia discreetly that the plan was a success, receiving a flurry of emojis in return. Unseen, Gideon looks over her shoulder.

In the kitchenette, Spencer furrows his brows, confused.

“Wait, Garcia told you I needed to talk?”

Your tinny voice flows through the phone and into his ear.

“Yeah! She texted and said you asked for me but wouldn’t call for some reason? I don’t know, it was strange. You know I don’t call you when you’re on a case, but I thought it was an emergency or something.”

He sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“I told you, they’re being weird! I asked Morgan what was going on and he just laughed.”

Your matching sigh rings out. “If they’re not going to tell you, I think there’s nothing to do but let it happen until it comes out. They always tell in the end, anyway.”

His shoulders slump in annoyance, but he begins to nod.

“I guess you’re right. It’s still annoying.”

The case wraps up four long days later, and the team pile into a booth at O’ Keefe’s all in similar states of sleep-deprived delirium. Spencer would much rather be at home right now, but Garcia was persuasive as usual, crooning on about how ‘your ladylove gets you every day, can’t you give us one evening?’.

Despite his love for the team, their increased strangeness hasn’t abated over the days they were working.

Even now, JJ, Derek and Penelope sit across from Spencer in the booth, huddled around each other and whispering behind cupped hands. Granted, they weren’t this obvious over the last few days, but their drinks have only weakened their resolve to not let Spencer and Emily in on whatever they’re doing, not broken it.

Making up his mind to ignore them, Spencer has resorted to leaning into the other end of the booth, chatting idly with Gideon, Hotch and Emily. Hotch is smilier than usual, three beers deep and showing them a seemingly endless amount of baby pictures of Jack from his wallet.

He can’t help but smile at the grainy photos of the chubby baby, grinning to himself at the memory of the last time he saw Jack.

He’d been leaving the office to meet you, and ran into Hotch and Haley in the elevator, stroller in tow. The image of you excitedly waving at little Jack, holding out your hand and letting him grip on to your index finger is burned into his brain. He’ll probably never forget it, eidetic memory or not.

The multiple drinks he’s had allow a lovestruck look to settle on his face as he half-listens to Hotch’s tales. They also make sure that he doesn’t notice the puzzled look that Emily flashes at him, same as the ones she’s been sneaking for days now.

However, no amount of drinks can let him ignore the strange way that Gideon is acting. The stately profiler is normally rather talkative on nights like these, subtly teasing the team or devolving into long tangents about an old far-fetched story.

Tonight, however, he’s silent, merely nodding along to Hotch’s words.

Spencer can’t help but be weirded out, especially when he catches Gideon looking over at him with an expression of repressed mirth, as if he knows something Spencer doesn’t. It’s slightly infuriating, the way it feels as though everyone is keeping things from him these days.

He knows it’s not exactly the smartest thing to do, but he offers to go to the bar for another round of drinks. If they’re going to be weird, he might as well have something to help tide him over.

You’re at home when Gideon calls, informing you that Spencer’s gotten more drunk than usual, and it’s probably a good idea that you come get him.

As you pull on your coat, you can hear Spencer ranting loudly about Rachmaninoff in the background, laughing to yourself when Gideon assures you that he’s fine.

(Curiously, you hear an unfamiliar voice question Gideon, ‘Who’re you calling?’ before he hangs up.)

Arriving at the dimly lit bar, you crane your neck to try and glimpse Spencer and his coworkers, coming up blank.

You’re just about to call Gideon again when a suspiciously swaying, lanky individual catches your eye. Sure enough, Spencer is standing by a wall, gripping a glass in both hands and staring into the middle distance, seemingly alone.

Pocketing your cell phone, you make your way over to him, feeling a familiar infatuated smile start to bloom on your face.

“Hey, handsome. You here alone?” He blinks rapidly before focusing on you, eyes widening dramatically.

“You’re here! How are you here, I thought-” He hiccups, the action causing his entire body to wobble, your hand shooting out to steady him.

“I thought you were at home!” He takes the hand you have on his waist, tugging you closer until he can drape himself against your side, tall frame hunched over you.

You have to giggle, widening your stance so you can support the two of you as you look around the bar, hoping to find any of his coworkers.

Unfortunately, you come up blank, assuming they're in the booths towards the back that you can’t see. Sighing, your hand comes up to rub at the nape of his neck, causing Spencer to sigh happily, bending even further so that his face is buried in your hair.

“Spence, where’s the team? We’ve gotta say goodbye before we go,” You murmur softly, feeling him relax further and further. His voice is higher than normal, muffled due to his refusing to raise his head from yours.

“I dunno, they’re sitting… somewhere, and Emily said she’d come find me after I came here. Did you know, she listens to Eric Carmen? I was telling her about the lawsuit Rachmaninoff’s estate filed against him, and…”

He must keep talking, you can feel the vibrations against the crown of your head, but he’s shifted his face to where his mouth is pressed against your scalp, taking with it any hope of understanding his words.

You’re waiting patiently for him to finish, when a dark-haired woman catches your eye. She stands a few feet away from you, peering at you curiously, as if trying to suss something out. Her face is obscured due to the shadowy lights, but she looks vaguely familiar.

Stopping your ministrations on Spencer’s neck, you entreat him to look up.

“Hey, do you know who that is?” He raises his head with a heaving sigh, as if it’s taking all his energy. He nods once, before returning his face to your hair, snatching your hand and placing it on the back of his neck again.

“Yeah, it’s Prentiss.” He falls silent after that, but at least he gave you something.

You’ve heard a lot about Emily Prentiss from him, although you haven’t had the chance to meet her yet. Waving her over, you smile brightly.

“Hi! You’re Emily?”

She walks over to you, expression wary, until she catches a proper glimpse of Spencer’s face, at least, what’s visible of it.

“Reid? It is you…” Her face is bewildered, confused, looking at you.

“Sorry, who are you?” You stick out the hand that Spencer isn’t holding hostage, shaking hers.

“Hi, I’m Y/N, his girlfriend. It’s really nice to meet you, I’ve heard great things from Spencer and the others.” She looks more stunned, if that’s possible, but stutters out a greeting.

It reminds you of the time you met the rest of the team, the way they’d stared incredulously at you when Spencer introduced you. Thinking back to Penelope’s multiple texts confirming that you weren’t coming tonight, it seems you’ve figured out why they’ve been acting weird.

You can’t help but smile pityingly at her, knowing how she’s feeling. Gesturing at the man clinging on to you, you give her an out from the conversation.

“I think I should be taking him home. Would you mind telling the rest where we went? I don’t want them to worry.”

She nods wordlessly, watching after you as you slowly lead Spencer out of the bar and into the night.

SSA Emily Prentiss is a profiler. A spy. She’s accustomed to learning everything there is to know about an individual within a few days of knowing them. It’s for these reasons that she stands, dumbstruck, in the middle of O’ Keefe’s.

Spencer Reid has a girlfriend. And she didn’t figure it out?

She resolves to go back through the profiling notes she’d taken in her time at the academy. Maybe twice.

Shuffling back to the booth, she’s stuck in her head, eyes wide and thoughts flickering at ten times their normal speed. It’s clearly noticeable, Derek looking concerned when she slides into her seat once more.

“Prentiss? Are you okay?”

She reaches out to snag her beer, turning the glass in her hand. Her voice is low, still confused as to how she missed it.

“Spencer’s girlfriend came to take him home.”

Her words incite identically incredulous squawks from JJ, Morgan and Garcia, all of them incensed.

“You met her? She wasn’t going to come tonight, we had a plan!” Penelope exclaims in frustration, looking around the table.

Gideon merely shrugs, his amused half-smile finally emerging.

“Plan took too long. Took it into my own hands.”

Morgan has to hold Penelope back from lunging at him.

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