#Construction Fire Testing | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kiszjuli · 1 month ago

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𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐓 𝐀𝐋𝐋 ──── [𝐋.𝐃𝐇] 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒

( 이동혁 ) ; 𝐟𝐞𝗺!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐥𝐞𝐞 𝐝𝗼𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐜𝐤

──── in which your parents had always told you to stay away from boys like haechan. boys with cocky smirks, black eye liner, bruised knuckles, and a reputation that came with warning labels. you never had a reason to listen until you were assigned to tutor him after school. it should have been simple. help him pass, get it over with. but there’s something about him that drew you in, and you didn’t want to pull away.

✦ drama, fluff/angst, slow burn(ish). forbidden love? ; tags. goodgirl!reader x badboy!haechan, suggestive, your parents are literal jerks, swearing, mentions of fighting, kissing !!, protective!haechan, corruption? but not really, lmk if i missed any ! ;

𓂃 w.c [ 15.3k / 22.7k ]

!! not proofread !!

▸ j.note ; i hadn’t planned on making this fic so long but emo haechan does something to me i guess. also pls pls give feedback i want to improve my writings in the best way possible and i know my writing needs a lot of work, so constructive criticism is encouraged.

▸ this is part one of two and part two can be found here .ᐟ

you had never been the type to chase trouble.

your life had always been structured, predictable, mapped out like a perfectly folded brochure of all the things you were supposed to be. the good daughter. the responsible student. the girl who never gave anyone a reason to worry.

your parents raised you with expectations as solid as the fence that surrounded your house. good grades, early curfews, polite smiles at dinners. you were the kind of girl who double-checked her answers before turning in a test, who texted home before she was even late, who never spoke back even when she wanted to.

it wasn’t that you minded. not really.

your life was safe—comfortable.

weekends were spent with the same close friends, at the same coffee shop on the corner, drinking the same latte every time and reviewing notes for exams that were still weeks away. after school, you went straight home, sometimes stopping by the bookstore if you had extra time, flipping through pages of novels where the main characters lived lives far more reckless than your own.

and you liked it that way. you liked knowing where you belonged, knowing exactly what came next.

because trouble was for other people. rule-breakers, risk-takers. the kind of people who never thought twice about consequences. people who didn’t care.

the kind of people like him. lee donghyuck—or as he preferred to be called, haechan.

lee donghyuck had always been a name whispered in the hallways, wrapped in either amusement or warning. he was the boy who skipped class but somehow still seemed to do well, the boy who wore silver rings on his fingers, black eyeliner and bruises on his knuckles, the boy who flirted with everyone but never let anyone close.

he was reckless in a way that made people watch him like a fire they couldn’t look away from.

and you? you were the girl who had spent her whole life avoiding flames.

—

science had always been your best subject.

there was something reassuring about it—formulas that always worked, reactions that could be predicted, rules that never changed. if you followed the steps, you got the right answer. it was logical. reliable.

but not everyone saw it that way.

from the back of the classroom, haechan let out a quiet sigh, loud enough that a few students glanced his way. he was slouched over his desk, barely pretending to take notes, the end of his pen tapping lazily against his open textbook.

“can anyone explain why increasing the concentration of reactants speeds up a chemical reaction?” the teacher asked.

your hand went up without hesitation.

“because a higher concentration means more particles in the same space,” you answered. “so there’s a greater chance of collisions between them.”

“correct,” your teacher said, nodding approvingly.

from the corner of your eye, you caught movement. haechan had lifted his head just enough to glance in your direction, his gaze slow and assessing. when you turned to meet it, he didn’t look away, but just studied you, the corner of his lips twitching like he was in on some joke you weren’t part of.

your teacher moved on, scribbling equations across the board, but haechan didn’t so much as pretend to care. he stretched, tipping his chair back onto two legs, hands folded lazily over his stomach, like he was just waiting for the bell to save him from all of this.

you turned back toward the front, exhaling through your nose. it annoyed you, yet you didn’t know why.

it didn’t matter, it had nothing to do with you.

he didn’t matter.

or at least, that’s what you had always thought until today.

—

you were halfway through packing your books when you heard your name.

“could you stay back for a moment,” your teacher said, just as the last bell rang.

you paused, glancing up as students shuffled past your desk, their conversations blending into white noise. you couldn’t think of a single reason you’d need to stay—your grades were perfect, your assignments were always on time, and you definitely didn’t cause any trouble.

but then the teacher said another name.

“donghyuck, you too.” you heard him correct the teacher of his name under his breath.

your fingers curled around the thick textbook you were shoving in your bag.

he was slouched at his desk, twirling a silver ring around his finger, eyes half-lidded like he hadn’t gotten enough sleep. it took him a second to react, but when he did, it was with an exaggerated sigh, dragging himself upright like even this was too much effort.

the classroom emptied around you until it was just the three of you, the weight of the silence settling in as the teacher folded her arms over her desk.

“haechan,” she started, “you’re failing. if you don’t pass your next exam, you’re going to have to repeat this class. and you know what that means.”

he leaned back on the closest desk to the teacher’s, completely unfazed, crossing his arms. “that i get the pleasure of spending another semester with you?”

your teacher didn’t so much as blink. “it means you will not graduate with your class. you need this credit.”

that got a reaction. his arms uncrossed as haechan’s smirk slipped, just slightly.

“which is why,” she continued, turning to you, “you’re going to tutor him.”

your mouth parted slightly. “wait—”

“you’re the top of this class,” she cut in, before you could protest. “if anyone can help him pass, it’s you.”

you swallowed. the request made sense—on paper. but logic didn’t stop the heat of his gaze as it flickered toward you, as he finally seemed to take you in.

slowly, he let his eyes drag up and down, taking his time.

your unwrinkled clothes. your neatly done hair. the way you clutched your bag like it was a lifeline.

his lips curled at the edges, something amused, something almost lazy, and yet, you felt it. the weight of being looked at like that.

“seriously?” he drawled, tilting his head, eyes still on you. “her?”

your spine straightened. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

he smiled like he’d already won. “nothing, sweetheart.”

your teacher exhaled sharply, already tired of him. “this isn’t optional. you’ll meet and study together, and if i hear that you’ve skipped even once, i will not hesitate to let you keep your failing grade. understood?”

haechan sighed, tipping his head back like this was the greatest inconvenience of his life. then, with the ghost of a smirk still tugging at his lips, he muttered, “yeah, yeah. whatever you say.”

you could already tell. this was going to be impossible.

—

you walk out of the classroom first, stepping a little harder than intended. this wasn’t how you planned to spend your semester. tutoring some guy who didn’t even try, who slouched in his seat like he was too good for all of it, who looked at you like you were something to be amused by.

the hallway was mostly empty now, students already heading home or to their next activities. you were almost free, when a voice called out behind you.

“so, tutor, when do we start?”

you didn’t stop walking. “the library. after school tomorrow.”

haechan caught up easily, his pace unhurried, like this was all some joke to him. “ugh, the library?” he groaned. “how predictable.”

you glanced at him, unimpressed. “where else are we supposed to study? a convenience store?”

“actually, yeah.” he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, shooting you a smirk. “sounds more fun. we could get snacks. maybe a drink. aren’t tutors supposed to motivate their students?”

you exhaled sharply. he’s messing with you. you knew it, and yet, somehow, he still got under your skin.

“you don’t need motivation,” you said flatly. “you just need to study.”

“eh, debatable,” he mused. “i think what i need is a tutor who’s a little more flexible. less ‘strict teacher,’ more ‘cute classmate who wants to help me succeed.’”

you stopped walking.

haechan took a few more steps before realizing you weren’t next to him anymore. he turned, an eyebrow raised, just as you crossed your arms.

“okay, let’s get something straight,” you said, voice firm. “this isn’t a favor. i don’t want to tutor you, but i have to. and i don’t care if you think it’s boring or predictable, because it’s either this or you fail. so if you actually want my help, show up tomorrow. on time. otherwise, don’t waste my time.”

for a second, he just looked at you, head tilted like he was reevaluating something.

then, instead of answering, he let his gaze drag over you, slowly, like he was seeing you for the first time.

you stiffened under the weight of it, but refused to look away.

after a beat, he grinned.

“damn,” he murmured, almost to himself. “you’ve got a little fire under all that perfection, huh?”

you huffed, turning on your heel. “just be there.”

“yes, ma’am.”

you ignored him.

but as you walked away, you could still feel his smirk and stare burning into your back.

—

you barely stepped through the front door before your mom called out from the kitchen.

“you’re home later than usual.”

you set your bag down by the entryway, slipping off your shoes. “the teacher kept me after class.”

that was enough to get both of your parents’ attention. your dad looked up from where he sat on the couch, while your mom leaned against the counter, a slight crease forming between her brows.

“for what?” she asked, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel.

you exhaled, already bracing yourself. “she assigned me to tutor someone. he’s failing, and she thinks I can help him pass.”

your dad hummed approvingly. “well, that’s nice of you. who is it?”

you hesitated for half a second.

“haechan.”

the shift in the room was immediate. your mom stilled, and your dad turned completely this time, exchanging a glance with her before turning back to you.

“him?” your mom repeated, her voice careful.

“yes, him.” you folded your arms. “why does it sound like you already know who he is?”

your dad sighed, setting the paper aside. “people talk, sweetheart. he’s got a reputation.”

you rolled your eyes. “so what? he slacks off in class?”

your mom pursed her lips. “it’s more than that. skipping school, getting into trouble, hanging around the wrong crowds…” she trailed off, shaking her head. “just—be careful around him, honey.”

there it was. the warning.

and, of course, the assumption that you couldn’t think for yourself.

you sighed, rubbing your temple. “i’m not hanging out with him. i’m tutoring him. in the library. with textbooks.” you glanced between them. “pretty sure that’s not a crime.”

your mom didn’t look convinced, and your dad only leaned back in his seat, his expression unreadable.

“just don’t let him pull you into anything,” he said. “kids like that don’t change.”

you bit the inside of your cheek, a flicker of irritation curling in your chest.

they made it sound like you were helpless. like the second you spent time with him, you’d suddenly throw your whole life away. everything you’ve built for yourself.

you shook your head. “it’s not that serious.”

and before either of them could say anything else, you grabbed your bag and headed for your room, shutting the door with a little more force than necessary.

they were overreacting.

they didn’t know him.

and neither did you.

—

session one - monday february 23rd

the school day dragged.

it wasn’t any different from usual; classes, notes, the occasional group discussion, but today, there was a lingering awareness hanging over you. a ticking clock in the back of your mind, counting down to the inevitable.

you weren’t looking forward to tutoring haechan. but you had a job to do, and if he didn’t show, well… that was his problem, not yours.

by the time the final bell rang, you had already secured a table in the library, setting out your textbook, notebook, and a few highlighters. everything was neatly arranged. you had a plan, a structured breakdown of the material he needed to catch up on.

and yet, fifteen minutes passed.

then twenty.

you checked your phone, tapping your pen against your notes.

was he seriously going to ditch on the first day?

finally, you heard footsteps approaching, and then a familiar voice, drawling, “damn. you’re really taking this seriously, huh?”

you glanced up to see haechan standing there, hands in his pockets, looking completely unfazed. like he hadn’t just wasted almost half an hour of your time.

you exhaled sharply. “you’re late.”

“fashionably,” he corrected, dropping into the chair across from you.

you leveled him with a stare. “i don’t think that applies to studying.”

he shrugged. “guess we’ll find out.”

already, your patience was wearing thin. you pushed the textbook toward him, flipping to the section you had marked. “let’s start with reaction rates. you need to understand how—”

he wasn’t listening.

instead of looking at the notes, he was looking at you, head tilted slightly, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“you always sit this straight?” he mused, tapping his pen against the table.

you blinked, looking up from the textbook. “what?”

“just saying. you’re sitting like you’re taking an exam or something.” he leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head. “relax. tutoring’s not life or death.”

you ignored the heat creeping up your neck and flipped open your notebook instead. “can we focus?”

he hummed, like he was considering it. then, before you could continue, he leaned forward slightly, eyeing your arrangement of highlighters and pens.

“bet you highlight in, like, five different colors.”

you clenched your jaw. four, actually, but you weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of being right.

when you didn’t respond, he grinned, undeterred. “does tutoring me ruin your whole ‘perfect student’ reputation?”

you inhaled slowly, gripping your pen a little tighter. “only if you fail,” you said flatly.

he let out a soft laugh, finally glancing at the textbook. “alright, alright. hit me with the science.”

you exhaled, pushing past your irritation. this was going to be a long session.

but one way or another, you were getting through to him.

—

the next hour closed and you left the library still irritated—but more at yourself than him.

why had your heartbeat picked up when he had leaned in? why had his teasing stuck in your head longer than necessary?

get a grip.

the school hallways were mostly empty by now, just a few stragglers grabbing things from their lockers or heading to practice. you stopped by your own locker, swapping out your books for what you needed, then headed outside.

the late afternoon air was crisp, the sky shifting into a soft orange glow. you walked home, already thinking about how you’d explain the session to your parents.

(you wouldn’t. you’d just tell them it happened and leave it at that.)

continuing your walk, barely making it past the school you hear a voice from behind you.

“yo, tutor.”

your head snapped up.

haechan. again.

he was leaning against a lamppost a few feet away, hands shoved in his pockets, the same knowing smirk playing at his lips.

“we should celebrate.”

you frowned. “celebrate what?”

“me actually getting an answer right, obviously.” he straightened, stretching his arms behind his head. “c’mon, don’t be boring. you never just—i don’t know—do something on a whim?”

you had remembered the question he got right—which was simply the question you had answered yesterday in class. you narrowed your eyes. “if this is your way of trying to get out of studying next time—”

“relax.” he chuckled. “just messing with you. see you at our very serious study session next time, tutor.”

and with that, he strolled off like he hadn’t just left you standing there, your thoughts an even bigger mess than before.

—

session two - wednesday the 25th

you told yourself you wouldn’t get annoyed this time. you even mentally prepared for his usual antics before heading to the library.

it didn’t work.

haechan was late again. this time only by ten minutes, but still. he strolled in with an iced coffee in one hand, a lazy grin on his face like he hadn’t kept you waiting.

“you get extra credit for showing up on time, you know.”

“damn, should’ve known,” he drawled, sliding into the seat across from you. “maybe next time.”

you sighed, pushing the textbook toward him. “no distractions today.”

“that’s asking a lot.”

“it’s not.”

to your surprise, he actually made an effort. at least at first. he followed along as you explained reaction mechanisms, even nodded a few times like he understood. but the second things got even slightly complicated, he leaned back and groaned.

“why do i even need this? it’s not like i’m gonna be a scientist.”

“you need it to pass.”

“passing is overrated.”

“says the guy who’s literally failing.”

he just grinned, spinning his ring around his finger. “touché, sunshine.”

the nickname caught you off guard, making your stomach flip in a way that was foreign to you. whether he noticed your shift or not, he continued to use the name anytime he talked to you.

progress was slow, but you managed to get through two topics before he started messing around again, twirling his pen, asking dumb hypothetical questions that had nothing to do with chemistry.

“if i fail, do you fail too? since you’re my tutor?”

“no.”

“damn. no stakes for you then, huh?”

“just the overwhelming frustration of having to deal with you.”

“you wound me.” he clutched his chest dramatically, then smirked. “you sure you’re not starting to like our little sessions, though?”

you rolled your eyes. “go home, haechan.”

he laughed as he stood up, giving you a lazy salute before walking off.

session three - friday the 27th

miraculously, haechan was on time. but that didn’t mean he behaved.

“don’t look so shocked, tutor.” he plopped into his usual seat. “i can be responsible when i wanna be.”

“so, you just choose not to be?”

“exactly.”

today, he actually put in a little more effort, asking questions instead of just guessing his way through answers. you started to think, maybe this tutoring thing wouldn’t be a total waste of time.

and then, halfway through, he got bored.

“okay, pop quiz,” he said, snapping his book shut. “if you had to get a tattoo, what would it be?”

you blinked. “we are not doing this.”

“come on, humor me.”

“fine,” you muttered, flipping through your notes. “something small. simple. maybe a quote.”

“predictable,” he teased. “what if i said i’d get your name tattooed?”

you shot him a deadpan look. “then i’d question all of your life choices.”

he laughed, drumming his fingers against the table. “nah, i’d get something cool. a dragon or something. or maybe—” he wiggled his brows. “a chemical equation, just for you.”

“how generous.”

“i try.”

somehow, even with the distractions, he managed to retain at least some of what you covered. as you packed up, he tapped his pen against the table.

“hey, sunshine.”

you glanced up, not missing his smirk at your responding to the name.

“don’t miss me too much over the weekend.”

“leave.”

he laughed all the way out the door.

session four - monday march 2nd

you were already exhausted from the start of the new week, and haechan wasn’t helping.

“mondays shouldn’t exist,” he grumbled, dropping into his chair.

while you agreed, you had to keep him focused. “you still have to study.”

“brutal.”

you launched straight into the material, ignoring his dramatic sighs and complaints about how unfair school was. surprisingly, he focused for a solid thirty minutes—until he caught you tapping your foot.

“you’re impatient today,” he observed, tilting his head.

“or maybe i just want you to actually learn something.”

“i am learning. look,” he pointed at an equation. “i even remember this one.”

you checked. he was right.

“wow,” you deadpanned. “you have a functioning brain after all.”

“careful, that almost sounded like a compliment.”

despite yourself, you bit back a smile.

the session ended with him actually completing the assigned questions, granted, after a lot of coaxing. as you packed up, he tapped the table again, just like last time.

“see you wednesday, sunshine.”

this time, you didn’t tell him to leave.

you did however, roll your eyes as he walked away, still grinning.

—

session five – wednesday the 4th

it was one of those days.

haechan was late—again. not by much, but enough to make you grit your teeth when he finally strolled in, a bag of chips in one hand, looking like he had nowhere better to be.

“don’t look at me like that, sunshine.” he smirked as he slid into his seat. “traffic was brutal.”

“you walk here.”

“damn. caught me.”

you inhaled sharply through your nose, pushing the worksheet toward him. “just start.”

he did. kind of.

five minutes in, he was tapping his pen against the table. ten minutes in, he was spinning his rings. fifteen minutes in, he was leaning back in his chair with a yawn.

“haechan,” you warned.

“hmm?”

“can you at least pretend to care?”

he grinned, resting his chin on his hand. “depends. does it bother you?”

you shook your head. “whatever.”

“relax, sunshine.” he tilted his head. “you’re cute when you’re annoyed.”

you ignored the way heat crept up your neck. “just answer the question.”

he glanced at it. “mm… ‘catalyst slows down a reaction.’”

you shut your eyes, inhaling deeply. “no. it speeds up a reaction—”

“eh, close enough.”

“no, it’s not—” you cut yourself off, exhaling sharply. “are you even trying?”

“nah.”

that was it.

“then why the hell are we even doing this?”

he blinked at you, momentarily caught off guard. but you were already pushing back your chair, stuffing your notes into your bag with sharp, deliberate movements.

“if you fail, that’s your problem. not mine.”

you didn’t wait for a response. just walked out, leaving him sitting there—still smirking, but something in his expression had shifted.

session seven – monday the 9th

the session was supposed to be like any other. you’d prepared the material, you had everything set up, and you were expecting the usual. you didn’t expect haechan to show up on time—or at least not to show up with an actual sense of purpose.

he slung his bag over the chair and slumped down. his usual cocky grin wasn’t there.

“what’s wrong with you?” you asked, surprised at how… serious he seemed.

he didn’t answer right away, instead just staring at the notes in front of him with furrowed brows.

“this is dumb,” he muttered under his breath.

you raised an eyebrow. “what’s dumb? the concept? the subject? or… you?”

he flicked his eyes to you, but there was no usual smirk, just irritation. “all of it.”

you frowned. “this isn’t the usual ‘i don’t care’ routine. what’s going on?”

he didn’t meet your eyes, instead flicking through the textbook like he was hoping to find a way out of this.

“i just don’t get it,” he said, voice tight.

you sat back, eyeing him carefully. you were so used to him breezing through everything, acting like he didn’t care, so this sudden frustration was… different. it threw you off.

“you’ve got this. we’ve gone over it before.”

“yeah, well, it’s not clicking today,” he shot back, rubbing his temples like he was battling a headache.

you leaned forward, speaking more gently than usual. “haechan, this stuff isn’t hard. you just have to stop shutting down every time it gets tough.”

he looked at you for a long moment, eyes soft but frustrated. he clearly didn’t want to admit that maybe, just maybe, you were right.

“i don’t shut down,” he muttered. “it’s just… everything else is easier. this? it feels like i’m failing at something i can’t even explain.”

you blinked, taken aback. haechan never let anything get to him, at least not this much.

“okay,” you said, shifting your tone to something a little more reassuring. “we can take it slow. i’ll help you through it.”

but even as you said it, you knew it wasn’t just about the chemistry. there was something deeper in his frustration—something he wasn’t saying.

he sat back in his chair, massaging his temples. “maybe i just don’t get it because i’m not supposed to. i’m not like you, sunshine.”

“no, you’re not,” you said softly. “but i know you can get it. you have to try.”

there was a long silence between you, and for the first time in a while, you realized that your usual teasing, quick comebacks wouldn’t fix this.

haechan’s eyes met yours for a fleeting second, something raw in them. then, he sighed.

“this is stupid,” he muttered, but there was a softness to his voice. “i’ll try.”

and for once, you believed him.

—

days later, sunday dinner was quiet, just the soft clinking of utensils against plates and the low hum of the tv in the background. your parents had been giving you a look all evening. the kind that meant they had something to say but were waiting for the right moment.

you didn’t have to wait long.

“so,” your mom started, too casually. “how’s tutoring going?”

you didn’t even glance up from your plate. “fine.”

“fine?” your dad echoed. “that’s it?”

you shrugged, poking at your food. “what else is there to say?”

your mom set down her fork. “is he at least putting in effort?”

you huffed. “define effort.”

they exchanged a glance, the kind that made you feel like a kid again, like they already knew exactly what was going on.

“we just want to make sure he’s not wasting your time,” your dad said. “if he’s not serious about learning, you don’t have to keep doing this.”

“he’s… getting better,” you admitted, though you weren’t sure if it was entirely true. he was trying, in his own way, but it was a slow process.

your mom still looked unconvinced. “just be careful, sweetheart.”

you frowned. “careful?”

“boys like him…” she hesitated, choosing her words. “they can be a distraction.”

“he’s not a distraction,” you said immediately, but the way she raised an eyebrow made your stomach twist.

and then— “you’re not getting a crush on him, are you?”

you nearly choked. “what? no. why would you even—?”

“because it happens,” your dad cut in, giving you a pointed look. “you spend enough time with someone, and next thing you know, you start making excuses for them.”

“i’m not making excuses.” you leaned back in your chair, suddenly desperate to get out of this conversation. “and i definitely don’t have a crush on him. it’s just tutoring. that’s it.”

they didn’t argue, but the look in their eyes said enough.

—

session ten – monday the 16th

you weren’t sure why your parents’ question was still echoing in your head. it was ridiculous, really. you didn’t have a crush on him. just because he was annoying, and cocky, and had that stupid smirk that made your stomach flip sometimes—no. not sometimes. never. it didn’t matter.

but still, as you walked into the library, setting your bag down at the usual table, you felt weirdly… off. distracted.

you pulled out your notes, trying to shake the thought, but haechan just had to say something.

“damn, sunshine. you look tense. bad day?”

you jumped slightly at his voice. he was standing next to you now, one hand gripping the chair as he spun it lazily before sitting down. he was late, as usual, but this time you hadn’t even noticed.

“fine,” you said quickly, focusing on your notes.

“you sure?” he tilted his head, leaning forward on the table. “you look like you’ve got something on your mind.”

you did. but there was no way in hell you were going to tell him what.

“it’s nothing,” you said, too quickly. “let’s just get started.”

but as the session went on, you found yourself more distracted than usual. every time he leaned in, every time he ran a hand through his hair, every time he smirked at something that wasn’t even funny, you thought of your parents’ voices in your head.

“you’re not getting a crush on him, are you?”

no. you weren’t. you refused to.

but then he tapped his pen against the table, glancing at you through his lashes. “you’re really off today, sunshine. what’s up?”

and maybe it was the way he said it, or maybe it was the fact that you hated how observant he could be, but you snapped.

“you. you’re up. why do you talk so much?”

he blinked, clearly not expecting that. then, he grinned. “because you like it.”

“i don’t.”

“liar.”

you groaned, running a hand down your face. this session was going to be impossible.

—

session twelve - friday the 20th

you had a feeling he wasn’t going to show up.

maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t texted all day—not that he ever really did, but usually, there was something. some offhand comment about how he was so tired or how he was mentally preparing for another “brutal” study session. but today? nothing.

still, you sat at the usual table, notes spread out, waiting.

and waiting.

until finally, you checked the time and realized it had been forty-five minutes.

you scoffed, shoving your notes back into your bag with more force than necessary. of course he wouldn’t show up. of course, he’d waste your time like this.

this was exactly why you didn’t like him.

not that you had to remind yourself. but things like this. his impulsiveness, his lack of reliability, the way he did whatever he wanted without considering anyone else, made it so much easier to not like him.

except, if that were really true, you wouldn’t be this pissed off.

you stormed out of the library, typing out a single text before shoving your phone deep into your pocket.

“seriously?”

no greeting. no unnecessary words. just that.

and when he didn’t respond, you told yourself you didn’t care.

even though, somehow, he was all you could think about for the rest of the night.

—

the weekend was quite eventful.

saturday -

you weren’t mad.

at least, that’s what you told yourself as you pulled out your laptop that morning, trying to focus on the essay you’d been putting off. it had nothing to do with him. nothing to do with the fact that he’d completely wasted your time yesterday. it wasn’t like you cared.

but when your phone lit up beside you, your heart jumped a little too fast. you grabbed it instinctively. only to see a notification from your bank about your spending this month.

you exhaled sharply, tossing your phone aside. see? you weren’t waiting for a text. because you weren’t expecting one. because you didn’t care.

still, you had to physically stop yourself from checking your messages every hour, and by the time the afternoon rolled around, you were in a terrible mood.

saturday night -

“so let me get this straight,” your friend, karina said, stirring her drink lazily. “he didn’t show up. didn’t text. and…now you’re mad about it.”

you scowled, leaning back in your chair. “i’m not mad.”

she raised an eyebrow. “you sure? cause you seem pretty mad.”

you crossed your arms. “i just don’t like when people waste my time. it’s inconsiderate.”

“right.” karina smirked, tilting her head. “but it’s weird, isn’t it? because you weren’t even this mad when you thought he wasn’t taking tutoring seriously. but now? now he misses one session, and suddenly, it’s a big deal?”

you scoffed, rolling your eyes. “that’s not the point.”

“mhm.” she sipped her drink, clearly unconvinced.

you refused to give her the satisfaction of a reaction, but as you stared down at your untouched food, a thought crept into your mind.

was she right?

sunday afternoon -

you spotted him before he saw you.

standing by the counter at the campus café, looking as unbothered as ever. hoodie slightly loose around his shoulders, rings glinting under the dim lighting as he scrolled through his phone.

he wasn’t avoiding you, then. because avoiding would at least mean he knew he did something wrong.

the irritation that had been simmering all weekend bubbled over. before you could think twice, you were already walking toward him.

“oh, hey, sunshine.” he glanced up as you stopped beside him, smiling like nothing had happened. “you look cute when you’re brooding.”

you didn’t waste time. “you didn’t show up.”

he shrugged, slipping his phone into his pocket. “yeah. something came up.”

“something came up?” your voice was sharper than intended, but you didn’t care. “you could’ve at least said something.”

he leaned against the counter, studying you with an amused tilt of his head. “why? you miss me?”

your fingers curled into fists at your sides. because he was doing this on purpose. pushing, testing, waiting to see how much you’d react. and you hated that it was working.

“you’re unbelievable.” the words came out in a breath, laced with frustration.

and then you turned on your heel and walked away before you could say anything else you’d regret.

but the worst part? the absolute worst part?

he was still in your head, and you didn’t know how to make it stop.

—

session thirteen - monday the 23rd

for the next two weeks, you and haechan had to change locations as club was having their meetings in the library. you moved to a classroom near the library.

monday’s session wasn’t a disaster. in fact, it was almost… normal.

he showed up—five minutes late, but that was practically on time for him. he didn’t ignore the notes you laid out, didn’t spend the whole time spinning his rings or making dumb comments. he even answered a few questions correctly, which honestly shocked you.

“so you do pay attention sometimes,” you muttered when he got one right.

“wow, sunshine.” he grinned, resting his chin on his hand. “say that again. maybe i’ll start believing you actually like having me around.”

you scoffed, underlining something in your notebook just to avoid looking at him. “don’t push it.”

he chuckled but didn’t push. and for the first time since this whole tutoring arrangement started, things actually felt… okay. he was still distracting, still teasing you every chance he got, still doing that infuriating thing where he leaned back in his chair like he had all the time in the world. but at least he was trying.

and that was enough.

for now.

later that week, things changed.

session fifteen- friday the 25th

you were still in one of the school’s empty classrooms, finishing up some notes for yourself. it was already late when you heard the classroom door creak open.

too late for a tutoring session. too late for him to be here at all.

you looked up, expecting a janitor, maybe a teacher. instead, you saw him.

“oh my god.” your breath caught when you finally glanced up. “what happened to you?”

he looked…rough. a split lip, a bruise already blooming on his cheekbone, dried blood crusted near his eyebrow. his knuckles were bruising and stained with a little blood, like he’d been swinging at something—or someone.

“nothin’.” his voice was quieter than usual, the usual cockiness dulled by exhaustion. “just a bad night.”

“bad night? you look like you got your ass kicked.” you frowned, already standing. “who—why—”

“doesn’t matter.” he waved a hand, like he wanted to brush it off, but even that small movement made him wince.

you sighed, shaking your head as you grabbed your bag. “stay here.”

he didn’t argue as you left, and when you came back a few minutes later, first aid kit in hand, he still hadn’t moved. just sat there, fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh, like he was waiting for the fight to start back up again.

but when you stood in front of him, tilting his face up slightly so you could dab at the cut on his lip, he stilled.

“you don’t have to do this,” he murmured.

“you don’t have to get into fights.”

he huffed a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it.

when you knelt beside him and took his hand in yours, he barely reacted, letting you clean the dried blood from his knuckles. his skin was warm under your touch, but you ignored that. just like you ignored the way his eyes were fixed on you, dark and unreadable.

for a while, there was only silence. the soft press of gauze against his skin, the quiet scrape of your nails as you brushed away the dried blood. and through it all, he just watched you.

like he didn’t understand why you cared.

“you’re not supposed to fix me, sunshine,” he said eventually, voice quieter than you’d ever heard it. “just tutor me.”

you didn’t look at his eyes. “maybe i just don’t want to watch you fall apart.”

his breath hitched slightly. and maybe you imagined it, but for the first time, the fight in his eyes flickered. just for a second.

he didn’t say anything else. but something shifted in that moment.

because later, when he went home, he touched the bandage you had carefully pressed onto his skin, fingers lingering there longer than necessary.

and even though he would never admit it. maybe not even to himself, that was the moment he started falling for you.

—

after that night, things feel different. you tell yourself they’re not, that nothing’s changed, that you’re just imagining the way your chest tightens when you catch him looking at you in the middle of a study session. but it’s there, lingering in the spaces between words, in the silence that lasts too long, in the way his teasing remarks don’t land the same way anymore.

the next session, he actually tries.

not in an obvious way—he’s still late, still sighs dramatically when you hand him a practice problem, still taps his pen against the table like he’s counting down the minutes until he can leave. but when you ask him a question, he answers. when he gets something wrong, he listens when you explain instead of brushing it off.

session sixteen - monday the 28th

“so, what, you’re suddenly serious about passing?” you ask, watching as he leans forward, elbows braced against the table.

he tilts his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. “maybe i just like seeing you all impressed when i get something right.”

you roll your eyes. “trust me, you’d have to try way harder for that to happen.”

but you don’t mean it. because when he mutters the right answer under his breath, brow furrowed like he’s actually thinking, something twists in your stomach. you shove the feeling down before it can take root.

—

then, he starts showing up.

not just to your tutoring sessions—those are still scheduled, still predictable, still something you can control—but to other places. places he shouldn’t be.

like when you’re sitting outside between classes, notebook open in your lap, the afternoon sun casting long shadows over the pavement.

“wow,” his voice cuts through the quiet, lazy and amused. “you really do study all the time, huh?”

you glance up, frowning as he drops into the seat across from you. “what are you doing here?”

he shrugs, peeling the label off his drink. “nowhere else to be.”

he stays. doesn’t do much—just picks at his rings, tosses casual comments your way, complains about the weather. at first, it’s just once. then it happens again. and again.

“you know you don’t have to sit here, right?” you say one day, not looking up from your laptop.

“i know.”

he doesn’t leave. and you don’t tell him to. maybe that’s your first mistake.

—

the evening air is crisp, biting at your skin as you step out of the library. you tug your jacket tighter around yourself, putting your earbuds in as you start down the quiet path leading off campus. most of the streetlights flicker on as it got darker.

you don’t hear him at first.

not until he falls into step beside you, hands stuffed into his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched.

“hey, sunshine.”

you nearly trip, ripping an earbud out as you whip your head to the side. “what the—why are you here?”

he doesn’t look at you, just keeps walking like this is the most natural thing in the world. “walking.” he motions in front of him.

“walking where?” you press, your suspicion growing.

he exhales, tilting his head toward the sky as if debating whether to answer. finally, he shrugs. “just making sure you get home okay.”

you slow your steps. something about the way he says it, like it’s just a fact, like it’s obvious, throws you off balance.

“i don’t need a bodyguard,” you mutter.

“yeah, i know.”

“so why—”

“just shut up and keep walking.”

the words should annoy you. they do annoy you. but something in his casual but firm tone, like he’s already decided he’s doing this whether you like it or not, leaves no room for argument. so you walk, stealing glances at him every so often, watching the way he shifts his weight, the way his fingers flex like he’s holding back something he’ll never say out loud.

“this isn’t a habit now, is it?” you ask after a few minutes.

“depends.”

“on what?”

“on whether or not i feel like doing it again.”

you roll your eyes but don’t push.

when you finally reach your place, you stop at the fence, hesitating. you should say goodnight. you should say thanks, maybe. but before you can decide, he’s already a few steps away, hands still buried in his pockets, gaze fixed ahead.

“see you later, sunshine.”

he doesn’t look back. doesn’t wait for a response.

but for some reason, you watch him walk away anyway.

—

you should be asleep.

but you’re not.

instead, you’re lying on your bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the walk home in your head like a movie you can’t turn off. like the flickering streetlights, the cold air, the steady sound of footsteps beside you—his footsteps—are all burned into your mind.

you shift onto your side, pulling your blanket up to your chin. it’s stupid. he didn’t do anything, didn’t say anything that should be lingering like this. all he did was show up. all he did was walk.

but still.

“just making sure you get home okay.”

he’d said it like it was nothing. like it wasn’t a thing.

but it was. wasn’t it?

you sigh, rolling onto your back again. your phone sits on your nightstand, screen dark, no notifications. not that you expected any. he’s not the kind of guy to text. but still, some stupid part of you wonders if he’s thinking about it, too.

not about you. just—about anything.

maybe he’s already asleep, completely unbothered, already moved on. maybe it meant nothing to him.

but then again—

“depends.”

“on what?”

“on whether or not i feel like doing it again.”

you close your eyes, exhaling slowly.

you don’t know what’s worse. the fact that he might actually do it again.

or the fact that you kind of want him to.

—

session nineteen - monday april 4th

you check the time again.

ten minutes late.

with an annoyed sigh, you tap your pen against the open notebook in front of you, debating whether to give up and leave. it’s not like he hasn’t done this before. showing up whenever he feels like it, acting like he’s doing you a favor by even bothering. but this time, it’s grating more than usual. maybe because things have been different lately—less antagonistic, more… whatever this weird tension is that neither of you have acknowledged.

and then, just as you’re about to slap your notebook shut, a chair scrapes against the floor.

“took you long enough,” you mutter without looking up.

“miss me?”

the smirk is there—you can hear it in his voice even before you meet his gaze. he leans back in his chair, stretching out like he has all the time in the world. no apology, no excuse. just him, always testing your patience.

you roll your eyes and push his notebook toward him. “just open your book.”

the session starts off okay, at first. he’s actually trying—not a lot, but enough. he answers a few questions, gets some right, listens when you explain the ones he gets wrong. but there’s something off about him today.

he’s restless. more than usual.

his fingers tap against the table, his rings clicking against each other in a way that makes your nerves buzz. he sighs every time you correct him, leans back so far in his chair that you’re convinced he’s seconds away from tipping over. but most of all, he’s not looking at you.

not in the usual way, at least. he usually stares—lazy, smug, like he’s waiting for you to snap. but today, it’s like he’s avoiding your gaze altogether. like he’s somewhere else.

“what is wrong with you today?” the words slip out before you can stop them.

haechan raises an eyebrow, finally meeting your eyes. “me? nothing. maybe you’re just extra grumpy today.”

you glare. “maybe i wouldn’t be if you were actually focused.”

he clicks his tongue, shutting his notebook with a dull thud. “yeah? and what if i don’t feel like it?”

your patience snaps. “then why are you even here, haechan?”

silence.

his expression shifts—just barely, but enough for you to see it. the way his jaw tightens, the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before he looks away.

and then he speaks so quiet, almost to himself.

“good question.”

your breath catches. because suddenly, it doesn’t feel like you’re talking about tutoring anymore.

neither of you speak after that.

the rest of the session is stiff, words clipped and movements sharp. when it ends, he doesn’t throw a smug remark over his shoulder, doesn’t tease you like he usually does. he just stands, slings his bag over his shoulder, and walks out without looking back.

you stay sitting there long after he’s gone, staring at the empty chair next to you.

heart pounding for reasons you don’t want to think about.

—

session twenty - wednesday the 6th

wednesday’s session is quieter than usual. it’s like there’s a wall between the two of you—still the same awkwardness, but with more… space.

haechan is more focused than before, but there’s a distance in the way he engages with the material. no smart comments, no teasing, just a steady silence as he works through the problems. every time your fingers brush over his paper to point out a mistake, there’s a brief, electric pause. neither of you comment on it, but it lingers, like a promise neither of you are ready to make.

but by the end of it, he’s gone without a word. not a smile, not a look. just the door shutting quietly behind him.

—

session twenty one - friday the 8th

friday’s session is different.

when he walks in, there’s a heaviness about him, something off—his face is bruised again, his lip split like last time, hair slightly tousled, and there’s a subtle tremble in his step like he’s not sure whether to be here or not. his eyes avoid yours as he slides into the chair across from yours, too close to be casual but too distant to be comfortable.

the silence between you is charged from the start, but it’s not the playful tension you’re used to. it’s thick, raw, almost uncomfortable.

you can’t help but stare at the bruise blooming across his jaw, the scrape on his chin, and the other cuts scattered across his arms. the anger and adrenaline radiate off him in waves, but there’s something deeper underneath all of it—a tiredness.

you try not to let your voice crack, but the concern breaks through anyway. “what happened?”

haechan doesn’t meet your gaze. his eyes are dark, like he’s trying to bury something under all that nonchalance. “it’s nothing.”

you don’t believe him. obviously. not looking like that. “haechan, don’t lie.”

finally, he looks at you, and there’s something in his expression that makes you freeze—raw vulnerability laced with a bitterness you can’t quite place. “someone said something about you,” he says quietly. “something i didn’t like.”

you feel the weight of his words like a punch to the gut. “what do you mean?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper, but there’s no hiding the unease creeping into your tone.

he’s quiet for a long moment, his fingers tapping restlessly against the table as he thinks about how to phrase it. then, he just blurts it out: “i fought over you.”

it takes you a second to process. “what?”

he looks at you, this time, eyes searching yours like he’s looking for something. “they were talking about you. bad stuff. i couldn’t just sit there. i—” his words falter, like he’s not sure why he’s even explaining this to you.

you don’t know what to say. your heart beats harder, faster. “so you just…?”

“i lost it.” he’s not ashamed, not exactly, but there’s something about the way he says it that makes you feel like he’s letting go of more than just the fight. “i couldn’t stand it. i had to do something.”

and that’s when it hits you—the depth of everything he’s been hiding behind those sharp smirks and sarcastic comments.

without thinking, your fingers move—just a soft brush against his darkening knuckles, like it’s the only thing you can do to make sense of all this. you feel the heat of his skin underneath your fingertips, and the contact burns, even though it’s so small.

haechan’s breath catches. there’s a moment of complete silence, and then he slowly, so slowly, moves his fingers that were under yours.

you hold your breath, fingers trembling just a little. and then, as if testing the waters, he slides his fingers up to rest his hand against yours. you found your hand opening up, as your palms touched slightly. his finger tips grazing your with a ghost-like touch. for a second, neither of you moves. there’s a fragile, delicate tension that seems to freeze the room in place.

and then, without saying a word, he lets his fingers gently curl around yours.

it’s slow, tentative, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. but when you don’t, when you let him, he doesn’t hesitate. his grip tightens just enough, not too much—just enough to say this matters.

your heart races, and your breath hitches, but you don’t pull away. you don’t want to.

you let your fingers slip into the spaces between his, moving carefully, slowly.

there’s no hurry. just the quiet sound of your breaths mingling with the subtle click of his rings as his fingers settle between yours.

his eyes drop to your hands, studying the way you fit together, the way your fingers slide against his, perfectly and effortlessly. it’s intimate in a way that makes everything around you disappear. there’s only the soft warmth of his hand in yours, the quiet thrum of something unspoken growing louder between you.

he leans forward slightly, his voice quiet, almost like a confession. “i fought because of you,” he says, the weight of his words settling between you two like a secret you didn’t expect.

you want to say something, want to ask why, but the words don’t come. your chest feels tight. why would he do that for you?

his thumb strokes the back of your hand, the motion slow and careful, and you feel the heat of his touch seep through you. “i couldn’t just let them say shit about you,” he murmurs, his voice raw. “no one talks about you like that and gets away with it.”

you finally meet his gaze, your chest tight with something you can’t name. he holds your hand gently, but there’s a possessiveness in his touch, something protective that you can’t quite ignore.

the air between you is thick, filled with the weight of everything unsaid. he doesn’t let go of your hand, doesn’t move away, and neither do you.

you’re not sure how long you sit there, fingers entwined, the world outside of this moment fading away. but somehow, it feels like everything has changed between you two in that quiet, intimate touch. Something that didn’t need to be spoken but felt.

neither of you moves, not yet. not until it’s time.

—

saturday -

saturday morning arrives with the lingering weight of haechan’s words from the previous session. “maybe we could grab a coffee or something. no tutoring… just…”

his voice still echoes in your mind as you get ready. you don’t know why it’s making you nervous. you’ve spent hours with him tutoring, in tight spaces, talking about everything under the sun, but this feels different. it’s not about grades or chemistry anymore. it’s about you and him—just two people.

when your parents asked where you were off to, you brushed them off with a simple. “studying at the café,”.

at 2 p.m., you arrive at the cafe a little early. your heart beats louder in your chest as you stand outside, looking at the door, unsure whether you should go in first or wait. but before you can make up your mind, haechan appears. he’s wearing a hoodie and jeans. his messy hair adds to the vibe—relaxed, but there’s an intensity in the way he walks towards you.

“hey,” he greets with that familiar teasing smile, but it’s less playful today, more reserved. he watches you for a beat, like he’s trying to gauge how you’re feeling.

“hey,” you respond, your voice steady but your insides twist with something unfamiliar.

the conversation starts easy, like a continuation of your tutoring sessions, but it quickly morphs into something more personal. you laugh at his jokes, and he cracks a few of his usual sarcastic comments. but this time, they don’t feel so cutting—they feel like an invitation, an effort to connect.

you tell him about your favorite subjects, and he talks about his struggle with science (which he completely tries to play off like he doesn’t care about). somehow, you both end up talking about your childhoods, your families, and some awkward high school moments. the more you talk, the more the layers fall away, and you realize this is more real than you expected. he really wasn’t some monster that everyone seemed to paint him as.

as you finish your drinks, there’s an uneasy silence between you two. haechan runs a hand through his hair, and you shift in your seat, unsure of what to do next. the energy between you both is charged now—unspoken words hang thick in the air, and it’s almost unbearable.

“well, sunshine,” he says, his voice softer than usual, “i guess I’ll see you on monday?”

you nod, too quickly, almost relieved to escape the pressure of the moment. “yeah, monday.”

you both stand, and as you turn to walk away, you feel his eyes on you. you can’t tell if it’s admiration or something else, but the way he watches you feels different now.

sunday -

sunday passes quietly, but the space between you and haechan feels wider, even though you just saw him the day before. you try not to think about the little moments—the way he looked at you, how close you both were, how much you wanted him to say more. but that’s the problem, isn’t it? you both left so much unsaid, and you can’t help but wonder what’s going through his mind.

he doesn’t text you at all. the silence is deafening. you tell yourself it’s probably a good thing; after all, you don’t need to overanalyze everything, right? but then again, why does it feel so heavy?

you end up spending the day at home, alone with your thoughts. the weekend was supposed to be simple, a break from the usual, but now you can’t shake the feeling that it’s more complicated than that. haechan has always been complicated, but now you feel like you’re standing on the edge of something, not sure whether to jump or step back.

session twenty two - monday the 11th

by the time monday rolls around, you’re feeling restless. there’s a shift in your mood. a nervous energy that you can’t shake off, and when you step into school, it feels like you’re waiting for something to happen. you can’t decide if it’s anticipation or dread, but either way, you’re drawn back to the tutoring session.

when haechan finally walks into the classroom, you can’t tell if he’s acting like everything is normal or if he’s pretending. he gives you a short wave, but it’s not his usual playful smile. it’s different now. there’s something more cautious in his movements.

you both settle into your usual rhythm—he’s late, of course, but he’s quieter today. you’re not sure if that’s because of the weekend or if it’s something else entirely.

the session goes well, mostly. it’s like before, in the sense that you both get through the work, but there’s an added tension. he looks at you a little longer than he usually does, his eyes scanning your face as if he’s trying to understand something. the usual teasing is absent today, replaced by a different energy—more subtle, more cautious.

by the end of the session, you can’t help but feel like you’re caught in this strange, unspoken limbo between what you both were and what you might be. you still don’t know where it’s going, but you’re both standing at the edge, unsure whether to jump or wait to see what the next step will be.

—

session twenty three - wednesday the 13th

it’s the final session before the break, and everything feels different. the air feels thicker, charged with something neither of you are saying but both know is there. you both sit at the desk, the tension palpable, but neither of you are focused on the notes in front of you. it’s like the classroom walls are closing in, and neither of you can breathe easily.

you keep glancing over at him, trying to stick to the lesson, but he’s just… there, too close, too present. the words he’s saying are just noise in the background as his eyes flicker over you every time you speak, his gaze heavy, simmering. you know it’s not just the subject anymore. something has shifted.

“you’re not listening,” you say, your voice sharper than you intend.

he looks at you, not surprised, but not unaffected either. “neither are you,” he replies, and there’s something in his voice that’s too calm. too knowing.

you press your lips together, trying to keep your composure. “well, you’re not even trying.”

he smirks, leaning back in his chair slightly. “again, neither are you.”

there’s a challenge in his voice, and it sets something off inside you. something snaps. you stand up more abrupt than you anticipate, trying to collect your thoughts but only feeling more overwhelmed by the space between you two. you feel like you’re suffocating under the weight of the tension, like there’s something about to break, and you don’t know if you want to stop it or let it happen.

you cross your arms, pacing around the small desk, trying to cool the heat you feel flooding your chest.

“why are you so difficult?” you murmur, more to yourself than him.

“because you make it easy,” he says, voice low, leaning forward, his eyes locked on you in a way that makes your knees weak.

he stands up slowly, the movement purposeful, and your heart skips a beat. the space between you is closing, and before you can make sense of what’s happening, he’s there, standing right in front of you.

his hand brushes against yours, and you feel it like a spark, his fingers just grazing yours before he holds your wrist lightly, tugging you closer to him. you can’t move, rooted in place by something deeper than just attraction.

and then he kisses you.

it’s a kiss that’s full of everything you’ve been holding back. the anger, the frustration, the need for something more that you don’t know how to name. it’s messy, urgent, like both of you are desperate to see how far you can go without letting go. your hands find their way to his chest, pushing against him as you kiss him back, just as hungry, just as eager.

you feel his grip on your wrist tighten, pulling you closer as his other hand slides to your waist. the kiss deepens, and the world around you disappears. it’s just you and him, the heat of his lips against yours, the press of his body against yours.

you can’t help but give in, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, your breath coming faster as the intensity builds.

and then, just as suddenly, it breaks.

you pull back, hands trembling, and you stare at him, your heart pounding against your ribs.

you feel guilty.

you glance away, trying to catch your breath, but all you can hear are the voices from the past—the warnings your parents gave you, the things they said about boys like him.

“boys like him are trouble.”

the words echo in your mind like a warning. trouble.

you can’t ignore it. your heart sinks, and a cold wave of uncertainty washes over you. this is trouble.

you step back, trying to create some distance, trying to make sense of it all. “this isn’t… supposed to happen.”

he stays silent for a beat, his expression unreadable. then, quietly, he says, “i don’t want to stop.”

you shake your head, backing away, but you can’t seem to find the words. everything’s spinning in your head. he’s trouble, but you want him.

“haechan,” you whisper, feeling a rush of heat rise to your cheeks, “i—this was a mistake.”

he doesn’t say anything, just watches you as you grab your things, your heart heavy in your chest.

you don’t know how to fix this, don’t know how to untangle the mess you’ve just made of your feelings. you only know that walking away is the only thing you can do right now, even if every step you take feels like it’s pulling you away from him and yet dragging you closer at the same time.

you leave without another word, but as you walk down the hall, your mind is still stuck on him.

this isn’t what i signed up for… but then again, maybe it was.

—

the following night is unusually still, and you lie awake, mind tangled in the events of the past week. your thoughts keep drifting back to him—the kiss, the way he pulled away, and the uncertainty that followed. you toss and turn, trying to shake off the feeling, but it’s like something’s pulling you in. just as you start to think you’re finally starting to calm down, a soft knock at your window breaks through the silence.

your heart jumps in your chest, and for a second, you freeze. there’s no mistaking who it is. haechan.

you rush to the window, heart racing, but you pause for a brief moment to glance at your door—your parents are just down the hall. still, curiosity outweighs caution, and you push the blinds up quietly, barely believing your eyes.

there he is, his silhouette framed against the dim streetlights outside, standing on the roof near your window with that familiar, confident smirk that sends a strange rush through you.

“how’d you get up here?” you whisper after opening the window, your voice shaky, heart still pounding in your ears.

he shrugs as though it’s the most normal thing in the world, but you can’t ignore the way his arm strains as he grips the window sill, his veins flexing beneath the fabric of his shirt. your eyes flicker down to his arms, and for a moment, you forget to breathe, your gaze catching on the way the muscles ripple as he pulls himself up with a small thud.

you wince, then immediately shush him, raising a finger to your lips in an exaggerated, playful gesture. “my parents are gonna hear you!”

he flashes that trademark grin, but it’s softer this time—almost sheepish, like he wasn’t expecting this much resistance. “sorry,” he whispers, giving you a quick, apologetic wink before pulling himself through the window with a bit more flair than necessary. you can feel the heat radiating off him as he steps inside, and for a brief second, you both just stand there in the quiet of the room.

there’s an awkward pause as he dusts himself off, glancing around your room as if trying to find a reason for being here, but then his eyes land on you. his expression softens just a little, that familiar cockiness fading away for a second.

“didn’t mean to sneak up on you, but… figured i’d take a risk. can’t sleep, you know?”

you laugh softly, a little nervously, though you can’t quite explain why. there’s something about him being here, standing in your room in the dead of night, that’s thrilling in a way you’re not ready to admit. “did you…climb the tree?” you ask, quirking an eyebrow at him.

“yeah,” he grins, his tone light, almost teasing. “it’s not that hard. plus, i thought i’d get your attention somehow.” he shrugs as if this is a totally reasonable thing to do. but when his eyes meet yours, there’s something behind them. something vulnerable, something unspoken.

“you’re crazy,” you mutter, but there’s no malice behind it. instead, your voice is soft, fond. you step back instinctively as he moves toward you, not sure if you want to step away or let him close the gap. you should be more concerned that he was here. if your parents found out, you have no idea what kind of reaction they’d have.

he looks at you for a moment, his gaze flickering over your face like he’s studying every detail. you can feel the tension building between the two of you, and even though you know you should step back again, you stay rooted to the spot. there’s a pull between you that neither of you can ignore.

“i just… couldn’t stop thinking about everything. about you,” he admits, the words coming out quieter than usual. he doesn’t sound like the usual confident haechan; there’s a vulnerability in his voice now, something raw that you’ve never heard before.

you blink, caught off guard. the air feels thick with unspoken words, and for a second, you’re at a loss for how to respond. your heart hammers in your chest, and before you can stop yourself, you move a little closer to him.

his eyes widen slightly when you step forward, but he doesn’t move away. instead, he reaches for your hand slowly, almost hesitantly. his fingers brush over yours, the lightest touch that sends a jolt through you. it’s so quiet, so soft, but it feels like the whole world has paused. you glance down at his hand—his fingers are rough, the veins on his arms standing out against his skin.

you look back up at him, meeting his eyes, and he squeezes your hand gently, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand in a slow, almost intimate motion. there’s a quiet understanding between the two of you, a silent acknowledgment of everything that’s been building between you.

“you’re here,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, but it feels like it carries the weight of everything you haven’t been able to say.

he gives a small, lopsided grin, his thumb still moving over your hand. “yeah. i guess i am.”

and then, without another word, he leans in, and this time, when your lips meet, it’s not chaotic. it’s slow, deliberate, like the two of you are finally giving in to something you’ve been avoiding. his hand slides up to your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin as if he’s memorizing the feel of you.

the kiss is soft at first, tentative, but it deepens as the moments stretch on, his other hand moving to gently to him by your back, pulling you closer. everything else fades away. the hesitation, the uncertainty and you lose yourself in it.

when you finally pull back, both of you are breathing a little heavier, the space between you still charged with the emotions neither of you knew how to express. you glance at the door again, your mind briefly flashing to the consequences of this. but for a moment, you don’t care.

“this is… insane,” you whisper, your voice trembling just slightly.

he leans his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “i know. but i don’t think i can stay away.”

for a moment, you both just stand there, breathless, sharing the same quiet understanding. you’ve crossed a line you never thought you would, and for the first time, you’re not sure what comes next. but you know this: you can’t go back. not now.

—

after that night, everything changes. things between you and haechan aren’t just charged—they’re different. there’s no more pretending that what happened didn’t mean something.

friday the 15th

the next day at school, he’s there—leaning against his locker like usual, surrounded by his close group of friends, but his eyes are on you the second you walk in. it’s not just a glance this time. it’s intentional, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll look at him, if you’ll acknowledge what happened between you the night before.

your heart races, but you force yourself to act normal. your parents had been none the wiser about his late-night visit, but that didn’t mean you weren’t still thinking about it. thinking about him. you take a deep breath and head toward your first class, but just as you pass him, his fingers catch your wrist. it’s subtle, barely a touch, but enough to send a shiver down your spine.

“you’re not gonna ignore me now, are you?” his voice is low, teasing, but there’s something real underneath it.

“not here,” you murmur, pulling your hand away, your face heating up as you disappear into the crowd.

you glance around—people are watching. of course they are. it was unusual for a student like and a student like him to interact. let alone lee haechan and you.

but you can feel his gaze on you for the rest of the day.

after school -

he catches up to you before you can leave, cutting you off near the entrance. “so, sunshine, are we gonna talk about last night? or are you just gonna pretend i didn’t climb a damn tree for you?”

you roll your eyes, crossing your arms. “you could’ve fallen.”

“but i didn’t,” he grins, stepping closer, dropping his voice so only you can hear. “what, you worried about me?”

you are, but you won’t admit that. you sigh. “i don’t know what you expect me to say.”

his smirk fades just slightly, a flicker of something more serious in his eyes. “say it wasn’t nothing.”

you hesitate, because you can’t say that. you won’t lie. but you also don’t know what this is.

before you can respond, a voice calls your name from behind. one of your classmates. someone who shouldn’t be seeing you with him like this.

“i have to go,” you say quickly, stepping away.

he doesn’t stop you, but as you walk away, you hear him call out, just loud enough for you to hear—

“i’ll see you later, sunshine.”

and you know you will.

saturday night -

you get a text from him.

haechan: come outside

your heart leaps into your throat. you glance at your bedroom door, listening carefully. your parents are still awake. sneaking out has never been something you’ve even considered before, but now…

your fingers hover over your phone.

you: are you insane?

haechan: probably. but i wanna see you.

you hesitate. but only for a second.

and then, for the first time, you take the risk.

—

the door clicks softly behind you as you step onto the porch, the night air brushing cool against your skin. you shiver slightly, but you ignore it, your pulse already picking up when you spot haechan waiting just beyond the porch light’s glow, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie.

he steps forward as you approach, but then—he stops.

his eyes flicker down, lingering.

you suddenly realize what you’re wearing—silk shorts, the kind with delicate lace at the hem, barely brushing mid-thigh. paired with a thin, loose sweater, it’s nothing that scandalous, but under his gaze, you feel the heat creeping up your neck.

his tongue swipes over his bottom lip before he exhales, tilting his head. “damn, sunshine. if i knew sneaking into your thoughts at night got me this kind of welcome, i would’ve done it sooner.”

you cross your arms, giving him an unimpressed look despite the warmth spreading in your chest. “i wasn’t exactly expecting company.”

he hums, taking another step closer. “yeah? so you just wear this to bed every night?” his voice dips lower, teasing, but there’s something else there.

you roll your eyes, but you can’t ignore the way your stomach tightens. “are you done staring?”

his smirk deepens. “not even close.”

“why are you even here?” you sigh, trying to steer the conversation before you combust under his gaze.

his expression shifts slightly, something more serious flickering beneath the teasing. “couldn’t sleep.” he shrugs, eyes still on you but softer now. “kept thinking about you.”

your breath hitches. you weren’t expecting that.

you hesitate, shifting on your feet. “and what exactly were you thinking about?”

he doesn’t hesitate. “that kiss. both of them.”

you inhale sharply, your heart picking up speed.

he watches you carefully, stepping just close enough that you have to tilt your chin up to meet his gaze. “tell me i’m the only one who’s been losing sleep over it,” he murmurs. “tell me you don’t think about it too.”

you should brush it off. should laugh, roll your eyes, push him away like you always do.

but you don’t.

“…maybe a little.”

his lips quirk, but it’s not his usual cocky smirk—it’s softer. more real.

“thought so.”

before you can even react, his fingers find yours, brushing over your knuckles before lacing them together. it’s slow, deliberate—like he’s testing the waters, waiting for you to pull away.

you don’t.

he exhales a quiet laugh. “you’re in trouble, sunshine.”

you swallow. “why?”

his thumb traces over the back of your hand, and when he looks at you, there’s something almost fond in his eyes.

“’cause now that i’ve got you like this,” he murmurs, “i don’t think i can let go.”

—

you should go back inside. your parents are asleep just down the hall, and this is the kind of thing they warned you about. sneaking out into the night with a boy like him, hand in hand, heart racing in ways it shouldn’t.

but you don’t let go.

“come on,” he says, his grip tightening just slightly, like he’s afraid you might change your mind. “let’s go somewhere.”

“what? where?” you ask, but you’re already following him down the steps, his hand warm against yours.

he smirks, eyes glinting in the dim light. “trust me.”

and for some reason, you do.

—

the night air is crisp, cool against your skin as the two of you walk through the quiet streets. neither of you say much at first, just the soft scuff of your footsteps on the pavement, the occasional flickering of a streetlight overhead. it’s reckless, it’s stupid, but for some reason, it feels right.

he leads you toward a small park a few blocks away, one you haven’t been to in years. it looks different at night—emptier, quieter, like a hidden world that only the two of you know about.

“seriously?” you say, raising an eyebrow. “you dragged me out of bed for a playground?”

haechan grins, tugging you toward the swings. “come on, sunshine. live a little.”

you huff, but you sit anyway, the chains creaking slightly as you lean back. he takes the swing next to yours, feet planted on the ground, arms draped lazily over the chains.

for a moment, neither of you speak. the city hums softly in the distance, a car passing now and then, but here, in this little forgotten space, it feels like you’re in your own world.

then he breaks the silence.

“so,” he says, voice quieter now. “are you gonna tell me why you kissed me back?”

your fingers tighten around the swing’s chains.

you should lie. should brush it off, make a joke, something.

but instead, you glance at him, finding him already watching you, his usual smirk nowhere in sight.

“…i don’t know,” you admit.

he exhales a soft laugh, shaking his head. “wrong answer, sunshine.”

you frown. “oh? and what’s the right one?”

he leans in slightly, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him even in the cool night air. his voice drops, teasing but serious all at once.

“that you can’t get me out of your head, either.”

your breath catches.

you could argue. you could deny it. but instead, you just look at him, your heart pounding, and realize—maybe you don’t want to.

—

the morning after sneaking out with haechan, everything feels different.

your room is the same, the sun filtering through your curtains, casting warm streaks of light across your sheets. your parents are in the kitchen, the smell of coffee and toast drifting down the hall like any other saturday morning. nothing has changed.

except it has.

because your mind won’t stop replaying the night before. his voice, his hands, the way he looked at you under the dim glow of the streetlights, with that same dark eyeliner you’ve grown to like. the way he leaned in just close enough that you thought he might kiss you again but never did. the way your heart had pounded the entire walk back home, fingers still tingling from where he had held them, warm and steady.

and the worst part?

you didn’t want it to end.

you go through the day pretending everything is normal.

you do your chores, respond to messages, attempt to start your homework—but it all feels distant, like your mind is somewhere else entirely. every time your phone lights up, you half expect it to be him. but it never is.

and then, just when you think you might be going crazy, your mom’s voice cuts through the quiet.

“you’ve been distracted all morning.”

you blink, looking up from your untouched notebook at the kitchen table. your parents are sitting across from you, your dad flipping through the newspaper, your mom watching you with knowing eyes.

“i’m fine,” you say quickly, too quickly.

she hums, not convinced. “it’s not about that boy, is it?”

your heart stops. “what?”

your dad turns a page in the newspaper, not looking up. “the one you’ve been tutoring,” he says simply. “you know, the one we told you to be careful around.”

your pulse stutters. “it’s—no, of course not.”

your mom raises an eyebrow. “really? because ever since those sessions started, you’ve been acting a little… different.”

“and now you’re all spaced out,” your dad adds, still not looking up. “not getting a crush on him, are you?”

you scoff, forcing out a laugh that sounds almost believable. “as if.”

your mom exhales, satisfied for now. “good. boys like that, they’re nothing but trouble.”

your chest tightens. they don’t know anything. “so you’ve told me.” you sigh.

but instead of arguing, you just nod, mumbling something about needing to study before quickly escaping back to your room.

and the moment the door clicks shut behind you, your phone finally buzzes.

haechan: you up, sunshine?

you hesitate for half a second, holding back the small tug at your lips before responding.

you: yeah, why?

his reply comes instantly.

haechan: meet me? same spot.

your heart skips. you don’t even hesitate.

you: be there in 10.

—

the air feels heavier, like the wind is carrying something unspoken between you. you spot him before he sees you—leaning against the swing set, hoodie pulled over his head, one hand twisting a silver ring around his finger. he looks lost in thought, gaze fixed on the ground until he hears your footsteps.

his head lifts, and when he sees you, his lips twitch into a smirk—lazy, like he knew you’d come.

“thought maybe you wouldn’t show,” he says, rocking back on his heels.

you cross your arms, standing a few steps away. “why?”

he lets out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “figured maybe you started listening to your parents.”

you raise a brow. “you’re eavesdropping now?”

nah,” he says easily, stepping closer. “just know how people see me.”

you don’t respond. instead, you take a step closer, letting the silence settle between you.

“so,” you say after a beat, “why’d you call me out here?”

he exhales, tilting his head as he watches you. “needed to see you.”

the words come so easily, like he didn’t even have to think about them. like it was the most natural thing in the world.

your pulse stutters, but you keep your expression even. “and now that you have?”

he grins, stepping closer until there’s barely any space between you. “now?” his voice drops lower, eyes flickering over your face. “now i wanna know why you came.”

you swallow. why did you?

you should have ignored his message, should have listened to every warning sign telling you to stay away.

but standing here, heart pounding, heat rolling off him in waves—

you realize you don’t regret a damn thing.

“i wanted to see you too.” you say lowly.

—

after that night, something shifts.

it starts slow—an unspoken understanding, a magnetic pull that neither of you acknowledge but never fight.

one night turns into another. and then another.

sometimes, he climbs through your window just to talk, arms crossed against your windowsill, voice hushed as he tells you about his day. other times, he doesn’t talk at all, just pulls you close and kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers.

and maybe you should be afraid too—afraid of how easy it is to let this happen, to want more. but you’re not.

—

you find yourself around him more at school, too.

it’s not obvious, not at first—just stolen glances across the hallway, his shoulder brushing yours when he passes by, the flicker of a smirk when he catches you looking.

but then he starts waiting for you after class, hands stuffed in his pockets, always acting like he just happened to be there. like it wasn’t intentional.

and you let him.

because somehow, being near him feels natural now. even with the tutoring sessions over. he seemed to be doing pretty well in science now anyway.

—

the nights are different. the nights are yours.

sneaking out is reckless, dangerous, a risk you wouldn’t have taken before. but now? now it’s routine.

sometimes, you meet at the park, swinging lazily under the glow of the streetlights. sometimes, he drags you into the city, leading you through neon-lit streets, hands brushing in the dark.

and sometimes—most nights, actually—he’s at your window.

it always starts the same way: a faint rustling, the quiet scrape of sneakers against bark, and then, moments later, his head poking through the window frame with a grin.

“you’ve got to stop leaving this unlocked, sunshine,” he teases, even though you both know you won’t.

and every time, without fail, you roll your eyes, but you don’t stop him when he pulls himself inside, muscles flexing, veins prominent under his skin as he steadies himself.

the first few times, you told yourself this was temporary—just a phase, just him being him.

but then there’s a night where he doesn’t just talk, doesn’t just steal a few kisses before leaving.

there’s a night where he lingers.

where his hands settle on your waist, where he backs you up against your wall, where the air between you is thick with something unspoken, something dangerous.

where he kisses you deeper, hands tracing slow patterns against your skin, like he’s memorizing you.

where you let him.

because at some point, you stopped trying to fight this. stopped trying to pretend you didn’t want it.

because at some point, you stopped caring that he was the kind of boy your parents warned you about.

—

it was one of the nights he had skipped into your room, you greeted him with a smile and things went from there.

his breath is warm against your lips, hands gripping your waist as he backs you into the wall.

he’s been teasing all night—touching you just enough to leave you wanting more, murmuring things in that low, rough voice that made your pulse stutter. but now? now there’s no space left between you, and neither of you are trying to fight it.

his fingers press into your sides, slow and steady, like he’s testing how much you’ll let him take. his lips brush yours once, twice—just enough to make you chase him before he finally kisses you like he means it.

and you let yourself fall into it.

your hands slide into his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands, tugging just enough to draw a quiet groan from his throat. his body presses closer, chest rising and falling against yours, the heat between you dizzying.

“you’re gonna drive me crazy,” he murmurs against your lips, voice thick, almost strained.

you don’t even get the chance to answer before he kisses you again, harder this time, like he’s losing whatever little patience he had left.

his hands slip under your shirt, fingertips skimming your skin, sending shivers up your spine. and you should stop this, should put some distance between you before it’s too late—

but then his hands tighten on your hips, and you feel the way his heart is racing just as fast as yours, and god—

you don’t want to stop.

“tell me to leave,” he murmurs, lips trailing along your jaw, down to the hollow of your throat.

you swallow hard, tilting your head back as he presses closer, as his hands continue their slow exploration.

“tell me you don’t want this,” he says again, but there’s no teasing in his voice this time—just something raw, something vulnerable, something almost pleading.

and you should. you should.

instead, your grip tightens in his hair, and you whisper back, “i don’t want you to.”

his response is immediate—his hands slide lower, pulling you flush against him, and he groans against your lips like he’s just lost whatever last shred of control he had.

“fuck,” he exhales, forehead resting against yours. “you’re really gonna be the end of me, sunshine.”

but he doesn’t stop.

and neither do you.

—

when you finally pull your mouth from his, his lips are swollen, breath uneven as he leans into you, hands still firm on your waist like he can’t bring himself to let go just yet.

you don’t want him to.

but somewhere between the heat of his touch and the way his body presses against yours, reality creeps back in.

your parents are just down the hall.

he shouldn’t even be here.

“we should stop,” you murmur, though the words barely make it out, still breathless from the way he just kissed you.

he exhales sharply, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he tilts his head back to look at you. his pupils are blown wide, jaw tight like he’s forcing himself to pull back.

“yeah,” he mutters, voice rough. “yeah, we should.”

but neither of you move.

his thumb brushes against your side, like he’s memorizing the feel of you.

“sunshine,” he says softly, like a warning.

you know you have to let him go.

but when he leans in one last time, mouth hovering just over yours, you don’t stop him.

“just one more?” he murmurs, but it’s a lie.

one more turns into two, then three, then a lingering kiss pressed to the corner of your lips, like he’s reluctant to leave you at all.

but eventually, he does.

he steps back first, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to ground himself, like he’s trying to pull himself together before he does something you’ll both regret.

“guess i should go before i completely fuck this up, huh?” he says, forcing a smirk, but you see the hesitation in his eyes.

you nod, but you don’t trust yourself to say anything.

he moves toward the window, but just before climbing out, he looks back, gaze flickering over you—your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, the way your fingers are still trembling just slightly.

and then, instead of saying goodbye, he just grins.

“try not to miss me too much,” he teases, but there’s something softer beneath the words. something real.

and with that, he’s gone, disappearing into the night like he was never there at all.

except—he was.

you press your fingers against your lips, as if you can still feel him there, and then, you smile.

it’s embarrassing, the way your stomach flutters, the way your cheeks heat up, the way you actually giggle like some lovesick schoolgirl.

you should not be this giddy over a boy like him.

but you are.

and you couldn’t find it in you to care anymore.

—

it was another saturday night, around 12am, your parents long gone to bed.

his hands are warm against your skin, fingers teasing under the hem of your shirt as he deepens the kiss, pulling you closer.

you’re not even thinking anymore—just moving, just feeling. stumbling over your own feet as he walks you back, laughing quietly when you almost trip over a pile of books.

“shh,” you whisper, barely suppressing a giggle.

he grins against your lips. “that was you.”

“doesn’t matter,” you breathe, fingers curling into his shirt, feeling the way his muscles tense beneath the fabric. “just be quiet.”

he hums in amusement, hands sliding up your sides, his touch slow, deliberate, testing. “you always tell me what to do, sunshine?”

“someone has to.”

“mm,” he leans in, lips brushing your jaw, hands slipping beneath your shirt, pushing the fabric up just slightly—waiting for permission.

you exhale, whispering a word of approval.

he doesn’t hesitate. he tugs your shirt up, just enough to expose more of your skin—

knock.

the door swings open.

“what are you doing—?”

you freeze.

haechan freezes.

your mom stands in the doorway, eyes locking onto the scene in front of her—haechan’s hands still on you, his hoodie discarded on the floor, your shirt lifted just enough to make it painfully obvious what was happening.

for a second, no one moves.

no one breathes.

haechan is the first to react, stepping back so fast he almost knocks over your chair. he runs a hand through his hair, like he’s trying to play it cool, like there’s any coming back from this.

you don’t dare turn around.

your heart pounds in your chest, face burning hotter than ever before. this time not with the same heat.

your mom inhales sharply, voice eerily calm.

“downstairs. now.”

the finality in her tone sends a chill down your spine.

haechan glances at you, expression unreadable, but you can’t look at him.

because this time, you’re really in trouble.

—

▸ j.note ; finally releasing this lmao it’s been in the sm basement for quite some time now

1K notes · View notes

wuntrum · 24 days ago

Note

can you speak on your severance s2 opinions? i promise this isnt in bad faith or anything, im just anon bc im shy lol, im genuinely curious

i'm gonna put this under a read more because it's gonna be long but...yeah [scratches head] if YOU the person reading this looooved this season and see nothing you didn't like about it, thats awesome and i'm happy for you. i also liked things in this season, and also its normal to be able to critique things you like, love and light <3 its literally just television

generally, yeah, i found myself disappointed with it. i think the writing this season, both the dialogue and then the actual character/world writing, fell flat and/or seemed like it was completely incongruous with the characters and world that we had seen in season 1. i think something i really appreciated about season 1 is that yes, mark was our main character and the lens we got introduced to both the inside and outside world, but both felt so much BIGGER than just him.

season 2, the entire plot and world and characters bend and contort to make mark like, the center of the universe lol. it's kind of ridiculous, the extent to which the world revolves around him now. it makes the world feel SOOO small. parts of my favorite worldbuilding aspects are seeing how the outside world feels about severance--i think the part where we see how working as a severed employee makes it almost impossible to work anywhere else is great! and in concept i like seeing other towns that have been devastated by lumon's industrialization, though i don't love the execution that we got. so like...everything lumon does is about mark? ALL of it? i know we don't know exactly how long lumon has been operating but like...they've been working on this stuff for longer than two years, lol. like, how many files have dylan completed? irving? petey? that girlie who wrote the lexington letter? is all of their work literally meaningless? like i get that there were people before gemma who failed the tests and they died, sure, but what about when mark started working there? what about the files that irving started and didn't finish, why don't they care about those? ohhhh right, because that's not the one that mark's working on. i get that it'd be a big deal if they got it to work fully once, but surely they'd want to make it work AGAIN, right??? like a science experiment?? i just wish we got like, A nod to other people on the testing floor, because i think the implication is that all of them are working on files connected to…different people, but maybe they're all just different versions of gemma?

honestly all of the innie stuff this season just felt so…idk, aimless? it feels like parts of the building only exist when the writers want them to, and just generally are not interested in exploring anything outside of the romantic aspects for all of these characters. like sure, after the season 1 finale, their asses are not gonna wanna work (EXCEPT FOR WHEN THEY DO? TO MOVE THE PLOT ALONG?), but where's the camaraderie? what about all those other people in O&D, they literally export things to the testing floor, maybe they know about gemma? fundamentally i think the thing that's the most frustrating about innie mark is that they keep telling us that he doesn't care about gemma. which, sure, outie gemma, he doesn't have that same connection with as helly, whatever. but also, he DOES care about her, he literally knows that that's ms casey and that lumon was just going to do what they always do when they fire people????? like s1 mark cared soooo much about his coworkers, ALL OF THEM, even the ones that weren't there anymore—seeing petey and then ms casey get removed was like, a HUGE deal and vital to his growth as a character!!!! and the way that they constructed this whole season basically to remove everyone that isn't mark and helly by the end. lol. i'm honestly shocked that they didn't make a new version of the desk that was just two chairs, like dylan was just excluded from the finale except for when they needed him to come in and hold the door against mr. milchick. again. lol

i don't inherently have a problem with exploring the romantic stuff, i think that could have been done well, but i just don't think it was. and that's primarily because, i think the writing this season for helly was ass! they took away her agency and subjugated her to be just the love interest for mark! especially with the finale, i just feel like the helly i know would've been like mark, what are you doing??? go?!? like she wants to take down lumon, THAT's what will take down lumon! like whatever, mark made the choice that he did, but helly playing along with it makes no fucking senseee. like they want us to think that it's the same ol helly we know and love, they give us crumbs of her anger, like when she's rallying the marching band people or whatever, but again, only when it's plot convenient. WHY WOULD SHE NOT ATTACK JAME? he's like 90???? and helly doesn't like this man???? she has nothing to lose???? fucking THROW something at him helly!!!! the helly that tried to chop her fingers off and hang herself and gave that speech in the s1 finale is not in the room with us. and i don't mean this in a way where i think it's helena again, it's not. they've just completely fumbled her character because they want mark and helly to be together at all costs. and honestly, i think it's so reductive to make this show just about ships, but textually it feels like that's what they want us to do, and i think that's sad. again, it makes the show feel so SMALL, when the world within it used to feel so BIG and like we would want to learn more about it. i care about mark and helly--before they kissed!! i think it was rewarding to see the ways they challenged each other and grew as people!! them as a romantic thing could work but they haven't put in the work to MAKE it work. and, it feels like of redundant even to say, but i do think it's fucking ridiculous to write a story where we get kissing and fucking for allllll the straight characters and then the one gay couple doesn't even get a kiss before separating them completely and writing irving out of the show, basically. like what are we in, hayes code era television?

but yeah, the information they chose to reveal vs what they didn't was also frustrating. i honestly wish they revealed less! there's so much TELLING this season. it feels like they think we're stupid (which, i can't speak for the entire population watching the show, maybe some people literally do need mark to look at the camera and explain everything, idk). like there's sooo much clever storytelling in the first season that just, completely gets snuffed out from overexplaining. i understand in the finale that oMark needs to tell iMark about why he did all of this but like, WE as the audience already know??? we don't need to see this?? and cobel confirming stuff i feel like we already knew about how the numbers work and like, i just don't knowwww. like you can just show me it, i was picking up on it. like we know about the four tempers, you show it to us all the time, cobel having to look dead in the camera and explain it just made me feel like there was a better way we could've done this. i do think some stuff benefits from a "hard" confirmation. like i'm glad they confirmed the helena thing, BECAUSE it backs up and supports all of the lovely and subtle things they had already shown to prove that it WAS helena! like i've known since the first episode LOL, so they do KNOW how to do subtle storytelling. and i think the gemma episode was great, i loved seeing her as a character and thought it gave her so much depth. but again, i think allll of the explaining they do this season not only snuffs out the fun of speculating on the viewing end, but from a writing perspective it just kind of writes them into a corner. i think they're focused too much on making these elaborate set pieces and events take place without thinking of how they fit together, not only on like a writing/episodic level but just the world of lumon at large.

i think a great way they showed story in the first season is through the paintings, and through irving and burt bonding over the paintings! like it not only establishes the lore of kier and then we get to learn more about them as characters through their reactions to the paintings. the paintings this season, honestly, were weak, they were so heavy handed. love and light to whoever painted them, but they were nottt doing the job for me.

(this is a small thing, but like…the intake questionnaire asks them to "name a US state or territory," so they KNOW that delaware is a state. so why would they think the equator is a building? again its just like. a cutesy moment for mark and helly to banter but they could've done it in a way that isn't contradictory to like, our understanding of what information crosses over the sever and what does not).

i keep thinking about the ORTBO, and it just seems fucking CRAZY to me that they aren't freaking out about SEEING THE SKY? BREATHING FRESH AIR? FEELING FIRE? SLEEPING?? WASN'T THE WHOLE THING THAT THEY COULDN'T FALL ASLEEP???? i guess my impression of how the chip works is that the technology doesn't know how to handle when they enter a subconscious/asleeep state, so the innie and outie memories begin to bleed together, hence why dozing would be a bad thing on the job. but again, they clearly had this idea of how they wanted irving to reveal that it's helena in the waterfall, and yes, i did enjoy the spectacle of the episode, but its another example of how they'll build these moments and only focus on what they want to see. like there's so much interesting stuff that they could explore and just choose not to, because (usually) it doesn't involve mark, or mark and helly.

also, i'm just gonna say it, i feel like the writing for the women this season all was kinda bad! it's, again, a byproduct of the world revolving around mark now. reghabi is brought into the story when mark needs her, and cast aside when he doesn't want her anymore. devon has been completely reduced to mark's lackey, like i guess ricken and the baby are fucking fine or whatever??? because she only exists when mark is around, and her only job is caring about mark (which obviously yes, they're siblings, of course they care—but s1 devon had a life outside of mark as well). cobel is only brought back into the story to explain to mark how cold harbor works. i said this before but honestly i like the concept of her little solo episode, though the execution wasn't great, because at least she was doing something on her own (except for when she needs that guy to help her. heaven forbid a woman does something of her own accord without a man to help). and again, helly is completely flanderized to be mark's love interest. i think there's a way to have mark and helly be together and them be their own people, but for the length of the season they did not have the proper time to unpack all the shit from the ORTBO episode so everyone just…conveniently gets over it very quickly, like in the span of a day. like i do think it's a jump to go from "i don't trust you, are you even you?" to missionary under plastic tarps that quickly, i'm sorry. and i think even gemma suffers from this fate as well. i think with hers it makes more sense, like she fucking loves her husband, but i wish she was given opportunities to like…want things for herself, too. like she hasn't been outside in two years! i bet she misses her job, her students, her family, devon, ricken, like anyone outside of mark? but she has to be the tragic love interest that can't be with mark but can't run away from mark, either. she's reduced to set dressing for mark and helly by the end.

they constructed this season i think, with the hopes and knowledge that they'll likely get a season 3. which yes, we know now that it's been confirmed and approved or whatever, but they didn't know that when making season 2, and it feels like no one got a full character arc. it's all start and no follow through. we've had the same "mr. milchick experiences racism in the workplace" moment like what, five, six times, and yet we haven't even started to see him DO something about it yet? like sure he told mr. drummond to eat shit, but then to play along with the minstrel show cold harbor shit, they just didn't care about giving that plot line any action so it'll just get brushed along to season 3. (and while there's intentional commentary about race in the show, it also feels like there's unintentional consequences to their writing choices that upholds the whiteness. like, natalie is just forgotten about, reghabi is dropped as soon as mark doesn't want to play with her anymore, ms. huang barely gets to do anything before being written off and sent away, and yes, i do think having gemma suffer as mark and helly skip away is part of it. it leaves a bad taste in my mouth, sorry!). i think dylan is maybe the closest we get to an interesting arc, and i enjoy the inclusion of his wife, but even he's reduced to JUST this story, only getting to talk to mark or helly when the writers need him to, i guess. and the stuff with burt and fields is so nothing, like it feels like it should be going somewhere but they're just leaving it open for season 3 (i guess??? even though it seems like irving isn't going to be in it at all, so why would we be following burt and fields??? and also don't even get me started on how the outie irving stuff is just NOT EXPLORED AT ALL. like whatever sure who the hell cares, sorry for wanting to see that go somewhere or whatever).

it's too early for full reintegration to happen so, we'll just finish that in season 3. (then why introduce it so early in season 2? ohhh right, we need cliffhangers to end every episode on). it almost feels like they don't have faith that people will keep watching without introducing these dramatic moments, but it's all just gasps of breath, there's no actual momentum. like, i've already watched the first season, you don't need to bait me with the prospect of seeing meaningful progression and then take it away from me when the next episode starts. the structure of how episodes speak to each other is that they…don't? like obviously i don't need every episode to pick up on the exact moment the last left off, but the timeline of this season is just soooo strange. the first two episodes are in the same span of time, and then there's gemma and cobel's episodes back to back…it genuinely just feels like they didn't consider the season as a whole which, considering how much money and time it took to make it happen, makes no sense.

and to continue on the timeline aspect, it feels so confusing as to how much time has really passed. it feels like the wanted the structure of the first season, but the pacing mechanic of the first season (working up to the end of the quarter to get to the waffle party) makes the pacing of the second feel even worse. like a.) mark's completed like 3 files a quarter (if we assume he's worked there for 8 quarters, i.e. two years), so making THIS file the super special final one truncates the possible time by at least a third.but then also, b.) he's been at like 95% complete since like, episode 5..? again, i just think it should've been considered more during the planning stages. and it kind of boggles my mind that the creative team views the marching band in this finale to be analogous to the waffle party in s1 when, it's way closer to the music dance experience? (they said this in the like behind the scenes for the finale ep). and in that regard, it really does kind of feel like a retread that doesn't work as well because, again, it's all about mark! especially after the shit with the kier statue, why would mr. milchick play along with the song and dance, like it just feels like they wanted to use tramell tillman's dance experience again, and they wanted to use the colored lights again. he could've just stood by the door to make sure mark and helly stayed there, which was obviously the goal of having all those people there. and yeah, i get the work is mysterious and important or whatever, but the implication that they have ALL OF THESE PEOPLE whos sole job is to be a marching band makes no fucking sense, i'm sorry. i find it hard to play along with the worldbuilding, again it makes lumon seem like its run by like dr. doofenshmirtz or something, it's so cartoony. like are they a global and successful company, or are they incompetent and leave gaping holes for their employees to undo everything? this is THE MOST IMPORTANT DAY IN LUMON HISTORY and they couldn't…shut the door to MDR like they had before? the goat sacrifice room is directly outside the exports hall door? the music dance experience works so well as a catharsis moment because everyone has their own shit going on, and we get to see the guy who hasn't really disobeyed yet (dylan) finally snap, and we see the others come and support him as a TEAM. it's just spectacle for us, the viewer. and especially the thing where they make the panels with mark's face on it—HE CAN'T SEE IT???? i don't need fan service winking moments like that, i dunno, that just annoyed me lol.

anyway, i feel like i have more to say probably but i gotta go do things so, i'm gonna leave it here. in conclusion, i'm missing my friends from s1 MDR sooo so bad, i feel like i haven't seen them this season at all. i did like parts of this season, but overall it was not what i was hoping it would be. (i don't even really KNOW what i wanted it to be, and of course it doesn't matter what i "want," but i feel like what i "want" lined up with what they wanted to do explore with season 1 so…maybe that's where the dissonance is coming from). and whereas at the end of s1, where i left it being like "where are they going to go from here?? (as in, theres so many possibilities", this season finale has left me asking "…where are we gonna go from here?" because i'm left like, inherently incurious about the people we have left and the choices they've made. and, i feel like THEY (as in the executive team making it) must feel this way too, because apparently they've completely scrapped the writers room from this season and added on two new showrunners. good luck to whoever that executive story editor is LOL

#asks #severance #ive been seeing some people get silly anons so. just know if that starts happening #it will just live in my inbox. love and light #also it is just my opinion. we're playing with toys

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bueckets · 4 months ago

Text

Going UP?

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Description: From missed alarms to broken elevators, your Tuesday couldn't get worse, well, until it gets better. When a late-running grad student's desperate dash to save her thesis turns into an unexpected elevator encounter with UConn basketball sensation Paige Bueckers, she learns that sometimes the best assists come from broken machinery.

Armed with nothing but coffee-fueled anxiety and an encyclopedic knowledge of basketball analytics, you find yourself trading quips with college basketball's golden girl in a stalled elevator. What starts as a disaster turns into something else entirely when basketball theory meets practice, terrible jokes meet dangerous grins, and hot chocolate meets, well, everywhere except the mug.

They say love is a game of chances. But when you're trapped between floors with a girl who can bend physics on the court and make your heart run suicides off it, maybe it's worth taking the shot. Sometimes cupid doesn't use arrows. Sometimes he just breaks the elevator.

Featuring: One (1) very broken elevator Several questionably colored cocktails A security guard who's seen it all Basketball plays drawn in spilled Shirley Temples Analytics-based flirting And a whipped cream fight that definitely isn't regulation play

Coming soon to wherever meet-cutes happen in college sports. (Rated R for excessive basketball puns and gay panic)

WC: 8.1k (roughly)

Genre/Notes: uh, i tried to be funny, floofy, rom-com-ish? (i tried), smut at the end, someone gets their kitty ATE, proof read like 50%

Your sneakers pound against the cracked, patchy sidewalk of North Campus, dodging the construction zone that's been "two weeks from completion" since freshman year. The November air bites at your cheeks, sharp as broken glass, and your laptop bag repeatedly slams into your hip with each stride, probably turning your thesis notes into digital confetti. A gust of wind lashes at you, tugging at your jacket, your hair, your sanity, and sending a rogue candy wrapper tumbling like a lonely tumbleweed across the quad like some 50’s Old West showdown.

You'd woken up to three missed calls from your advisor and an email that made your soul leave your body.

Meeting moved to 9:15 AM. Please bring updated analytics models.

It's 9:12.

The universe is really testing you today. First, your roommate's cat knocked your phone off the nightstand, somehow managing to turn off all five of your alarms. Then, the dining hall’s card reader had the audacity to look at your student ID like it was written in crayon, leaving you to scavenge through your bag for exact change like a Victorian orphan. And now this.

You weave through the crowd of freshmen congregating outside the Student Union like they've never seen stairs before, your thermos of room-temperature coffee sloshing dangerously close to the lid. The wind whips a forgotten syllabus past your feet as you cut across the grass (sorry, campus maintenance), taking the "shortcut" that everyone pretends they don't use. You can practically hear the landscaping team groaning somewhere, shaking their heads at the worn-down dirt trail you and a thousand other students have carved into their perfect lawn.

Gampel Pavilion looms ahead, all glass and steel and architectural hubris. The morning sun hits it at an angle that makes it look like it's on fire, which feels appropriate given your current state of mild panic. You've spent so many hours in this building that the security guard, Mike, doesn't even look up from his crossword puzzle anymore when you scan your ID.

"Running late?" he calls out as you blast past his desk.

"What gave it away?" you shout back, already halfway to the elevators. Your sneakers squeak against the polished floors, leaving behind a faint trail of panic and shame— but most importantly, dirt.

The ancient LED display above the elevator shows it's on the third floor. You slam the up button approximately forty-seven times, as if that's ever made an elevator move faster in the history of vertical transportation.

"Come on, come on," you mutter, shifting your weight between feet like you're doing some demented speed-skating warm-up. Your laptop bag keeps sliding off your shoulder, and you're pretty sure your hair looks like you styled it in a wind tunnel. A strand falls into your eyes, and you blow it away with a frustrated huff. Everything about you screams disaster, and yet the elevator couldn’t care less.

The elevator dings. The doors slide open with all the urgency of a DMV employee on a Friday afternoon.

And there she is.

Paige Bueckers is leaning against the back wall of the elevator, one foot propped up behind her, looking like she just stepped out of a Nike ad. Her practice uniform is pristine, her blonde hair pulled back in a perfect ponytail that somehow hasn't gotten the memo about today's wind situation. She's got AirPods in, absently spinning a basketball between her hands like it's an extension of her body.

Your brain short-circuits.

Time seems to slow down as you stand there, probably looking like a deer caught in very attractive headlights. The elevator dings again, threatening to close its doors on your moment of crisis.

Fuck it.

You lunge forward just as the doors start to close, practically diving into the elevator like you're trying to save a ball going out of bounds. Your coffee sloshes, your bag swings, and you nearly face-plant into the corner.

Paige pulls out one AirPod, her eyebrows raised so high they might achieve orbit. "Nice entrance."

You straighten up, trying to salvage whatever dignity might be hiding in the corners of this elevator. "Thanks, I've been practicing."

The elevator starts its ascent with a concerning rattle that definitely wasn't part of the original design. You adjust your bag for the hundredth time, very aware that you probably look like you just lost a fight with a leaf blower. Meanwhile, Paige keeps spinning that damn basketball, the soft thump-thump of it between her hands matching rhythm with your still-racing heart.

Nine floors to go. Eight if your advisor hasn't moved offices again after the Great Coffee Incident of last semester.

You can handle this. You're an adult. A slightly disheveled, possibly caffeine-deprived adult, but still. Just because you're sharing an elevator with the university's basketball goddess doesn't mean you need to—

The lights flicker once. Twice.

The elevator shudders like it's having an existential crisis.

Then everything stops.

The emergency lights kick in, bathing everything in a red glow that makes Paige look like she's starring in a very stylish apocalypse movie. The basketball stops spinning.

"Well," she says, tucking the ball under her arm and giving you a smile that definitely doesn't make your stomach flip. "Looks like the universe has other plans for us this morning."

You look at your phone: 9:14 AM.

Your advisor is going to kill you.

"Oh fuck, fuck, fuck," you mutter, jabbing at the emergency call button like it personally offended you. "This isn't happening. This can't be happening."

The little red light blinks back at you, mocking your entire existence, as if to say, yeah, good luck with that, idiot. You hit the button again, harder this time, because maybe the elevator just needs some aggressive encouragement.

"I don't think that's helping," Paige says, watching you with a mix of amusement and concern. She's still spinning that goddamn basketball, the rhythmic thump-thump now feeling less like a heartbeat and more like a countdown to your academic doom.

"Yeah? Well, neither are you," you snap, immediately regretting it. Great. Now you're trapped in an elevator AND you've just been rude to Paige fucking Bueckers. "Shit, sorry, I just—" You run both hands through your already catastrophic hair. "My advisor is going to crucify me. Like, actually crucify me. She's probably got a cross picked out and everything."

Paige catches the ball mid-spin. "Dr. Martinez?"

"How did you—"

"The only professor I know who actually might own a cross for student crucifixions." She tucks the ball under her arm. "She made one of our freshmen cry last week just by looking at her."

"That tracks." You slide down the wall opposite her, your legs finally giving up on the whole standing thing. "God, I can't believe this. I've got my entire thesis presentation on this laptop, three months of analytics data that I haven't backed up because I'm an idiot, and now I'm going to die in an elevator with—" You wave vaguely in her direction.

"With?" She raises an eyebrow, and you swear there's a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth.

"With UConn's basketball savior who's probably missing practice right now because the universe decided today was a great day for some cosmic practical joke." You let your head thunk back against the wall. "Coach Auriemma's probably already got a hit out on me."

Paige laughs, and the sound does something weird to your chest. "Nah, Coach is more of a 'make you run suicides until you puke' kind of guy. Much less paperwork than murder."

"Fantastic. So I'll die from academic execution AND athletic retribution. Perfect way to start a Tuesday."

"You always this dramatic before 9:30?" She's definitely smirking now.

"Only when I'm trapped in elevators with pretty girls who should be at practice."

The words are out before your brain can catch up with your mouth. Your eyes go wide, and you seriously consider trying to pry open the doors and jump down the shaft.

But Paige just grins, wide and dangerous. "Oh, so you think I'm pretty?"

"I think you're deflecting from the fact that we're stuck in a metal box that's older than both of us combined," you say, proud of how steady your voice comes out despite the internal screaming.

"And I think you're deflecting from the fact that you just called me pretty."

You pull out your phone again, desperate for a distraction. "No signal. Perfect. This is fine. Everything is fine."

"Could be worse," Paige says, stretching her legs out in front of her. Her feet almost reach where you're sitting, and you absolutely do not notice how long her legs are. "Could be stuck in here with Dr. Martinez."

That startles a laugh out of you. "Jesus, don't even joke about that. She'd probably make me defend my thesis right here."

"Yeah? What's it about?"

You look up from your phone to find her watching you with what appears to be genuine interest. "You really want to know?"

"Well," she gestures around the elevator, "it's not like I've got anywhere else to be."

You narrow your eyes. "If this is some kind of pity conversation—"

"It's not." She cuts you off, her voice surprisingly firm. "I'm actually curious. Plus, you look like you might spontaneously combust if you don't talk about something other than being stuck in here."

She's not wrong. Your leg has been bouncing non-stop since you sat down, and you're pretty sure you're about to wear a hole in your bottom lip from biting it.

"Fine," you say, setting your phone aside. "But remember, you asked for this. And if you fall asleep, I'm using that basketball as a pillow."

Paige's eyes light up with something that makes your stomach flip. "Deal."

"Okay, so you know how current basketball analytics are basically just glorified box scores?" You shift to face her properly, your earlier panic morphing into the kind of enthusiasm that usually makes people's eyes glaze over. "Like, sure, we can track points and assists and whatever, but that's just the obvious stuff."

"And there's more than the obvious stuff?" Paige asks, settling in like she's actually planning to follow your inevitably chaotic explanation.

"So much more." You pull your laptop out, balancing it on your crossed legs. "Like, imagine being able to track not just who made the shot, but all the little things that made that shot possible. The way players move without the ball, how defensive shifts create spaces that don't show up in any stat sheet.”

Your hands start moving as you talk, painting invisible patterns in the air. Paige has stopped spinning her basketball, her eyes following your gestures with an intensity that makes you warm all over.

"It's like..." You pause, trying to find the right words. "You know how in chess, sometimes the most important move isn't the one that takes the piece, but the three moves before that made it possible?"

She nods, leaning forward slightly. "Like a setup play."

"Exactly!" You're fully animated now, previous elevator crisis temporarily forgotten. "But current systems don't track that. They don't see how Player A moving left makes Player B's defender shift just enough that Player C can—"

The emergency speaker crackles to life, making you both jump.

"Hello? Anyone in there?" The voice sounds bored, like stuck elevators are just another Tuesday morning inconvenience.

Paige reaches over and hits the call button. "Yeah, we're here. Two people."

"Alright, we've got maintenance heading up. Should have you out in about fifteen minutes. Sit tight."

The speaker clicks off, leaving you both in that red-tinted silence again.

"Fifteen minutes," you groan, letting your head fall back against the wall. "Dr. Martinez is definitely going to have that cross ready."

"Hey," Paige says, and something in her voice makes you look at her. "Tell me more about your system. How do you track all those micro-movements?"

You blink at her. "You actually want to hear more?"

"Would I ask if I didn't?" She's got this soft half-smile that does dangerous things to your ability to think straight. "Plus, you get all..." she waves her hand vaguely, "sparkly when you talk about it."

"Sparkly?"

"Yeah, like you're lit up from the inside." She says it so casually, like she hasn't just made your heart do a full court press against your ribs.

You clear your throat, trying to remember how words work. "Right. Well, um, I've been working with the computer vision lab to develop these tracking algorithms..."

The next fifteen minutes dissolve into a blur of technical explanations and basketball theory. Paige asks surprisingly specific questions, and you try not to look too pleased every time she leans in closer to see something on your laptop screen.

When maintenance finally gets the elevator moving again, it feels too soon.

The doors open on the fourth floor – your floor – and you scramble to pack up your laptop, suddenly aware that you've spent the last twenty minutes word-vomiting about analytics to one of the best basketball players in the country.

"Thanks for, uh, keeping me from completely losing it," you say, standing awkwardly in the doorway. "And sorry about the whole..." you gesture vaguely at yourself, "chaos."

Paige stands too, and even in the normal lighting, she's unfairly pretty. "Chaos looks good on you."

Your brain short-circuits. "Can I get your number?"

The words tumble out before you can stop them, and you immediately want to crawl into the nearest trash can. But Paige just grins, that dangerous one that makes her look like she knows exactly what she's doing to you.

"Tell you what," she says, spinning the basketball on one finger because apparently she's physically incapable of not showing off. "Come to Friday's game. If you can spot one of those micro-interactions you were talking about..." She lets the ball roll down her arm and catches it smoothly. "Maybe you'll find out if I give my number to random girls I meet in elevators."

She backs into the elevator, maintaining eye contact until the doors close between you.

You stand there for a solid thirty seconds, staring at the brushed metal doors like they might reveal the secrets of the universe. Or at least explain how you went from having a mental breakdown about your advisor to what definitely felt like flirting with Paige Bueckers.

Your phone buzzes: another email from Dr. Martinez.

Meeting rescheduled to 2PM. Bring coffee. The good kind.

You look back at the elevator doors, then at your phone, then at the ceiling.

Looks like you're going to a basketball game on Friday.

The security guard at Gampel's student entrance looks at your ticket, then at you, then back at the ticket with the kind of suspicion usually reserved for people trying to use expired coupons at Target.

"This is— courtside," he says slowly, like maybe you don't understand what those words mean.

"Yeah, I, uh,” You shift your weight between feet, very aware of the growing line behind you. "I got it in an email?"

It comes out like a question because honestly, you're still not entirely sure this isn't some elaborate fever dream. The past three days have felt surreal, starting with Dr. Martinez actually smiling during your rescheduled meeting (turns out that fancy coffee shop downtown does make a difference) and ending with an email from [email protected] that made you choke on your morning cereal.

The security guard squints at his scanner like it's personally offending him. "These are usually reserved for—"

"Is there a problem?" A familiar voice cuts through the growing awkwardness, and you turn to find Mike, your elevator-lobby guardian angel, approaching with his signature "I've seen too much student nonsense" expression.

"Got a courtside ticket here, but—"

"Oh, yeah," Mike says, shooting you a look that's somewhere between amused and knowing. "This one's good. Let 'em through."

You mouth a 'thank you' as you pass, and he just shakes his head, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like "kids these days" under his breath.

The student section is already packed, a sea of navy and white that ripples with pre-game energy. But your ticket directs you past all that, down, down, down the steps until you're so close to the court you can smell the fresh polish on the hardwood.

"This isn't happening," you mutter to yourself, dropping into your assigned seat—which is literally close enough to high-five players coming off the court. "This is fine. Everything is fine. You're just casually sitting courtside at a sold-out game because you got trapped in an elevator and word-vomited about basketball analytics for twenty minutes. Totally normal Friday night."

The woman next to you, wearing what looks like several hundred dollars worth of UConn gear, gives you a concerned side-eye.

"Sorry," you say, slinking lower in your seat. "I talk to myself when I'm having an existential crisis."

She just nods and shifts slightly away, which, fair.

The arena fills up quickly, the ambient noise growing from a buzz to a roar. You try to look casual, like you totally belong here and didn't spend forty-five minutes earlier having a breakdown about what to wear to a basketball game when you're sitting close enough to be on TV. (You'd finally settled on jeans and a UConn hoodie, figuring if you're going to have a gay panic on national television, you might as well be comfortable.)

The teams come out for warm-ups, and your heart definitely doesn't skip when you spot number 5 leading the layup line. Paige moves like she's got some sort of cheat code for gravity, each motion fluid and precise. She's got her game face on, all focused intensity and practiced routine, but then—

She catches your eye as she circles back to the line, and her serious expression cracks just enough to let through a hint of that dangerous grin from the elevator.

"Oh, I am so screwed," you breathe, and the woman next to you shifts another inch away.

The game itself is a blur of motion and noise. You try to focus on analyzing plays like you promised, looking for those micro-interactions you'd rambled about, but it's hard to think strategically when Paige keeps making passes that shouldn't be physically possible. Your laptop's probably having a stroke trying to track all these movements.

By halftime, UConn's up by twelve, and you've filled three pages of your Notes app with what started as technical observations but has devolved into increasingly incoherent capslock about various impressive plays. The latest note just says "HOW DID SHE EVEN SEE THAT CUTTING GUARD??? PHYSICS???? HELP????"

"Nice analysis."

You nearly drop your phone. Paige is right there, pretending to adjust her shoes by the bench but clearly smirking in your direction.

"I'm being professionally thorough," you whisper-hiss back, trying to ignore how your pulse is doing full-court sprints.

"Uh huh." She stands up, heading back to the huddle, but not before adding, "You look good in UConn blue, by the way."

You spend the entire third quarter trying to remember how to breathe normally.

The fourth quarter is when you see it—one of those perfect setup plays you'd theorized about. Paige moves left, drawing her defender, while simultaneously nodding almost imperceptibly to her teammate. The slight movement causes a chain reaction: the defense shifts, creating a gap that shouldn't exist, and suddenly there's a perfect passing lane that materializes out of seemingly nowhere. The ball flows through it like water finding the path of least resistance, resulting in an easy layup that looks simple but was actually three moves in the making.

You're on your feet before you realize it, pointing and probably looking deranged. "That! That's exactly what I was talking about! The head fake was the trigger but it wasn't even about the—" You cut yourself off, becoming aware that several people are staring at you, including the woman next to you who's now practically in the next seat over.

As the final buzzer sounds (UConn by 18), your phone buzzes with a new email.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Nice catch

Body: 617-555-0147

PS - Your "professional analysis" face is reaaaaallly cute. Even from ten feet away.

You stare at your phone long enough that the arena starts to empty around you, afraid that if you look away the numbers might disappear like some basketball Cinderella story. The woman next to you finally gets up, edging past with the kind of caution usually reserved for wild animals.

"Sorry about all the,” you gesture vaguely at yourself.

She just pats your shoulder with grandmotherly sympathy. "Honey, I've been watching basketball for forty years, and I've never seen someone have a gay awakening quite that enthusiastically. Good luck with number five."

You're still sputtering when she disappears up the stairs, leaving you alone with a phone number and the distinct feeling that the universe is either laughing at you or playing matchmaker.

Possibly both.

Nah— Definitely both.

After what feels like an eternity of staring at your phone like it holds the secrets of the universe, your bladder kindly reminds you that you stress-drank an entire large iced coffee before the game. Fucking wonderful. You glance at the concourse—and immediately regret every life choice that led to this moment.

The bathroom line snakes around the corner like some kind of hydra-headed monster, full of people who clearly had the same brilliant beverage ideas you did. You briefly consider just holding it and dealing with the consequences later, but your body has other plans.

"This is karma," you mutter, taking your place at the end of the line. "This is definitely karma for all those times I made fun of people waiting in long bathroom lines."

The girl in front of you snorts. "If it helps, I'm pretty sure we're all suffering from the same coffee-based poor judgment."

Twenty minutes. Twenty. Entire. Minutes.

You've gone through every social media app twice, responded to three emails you've been avoiding, and played enough Candy Crush to rot your remaining brain cells by the time you finally emerge from the bathroom. The arena is practically empty now, just cleaning crew and a few lingering fans.

Your phone feels heavy in your pocket, that number burning a hole in your mind. You pull it out, staring at the digits like they might rearrange themselves into instructions on how to text your elevator-meet-cute crush without sounding like a complete disaster.

To: 617-555-0147

Hey, this is your favorite elevator analytics nerd. Great game tonight. That fourth-quarter setup play was chef's kiss

You hit send before you can overthink it, then immediately regret every word choice. Chef's kiss? Really? Maybe if you run fast enough, you can catch up to your dignity before it leaves the building entirely.

Your phone buzzes before you can fully commit to your shame spiral.

From: Paige 🏀

some of us are heading to murphy's for dirty shirleys if you want to continue your "professional analysis" in person? promise there won't be any elevators involved

You nearly trip over your own feet.

Will there be a formal presentation required? Should I prepare slides?

just your sparkling personality and maybe an explanation of how you knew that play was coming before I did 😉

Bold of you to assume I wasn't just gesturing wildly at a mosquito

we both know you're too much of a basketball nerd for that. meet you there in 20?

You pause at the arena exit, looking down at your very casual, very not-prepared-to-go-out outfit. But then again, when has anything about this situation been normal?

Your eyes shoot back to your phone and your frantic typing begins once again.

Only if you promise to explain how that behind-the-back pass in the third quarter didn't break several laws of physics

deal. and hey?

Yeah?

the hoodie really does look good on you

Your stomach shoots to your ass and you stand there grinning at your phone like an idiot until Mike, doing his final security rounds, walks by and shakes his head.

"Don't stay out too late, kid," he calls over his shoulder. "These love stories always get complicated when they start in elevators."

"That was literally ONE MOVIE," you shout after him, but he just waves without turning around.

You look down at your phone one more time, then up at the now-empty arena, and can't help but laugh. Somehow, a broken elevator, an understanding security guard, and a basketball player with a dangerous grin have turned your disaster of a week into whatever this is.

Time to find out if Dirty Shirleys taste better when you're sharing them with a girl who can bend physics on a basketball court.

Murphy's is exactly what would happen if a sports bar had a baby with a college town dive and raised it on a strict diet of neon signs and questionable decor choices. The walls are plastered with enough UConn memorabilia to fill a museum, if museums were into collecting signed napkins and mysteriously stained jerseys.

Your stomach is doing Olympic-level gymnastics as you push open the door, immediately hit by the smell of mozzarella sticks and what you really hope is just decades of spilled beer. The place is packed with post-game energy, and you're pretty sure your heart stops completely when you spot Paige at a corner booth, still in her game-day warmups because apparently she just casually walks around looking like a Nike ad.

"Analytics nerd!" she calls out, waving you over with that stupid grin that makes your brain cells commit mass suicide. "We saved you a seat!"

The 'we' turns out to be a collection of players who could probably stack on top of each other and touch the moon. You slide into the only open spot—right next to Paige, because the universe is clearly not done testing your ability to form coherent sentences today.

"Everyone, this is the elevator girl who knows more about our plays than we do," Paige announces, and your face goes hot enough to fry an egg. "Elevator girl, this is everyone."

"I have a name, you know," you manage, trying to ignore how her shoulder is pressed against yours in the crowded booth.

"Yeah, but 'elevator girl' has a better ring to it," she says, sliding a violently pink drink your way. "Plus, it's technically accurate."

"So is 'basketball menace' but you don't see me—" Your mouth snaps shut as her teammates start cackling.

"Oh, I like this one," says a girl you recognize as KK Arnold, grinning like she just got early Christmas. "She's got bite."

"She's got analytics," Paige corrects, but she's looking at you with something that makes your stomach relocate to somewhere in the general vicinity of Jupiter. "Speaking of which, you never did tell me how you caught that play coming."

You take a long sip of your Dirty Shirley to buy time, immediately regretting it when the sugar content threatens to give you instant cavities. "Holy shit, what's in this? Pure pixie stick powder?"

"Don't deflect," Paige says, poking your side. "We've got a whole team of analysts and none of them caught it. So spill."

"Fine, but only because you bought me diabetes in a glass." You shift to face her, accidentally-on-purpose letting your knee rest against hers under the table. "It was your head."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "My head?"

"You've got this tell," you say, getting into it now because apparently basketball analysis is your ideal flirting language. "This tiny little head tilt you do when you're setting up something sneaky. Like a cat about to knock something off a table, but make it basketball."

The entire table goes quiet, then erupts in laughter.

"She's got you there, P," Ice wheezes. "You do look like a menacing cat sometimes!"

Paige is staring at you with a mix of indignation and something else that makes your chest feel too small for your heart. "I do not have a cat tell."

"You absolutely do," you say, emboldened by sugar and the way her eyes keep dropping to your lips. "It's actually kind of cu—"

"SHOTS!" someone yells, and suddenly there's a tray of something alarmingly blue being passed around.

"Oh god," you mutter, watching the liquid slosh ominously. "Is this what happens when a Smurf dies?"

Paige nearly chokes on her drink. "That's terrible!"

"Just like these shots are about to be?"

She leans in close—too close, definitely too close for your remaining brain cells to function—and whispers, "Good thing I like terrible jokes."

Your stomach shoots to your ass (and possibly into another dimension) as she pulls back with a wink that should be illegal in at least forty-eight states.

"I hate you," you inform her, grabbing one of the Smurf funeral shots because if you're going to have a gay crisis in a college bar, you might as well commit fully.

"No you don't," she says with absolute certainty, and the worst part is she's right.

You really, really don't.

The night dissolves into a blur of increasingly ridiculous drinks (who knew they made something called a "Husky Howl"?), basketball stories that get more elaborate with each round, and Paige's thigh pressed warm against yours under the table. You learn that she stress-bakes before big games, that she once tried to teach her dog to play basketball, and that when she really laughs—like, really laughs—she snorts a little and it's possibly the cutest thing you've ever seen.

At some point, Azzi starts drawing up plays on napkins with increasingly chaotic drink-fueled creativity. Aaliyah Edwards keeps stealing her pen to "fix" the defensive rotations, while Nika Mühl throws wadded-up straw wrappers at both of them, critiquing their "absolutely trash spacing."

"No, no, look," KK follows imaginary lines with her finger across the napkin, accidentally dragging it through a puddle of spilled Shirley Temple. "If we run this here, and then—" she grabs your arm— "you're the defense, okay? Stand up."

"I absolutely am not," you protest, but Paige is already pulling you up with that stupid grin that makes your knees forget how joints work.

"Come on, elevator girl," she teases, positioning you near the booth. "Show us those analytics skills in action."

"I hate all of you," you mutter, but you're laughing as KK tries to demonstrate some elaborate defensive scheme that mostly involves her spinning in circles while Aaliyah provides unhelpful commentary.

"Your footwork is trash, bestie," Aaliyah calls out, now using maraschino cherries to build what appears to be a scale model of the paint.

"YOUR footwork is trash," KK shoots back, then promptly trips over nothing.

"Ladies, ladies," Paige steps in, all faux seriousness undermined by the way she can't stop grinning. "Let a professional show you how it's done."

She moves behind you, hands settling lightly on your hips, and your brain immediately flatlines. "See, proper defensive stance is all about—"

"Get a fuckin' room!" Nika yells, launching another straw wrapper that hits Paige square in the forehead.

"Actually," Paige says close to your ear, and your stomach does approximately seventeen backflips, "I've got that new analytics setup at my apartment if you want to see it. You know, for research purposes."

You turn to face her, very aware that her hands haven't moved from your hips. "Research purposes?"

"Mhmm." That dangerous grin is back. "Purely academic, of course."

"Of course," you manage, trying to ignore the way your pulse is doing a full drumline routine.

"Oh my god," KK groans from the booth. "This is worse than when Aaliyah tried to flirt with that barista using coffee puns."

"Hey!" Aaliyah protests. "That was smooth!"

"You asked if she wanted to 'espresso' her feelings!"

"And now we're dating, so who's the real winner here?"

Paige rolls her eyes at their antics, but her thumbs are drawing small circles on your hips that are making it very hard to focus on anything else. "So? Want to help me with some late-night analysis?"

Your stomach shoots to your ass as you meet her eyes, finding them sparkling with something that definitely isn't just about basketball statistics. "I mean, it would be unprofessional to turn down a research opportunity..."

"GET OUT OF HERE," Azzi throws a cherry that sails completely wide of both of you. "Your gay panic is ruining my plays."

"Your plays were already ruined," Nika points out, helpfully redrawing the vodka-smudged X's and O's with what appears to be lip gloss.

Paige grabs her jacket with one hand and your hand with the other, tugging you toward the door. "Don't wait up, nerds!"

"USE PROTECTION!" Aubrey shouts after you, causing several nearby tables to choke on their drinks.

"I mean, analytics can be very dangerous," you say with mock seriousness as you step into the cool night air, very aware that Paige hasn't let go of your hand. "All those numbers flying around."

"Absolutely hazardous," she agrees, pulling you closer as you walk. "Better stick together. For safety."

"For safety," you repeat, hoping she can't feel your pulse racing where your fingers are intertwined. "And research."

"And research," she echoes, giving you that sidelong grin that makes your heart forget how to beat properly. "Though I should warn you..."

"Yeah?"

She stops under a streetlight, turning to face you with eyes that sparkle with mischief. "My elevator works perfectly fine."

Your laugh echoes off the empty street. "Damn. There goes my backup plan."

"I'm sure we can find other ways to get stuck together," she says, and your stomach relocates somewhere in the general vicinity of Mars.

As you follow her down the quiet streets of Storrs, your joined hands swinging between you, you make a mental note to buy Mike the biggest coffee gift card you can afford.

Broken elevators might just be your new favorite thing.

Paige's apartment is exactly what you'd expect from someone who's somehow both a basketball prodigy and a complete dork—there's a literal trophy shelf right next to a collection of Star Wars Funko Pops, and her UConn jersey hangs framed above what appears to be a very elaborate gaming setup.

"Nice lightsaber," you say, nodding to the collector's edition propped in the corner.

"Nice deflection from how your hands are shaking," she shoots back, shrugging off her jacket.

"It's cold outside!"

"Uh huh." She disappears into the kitchen, and you hear cabinets opening. "Want some hot chocolate? I promise it's better than those nuclear waste shots Aubrey kept ordering."

Your stomach does a weird flip at how domestic this feels. "Only if you have—"

"Mini marshmallows and whipped cream? What kind of monster do you think I am?"

You follow her voice to find her already pulling out mugs, one of which has "Ball is Life" written in what appears to be glitter pen. "The kind that owns a bedazzled basketball mug?"

"First of all, Nika made this for my birthday and it's a masterpiece," she says, grabbing milk from the fridge. "Second of all, you're just jealous of my sophisticated taste."

"Oh, absolutely. Nothing says sophistication like..." you pick up a container from the counter, "unicorn hot chocolate mix?"

She snatches it back, fighting a grin. "It's limited edition!"

"Of course, my mistake. Clearly I'm in the presence of a fine dining connoisseur."

The kitchen fills with the smell of chocolate as she heats the milk, and you try not to stare at how she's rolled up her sleeves, forearms on full display as she stirs. You fail miserably.

"See something you like?" she asks without turning around, because apparently she has eyes in the back of her head.

"Just admiring your hot chocolate technique."

"My technique is excellent, thank you very much." She turns, holding up a can of whipped cream with a dangerous glint in her eye. "Want to see?"

Your throat goes dry. "I feel like this is a trap."

"Maybe." She takes a step closer, and your back hits the counter. "But you've been analyzing my moves all night. Shouldn't I get a turn?"

You're about to say something witty—really, you are—but then she's shaking the whipped cream can and all your brain cells collectively abandon ship.

"Don't you dare—"

The words are barely out before she's spraying whipped cream directly at your face. You squeal (not your proudest moment) and grab for the can, resulting in a brief wrestling match that ends with cream basically everywhere except in the actual mugs.

"You're such a menace!" you gasp, trying to wipe cream off your nose while she cackles.

"Says the girl who called me out on my head tilt in front of my whole team!"

"That's different! That was professional analysis!"

"Oh yeah?" She steps closer, effectively pinning you against the counter. "Analyze this."

Your heart stops as she reaches up, thumb gently wiping whipped cream from the corner of your mouth. Time seems to freeze, your entire world narrowing to that point of contact and the way her eyes drop to your lips.

"Your technique could use some work," you manage to whisper, and she laughs—that real laugh, with the little snort that makes your chest feel too small for your heart.

"Maybe you should show me how it's done then."

Your stomach shoots through the floor as you reach up, threading your fingers through her hair (definitely getting whipped cream in it but whatever), and pull her down to meet you.

She tastes like chocolate and whipped cream and something uniquely her, and you can feel her smile against your lips as she wraps her arms around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.

"How's that for technique?" you murmur when you finally break apart, both breathing a bit harder.

"Hmm." She pretends to consider it, but her eyes are sparkling and her hands are still firmly on your waist. "Might need more data to make a proper analysis."

"Oh my god, you're actually worse than me with the nerd references."

"You like it," she says with absolute certainty, leaning in again.

"Maybe," you concede against her lips. "But only because you're cute when you're being smug."

She pulls back just enough to give you that dangerous grin that started this whole thing. "Just cute?"

"And modest, clearly."

"I'll show you modest," she growls, and then she's kissing you again, deeper this time, backing you further against the counter until you're pretty sure your soul leaves your body entirely.

The hot chocolate goes cold on the counter,

The hot chocolate goes cold on the counter, forgotten in the haze of warm laughter and sticky fingers. At some point, her lips found their way back to yours, sweet and a little messy, and now you’re on her couch, knees bumping against hers as you both settle into an almost tentative rhythm. She pulls back just slightly, her forehead resting against yours, and her breath fans across your lips in short, uneven bursts.

“You’re trouble,” she whispers, her voice low and a little breathless, her hands sliding up your arms to rest on your shoulders, thumbs brushing the curve of your collarbone.

“You like trouble,” you fire back, and there’s just enough of a spark in your tone to make her grin.

“I really do,” she admits, and before you can respond, her lips are on yours again, slower this time, deliberate. It’s not the playful teasing from before—it’s something heavier, something that makes your heart stutter in your chest and your hands curl into the soft fabric of her sweatshirt.

Her fingers tangle in your hair as she shifts, nudging you gently until your back hits the cushions. She hovers above you, her knees bracketing your thighs, her ponytail spilling over one shoulder as she leans down to kiss you again. This time, it’s a little rougher, her teeth catching on your bottom lip just enough to make you gasp, and the sound seems to light something in her eyes.

“You’re killing me,” you murmur against her mouth, and she pulls back just enough to look at you, her grin sharper now.

“Good,” she says simply, and her hands are on the hem of your hoodie, tugging it up. “This okay?”

You nod, swallowing hard, and she doesn’t wait for a second invitation. The hoodie’s off in a flash, tossed somewhere behind the couch, and her eyes sweep over you like she’s committing every inch to memory. Her hands are warm as they skim over your sides, fingertips brushing against bare skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

“You’re gorgeous,” she says softly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and the way she says it makes you believe her, even with your heart trying to beat its way out of your chest.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you manage, trying to sound casual even as she leans back down, her lips finding the curve of your jaw and then lower, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to your neck. Your hands find her waist, and you can feel the strength of her beneath the soft cotton of her sweatshirt, her muscles flexing slightly as she shifts against you.

“Should we,” she starts, her voice trailing off as she pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. There’s a question there, unspoken but clear, and you answer it by pulling her back down, your lips crashing into hers with more urgency than before.

“Definitely,” you say between kisses, and that’s all the encouragement she needs.

Her sweatshirt joins your hoodie somewhere on the floor, and her hands are everywhere—your waist, your thighs, the curve of your hip. It’s all a blur of heat and soft laughter and the kind of clumsy, sweet desperation that only comes with two people trying to figure out how they fit together.

The couch is too small, the angles all wrong, and at some point, she pulls back just enough to breathe, “Bed?”

You nod, and then she’s pulling you to your feet, her hand sliding down to lace her fingers with yours as she leads you toward her room. There’s something about the way she looks back at you, her grin soft and a little nervous, that makes your heart ache in the best way.

The moment you’re through the door, she’s on you again, her hands sliding up your back as she kisses you like she’s trying to memorize every curve, every shiver. The bed is soft beneath you, and her weight is solid and warm as she follows you down, her knee nudging between yours as she leans over you.

“You’re really good at this whole ‘research’ thing,” you tease, and she laughs against your collarbone, the sound low and husky and so incredibly her.

“Don’t distract me,” she murmurs, and her hands are on you again, her touch firm and sure and just a little shaky in a way that makes your chest swell with affection.

And when she kisses you again, slow and deep, you think, for the first time all week, that maybe the universe actually got something right.

The mattress dips under her weight as Paige pulls back just enough to take you in, her hair falling loose from her ponytail, framing her face in a way that feels criminally unfair. There’s a glint in her eye now, something teasing but focused, like she’s about to run the most calculated play of her life.

“You look nervous,” she says, her lips curling into that sharp grin that’s been undoing you all night.

“I’m not nervous,” you lie, though your voice cracks on the last syllable like your body’s calling you out.

She chuckles, low and throaty, and leans down, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Good. Because I’m about to ruin you, and I don’t need you overthinking it.”

Before you can process what she said, she’s sliding down your body with deliberate slowness, her hands dragging over your sides, down your hips, and hooking around the waistband of your leggings. She raises an eyebrow, silently asking permission, and the second you nod, she pulls them down in one fluid motion, leaving you feeling bare and achingly vulnerable.

“Holy shit,” Paige mutters under her breath, her eyes locked on you like she’s just stumbled on a masterpiece at an art museum. Her hands settle on your thighs, thumbs tracing small circles that send shivers racing up your spine. “You’re so—” She stops, shakes her head, and looks up at you with that cocky grin. “Nah, I’m gonna show you instead of telling you.”

Her lips press to the inside of your knee, soft at first, but as she moves higher, her kisses grow hungrier, her teeth grazing your skin just enough to leave you squirming.

“Paige,” you breathe, your voice barely more than a whisper, but she just hums against your thigh like she’s savoring her favorite meal.

“Patience,” she murmurs, her breath hot against your skin as she shifts lower. “You’re not going anywhere, are you?”

Your response gets caught in your throat as her mouth finally finds you, and every coherent thought you’ve ever had promptly evaporates. Her tongue moves with the same precision she has on the court, all calculated angles and devastating accuracy, and it’s like she’s figured out exactly how to dismantle you.

“Fuck—Paige—” Your hips jerk involuntarily, but her hands hold you steady, her grip firm enough to keep you grounded while her mouth does the opposite.

She pulls back just enough to look up at you, her lips glistening, and there’s a wicked glint in her eye that makes your stomach drop in the best way. “Hang tight,” she says, reaching toward the nightstand.

“What are you—oh my God,” you gasp as she pulls out a vibrator, the sleek little device gleaming like it was made for moments like this.

Paige winks, all confidence and mischief, as she turns it on, the low hum filling the room. “You trust me, right?”

You nod, because at this point, you’d probably trust her to lead you into a cult if it meant feeling like this.

“Good.” She leans back down, her mouth finding you again just as the vibrator presses against you, and the combination is so overwhelming it almost knocks the breath out of you.

Your hands fly to her hair, tugging as the vibrations send shocks of pleasure racing through your body, and her tongue works in tandem, teasing and relentless. It’s too much and not enough all at once, and you can feel yourself unraveling, piece by piece, with every calculated movement.

“Paige, I—” Your words dissolve into a moan that would make your ancestors weep, your thighs trembling as she doubles down, her grip on you tightening.

“That’s it,” she murmurs against you, her voice low and full of something that sounds dangerously like pride. “Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”

And just like that, you do. The orgasm rips through you like a tidal wave, leaving you gasping and clutching at the sheets as your vision whites out. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you swear you hear yourself speaking in tongues.

Paige doesn’t stop until your legs are twitching, and even then, she presses one last kiss to your inner thigh before sitting back with the most self-satisfied grin you’ve ever seen.

“Did I just—” You pause, catching your breath, your voice hoarse. “Did I just have an exorcism?”

Paige laughs, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “If you did, I think I’m gonna need to start charging for holy services.”

“Fuck you,” you say weakly, though the way you’re still grinning probably ruins the effect.

She crawls back up to you, her body warm and solid as she settles next to you, her arm slinging over your waist. “Oh, you’re definitely going to want to do that next,” she teases, pressing a kiss to your temple.

And just like that, you’re laughing, still breathless and a little wrecked, but somehow more at ease than you’ve felt in ages. Paige grins down at you, smug but soft, and you think, maybe, that this is exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Sometimes the best love stories start with a malfunction.

Just don't tell Mike. He's smug enough already.

The End

1K notes · View notes

kiwriteswords · 6 months ago

Text

If put to the test, would you step back from the line of fire?

AN: This got out of hand!! But kinda became one of my favorite stories I have written! I was up WAY too late today and in between meetings at work finished it, so I hope you enjoy it!! Let me know what you think!

Other Writing | Ao3

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Female!Reader

Word Count: 19k

Rating: Mature

Tags/TW: canon-typical themes, angst, fluff, injuries, fade-to-black smut, sexual tension, banters, enemies-to-lovers, suggestive comments.

Summary: New to the BAU, you quickly find yourself at odds with the unit's stoic leader, Aaron Hotchner. What starts as a clash of wills and a battle of stubbornness soon transforms into a connection neither of you anticipated. With each case you work, your fire-fueled banter and undeniable tension grow, challenging your carefully constructed walls. As you both navigate the line between professional rivals and something more, you're forced to confront the truth you’ve been hiding—from each other and yourselves. In a world where control is your armor, letting someone in could be the biggest risk you've ever taken.

The bullpen buzzed with the usual energy as you made your way to your desk, the new addition to the BAU. You knew the reputation Aaron Hotchner held in the unit: stoic, precise, and tough on new recruits—especially women. You’d heard the stories from the team about how he handled Emily's arrival and Jordan’s brief stint. You were determined not to let him rattle you.

But what you didn't expect was how quickly the two of you would clash.

"Agent Y/L/N," Hotch called out from his office, barely looking up from his paperwork. "I need that report on the recent case by the end of the hour. I hope you understand the urgency of deadlines here."

"I've been doing this job for a while, Hotchner," you replied with a clipped tone. "I don’t need a reminder on how to meet deadlines."

His eyes narrowed slightly, and a hint of a smirk played at the corner of his lips. "Good. Let’s see if your actions match your confidence."

The tension between you two was palpable, and the rest of the team took notice almost immediately.

"They fight like an old married couple," Derek muttered under his breath, nudging Emily as the two of you clashed in yet another heated debate. There was a flicker of surprise in his eyes, watching you stand toe-to-toe with Hotch—a rare sight, considering most people didn't dare to challenge his authority so openly.

"She's got guts," Emily said, raising her eyebrows in amusement. "I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone go head-to-head with Hotch like that. And he's actually... engaging?"

Derek let out a low chuckle. "Oh, he's definitely engaging. Usually, he shuts people down in seconds flat, but with her? He’s giving as good as he gets."

Emily grinned, shaking her head in disbelief. "Think they realize they're basically the same person?"

"Not a chance," Derek replied with a smirk. "They’re too stubborn to see it. And honestly, I’m not sure I want to be around when they do."

The rest of the team exchanged amused, almost disbelieving glances. It was clear they’d never seen Hotch behave like this before. He wasn't just tolerating your defiance; he seemed almost... entertained by it, as if he was finally facing someone who could match his intensity and push back just as hard.

And while you both seemed entirely focused on proving the other wrong, the team couldn’t help but notice the way Hotch's lips twitched ever so slightly when you fired back at him—a hint of a smile that suggested he was enjoying the sparring far more than he let on.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The case had taken a toll on everyone. It was late, the team was exhausted, and emotions were running high. As you laid out your plan to corner the unsub at the next location, Hotch cut you off mid-sentence.

"No, that won't work," he said firmly, his voice colder than usual. "You're making assumptions without enough evidence to back them up. We need to think this through logically."

You clenched your jaw, trying to keep your temper in check. "I am thinking logically, Hotchner. If we don't act fast, we'll lose any chance we have of catching this guy before he strikes again. We have to take the risk."

"And that's exactly the problem," he snapped, his eyes boring into yours. "You're too impulsive. This job isn’t about charging in headfirst without a solid plan."

Your hands balled into fists at your sides, the frustration bubbling over. "I'm not impulsive! I’m trying to save lives, which, correct me if I’m wrong, is the point of this whole job. But you wouldn't know anything about taking risks, would you, Hotch? You always play it safe, no matter what it costs."

A flash of anger crossed his face, and he took a step closer, his voice lowering to a dangerously calm tone. "You don’t know a damn thing about what it costs, Y/L/N. I’m not playing it safe; I’m making sure my team comes home alive. Something you might want to consider before throwing yourself into situations you’re not ready for."

The team watched in stunned silence. No one dared to intervene as you and Hotch stared each other down, both too stubborn to back down. They were used to disagreements in the field, but this level of intensity was something new—even for Hotch.

"I’m not some rookie you can bully into submission," you said, voice shaking with barely restrained fury. "I’m here because I’m damn good at what I do. And maybe if you took your head out of your own ego for two seconds, you’d see that."

Hotch's jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might actually shout back. But instead, he spoke in that calm, unnervingly quiet voice of his. "The minute your 'damn good' plan puts any of my team at risk, I’ll pull you off this case so fast, you won’t know what hit you."

The team exchanged uneasy glances. It was clear this wasn’t just about the case—it was about control, about power, and about two people who couldn’t stand the fact that they met their match in each other.

As you turned on your heel to walk away, you couldn’t help but notice the looks on the faces of your colleagues. They weren't just surprised by how fiercely you stood up to Hotch—they were stunned that he actually seemed to respect you more for it.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The case wrapped up successfully, just as you had predicted. Your plan, the one Hotch had so firmly shot down, ended up being the key to cornering the unsub. It wasn’t without risks, but in the end, it worked, and no one could argue with the results.

As the team gathered their gear, Hotch remained silent, his face stoic as always, though there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—a mix of reluctant admiration and irritation that he couldn’t quite mask.

Rossi, ever the perceptive one, sidled up to Hotch with a knowing smile. "You know, Aaron," he said, his tone dripping with amusement, "it wouldn’t kill you to admit when you’re wrong. I mean, it's not every day someone out-thinks the great Aaron Hotchner."

Hotch shot Rossi a pointed look, his jaw tightening just slightly. "I wasn’t wrong," he muttered defensively. "I was... cautious."

Rossi let out a chuckle, shaking his head. "Cautious? Is that what we’re calling it now?" He cast a glance in your direction, where you stood a little ways off, giving instructions to a local officer. "She was right, you know. And from the look on your face, I'd say you know it too."

Hotch's gaze flicked back to you, the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at his lips before he quickly wiped it away. "She was lucky," he said, more to himself than to Rossi, as if trying to convince himself of that fact.

Rossi raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Right. Lucky.”

Hotch opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it. Instead, he gave a noncommittal grunt and turned his attention back to his paperwork, his expression a mask of irritation mixed with something that looked suspiciously like pride.

"You’re a tough nut to crack," Rossi said, his tone softer now, more serious. "But maybe that’s exactly why she’s the perfect match for you."

Hotch shot Rossi a glare, but it lacked its usual sharpness. "Don’t start, Rossi," he warned, though there was no real heat in his voice.

Rossi simply laughed, clapping Hotch on the shoulder. "Just saying, my friend. Sooner or later, you might want to let that wall of yours come down—before she knocks it down for you."

As Rossi walked away, Hotch allowed himself one last glance in your direction. He'd never admit it out loud, but in that moment, he couldn't help but feel a grudging respect for you—along with a nagging realization that maybe, just maybe, this wasn't the last time you'd get under his skin.

But he wasn't ready to give you the satisfaction of knowing that. Not yet.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Weeks passed, and while your clashes with Hotch became routine, you couldn't deny that you had developed a strange rhythm with him. You knew each other’s moves like pieces on a chessboard—always anticipating, always one step ahead.

Despite your frequent arguments, there was a mutual respect building beneath the surface that neither of you wanted to acknowledge.

During a late-night case discussion, Hotch had his arms crossed, leaning against the table. "Your theory is flawed," he said, his voice laced with skepticism.

You squared your shoulders, refusing to back down. "It’s not flawed. You’re just too stubborn to admit that my way might actually work."

Hotch raised an eyebrow, his eyes glinting with a challenge. "If I admit you're right, does that mean you'll stop trying to strangle me in these meetings?"

Your lips twisted into a smirk. "Don't flatter yourself, Hotchner. If I ever strangle you, it’ll be out of pure frustration."

Hotch leaned in, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "Oh, Y/N, I didn’t know you were into that."

You blinked in surprise, your cheeks heating slightly at his boldness, but you quickly recovered. "Only if it shuts you up," you shot back, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickened.

The rest of the team watched from a distance, exchanging amused glances. They could see the crackling energy between you two, even if you both stubbornly refused to acknowledge it.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The air between you and Hotch was still charged, the underlying tension refusing to fade. The rest of the team had taken to watching your interactions like a live sport—wondering who would land the next verbal blow.

You were in the middle of the bullpen, poring over case files, when Hotch approached, his expression as stern as ever. "Y/L/N," he said, his tone clipped and professional, "I need your analysis on the suspect's profile by end of day. And make sure it’s thorough this time."

You looked up, eyebrow arched. "Oh, don’t worry, Hotchner. I’ll make it as ‘thorough’ as you like," you replied, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "Wouldn’t want you to have to redo it when you realize I was right all along."

Hotch’s eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of irritation sparking to life. "This isn’t a contest, Y/L/N. It’s about accuracy and professionalism—two things you might want to brush up on."

You stood up, matching his gaze with equal intensity. "And maybe if you stopped micromanaging every move I make, you’d see that I know exactly what I’m doing."

The tension between you was thick enough to cut with a knife, both of you glaring at each other like two opposing forces locked in an endless struggle. The bullpen went silent, eyes darting between the two of you in surprise at how openly you challenged him—again.

Hotch opened his mouth to retort, but then he paused, his gaze softening just a fraction. He seemed to consider his next words carefully, as if he knew he was about to cross a line he wasn’t ready to cross.

"You know," he said slowly, his voice dangerously calm, "for someone who claims to know what they're doing, you spend a lot of time second-guessing your decisions. Almost like you’re afraid to be wrong."

You bristled, feeling the sting of his words hit a little too close to home. "I’m not afraid to be wrong," you shot back, eyes blazing with defiance. "I’m just not used to being treated like an amateur by someone who refuses to admit when they’re outmatched."

Hotch’s lips twitched, a brief flash of something resembling a smile crossing his face before he quickly hid it. "Outmatched? By you?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "If that’s what keeps you motivated, Agent Y/L/N, then by all means—keep believing it."

Before you could fire back, Rossi’s voice broke through the tension. "You two done sparring, or should we set up a ring in the conference room?" he quipped, amusement dancing in his eyes.

The rest of the team chuckled, clearly entertained by the ongoing battle between you and Hotch. Despite their jokes, they were all aware that there was something different about the way Hotch responded to you—how he engaged with you in a way he didn’t with anyone else.

"You know," Morgan added with a grin, "most people don’t stand up to Hotch like that. You must really like getting on his bad side."

"She’s practically setting up camp there," Garcia chimed in with a wink. "It’s like their own twisted form of bonding."

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. "Please. If I ever start bonding with Hotchner, you have my permission to stage an intervention."

Hotch cleared his throat, shooting the team a look that was more amused than annoyed. "Alright, that's enough," he said, but there was a softness to his tone that wasn't there before, a hint that maybe—just maybe—he respected you for pushing back.

As the team dispersed, Hotch caught your gaze one last time. The moment was brief, but it lingered just long enough to make you question whether all this fighting was really about animosity—or if it was something else altogether.

And just like that, the fire between you reignited, burning hotter than ever.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The team was in the middle of a tense operation, a situation that demanded quick thinking and decisive action. You had taken a calculated risk, making a call in the field that didn't go as planned. The unsub got away, and while no one was hurt, it set the case back significantly.

The second you returned to the makeshift command center, Hotch was waiting for you, his eyes dark and unreadable. You barely had a chance to open your mouth before he was on you.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he barked, stepping closer, his voice rough with barely restrained anger. "That decision of yours just put everyone at risk, and I'm not sure we can afford that kind of recklessness again."

You shot back, adrenaline still coursing through your veins. "I was thinking that if we didn’t take the shot, we’d lose our best lead! But of course, you'd rather sit around playing it safe while the unsub walks free!"

Hotch's eyes narrowed, and his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might crack. "This isn't about playing it safe, Y/L/N! It's about not acting like a reckless amateur who puts the entire team's lives at risk because they have something to prove!"

Your hands shook with the force of your frustration, and before you could stop yourself, you snapped, "Oh, spare me the lecture, Hotchner! You act like you're the only one who knows how to do this job, but the truth is, you're just terrified of making a mistake. You’re so damn scared of letting anyone in that you push people away the second they don’t fit your perfect mold!"

The words seemed to hit Hotch harder than you expected, his eyes darkening even further. He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a dangerously quiet tone. "You think you know me, Y/L/N? You don’t know a damn thing. At least I’m not so afraid of being alone that I act like I don’t need anyone. You're more isolated than anyone on this team, and the saddest part? You overcompensate by pretending you don’t care."

Your breath hitched, but you were too angry to back down. "Oh, that's rich coming from you, Hotchner! The great Aaron Hotchner, who’s too afraid to be human around us because it might make him seem weak. You can't even let people in enough to let them see that you're a father first, can you? You act like this job is all that defines you, but deep down, you know you're failing at the one thing that really matters."

The moment the words left your mouth, you saw the flash of pain in Hotch's eyes—a wound laid bare for everyone to see. But before you could take it back, before you could even blink, Hotch struck back, and this time, it was a direct hit.

"You don’t get to talk to me about failure," he said, voice shaking with a mix of anger and hurt. "You walk around here like you have something to prove, like if you’re tough enough, no one will notice how desperately you need to be part of something—anything—to avoid facing how alone you really are. But here's the truth: no matter how loud you are, no matter how many arguments you win, you’re still just trying to convince yourself that you’re enough."

The team collectively held their breath, the weight of the confrontation settling over them like a dark cloud. You could see the shock and discomfort on their faces, how they tried to look away as if that would lessen the impact of the words you and Hotch had just exchanged.

You opened your mouth, ready to deliver one final blow, but something in his eyes stopped you. The hurt, the frustration, the betrayal—it was all there, mirrored in your own gaze. And you knew, in that moment, that you’d gone too far. So had he.

Before either of you could say another word, a voice crackled over the comms, interrupting the heated exchange. "We have a new lead on the unsub," Garcia’s voice came through, urgent and breathless. "I need you back at the command center, ASAP."

The tension snapped, and you both pulled back, breathing hard, eyes locked in a shared look of something like regret. You could see it—the recognition that the words you’d thrown at each other couldn’t be taken back.

Without a word, you turned and walked away, your shoulders tense, refusing to let anyone see how deeply the argument had cut. Hotch stood there for a moment longer, his face an unreadable mask, before he, too, walked in the opposite direction, his movements stiff and deliberate.

As you both moved to your respective corners, the team exchanged glances—expressions of concern, sadness, and a little fear. Even they could tell that this fight had gone way beyond professional differences. It had become personal. Too personal.

"You think they'll be okay?" JJ asked softly, breaking the silence that had settled over them.

Rossi shook his head, his face lined with worry. "Not sure," he said, glancing over at the two of you from a distance. "That was more than just anger. That was hurt. And that’s a lot harder to come back from."

Derek looked from you to Hotch and back again, his face serious. "They both know they crossed a line," he said quietly. "But the question is, can they find their way back?"

Hotch knew he’d struck too close to home, just as you did. The damage was done, and as much as you both wanted to pretend it didn’t matter, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something between you had changed forever.

And for the first time since you joined the BAU, neither of you was sure how to fix it.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

In the days that followed your explosive argument, neither you nor Hotch said a word about what had happened. Both of you were too stubborn to apologize, too proud to admit that you might have gone too far. But even as the tension between you remained thick and uncomfortable, something in the way you interacted began to shift.

Despite your so-called hatred, you and Hotch started doing little things for each other—things that neither of you ever mentioned aloud. He'd leave a coffee on your desk, exactly how you liked it, when you’d had a particularly rough night. You’d order lunch for him when he was too buried in paperwork to take a break. It was as if you were both trying to say "I'm sorry" without actually uttering the words.

The team noticed the change, the way you two danced around each other, trying to make up for the damage in the only way you knew how—without acknowledging it outright.

And whenever one of you tried to express gratitude, it always came out as an insult wrapped in sarcasm.

"Thanks for the coffee, Hotchner," you said one morning, not meeting his eyes. The words were gruff, but there was a softness beneath them that you couldn’t quite hide. "I didn’t realize you were capable of being considerate."

Hotch shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Don’t get used to it, Y/L/N," he replied, voice laced with mock indifference. "Just trying to keep you from falling asleep in the middle of your presentations. Wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself in front of the team."

You rolled your eyes, a reluctant smile breaking through despite your best efforts to stay annoyed. "Oh please, Hotchner. If I did fall asleep, it’d probably be because your voice has all the excitement of a tax seminar."

He gave a small chuckle, the tension between you two easing just slightly, even if neither of you would admit it. It was as if every sarcastic comment and light jab carried with it a hidden message—"I’m sorry," "I didn’t mean it," "I care more than I should."

And so, the unspoken apologies continued, buried beneath layers of pride and wrapped in your shared rhythm of bickering. The gestures were subtle but unmistakable, a silent acknowledgment that despite the walls you both put up, you were trying to make things right in the only way you knew how.

But even then, the fire between you still burned hot, and neither of you could quite bring yourself to let go of the pretense of animosity. Not yet.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The days were filled with a strange tension—one that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. The biting remarks between you and Hotch were still there, but they were laced with something different now, something that had the team raising their eyebrows and sharing knowing looks. The biting anger had started to twist into something that almost resembled…flirting.

One afternoon, you were both standing by the coffee machine, trying to get through another endless stack of case files. You reached for the last cup of coffee at the same time as Hotch, your hands brushing against each other. You snatched it up quickly, smirking in his direction.

"Careful, Hotchner," you said, raising the cup to your lips. "You keep getting in my way like this, and I might just have to pin you to the wall."

Hotch’s eyes glinted with amusement as he raised an eyebrow, leaning in slightly. "Bold move, Y/L/N," he replied, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Didn't realize you were in the habit of getting physical on the job."

Your breath caught for a second, but you quickly recovered, narrowing your eyes at him with a teasing smile. "Only when someone deserves it," you shot back, your voice light but your gaze steady. "And trust me, Hotchner, you've earned it."

He smirked, the kind of smile that made it clear he enjoyed pushing your buttons, and that little spark in his eyes hinted at something more than just professional rivalry. "I’ll try to contain my excitement," he said, voice smooth and challenging, the playful banter lingering in the air between you.

You opened your mouth to fire back a retort, but no words came out. Instead, you found yourself laughing—a real, genuine laugh that caught both of you off guard. The sound of it seemed to disarm Hotch for a moment, his expression softening as he looked at you.

"Just admit it," he said, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "You’d miss our arguments if they stopped."

You raised an eyebrow, pretending to think about it. "I’d miss putting you in your place, Hotch. But don’t get used to it—I’m still keeping score, and I’m winning."

Hotch let out a low chuckle. "We’ll see about that."

The team observed from a distance, exchanging amused glances at the way you two were sparring. But this time, it wasn't just hostility—it was something far more complicated, like the first sparks of a fire that neither of you wanted to put out.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The night had not gone the way you’d hoped. The date you’d forced yourself to go on—an attempt to prove to yourself that you could open up to someone, anyone—ended as all the others did: in disappointment. You’d spent the entire evening trying to connect, trying to be someone you weren’t, only to come home with that familiar ache in your chest and a little too much wine in your system.

Stumbling slightly, you sank onto a bench outside the bar, phone in hand, replaying Hotch's words in your mind from your previous argument. "You’re more isolated than anyone on this team, and the saddest part? You overcompensate by pretending you don’t care."

The truth of it stung more now than ever. You felt the weight of his words pressing down on you, and you didn't have the strength to fight against it. Maybe he was right, you thought bitterly. Maybe I am going to end up alone because I can't let anyone in.

Before you could stop yourself, your fingers dialed his number, the alcohol-fueled haze making you braver—or more foolish—than you would have been otherwise. The phone rang once, and then you heard his familiar voice, steady and calm.

"Hotchner," he answered.

You hesitated, suddenly feeling ridiculous for calling him of all people. But then, you let out a shaky breath and said, "I...I don’t know why I called you. I’m fine. I’m—" Your voice cracked slightly, betraying you. "I'm not fine."

He didn’t ask you where you were. He didn’t hesitate or question why you’d reached out to him. Instead, his voice softened, and you could almost hear the worry in it. "Tell me where you are, Y/N," he said, his tone more gentle than you’d ever heard it. "I’m already on my way."

You told him the name of the bar, and before you knew it, Hotch’s car pulled up to the curb. He got out, looking every bit the composed leader he always was, but there was something else in his eyes—something softer as he took in your disheveled state.

Without a word, he draped his coat around your shoulders and led you to the passenger seat. The drive was quiet, the hum of the car the only sound between you. You kept your eyes on the window, embarrassed by your outburst but too drained to put your walls back up.

When he pulled up to your place, he helped you out of the car, his hand lingering at your back, a silent comfort. You let him guide you up the steps to your door, but when you fumbled for your keys, he stopped you, turning you to face him.

"You didn’t have to come get me," you said, your voice small, more vulnerable than you wanted it to be. "I’m just a mess tonight."

He looked at you, really looked at you, and for a moment, you saw the mask he always wore slip just a little. "You’re not a mess, Y/N," he said quietly. "You’re human. We all are."

You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. "You don't get it, Hotch. I keep trying to let people in, and I can't. It's like there's this wall I can't tear down, and I'm starting to think I’m going to end up just as alone as you said."

Hotch's jaw tightened, and he reached out, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "You’re not alone," he said, his voice low, almost tender. "And for what it's worth, I never meant to make you feel that way. You’re tougher than anyone I know, but you don’t always have to be."

You looked up at him, feeling the weight of his words settle in a place deep in your chest. For once, there was no sarcasm, no biting remarks—just a quiet honesty that took you by surprise.

"Why did you come?" you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper. "After everything I said to you?"

Hotch hesitated for a moment, his eyes searching yours, and then he said, "Because I know you. And I knew that when you finally let your guard down, even a little, it wasn’t something you’d do lightly." His voice softened even further. "I couldn’t just leave you alone tonight."

The silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken words. He moved closer, his hand still resting on your shoulder, and you let yourself lean into his touch, even if just a little.

He just stood there with you, holding you steady when you couldn’t hold yourself up, letting you see that maybe, just maybe, letting him in wasn’t as terrifying as you’d thought.

"Thank you," you finally said, looking up at him with something that felt like gratitude mixed with a hint of something deeper, something you weren’t ready to name yet.

Hotch gave you a small, almost shy smile. "Anytime, Y/N," he said simply. "And for the record, I’m not going anywhere."

You nodded, the walls between you still there, but just a little lower now. And as you stepped into your apartment, you knew that this was the beginning of something different—something you weren’t ready to admit but couldn’t deny anymore.

The fire between you still burned, but it felt like a fire that could warm you instead of one that would consume you.

The door clicked shut behind you, the weight of the night’s events settling over you like a heavy blanket. Hotch stood in your entryway, his hands in his pockets, looking more out of place than you’d ever seen him. This was Aaron Hotchner, the unflinching leader of the BAU, but right now, he looked like a man unsure of what to do next.

You leaned back against the wall, running a hand through your hair and letting out a sigh. "I’m not usually like this," you said, your voice rough around the edges, still tinged with the effects of the alcohol. "I don’t usually call for help."

Hotch gave a small, almost reluctant smile, his eyes softening as they met yours. "I know," he said quietly. "You’d rather bite off your own arm than ask for help. That’s why I came."

You blinked at him, a bit taken aback by the way he said it, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. The honesty in his eyes made something in your chest tighten—a mix of frustration and relief that you couldn’t quite put into words.

"You think you have me all figured out, don’t you?" you muttered, looking away to avoid the intensity of his gaze.

Hotch’s lips twitched into a smirk, that familiar fire sparking back to life in his eyes. "Well, you do have a habit of making it a challenge," he said, his voice taking on that dry, teasing tone. "But you’re not as complicated as you think, Y/N. I see right through that tough act of yours."

You scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest in a weak attempt to shield yourself from the truth of his words. "Oh, please, Hotchner," you said, trying to regain some of your usual bite. "The last thing I need is you trying to psychoanalyze me."

Hotch took a step closer, his gaze never leaving yours. He was close enough now that you could see the concern etched in the lines of his face, the way he was holding back something he wanted to say. "You’re right," he said, his voice gentler now, almost a whisper. "I’m not here to analyze you. I’m here because I care."

Those last words hit you like a punch to the gut, the sincerity in his tone catching you completely off guard. You opened your mouth to say something, anything to deflect, but all that came out was a shaky breath.

"You care?" you repeated, a mixture of disbelief and sarcasm lacing your voice. "Is this the part where you tell me you’re my knight in shining armor?"

Hotch let out a small, rueful laugh, shaking his head slightly. "Hardly," he said, a hint of that familiar smirk creeping back. "More like the guy who has to keep you from making a fool of yourself because you’re too stubborn to admit you’re human."

You wanted to snap back, to put up the walls again, but you were too tired, too raw. Instead, you just looked at him, really looked at him, and saw something in his eyes that you hadn't allowed yourself to see before—genuine concern, warmth, something that made you feel seen in a way you hadn’t in a long time.

"You know," you said, your voice quieter, softer than it had been all night. "You’re kind of infuriating."

Hotch’s smirk grew into a smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes in that rare, almost boyish way that you hardly ever saw. "And you’re impossible," he replied. "But we’ve established that already, haven’t we?"

For a moment, you both just stood there, the air between you thick with unspoken words. You should’ve felt awkward, but instead, there was a strange comfort in the silence, like you were both finally seeing each other without all the defenses in place.

You let out a deep breath and nodded toward the couch. "Stay," you said, surprising even yourself. "Just for a while. I could use the company."

He didn’t argue. Hotch gave a small nod and moved to sit on the couch, his movements careful, deliberate, as if he didn’t want to push too hard, too fast. You sat down beside him, not too close but not as far as you might have a few weeks ago.

The two of you sat in silence for a few minutes, your head leaning back against the couch, your eyes closing as you tried to process everything. You felt Hotch’s presence beside you, solid and grounding, the quiet rhythm of his breathing strangely soothing.

"Thank you," you finally said, breaking the silence, the words almost too quiet to hear. "For coming to get me. For…not letting me be alone tonight."

Hotch turned to look at you, and when you opened your eyes, his gaze was softer than you’d ever seen it. "Anytime," he said simply. "And I mean that, Y/N. You don’t have to go through everything on your own."

You felt something crack open inside you, just a little—a small space where the walls had been, making room for him in a way you never thought you’d allow. And maybe, just maybe, that terrified you even more than anything else.

As you both sat there in the quiet, the tension between you still simmering but somehow warmer now, you realized that for all your fights, your arguments, and your stubborn pride, you didn’t hate him. Not even close.

You didn’t say anything more that night. You didn’t have to. The silence said enough, and for once, neither of you felt the need to fill it with words.

The fire between you had shifted, turning into something new, something unspoken but undeniably there. You didn’t feel quite so alone.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The next morning, the BAU office buzzed with its usual energy, but everything felt different. The night before lingered in the back of your mind like a half-remembered dream, and you couldn’t quite shake the image of Hotch sitting beside you on the couch, his quiet presence more comforting than you’d ever expected.

You walked into the bullpen, forcing yourself to adopt the mask of professionalism you always wore, your steps just a touch more deliberate to hide any trace of a hangover or vulnerability. You were determined to pretend like nothing had changed, like the night before was just a glitch in your well-oiled machine of stubborn denial.

But as soon as you stepped into the room, you felt Hotch’s eyes on you. He was at his desk, his expression calm and controlled, but there was something different in the way he looked at you—softer, more attentive, like he was seeing you in a way he hadn’t before.

You met his gaze, and for a second, the rest of the office seemed to fade away. His eyes held yours, and you could feel that unspoken connection between you, the memory of his steadying hand on your back, his whispered words in the dark.

But then you broke the gaze, clearing your throat and throwing up your usual walls. "Morning, Hotchner," you said briskly, moving past his desk like it was business as usual. "Let’s hope you’re ready to keep up today. Wouldn’t want to have to drag you along."

Hotch’s lips twitched into that familiar half-smirk, but there was something in his eyes that wasn’t there before—something almost like pride. "Careful, Y/L/N," he said in that smooth, controlled voice of his. "If you’re not careful, people might start to think you’re actually enjoying this partnership."

You opened your mouth to fire back a retort, but JJ and Morgan chose that moment to walk in, their eyes darting curiously between the two of you. You could see the knowing smiles tugging at their lips, and you knew they’d sensed the shift in the air.

"Everything okay over here?" Morgan asked, a teasing lilt to his voice. "I thought I saw sparks flying for a second there."

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest to regain some semblance of your defenses. "Please, Morgan," you said, a hint of sarcasm in your tone. "If I wanted sparks, I’d go rub two sticks together in the woods."

"Uh-huh," JJ said with a grin, not missing the way Hotch’s eyes followed you, a little softer than they usually were. "Well, you two seem to have your own language these days. Should we be worried?"

Hotch straightened in his chair, his expression slipping back into that stoic professionalism, but you caught the flicker of amusement in his eyes. "I think you have more important things to worry about," he said evenly, glancing at the case files on the table. "Like solving this case."

Morgan shot you a sideways glance, his grin widening. "Man, they really do bicker like an old married couple," he said under his breath to JJ, loud enough for you and Hotch to hear.

You rolled your eyes dramatically, but you couldn’t quite hide the smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "Keep dreaming, Morgan," you said, flicking your gaze to Hotch for a split second before turning back to the files. "If I ever settle down, it’ll be with someone who actually listens."

You didn’t miss the way Hotch’s eyebrow twitched at that comment, the slightest hint of a challenge in his eyes. He gave you a look that said he was holding back something—something that both of you were too stubborn to acknowledge.

"Who said anything about settling down?" Hotch replied, voice smooth as ever. "I thought you were the kind of person who lives for the argument."

"And I thought you were the kind of person who likes to be right," you shot back, smirking. "Guess we’ve both been wrong about each other."

There it was—the unspoken truth lying between you both, hidden beneath the layers of sarcasm and banter. You could feel the shift, the way your arguments had started to feel less like battles and more like dances, each of you knowing the other’s moves before they even made them.

As the day wore on, you found yourself glancing at Hotch more often than you cared to admit, catching him looking at you with that same intense focus that he usually reserved for unsubs. The problem was, this time, you weren’t sure whether he was profiling you or trying to figure out how to get past your defenses.

Later in the day, as you grabbed another cup of coffee, you felt his presence next to you before he even said a word. He reached for a file on the counter, leaning in slightly closer than necessary, and murmured just loud enough for you to hear, "I meant what I said last night, you know."

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard. "Which part?" you asked, trying to sound nonchalant but failing miserably.

Hotch's gaze held yours, unflinching, unwavering. "The part about not going anywhere," he said softly. "And the part about you not having to be alone. Not if you don’t want to be."

You swallowed hard, the words sticking in your throat. You knew what he was offering—a chance to let him in, to take that next step, whatever that might be. And it terrified you more than you’d ever admit.

"That’s a dangerous game, Hotchner," you said, trying to deflect with a smirk, even though your heart was pounding in your chest.

Hotch gave you that slow, almost maddening smile that seemed to unravel something deep within you. What you couldn’t see—what he hid beneath that calm exterior—was the way his mind was still racing with everything that had happened the night before. The way you'd let your guard down, even for just a moment, had left him more shaken than he wanted to admit.

He wasn’t a man who let people in easily; it took a lot for his interest to be piqued, to feel something more than detached professionalism. But you—you had managed to get under his skin. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about that glimpse into your world, the vulnerability you showed him when you thought no one else was watching. It was raw, real, and it stirred something in him that he didn’t want to let go of.

He was intrigued by you in a way he hadn’t been in a long time, and now that he’d seen that side of you—the part you kept hidden from everyone else—he didn’t want you to close that door again. He wanted more than just the sharp banter and the fiery arguments. He wanted to see the layers beneath, to understand the person you were when the armor came off.

There was this part of him that saw you as this rare enigma, but also a part that saw a mirror looking back at him--someone who finally carried their world in the same way as he did.

"You’ve never been one to play it safe, Y/N," he replied, his voice low and warm, the hint of a challenge still lingering. "Why start now?"

There was a flicker of something in his eyes, something almost like hope mixed with determination. He was giving you a choice, but deep down, he knew he didn’t want you to pull away, to retreat back into the walls you’d built so carefully around yourself.

You didn’t have an answer for that. At least, not one you were ready to give him. The truth was, the idea of letting him in—of letting anyone in—scared you more than you wanted to admit. But his steady gaze, the way he was looking at you as if he was ready to hold that door open as long as it took for you to walk through it, made it harder to hide.

So instead, you just nodded, your walls still there but not quite as high as they’d been before. "We’ll see," you said softly, more to yourself than to him. "We’ll see."

And as you turned away, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of his eyes still on you, watching, waiting. Hotch knew that if you closed yourself off now, it would be ten times harder to find his way back in. But he also knew he couldn’t push you—not yet. All he could do was make sure that when you were ready to open that door again, he’d be right there, waiting for you.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

A few days passed since that quiet moment at the coffee machine, and while you tried to push it to the back of your mind, it kept creeping up on you. Hotch’s words, the look in his eyes—it all felt too real, too close, and you weren’t ready to let it unravel everything you’d built around yourself.

The trouble was, Hotch wasn’t making it any easier.

He was still his usual composed, authoritative self during briefings, but every now and then, you’d catch him watching you out of the corner of his eye, as if trying to figure out what was going on beneath your surface. It was disarming, the way he seemed to see straight through you, and it annoyed you to no end that you cared what he thought.

Today was no different. The team was deep into a new case, the type that pulled everyone’s focus with its twists and turns, but you still felt that nagging awareness of Hotch’s gaze tracking your every move. You tried to shake it off, to focus solely on the details of the profile you were presenting, but when your eyes met his, you hesitated for a fraction of a second—a slip that didn’t go unnoticed.

As you finished laying out your theory on the unsub, you expected Hotch to challenge you like he always did. Instead, he gave a small nod, his eyes never leaving yours. "Solid work, Y/L/N," he said, his voice steady, but there was a trace of something else in it—something that felt like he was acknowledging more than just your profiling skills.

Morgan raised an eyebrow at the rare praise coming from Hotch. "Wow, did I just hear that right?" he teased. "Hotch giving a compliment? Are we sure we’re not in an alternate universe?"

You rolled your eyes, fighting to keep the blush creeping up your neck from reaching your face. "Don’t get used to it," you shot back, forcing a smirk. "I’m sure he’ll find something to disagree with in about five minutes."

But when you glanced back at Hotch, you caught the smallest hint of a smile pulling at his lips, like he was amused by your deflection. It was such a fleeting moment that if you hadn’t been watching him closely, you might have missed it. But it was there, and it sent a ripple through you that you couldn’t quite shake.

Later that evening, as the rest of the team wrapped up for the day, you found yourself alone in the conference room, staring at the evidence board. The case was getting under your skin in a way that you couldn’t quite explain, and you were too restless to go home.

"Working late?" Hotch’s voice broke through the silence, and you turned to find him leaning casually in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. He looked at you with that same unreadable expression, and you hated how your pulse quickened at the sight of him.

"Just tying up loose ends," you said, your tone clipped, but even you could hear the exhaustion in your voice. "Can’t leave things half-finished."

He nodded slowly, stepping further into the room, his gaze never leaving you. "You’ve been distracted," he said, not as a question, but as a statement of fact. "Is it the case, or something else?"

You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head. "Always profiling, aren’t you?" you said, turning back to the board to avoid looking at him. "Maybe it’s both. Or maybe I’m just tired of being stuck in my own head."

Hotch moved closer, close enough that you could feel his presence like a tangible weight in the room. "You know, you don’t always have to carry everything alone," he said quietly. "You’re allowed to let someone in."

You turned to him then, your eyes locking onto his, the vulnerability of that night flashing in your mind. "I thought you knew me better than that, Hotchner," you said, your voice laced with a mix of defiance and something softer. "I’m not good at letting people in."

Hotch held your gaze, and this time, he didn’t look away. "I know," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I also know that when you finally do, you don’t want to regret it."

The words hung between you like a dare, and for a second, you saw past the stoic exterior he always wore, straight into the man who’d been just as guarded, just as wary of letting anyone see the cracks beneath his armor. It was unnerving and comforting all at once.

"I don’t want to close that door again," he admitted, his voice steady but his eyes revealing a flicker of uncertainty, as if saying it out loud made him vulnerable in a way he hadn’t been before. "You let me in, Y/N, even if it was just for a moment. And I don’t want to lose that."

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words died in your throat. You could feel your defenses crumbling, piece by piece, under the weight of his gaze, and it scared you. But it also made you feel something else—something you weren’t ready to put a name to.

"I don’t know what you expect from me," you said finally, your voice softer, almost hesitant. "You know I’m not the kind of person who’s good at this… at letting someone get close."

Hotch’s lips curved into that maddening, gentle smile, and he reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against your arm. It was a simple touch, but it sent a jolt of warmth through you. "I’m not expecting anything," he said, his voice calm, reassuring. "I just don’t want you to shut me out when you don’t have to."

For once, you didn’t have a quick retort, no sarcastic comeback to throw up as a shield. Instead, you found yourself nodding, the smallest sign of surrender, as if silently agreeing to let this—whatever it was between you—take its own course.

"Goodnight, Y/N," Hotch said softly, his hand lingering on your arm for just a moment longer before he turned to leave.

"Goodnight, Hotch," you replied, your voice barely more than a whisper as you watched him walk away.

As he disappeared through the doorway, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. The fire between you wasn’t just simmering anymore—it was building into something that felt inevitable, something that terrified and thrilled you all at once.

You didn’t feel the urge to run away from it.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It had been a long week for the team, the kind that left everyone mentally and physically exhausted. The case had taken a toll on each of them, but none more so than Hotch. You could see it in the way his shoulders sagged slightly when he thought no one was looking, in the tightness around his eyes that no amount of professionalism could hide.

He’d been quieter than usual, more distant, even with you. It was a stark contrast to the way he’d been drawing closer lately, as if he’d built up his walls all over again. And for some reason, that made something inside you ache.

You found him alone in his office late that evening, the light dim, a half-empty cup of coffee growing cold on his desk. The tension in his posture was palpable, and he didn’t look up when you knocked lightly on the doorframe.

"Hotch," you said softly, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "You look like you’re about to tear that case file in half. What’s going on?"

He didn’t answer at first. He just kept staring at the paper in front of him, his jaw clenched tight, the muscle ticking in his cheek. For a moment, you thought he might brush you off, that he’d snap back into his guarded self and shut you out completely.

But then he let out a slow, shaky breath and finally looked up at you. There was a weariness in his eyes that you hadn’t seen before, something raw and unguarded. "It’s Jack," he said quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I missed his soccer game today. I promised I’d be there, and I missed it."

You blinked, surprised by the admission. It wasn’t like Hotch to let his personal life bleed into the job. He was the master of compartmentalization, always keeping his professional mask firmly in place. But right now, that mask was slipping, and you could see the guilt and pain beneath.

"I’m sorry," you said, the words genuine and uncharacteristically soft. "I know how much he means to you."

He gave a short, humorless laugh, rubbing a hand over his face as if trying to scrub away the exhaustion. "It’s not just that," he said, finally meeting your gaze. "I try so hard to be there for him, to make up for all the time I can’t get back. And every time I fail, it feels like I’m failing him all over again."

You took a hesitant step closer, your defenses lowering in response to his vulnerability. "You’re not failing him, Hotch," you said, your voice firmer now. "Jack knows you’re doing everything you can. You’re a damn good father, even if you don’t give yourself enough credit."

Hotch’s eyes softened as he looked at you like he was seeing something in you that he hadn’t allowed himself to see before. "It’s just hard," he said quietly. "Balancing everything. Being there for him and still being the kind of leader this team needs. Sometimes I don’t know if I’m doing either one right."

You took another step closer, your hand hovering near his on the desk. "You don’t have to be perfect, Aaron," you said, using his first name intentionally, letting it roll off your tongue like a promise. "You’re allowed to be human. To mess up. To let people help you when you need it."

His breath hitched slightly when you said his name, and you saw the way his defenses cracked just a little more, like he was allowing himself to believe you, even if just for a moment. "You say that," he said, a small, wry smile forming on his lips. "But you’re not exactly the poster child for letting people in either."

You felt a reluctant smile tug at your lips, even as your heart pounded in your chest. "Touché," you said, your voice gentler now. "But maybe we could both stand to learn a little."

Hotch stared at you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours as if trying to decide whether he could really let you see him—really let you in. And then, almost imperceptibly, he reached out, his hand covering yours where it rested on the desk.

"You know," he said, his voice low and rough, "it’s easier for me to tell you not to close yourself off than it is to follow my own advice."

You looked down at his hand on yours, feeling the warmth of his touch seeping into your skin, and you squeezed his fingers lightly. "Yeah, well," you said, your voice soft but steady, "lucky for you, I’m not going anywhere either."

His eyes softened even more at your words, a quiet gratitude filling them that made your chest tighten. He was letting you see him—not the stoic leader, not the unflinching profiler, but the man beneath all that. The one who was just as scared of opening up, just as afraid of failing the people he loved.

"Thank you," he said finally, his voice thick with emotion. "For this. For not letting me push you away."

You offered him a small smile, one that felt more real than anything you’d given him before. "Don’t thank me yet," you said, a teasing glint in your eyes. "I’m still going to make your life hell in the field."

Hotch let out a soft chuckle, the sound breaking the tension in the room like a breath of fresh air. "I’d expect nothing less," he said, the warmth returning to his gaze. "In fact, I’d be disappointed if you didn’t."

The two of you stood there, hands still linked, the silence stretching out but not uncomfortable anymore. It was filled with a promise, an unspoken understanding that things had changed between you—that neither of you was quite as alone as you used to be.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The bullpen was buzzing with the usual chatter as the team wrapped up another case. The mood was lighter than it had been in days, and everyone seemed relieved to have a few moments to breathe. You stood at your desk, reviewing some final notes when you felt that familiar presence beside you.

"Y/L/N," Hotch said in his even tone, but there was a hint of playfulness in his eyes that only you could see. "I noticed a couple of discrepancies in your report. Care to explain?"

You raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly as you turned to face him. "Oh, Hotchner, I didn’t realize you were that nitpicky," you said, leaning in just a fraction. "I thought you were more of a big-picture kind of guy."

Hotch’s lips curved into that maddening smile, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Details matter," he replied, his voice dropping a notch. "And if I didn’t keep you on your toes, where’s the fun in that?"

The rest of the team was watching this exchange with poorly concealed amusement. Morgan exchanged a look with JJ, and Garcia's eyes were practically sparkling with glee.

"You two are at it again," Morgan said, shaking his head with a grin. "I swear, the tension between you two is so thick we could cut it with a knife."

"More like set it on fire," JJ added, nudging Garcia, who was already leaning forward, her mouth wide with anticipation.

"Oh, please," you said with a mock roll of your eyes, but your smirk was undeniable. "If Hotchner could actually manage to light a fire, he’d probably try to put it out just to avoid making a mess."

Hotch’s eyebrow shot up at that, and he took a small step closer to you, his voice barely above a whisper but loud enough for everyone to hear. "I don’t know, Y/N," he said, his eyes locking onto yours with a challenging glint. "I think you’d be surprised at how good I am at playing with fire."

The room went silent for a beat, the rest of the team exchanging looks that screamed oh my God, did he just say that?

Garcia’s jaw dropped dramatically. "Okay, that’s it!" she exclaimed, pointing between you and Hotch. "There is no way you two don’t have some unresolved sexual tension going on here. Spill the beans!"

You opened your mouth to retort, but before you could say anything, an alarm went off on the conference room monitor. Garcia’s eyes widened as she quickly typed on her laptop. "We’ve got an urgent update from the field team," she said, all traces of her previous amusement gone. "It looks like the suspect we apprehended escaped during transfer."

Hotch’s face shifted instantly into his no-nonsense mode, all traces of flirtation gone as he snapped back into action. "Everyone, gather your gear," he ordered. "We’re heading out now."

As you all hurried to grab your things, you felt Hotch’s hand on your arm, his grip just a bit tighter than usual. "Stay close," he said, his voice low and serious. "I don’t want any surprises."

You nodded, but there was a fire in his eyes that hadn’t been there before—a look that sent a thrill through you despite the situation. You didn’t have time to dwell on it as you jumped into the SUV, your focus shifting to the task at hand.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The stand-off had gone sideways fast. The unsub, cornered and desperate, made a reckless move, and in the chaos that followed, Hotch took a hit—a deep gash to his arm from a knife as he shielded you from the unsub. He stayed in control, his face a mask of determination as he secured the suspect, but you could see the pain etched in the tight lines around his mouth.

"Hotch!" you shouted, rushing to his side the second the threat was neutralized. Your heart was pounding in your chest, but you forced yourself to stay focused, your eyes darting over the wound. "You couldn’t just dodge or take a step back like a normal person?"

He gave you a half-smile that somehow still had that infuriating charm. "I had to make sure you had a clear shot," he said, his voice calm despite the blood seeping through his sleeve. "Besides, if I’d let you take the hit, you’d never let me live it down."

"Yeah, well, now you’re stuck listening to me complain about your lack of self-preservation," you muttered, shaking your head even as you helped him over to the waiting ambulance.

The paramedics wasted no time guiding Hotch into the back of the ambulance, their hands moving efficiently as they assessed the wound. You followed closely, trying to keep your expression neutral, but the sight of blood seeping through his sleeve made your stomach twist with worry you couldn’t quite hide.

"How bad is it?" you asked the nearest paramedic, doing your best to sound calm even though your insides were in knots.

"Deep cut," the paramedic said as he worked quickly to clean and bandage Hotch’s arm. "He’ll need stitches but no major damage. He got lucky."

Hotch’s eyes flicked up to yours, a small smirk forming on his lips despite the pain. "Lucky, huh?" he said, his voice slightly strained but still holding that familiar edge of sarcasm. "Looks like I’m harder to get rid of than you thought."

You let out a shaky breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, and for a moment, your guard slipped completely. The rush of adrenaline from the standoff was fading, leaving nothing but raw fear and relief in its wake. Without thinking, you reached out and gave his good shoulder a light but frustrated punch.

"You reckless idiot," you muttered, your voice cracking despite your best efforts to hold it steady. "Do you have any idea how worried I was? You scared the hell out of me, Hotch."

The words came out harsher than you intended, your emotions bubbling to the surface faster than you could control them. Hotch’s smirk softened into something gentler, more genuine, and he looked at you like he was seeing right through your bravado to the fear and vulnerability beneath.

"Y/N," he said quietly, his tone different now—gentler, sincere. "I didn’t mean to worry you."

But before he could say anything more, you felt your chest tighten, overwhelmed by how close you’d come to losing him. Hotch reached out slowly, his uninjured hand wrapping around yours, holding on in a way that felt both grounding and intimate. His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, and you didn’t pull away.

Hotch hesitated, then reached out to gently touch your hand, his voice almost a whisper, "I’m right here, even if you don’t know what to do with that."

You blinked rapidly, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill, and you squeezed his hand harder than you meant to.

"You infuriating man," you said, your voice trembling as you tried to hold onto the last shred of your composure. "You just had to go and make me care, didn’t you?"

The laugh that escaped Hotch was soft, almost disbelieving, and his eyes were filled with something you’d never seen before—something that made your chest tighten and your defenses crumble even more.

"I’m glad you care," he said, so quietly that it was almost lost in the noise around you. "More than you know."

Your breath hitched at his words, and you bit your lip to keep the tears at bay. Desperate to deflect, you let go of his hand and turned away, taking a deep breath to steady yourself.

"You had to make me feel something, didn’t you?" you said, throwing him a wry smile over your shoulder as you blinked back the tears that refused to fall. "Next time, try not to make a mess of it, okay?"

Hotch's eyes softened as he looked at you, the smallest hint of a smile tugging at his lips despite the pain. "No promises," he said, a warmth in his gaze that wrapped around you like a lifeline. "But I'll try not to scare you again."

You nodded, biting your lip to keep your composure, and then without another word, you turned and walked away, each step heavier than the last. You needed to get some distance before you completely fell apart in front of him.

But as you reached the end of the ambulance, you heard his voice, softer and closer than you expected. "Y/N," he called out, making you pause. "You know I’m not going anywhere, right?"

You didn’t turn back, but you felt the faintest smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. "You’d better not," you said, voice just loud enough for him to hear. "You’ve got a lot to make up for."

And as you walked away, you realized that letting him in didn’t feel like a mistake—it felt like the only choice that made sense.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Hours later, after a tense and exhausting standoff, the team finally returned to the BAU headquarters. Everyone was drained, their nerves frayed from the adrenaline crash, but there was a palpable sense of relief in the air—the suspect had been recaptured, and despite the close call, no one was seriously hurt.

But you couldn’t shake the image of Hotch sitting in the back of that ambulance, blood staining his sleeve, his eyes meeting yours with that maddening calmness he always managed to keep. The memory made your chest feel tight, like something was lodged there that you couldn’t swallow down.

You headed to the quiet of the briefing room, too wired to sit still. You started pacing, the adrenaline from the night's chaos still buzzing through your veins. All you could think about was how close you’d come to losing him and how much that realization had rattled you more than you wanted to admit.

Just as you were about to let out a frustrated sigh, you heard footsteps behind you. Turning around, you found Hotch standing in the doorway. His usually neat tie was loosened, and his composed demeanor seemed a little frayed around the edges.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice softer than usual, his gaze fixed on yours with an intensity that sent a shiver straight down your spine.

"Yeah," you said, but your voice wavered, betraying the emotions that had been building all night. "Just trying to come down from the rush, you know?"

Hotch stepped closer, the space between you shrinking, the room suddenly feeling too small to contain everything unspoken between you. His injured arm was bandaged, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. He was looking at you like you were the only thing in the room.

"You handled yourself well out there," he said, his voice steady but tinged with something else—something like pride, mixed with relief and maybe even a touch of vulnerability. "You always do."

You gave a shaky smile, but you couldn’t help the words that slipped out next. "You didn’t have to get hurt for me to prove it, you know," you said, your voice cracking just a little. "What were you thinking out there?"

Hotch's lips twitched into a faint smile. "I was thinking," he said, meeting your eyes with that steady, unwavering gaze, "that if it came down to protecting you or getting a scratch, I’d take the scratch every time."

You let out a breath, something between a laugh and a scoff, your defenses slipping in a way that was becoming too familiar. "You’re impossible," you muttered, shaking your head. "Always playing the hero, aren’t you?"

"Only when it matters," he said softly, taking another step closer. His voice dropped to a whisper, the kind that sent a rush of warmth straight through you. "You’re important to this team—to me."

The air between you was crackling with the kind of tension that had been building for weeks, maybe even months. It was as if all the arguments, the banter, the fire had been leading up to this moment, and you both knew it.

"Hotch," you said, barely more than a whisper, taking a step closer to him. "What are we doing here?"

He took a deep breath, and you watched as his gaze flicked down to your lips for the briefest of moments before returning to meet your eyes. There was a crack in his usual stoic demeanor, the tiniest flicker of vulnerability shining through, like he was finally letting you see the part of him he always kept hidden from the world.

For once, Aaron Hotchner didn’t look like the unshakeable leader of the BAU—he looked like a man on the edge, torn between staying in control and letting his guard drop completely.

"I don’t know," he admitted, his voice rough, tinged with a hint of something you’d never heard from him before—fear, maybe, or hope. "I’ve spent a long time pretending this wasn’t happening... I don’t think I can anymore."

He took another step closer, and you could see the hesitation in his eyes, like he was terrified of making a move that couldn’t be undone.

His voice softened, almost to a whisper, as he added, "I’ve been trying to ignore this," he admitted softly, his eyes never leaving yours, "but it’s not that simple anymore."

The words hit you like a punch to the chest, knocking the air right out of your lungs. You’d always known he was guarded, that he kept his distance as a way to protect himself, but hearing him say it out loud, seeing the raw vulnerability in his eyes—it shook you to your core.

For a heartbeat, you stood there, your emotions tangled, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it. The weight of his words, the confession in his voice, crashed over you like a wave, breaking down every last wall you’d built between you.

"I don’t know how to do this either," you said, your own voice barely holding together, a touch of desperation leaking into your words. "I’m so used to keeping people out, and then you come along and—" You shook your head, letting out a shaky breath. "You scare me, Hotch. This scares me."

His gaze softened even further, his thumb grazing over your knuckles as he reached for your hand, holding it like it was the most natural thing in the world. "You don’t have to be scared," he said, his voice so gentle it almost broke you. "Not with me."

The tenderness in his touch, the way his eyes held yours with so much quiet intensity, like you were the only person who existed in that moment—it was more than you could take. And then, with a boldness you didn’t know you had, you reached up, grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, and pulled him into a kiss that was anything but gentle—fierce, desperate, a release of all the frustration and desire you’d been bottling up for so long.

The moment your lips met, it was like the world stopped turning. The kiss was electric, searing, filled with all the unspoken words and pent-up tension that had been building between you. It wasn’t just a kiss; it was a collision—a clash of everything you’d both held back, all the things you were too afraid to say out loud.

Hotch responded instantly, his good hand sliding to the small of your back, pulling you against him as if he was afraid you’d slip away. His kiss was just as intense as yours, almost rough, like he was staking a claim, like he’d been waiting for this moment just as long as you had. His fingers tangled in your hair, his breath mingling with yours, and he kissed you like he was pouring everything he had into it—all the fear, all the hope, all the need he’d been trying so hard to hide.

When you finally broke apart, gasping for breath, you saw that the mask had shattered completely. The intensity in his eyes was unlike anything you’d seen before—raw, open, unguarded. Finally, you saw Aaron Hotchner not as your stoic boss or your sparring partner but as the man who had somehow slipped past every defense you’d ever built.

"You," you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of disbelief and relief, "You make everything so damn complicated."

Hotch’s lips curled into a slow, almost wicked smile, his thumb gently stroking your cheek as he held you close. "And you wouldn’t have it any other way," he said, his voice low, roughened with emotion.

"Maybe not," you said, a shaky laugh escaping despite the tears welling in your eyes. "But damn you, Hotch…you’re going to ruin me."

He brushed his lips against your forehead, soft and lingering, his breath warm on your skin. "Only if you let me," he whispered a promise in his voice that made your chest tighten almost painfully. "And I really hope you let me."

At this moment, you realized that maybe letting your guard down wasn’t a sign of weakness; maybe it was the bravest thing you’d ever done. And maybe, just maybe, you were ready to be brave with him.

Just as the charged silence wrapped around you both, the door to the briefing room swung open. You and Hotch sprang apart, a little too quickly, both of you turning to see Derek Morgan standing there with an expression that was equal parts surprise and amusement.

Morgan's eyes flicked between you and Hotch, taking in the slightly disheveled look on both of your faces. A grin spread slowly across his face, and he raised an eyebrow in mock innocence. "Whoa," he said, holding up his hands as if surrendering. "Did I just walk in on something, or is this one of those 'don't ask, don't tell' situations?"

You felt your cheeks heat up instantly, your mind scrambling for a response. But before you could even open your mouth, Hotch, ever composed and unreadable, turned to Morgan with the kind of calm authority that only he could pull off.

"We're just wrapping up, Morgan," Hotch said, his voice steady, but there was the slightest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—one that only you seemed to notice. He kept his gaze locked on Morgan, his posture relaxed yet still protective, as though daring anyone to comment further.

Morgan's grin widened, but he knew better than to push his boss too far. He gave you both a knowing nod, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Alright, alright," he said, backing out of the doorway with his hands still raised. "I’ll let you two get back to 'wrapping things up.' Just remember, Hotch, the team’s got eyes everywhere."

As soon as Morgan disappeared, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, a half-laugh escaping your lips. You turned back to Hotch, who met your gaze with a look that was a mix of exasperation and reluctant amusement.

"Well," you said, shaking your head with a smile, "that went better than expected."

Hotch's lips twitched into a wry smile, the hint of a challenge in his eyes. "You realize this isn’t going to go unnoticed by the rest of the team," he said, his tone a little softer now, almost conspiratorial.

"Oh, I know," you replied, your smile turning playful. "But I’m not planning on making it easy for them."

Hotch’s gaze held yours for a moment longer, something unspoken passing between you—an agreement, a promise, that whatever came next, you’d face it together. And with that, the tension in the room shifted once more, the unspoken understanding between you deepening into something neither of you could—or wanted to—deny.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The rest of the night passed in a blur of paperwork, debriefings, and quiet conversations as the team began to wind down after the exhausting case. But no matter how much you tried to focus, your mind kept drifting back to what had happened with Hotch in the briefing room—the way his touch had lingered on your waist, the heat in his eyes, and the quiet promise of something more.

You couldn't shake it. Every glance in his direction sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through you, a reminder of the kiss, of the way his lips had moved against yours, demanding and tender all at once. The tension between you hadn’t just simmered—it was boiling over, and the thought of leaving it unresolved made your heart race.

As the rest of the team filtered out, leaving the office empty and quiet, you found yourself lingering by your desk, unable to shake the feeling that tonight wasn’t over yet. And then, as if on cue, you felt him before you even saw him—Hotch’s presence filling the room, his footsteps slow and deliberate as he approached.

When you looked up, your breath hitched at the sight of him. His tie was still loosened, the first few buttons of his shirt undone, and his sleeves were rolled up, revealing the bandage on his arm from earlier. There was a slight shadow of exhaustion around his eyes, but it did nothing to dampen the intensity of his gaze.

He didn’t say a word as he reached your desk, his eyes never leaving yours, and suddenly the air between you was thick with everything that had been left unsaid.

"You’re still here," he finally said, his voice low and rough, laced with something that made your skin tingle.

"So are you," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady, but the way he was looking at you made it nearly impossible. You swallowed, the tension between you two practically vibrating. "We need to finish this, don’t we?"

Hotch didn’t hesitate. His lips quirked into the faintest smile as he nodded, the movement slow and deliberate. "I think we do," he said, his voice dropping an octave. His gaze flicked to your lips for just a moment before meeting your eyes again, and you could see the unspoken question in them—are you ready for this?

You were.

He stood close, closer than he ever had before, his fingers brushing the back of your hand in a touch that seemed to linger just a little too long. He didn’t say anything, but the way his gaze dropped to your lips and then flicked back to your eyes spoke volumes. It was a silent question, one he wasn’t quite ready to put into words.

Without thinking, you leaned in, a slow, tentative movement that felt like testing the waters. His breath hitched, and just as your lips barely brushed his, he hesitated—only for a second—before closing the distance, his kiss soft and controlled, as though he was savoring a secret he’d kept locked away for too long.

Hotch responded instantly, his good arm snaking around your waist and pulling you flush against him, his lips moving against yours with an intensity that made your head spin. His kiss was demanding, fierce like he was making up for every moment of restraint, every fight, every time he’d held back. His hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you to him, deepening the kiss as his tongue grazed your lower lip.

You let out a soft gasp, and he took the opportunity to take control, his tongue slipping past your lips in a way that sent a jolt of heat straight through you. You pressed against him harder, your hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt, desperate to get closer, to feel every inch of him.

He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your chest, and it was like something inside you snapped. You reached up, running your fingers through his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him pull back, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps.

"Careful," he warned, his voice rough and low, his eyes dark with a mixture of desire and control. "You’re playing with fire."

You smirked, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, "I thought you liked that."

His grip on your waist tightened, and before you could tease him again, he spun you around, pressing your back against the nearest wall with a swift, fluid movement that left you breathless. His body pinned you there, his chest rising and falling heavily as he stared down at you with an intensity that made your knees weak.

"I do," he murmured, his lips brushing against your jaw as his hand slid beneath your shirt, his fingers skimming over your skin in a way that made your pulse race. "But I don’t think you know just how far I’m willing to go."

You shivered under his touch, your breath hitching as his fingers grazed the curve of your waist, his lips tracing a hot path down the side of your neck. "Then show me," you whispered, barely able to form the words as the heat between you both threatened to overwhelm you.

Hotch’s lips curled into a wicked smile against your skin, and without another word, he kissed you again—harder this time, more demanding, more possessive. His hands explored your body with a hunger that matched your own, sliding beneath the fabric of your shirt, tracing every curve, every dip, until you were arching against him, desperate for more.

You tugged at his shirt, fingers fumbling to unbutton it as you kissed him back with just as much intensity, your heart pounding in your chest as the desire between you grew hotter, more insistent.

"Y/N," he groaned, his breath hot against your lips as you finally managed to push his shirt off his shoulders, your hands exploring the hard lines of his chest, the warmth of his skin beneath your fingers. "God, you’re going to drive me crazy."

You smiled against his mouth, tugging him closer. "Good," you breathed, your voice a mix of teasing and need. "I’ve been waiting for this."

He let out a low, rumbling laugh, his hands sliding down your body until they were gripping your hips, holding you tight against him as he kissed you again, harder, deeper. It felt like you were both caught in a storm, a whirlwind of desire that neither of you could control, and you didn’t want to.

You didn’t know how long the kiss lasted, how many times you lost yourself in the feel of his lips on yours, the heat of his body against yours. All you knew was that it wasn’t enough—it would never be enough.

When Hotch finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, your bodies pressed so close together you could feel the rapid beat of his heart against your chest. He stared down at you, his eyes dark and full of desire, but there was something else there too—something deeper, something that went beyond the heat of the moment.

"You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion, his forehead resting against yours as he tried to catch his breath.

You smiled, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest. "I think I do," you whispered, your voice soft, full of affection and heat.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the intensity of what had just happened settling between you like a silent promise. But the fire was still there, simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to burn even hotter.

The air in the bullpen was electric, the tension between you and Hotch almost crackling as you both stood there, chests heaving, lips swollen from the kiss you’d just shared. The reality of where you were hit you like a bucket of cold water, and you glanced around, grateful that the rest of the team had already gone home.

"Hotch," you said, voice still breathless, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips as you took in the sight of him—tie askew, shirt half-unbuttoned, looking thoroughly disheveled in a way you’d never seen before. "As much as I’d love to continue this… display, I’m pretty sure the FBI frowns upon public displays of—well, whatever this is."

He let out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest, his hand still resting on your waist, like he wasn’t quite ready to let you go. "You make a good point," he said, his lips quirking up into that maddening smirk that drove you insane. "Wouldn’t want to scandalize the rest of the team more than we already have."

You raised an eyebrow, giving him a teasing look. "Oh, I don’t know," you said, a sly smile spreading across your face. "I think Morgan’s probably got a running commentary ready for the next team meeting. Maybe we should give him more material."

Hotch’s smirk widened, a flash of mischief sparking in his eyes. "You really are trouble, aren’t you?" he murmured, his fingers trailing lightly up your arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. "I knew it the moment you walked into the BAU."

"You sure that’s what you thought?" you shot back, your voice laced with challenge. "Because I’m pretty sure the first thing you said to me was how I needed to 'fall in line' if I wanted to survive on this team."

Hotch let out a short laugh, the kind that sounded like he was finally letting himself enjoy this. "And you’ve been driving me crazy ever since," he said, his voice softer, almost reverent, as his thumb brushed across your cheek. "In the best possible way."

You felt your cheeks flush, but you couldn’t help the smile that broke across your face, the one you couldn’t hide anymore. "You know," you said, tilting your head slightly, your tone shifting back to playful, "for a man who claims to be the master of control, you really have a habit of losing it around me."

He raised an eyebrow, his smirk turning almost predatory as he leaned in, his lips brushing just shy of your ear. "Oh, I haven't lost control yet," he whispered, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that sent a shiver straight down your spine. "But keep pushing, and I might just have to show you what that really looks like."

Your breath hitched, and you had to fight the urge to pull him back into another kiss right then and there. Instead, you pressed your hand against his chest, pushing him back just slightly, a teasing smile playing on your lips. "Promises, promises, Hotchner," you said with a wink. "But you’re right—we should probably get out of here before this turns into an official FBI incident."

He chuckled, shaking his head slightly, but the fire in his eyes never dimmed. "My place or yours?" he asked, the question laced with a hint of playfulness that made your heart skip a beat.

You pretended to think about it for a moment, your lips quirking up into a sly grin. "Yours," you said decisively. "Wouldn’t want you thinking I’m too comfortable letting you into my world just yet. Gotta keep you on your toes."

Hotch’s eyes sparkled with amusement, his smirk widening into a full grin. "Ah, so we’re back to this, are we?" he said, shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe how much he was enjoying this. "Fine. But don’t think this means I’m going to let you win our next argument."

You laughed, the sound coming out light and genuine, surprising even yourself. "Hotch," you said, leaning in close enough that your lips almost brushed his, "you never had a chance of winning. I’ve been three steps ahead of you since day one."

His expression softened, his eyes locking onto yours with that intensity that always made you feel like he was seeing right through you. "And that’s exactly why I’m not letting you out of my sight," he said, his voice rough with honesty. "You’ve already got me hooked."

Your teasing smile faltered for a heartbeat at the sincerity in his voice, and you felt the air between you shift—deepening into something more than just banter, more than the physical pull you couldn’t resist. You reached up, cupping his jaw in your hand, and for a moment, you let yourself just look at him—this man who’d somehow become everything you never knew you needed.

"You coming or what, Hotchner?" you finally said, pulling back just enough to flash him a challenging smile, the one he loved to see on your face.

He let out a breath, his smile softening into something almost tender. "Oh, I’m coming," he said, taking your hand in his, lacing his fingers with yours as he pulled you toward the elevator. "And don’t think for a second that I’m letting you out of my sight."

As the elevator doors closed behind you, the teasing banter between you faded into silence, replaced by a different kind of tension—one that promised tonight was only the beginning of something that neither of you could walk away from now.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The car ride to Hotch’s apartment was silent but not the uncomfortable kind. It was the kind of silence that crackled with tension, filled with every word neither of you dared to speak aloud. Every glance he stole in your direction made your pulse quicken; every brush of his hand against yours made your breath hitch just a little. You were both wound tight, like two live wires sparking dangerously close.

When you finally reached his place, Hotch opened the door with a practiced calm, but you could see the fire still simmering just beneath his composed exterior. He let you step inside first, and the second the door clicked shut behind you, something seemed to shift between you—a silent understanding that whatever happened next would change everything.

"You know," you said, turning to face him, your voice teasing but your smile almost too genuine, "I never thought I’d end up here, with you, of all people."

Hotch raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth as he took a slow step toward you. "Trust me," he said, his voice low and rough, "I never planned on it either. But somehow, you’ve got a way of turning my plans upside down."

You let out a breathless laugh, the kind that felt like a release of all the pent-up tension between you. "I guess I have a knack for getting under your skin, huh?" you teased, taking a step closer to him, so close now that you could feel the heat radiating off his body.

"Under my skin?" Hotch murmured, his gaze darkening as he reached out, his hand cupping your cheek with a tenderness that made your heart skip a beat. "You’ve done a lot more than that."

He leaned in, his lips just a breath away from yours, the anticipation almost unbearable. But before he could close the distance, you pulled back slightly, a mischievous smile playing on your lips.

"Easy there, Hotchner," you said, a teasing lilt in your voice. "Are you sure you can handle this? I wouldn’t want you to lose control on me now."

He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head, and in one swift movement, he had you pinned against the wall, his hands on either side of your head, caging you in. His face was so close to yours that you could feel his breath against your lips, warm and teasing. "Oh, I’m more than ready," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "but don’t think for a second that I’m letting you call the shots tonight."

Before you could muster a retort, his lips crashed onto yours, the kiss fierce and consuming, a raw release of everything you’d both been holding back. This wasn’t the careful, testing kiss from before—this was a battle of wills, a clash of all the fire and passion that had been building between you for so long.

You responded just as fiercely, your hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt as you pulled him closer, your mouth opening under his, desperate to taste every inch of him. His hands slid to your hips, gripping tight as he pressed his body against yours, pinning you to the wall in a way that left no space between you.

You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, your lips brushing against his as you whispered, "Come on, Hotchner, that’s the best you can do? I thought you’d at least make me work for it."

His eyes flashed with something wild and hungry, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Oh, sweetheart," he murmured, voice rough like gravel, "I’m just getting started."

Without another word, he scooped you up in his arms, his grip firm yet gentle, and carried you through the hallway, his lips never straying far from yours. He kicked open the door to his bedroom, the darkness of the room swallowed up by the heat between you two. He set you down on the bed with a deliberate slowness, his eyes drinking you in like he was memorizing every detail.

"You have no idea how much you’ve messed with my head," he said, his voice a mix of frustration and longing as he leaned over you, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. "How many nights I’ve spent wanting you, hating you for making me feel this way."

You reached up, cupping his face in your hands, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "Believe me," you said softly, all the teasing gone from your voice, "I know exactly how you feel."

Hotch's expression shifted then, something raw and unguarded flickering in his eyes, and he crashed his lips onto yours again, this time with a desperation that bordered on reverence. He kissed you like he was pouring all his unspoken words into it—all the frustration, the longing, the need that he’d kept buried for so long.

You tugged at his shirt, pulling it off him in one swift motion, and his hands followed suit, sliding under your top, lifting it over your head with a quick, impatient motion. His fingers traced the bare skin of your waist, sending shivers down your spine as he drank in the sight of you like he was seeing something he’d been waiting for his entire life.

"You make this harder than it needs to be," he said, his voice a rough whisper against your lips, his hands caressing your skin with a touch that was both tender and possessive. "But I wouldn’t have it any other way."

"Good," you murmured, your lips brushing his as you smiled, that fiery spark still dancing in your eyes. "Because I’m not done driving you crazy yet."

His answering laugh was low and rough, a sound that made your toes curl. "Bring it on," he growled, his mouth crashing onto yours once more, claiming you with a kiss that left no room for doubt, no space for second-guessing.

This wasn’t just a moment. This was everything—the culmination of all the fights, the banter, the fire you had both sparked from the beginning. The dance had finally peaked, and you knew there was no going back now.

As he pulled you closer, his hands mapping every inch of your body with a hunger that matched your own, you realized that you didn’t want to go back. Not to the arguments, not to the distance, not to the days of pretending this wasn’t inevitable.

Whatever this was—this fire, this madness, this undeniable connection—you were both all in, ready to let it burn as bright and as hot as it needed to.

And as his lips moved over yours, the night stretching out ahead of you, one thought echoed in your mind with a clarity that was impossible to ignore: This was only the beginning.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The first light of dawn crept through the blinds of Hotch’s bedroom, casting soft shadows across the room. You blinked awake, a lazy smile spreading across your face as the events of the night slowly came rushing back—how it had started with teasing banter and ended with the two of you tangled together in ways that left no room for ambiguity.

You turned your head slightly to see Hotch lying next to you; his face softened in sleep, a look of peacefulness that you rarely saw on him. The lines of stress and worry that usually creased his brow were smoothed out, his breathing even and slow. At this moment, he looked almost boyish, vulnerable in a way that made your heart squeeze just a little.

Careful not to wake him, you let yourself watch him for a moment longer, taking in this rare sight of Aaron Hotchner—not the stoic leader of the BAU, not your sparring partner in the bullpen, but just a man who’d let his walls down for you.

Just then, Hotch’s eyes fluttered open, and the soft sleepiness was quickly replaced by that intense gaze that never failed to set your pulse racing. He gave you a small, almost shy smile—a look you hadn’t seen on him before and one that did dangerous things to your heart.

"Morning," he said, his voice low and rough from sleep, the sound sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. His hand reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his touch gentle, almost reverent.

"Morning," you replied, unable to keep the smile from your face as you met his gaze. "So, about last night…"

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, and he raised an eyebrow in that infuriatingly charming way of his. "You mean the part where you practically tackled me against the wall or the part where you admitted you’ve been three steps ahead of me this whole time?"

You let out a breathy laugh, rolling your eyes playfully. "Oh, please," you said, leaning in slightly. "If I recall correctly, you were the one who said you were 'just getting started,' Hotchner."

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that made your stomach flip. "Touché," he said, his fingers lightly tracing circles on your bare shoulder. "But I have to say, if this is what happens when we stop fighting, I’m not sure I want to go back."

You paused, the teasing smile fading slightly as you looked at him, something softer, more vulnerable settling in your chest. "You’re really okay with this?" you asked, your voice quieter now, the question carrying more weight than you intended.

Hotch’s expression shifted, the playfulness giving way to something deeper, something that spoke of sincerity and warmth. He reached out, taking your hand in his, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles. "More than okay," he said softly, his eyes locked on yours. "I know this changes everything, and that scares me a little—but not as much as the thought of pretending this didn’t mean something."

You opened your mouth to respond, but he stopped you with a gentle press of his lips against yours—a kiss that was so different from the ones last night. It was soft, slow, like he was savoring the taste of something he’d finally allowed himself to have.

When he pulled back, you gave him a lopsided smile, your voice teasing but with a hint of tenderness. "You know, for a guy who spent so much time trying to get me to fall in line, you’re awfully good at breaking your own rules."

Hotch let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. "Maybe I’ve always been a little too good at breaking them when it comes to you," he said, a hint of that old mischief dancing in his eyes. "Besides, it’s only fair—you’ve been breaking down my walls from the start."

You arched an eyebrow, smirking at him. "Who knew all it took to get through to the great Aaron Hotchner was a little bit of sass and a lot of stubbornness?"

"Trust me," he said, his smile turning soft, almost shy again, "it’s more than just the sass and stubbornness. You’ve always had a way of seeing through the tough exterior, straight to the heart of it all. Even when I didn’t want you to."

The sincerity in his words made your heart skip a beat, and for once, you found yourself speechless. You stared at him, the man who had always seemed so distant, so unreachable, now lying here beside you with his guard completely down.

"You know," you said finally, your voice barely more than a whisper, "I didn’t expect this to happen."

"Neither did I," Hotch admitted, his hand tightening around yours, "but I’m not sorry it did."

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. "I’m not sure how we’re going to explain this to the team. You know they’ll never let us live it down."

A slow, wicked smile spread across his face. "Oh, I’m counting on it," he said, leaning in closer until his lips were just a breath away from yours. "Besides, I’m pretty sure they already have us pegged as the bickering married couple of the team. This will just confirm their suspicions."

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help the smile that crept onto your face. "Oh great, so now we’re giving them material for years to come. Just what I needed."

Hotch chuckled, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that was playful and sweet yet still carrying that hint of fire that never seemed to go away. "Well, if we’re going to give them something to talk about," he murmured against your lips, "we might as well make it worth their while."

You raised an eyebrow, your smile turning into a smirk as you gave him a light shove. "You’re impossible, you know that?"

He grinned, pulling you back into his arms, his voice a low whisper against your ear. "And you wouldn’t have it any other way."

You realized he was right. You wouldn’t have it any other way. The fire, the fights, the laughter—it was all a part of what had led you here, to this moment, to him.

And as the morning light continued to filter through the window, warming the room, you knew that whatever happened next, you and Hotch were in it together.

And that was more than enough.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Walking into the BAU the next morning felt different—like the air itself had changed. As you and Hotch stepped into the bullpen, you couldn’t help the way your shoulders brushed, the way his gaze lingered on you just a moment longer than usual. The two of you had agreed to keep things professional, at least while on the job, but there was an undeniable shift between you—like a secret that wasn’t much of a secret at all.

As you both moved to your respective desks, trying your best to look like everything was perfectly normal, you were acutely aware of the way the team's eyes tracked your every move. Morgan and JJ were huddled near the coffee station, grinning like they were in on the world’s biggest joke, while Garcia’s jaw practically hit the floor the second she spotted you two.

"Well, well, well," Morgan said, straightening up with a grin so wide it looked like it might split his face in two. "If it isn’t the lovebirds gracing us with their presence. How was the night, you two?"

You rolled your eyes, a hint of a smirk tugging at your lips. "Please," you said with a dismissive wave of your hand, "you act like this is something new. We’ve been driving each other crazy for months."

"Oh, trust me, we noticed," JJ chimed in, her grin just as wide as Morgan’s. "But judging by the way you two walked in this morning, I’m guessing the banter took a… different turn last night?"

Hotch, ever the picture of composure, adjusted his tie as if this was just another day at the office. "I’m not sure what you’re implying, JJ," he said in that calm, collected tone of his, though you could see the hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

"Oh, come on, Hotch," Garcia said, practically bouncing on her toes with excitement. "So, anything new happening here that we should know about?

"Remind me to never play poker with any of you," you said dryly, raising an eyebrow at the lot of them. "You can’t hide anything."

Morgan leaned against his desk, crossing his arms with a knowing smirk. "And here I thought the toughest thing to crack in this office was the newest unsub," he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Turns out, it was the two of you."

Hotch offered a small, controlled smile, giving Morgan a pointed look but saying nothing, his silence more telling than any words.

"Exactly," you said, turning to Hotch with a grin. "Might as well own up to the fact that I’ve been right all along, and you’ve been falling behind since day one."

"Oh, is that how you remember it?" Hotch replied, raising an eyebrow in challenge. "I seem to recall you being the one who couldn’t keep up."

You felt a laugh bubbling up, the banter between you as natural as ever, but now it was tinged with something lighter, something softer. "Keep telling yourself that, Hotchner," you said, crossing your arms with a teasing smile. "We both know I’m the one who’s three steps ahead."

Morgan let out a loud laugh, shaking his head. "Oh, this is going to be fun to watch," he said. "You two are never going to stop, are you?"

Hotch gave Morgan a look that was both calm and controlled, but there was a slight softening at the corner of his mouth, a hint of a smile that only you would recognize. "Let's try to keep it professional," he said in his usual authoritative tone, though you could see the glimmer of amusement hidden in his eyes.

You couldn’t help but smirk at his response, the challenge still present between you even if he wasn’t openly saying it. "Of course, Hotch," you said with a touch of mock seriousness. "I wouldn’t dream of making things too easy for you."

Hotch’s lips twitched ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly, as he turned back to his desk, his expression as unreadable as ever to the rest of the team. But in that brief glance, you saw it—the silent promise, the unspoken words that lingered between you: this is far from over.

The rest of the team exchanged amused glances, their smiles wide and knowing. It was clear that this was the moment they’d all been waiting for, the confirmation of what they’d suspected for far too long.

As the team gradually settled back into their usual routine, you felt Hotch’s hand brush lightly against yours, a subtle touch that sent a thrill through you. You turned to look at him, and he gave you a small, private smile—a look that was meant only for you.

"Think you can handle the rest of the day without causing too much trouble?" he asked, his tone teasing but his eyes warm.

"I don’t know," you said, leaning in just a little closer, your voice a soft whisper only he could hear. "Trouble seems to be the one thing I’m really good at."

Hotch’s smile widened, and he shook his head slightly, a glimmer of affection in his eyes. "Good," he said softly. "Because I have a feeling we’re just getting started."

And as the day carried on, with the team throwing you both teasing looks and sly smiles, you knew that things were never going to be the same again. The banter, the fire, the arguments—they were still there, but now they were wrapped in something new, something deeper.

And this time, you were both all in, ready to face whatever came next together.

The worst-kept secret in the BAU was out, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Tag List:

@zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @khxna @rousethemouse

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x female reader #enemies to lovers #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x sassy reader #aaron hotchner x reader insert #aaron hotchner x fem reader #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron. hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner #hotch x reader #hotch x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #female reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #kiwriteswords #hotch

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syrenqin · 1 month ago

Text

Other Professions I think the LADS LIs would have in this world~ Headcanons

Caleb -> Firefighter

He acts before he thinks when lives are on the line. -Always the first to rush into danger without hesitation.

Won the hottest body award multiple times in a single calendar year.

The type to joke around at the fire station but flips into serious mode the moment an alarm goes off.

Sleeps through anything except the sound of an emergency siren.

Has a soft spot for kids—especially the ones he’s saved. Checks up on them whenever he can. "How you doin', squirt?"

Knows every hole in the wall 24/7 diner, and the good ones at that, because of his late-night shifts.

Gives the best hugs—big, warm, and comforting like he’s shielding you from the world.

He smells like smoke and faint deodorant and home.

Xavier -> Personal Tutor

He never carries a backpack, just a notebook and a single pen. And yet, he somehow always has everything he needs.

Explains math problems like it’s the easiest thing in the world—"the exponential curve goes whoosh and the parabolic curve goes whiissh, honestly, what don't you get about this?"

Shows up to your study sessions five minutes late every time but always has some dumb excuse like, “Had to save a cat. The cat was imaginary, but the effort was real.”

The kind of guy who’s equally comfortable helping you ace your history test and giving you life advice like he’s some omniscient philosopher. (He is, perhaps)

Has a habit of flipping his pen between his fingers when he’s explaining something. You like staring at that.

Sometimes falls asleep when you're in the middle of the 100 problem set he made for you. You like twirling his hair between your fingers.

Sylus -> Ethical(?) Hacker

You wake up to find your phone’s lock screen changed. "Use Face ID. Too many fingerprints leave a trace."

You once changed his Netflix password after a fight. The next day, your Wi-Fi stopped working… only for you.

"Who’s this guy texting you?" "My coworker—wait, why?" "Just curious" The next day, your coworker tells you: "You'll never guess but my Linkedin got hacked and someone posted furry p0rn on it."

Instead of sweet texts, you get encrypted messages that only you can decipher.

Every year, Sylus is invited to speak at prestigious cybersecurity conferences worldwide. He never uses slides; he prefers to tell enigmatic, captivating stories instead. People tune in for his voice.

“Hold on, I’ll prove my point with some hard data.” In minutes, he’ll pull up research, evidence, and well-constructed arguments. When he’s done, you can’t help but admire his logical skills.

He has backups for backups. “Did you think I wasn’t prepared?”

You started to realize that no matter what happens, Sylus has a solution. It’s a comforting.

Zayne -> Personal Assistant

Has an alarm for everything—meetings, calls, birthdays, even “reminder to drink water.”

Somehow keeps your life together but is a complete mess in his personal life. Gets IBS from eating too much sugary stuff, and you convince him to take a week off to get back on a healthy diet.

Can book a flight, get a last-minute reservation, and solve a PR crisis all before 10 AM. Has a color-coded planner that looks chaotic to everyone else but makes perfect sense to him.

Is so good at anticipating problems that he fixes them before anyone notices.

Dressed to perfection every day—meaning, he has the same 2 outfits in multiple colors. The outfits that you told him look good on him.

The only one who can sass you and lecture you without getting fired.

Sometimes you pull his cheek while he's in the middle of reading your schedule to you and he jumps like a scared cat.

Rafayel -> Fashion Designer

Always dressed like he walked straight off a runway, even when he’s “dressed casually.”

Has zero patience for bad fashion choices—“Burn that blouse. I’ll make you a new one.”

Obsessed with details—he’ll notice a loose thread on your sleeve from ten feet away. His workspace is an organized mess—sketches, fabric swatches, coffee cups, but he knows exactly where everything is.

Can and will sketch an entire outfit on a napkin in less than a minute.

Dramatic in the best way—throws fabric over mannequins like an artist throwing paint on a canvas. Gets his best design ideas in the 2-hour baths he takes.

No one has ever seen him rush. He moves at his own pace and somehow, things always work out perfectly.

Has already designed your perfect dress for your engagement, wedding, first anniversary, next 50 anniversaries...

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fawnsuga · 28 days ago

Text

The Bombs of Columbine

Disclaimer: This post does not provide any instructions on how to create a bomb or a timing device. Instead, it offers an analysis of the reasons behind the failure of certain timers, focusing on basic electronic circuitry. While this post discusses the reasons for the timers' failures, it does not detail the modifications necessary for them to function properly. The overall design was fundamentally flawed, and it was intended for ignition in an oxygen-deprived environment.

I must clarify that I have never constructed an explosive device, nor would I ever. The following are merely observations.

Why Did the Cafeteria Bomb Timers Fail?

For those familiar with basic circuitry, the issues become apparent when examining the accompanying photo:

It is commonly believed that to create a timing device from a manual alarm clock, the hands must be made of metal. It has been rumored that this particular model featured plastic hands, which would prevent the circuit from being completed. Although plastic cannot complete a circuit, two factors render this point moot: (1) there exists a straightforward method to utilize plastic hands, and (2) their timers were not designed to complete the circuit using the clock hands.

The absence of a screw in the faceplate indicates that the design did not allow for the necessary circuit completion. Clock hands typically need to connect with a metal post on the faceplate to complete the circuit. In this case, the circuit was entirely dependent on the bells, yet they failed to establish a robust connection. This suggests that they likely received inadequate instructions.

Another clock also lacks a screw:

Lack of Evidence for Timer Testing

If they had successfully tested their timing circuitry, it is likely they would have done so in an open setting, as igniting a fuse with electricity is not as straightforward as using a lighter or match. While they may have employed matches, if they could not ignite the fuse electrically, the matches would not serve their purpose.

Did the Timers Ignite When the Alarm Went Off?

A closer examination of the photos implies that these timing devices did ignite. However, they appear to have originated from the bombs found in Dylan Klebold's vehicle, which were disrupted via a controlled explosion. Observing their circuitry suggests they lacked sufficient power due to (1) a weak, ineffective circuit that rapidly connected and disconnected through the bells, and (2) an inadequate ignition source (a 9V battery).

The absence of a screw in the faceplate indicates that the timers were not designed to complete the circuit via the hands.

The following video demonstrates the potential power of similar circuitry: [https://youtu.be/lG8WWxGqojY]. This illustrates the actual ignition potential of their timers—indeed, it was less than that.

Their circuitry lacked the capability to ignite anything beyond fireworks. It appears their setup was akin to what children might use to ignite fireworks remotely. It is plausible that they tested timers on smaller fireworks before attempting to use them for larger explosives.

Was a Diversionary Bomb Really Kicked?

I am skeptical of the claim that a diversionary bomb was kicked or moved, which subsequently ignited. This narrative seems to serve as a cover for why the bag merely started a fire without causing an explosion. They previously stated that two separate café bombs failed due to a single loose wire, a claim that is implausible. Aside from the car bombs that were disrupted, it appears all their timers at least ignited to some degree.

Evidence of Weak Clocks

In the second photo, the alarm hand is not visible. When this type of alarm sounds, the minute hand overlaps the alarm hand, obscuring it. This clock has likely sustained damage, possibly from being disrupted in Dylan's BMW. The lack of the alarm hand suggests two possibilities:

The timing device ignited as a result of weak circuitry.

The device sounded the alarm but did not generate enough electricity to ignite the match and fuse combination.

A common misconception is that the timers indicate the time they were set to explode, which is unlikely. If this device ignited something, it does not necessarily mean it did so at the time shown on the clock.

Circuit Wiring Without the Hands

They likely configured their timers to complete the circuit using the hammer to ring the bells. This configuration is not functional for anything beyond hobby projects and should not be considered a viable method for creating explosives.

The following video illustrates the results of igniting a similar ignition source: [https://youtu.be/5yjeUDBeXJ0]. This demonstrates the maximum ignition potential they had.

The initial "fire" was not intended to cause an explosion but rather to initiate a series of ignition sources leading to a larger fire. Even under optimal conditions, their design would have been ineffective.

What About the 'Deadly' Crickets?

Statements regarding the so-called "deadly crickets" reveal significant misunderstandings. It is nearly impossible to create a "faulty cricket," as it consists simply of powder and a fuse. The described device—a Molotov cocktail with a cricket attached—was not "faulty"; it simply required ignition.

The nature of the device they described indicates that it posed no danger unless someone actively lit the fuse. Even in larger quantities, these devices would not have posed a threat without ignition.

This article serves as a reminder of how law enforcement may exaggerate the threat posed by these devices to mitigate backlash regarding their response. The portrayal of Eric and Dylan as legendary school shooters and failed bombers is misleading; the reality is far less dramatic.

#tc community #tcc tumblr #tccblr #tcctwt #tcc fandom #tcc thoughts #tcc columbine #teeceecee #true cringe community #dylan columbine #columbine 1999 #eric columbine #tee cee cee #reb #tcc shitpost #columbine massacre #fawnsuga

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22ayla21 · 1 month ago

Note

I thought of something about amphoreus male x wife reader. What if their mom used to be part of the nameless and their children asked their mom to tell them about her adventures ?🤔(Of course with their silliness with trailblazer😼)

Mom's adventures in her youth

The children always loved to listen to their mother's stories, but when they learned that she had once been Nameless and had traveled around the worlds on the legendary Astral Express, their delight knew no bounds - especially when the funny antics of the Pioneer emerged in the stories.

A warm evening in their house was a rare treasure, when nothing distracted their family from the simple joys of life. Mydei sat in an armchair, thoughtfully turning the pages of an old book, and their children were comfortably settled on the carpet in front of the fireplace. The eldest son was building something like an express train from wooden blocks, the youngest daughter was watching his movements, fascinated, slowly destroying his construction with her tiny fingers.

- Mom, tell me about your adventures! - the voice of the eldest son broke the silence, filled only with the crackling of the fire. She, leisurely sipping the pomegranate juice that her husband had brought earlier, raised an eyebrow.

- Which ones exactly?

- You were Nameless! - he clapped his hands, and his sister, catching his excitement, clapped her hands joyfully. - You flew on the Express! Traveled around the worlds!

Mydei looked away from the book this time and gave her a long, slightly narrowed look. He rarely asked about her past in the Nameless, because he knew that if she wanted, she would tell him herself, considering that parting with them, although voluntary, was sad. But now he was interested in what version of the story the children would hear.

The woman smiled and leaned back in her chair.

- Oh, where should I start? Probably with the first time I stepped aboard the Astral Express…

The children froze in anticipation.

She remembered that day. How the doors opened, how she was greeted by Velt and Himeko - a strict and reasonable senior comrade and a charismatic female mechanic smelling of coffee and adventure. How Dan Heng nodded to her reservedly, and March 7 clapped her hands, happy to have a new fellow traveler. And then, of course, the Trailblazer, whom she met a couple of months later. That same friend with whom it was better to be embarrassed than bored.

- We had a rule, - she continued, trying to hold back a smile. - Whoever stepped on board for the first time had to drink Himeko's signature coffee.

- Is this a test? - the son frowned.

- In a way, - the woman giggled. - If a person is still able to speak normally after that, then he is a real Nameless.

Mydei snorted, and the children looked at each other with delight.

- And then there was the Trailblazer, - the woman added. — So, this friend was like… a disaster that always happens suddenly.

— And what did he do?

She thought about it. How to explain to the children that he could run away from an important diplomatic meeting because “there was incredible street food in the neighboring city”? That he once almost started a revolution in a world where cats are banned, simply because “it shouldn’t be like that”? How March 7 always supported his crazy ideas, and Dan Heng only sighed heavily, watching them get into trouble again (but he, like a true older brother, got them out of trouble)?

- Well, he... - the woman bit her lip. - You know, everyone has that one friend who says "let's do it", and it never ends well?

The eldest son nodded immediately, because he knew two such boys at school (Phainon's sons).

- That's exactly what he was like.

She saw the corners of Mydei's lips twitch in a restrained smile.

- And what was the most interesting adventure? - asked the son, already prepared to hear something incredible. The woman thought about it.

- Probably the time when the Trailblazer decided that our life was too boring, and pretended to be an ancient prophet to get into an abandoned temple.

- What? - the son was amazed. She nodded.

- And we had to pretend to be his retinue, because otherwise we would have been thrown out of there.

Mydei raised an eyebrow.

- And did you find anything worthwhile in the end?

The woman shook her head.

- Just a warehouse with a bunch of old parchment and a throne, which he, of course, tried to take with him.

The children burst out laughing, and the youngest daughter looked at her mother with admiration.

- Mom, if you hadn't met Dad, would you still be Nameless?

The woman thought for a second.

- Maybe, - she admitted. - But then I wouldn't have you.

Mydei looked at her silently. Something tender flashed in his eyes, and he put the book down, pulling her closer.

- It's good that you met me, - he finally said.

- Yeah! - the eldest son agreed, hugging his younger sister. - And now we have a mother who can tell a lot of stories!

She laughed and, hugging her husband, closed her eyes. In this house, not only adventures awaited her, but also the most precious thing - family.

- Mom, tell me more!

Two pairs of eyes - the eldest daughter, almost a teenager, and the younger, a little girl full of energy - were burning with curiosity. They sat opposite their mother, eagerly awaiting new stories. Anaxa, who was peacefully drinking tea in the corner of the room, only sighed and put his cup down. He knew that sooner or later this question would be asked.

- Again? You were already listening to her stories last night, - he noted, folding his arms over his chest.

- But you weren't listening, Dad! - the younger one objected, waving her hands. - And it was sooo interesting!

Anaxa's wife, the former Nameless, smiled and stretched, as if thinking about which story to tell. Different moments popped into her head - from intense battles to awkward situations that the Trailblazer constantly dragged her into.

- Okay, then maybe I should tell you about that time when the Trailblazer and I almost blew up the kitchen on the Express?

- What? - Anaxa turned to her sharply, and his eyes flashed with disbelief.

- Yes, yes! - the youngest daughter exclaimed happily, ignoring her father's reaction. - How did that happen?

- It was like this... - she began, settling herself more comfortably. - The Trailblazer decided that since we had once again saved the world, we deserved a celebration. The problem was that he didn't really know how to cook.

- Oh, I know how it ends, - the eldest daughter chuckled, folding her arms across her chest.

- Yeah! But we decided to try it anyway. We found some rare recipe from a world where talking plants lived... And, of course, the Trailblazer suggested adding "a little spice."

- Blew it up? - Anaxa clarified, already anticipating the answer.

- Almost. Mr. Welt then lectured us for a long time on safety precautions, and March 7 laughed until she cried because our food tried to escape.

- Oh! Like in fairy tales! - the youngest daughter cried out happily.

- Something like that, - his wife smiled. - By the way, when Mrs. Himeko saw the kitchen after that... well, let's just say that even Dan Heng couldn't save us from her wrath.

The daughters giggled. Anaxa sighed, rubbing his temples.

- And this is how you spent your time as a Nameless?

- Oh, no, that's just a small part, - his wife answered with a sly smile.

- Ooo! Mom, tell me something else about the Trailblazer! - exclaimed the youngest daughter.

- Yes, he's your friend! You said that it was "embarrassing, but fun" with him!

Anaxa frowned with displeasure.

- I'm not sure I want to hear that.

His wife just laughed, patting him on the shoulder.

- Now that's not your zone of control, dear.

And while Anaxa drank tea with a displeased expression, his daughters continued to listen with delight as their mother traveled through the worlds, got into trouble and found friends with whom it was better to be embarrassed than bored.

The evening in the house was especially quiet, if you don’t count the two restless children who were hanging around their mother. Their father, Phainon, had already become accustomed to them always demanding a fairy tale or a story before going to bed, but today they were especially persistent.

- Mom, tell me about your adventures!

- Yes, yes! You were one of the Nameless, traveling between worlds!

The woman put down the book she was reading and looked at the children with a soft smile. A shadow of memory flashed in her eyes.

- Are you sure you want to hear the truth? - she asked with a sly squint.

- Of course! - the children exclaimed in unison. Phainon, who was sitting in a chair nearby, also tore himself away from his thoughts. He had heard about her past, but she rarely shared details.

- Okay... Then listen.

She settled down more comfortably, as if preparing to plunge into those distant days again.

— Long ago, I was part of the crew of the Astral Express, a train that travels between worlds, following the precepts of the Aeon of Trailblazere. We explored the unknown, helped those who needed us, and sometimes… got into some very dubious scrapes.

The children gasped in delight.

- Like the Trailblazer? - the younger asked, his eyes wide. The woman laughed softly.

- Yes, especially with the Trailblazer. He… always found adventure even where there was none.

- And always got into trouble? - the eldest son clarified.

- Oh, even worse!- she rolled her eyes. - When the Trailblazer was around, everyone was embarrassed. Especially me.

Phainon chuckled, but said nothing.

- One day, - she continued, - we found ourselves on a planet where the locals believed that foreigners brought bad luck. We had to change our clothes so that we wouldn’t be discovered. Mr. Welt looked like a strict teacher, Mrs. Himeko looked like a noble lady, and Dan Heng… well, he remained serious and silent as usual. But the Trailblazer… he gave himself away after five minutes, simply because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. The kids burst out laughing.

- And you?

- I tried to save the situation, but in the end we all got locked in the cage.

- How did you get out?!

The woman chuckled.

- Oh, that's a whole other story. But let's just say that if it weren't for Mrs. Himeko and her ability to find a common language with anyone, we would have stayed there.

Phainon shook his head as he listened to the story. He knew that his wife had a wealth of life experience, but sometimes it was hard for him to imagine her always getting into such adventures.

- Why did you leave? - the youngest son suddenly asked. She fell silent, thinking for a moment.

- Because I realized that I had already found what I was looking for.

She looked at Phainon, and then turned her gaze to the children.

- I saw many worlds, but none of them became my home. Until I met your father.

The children exchanged glances.

- But you could have taken us with you on the Express!

- Maybe, - she answered softly. - But then we wouldn't have such a cozy evening where I can tell you stories before bed.

The children thought for a moment, and then, with contented smiles, they snuggled up to their mother.

- Okay, then tell me another story tomorrow!

- Of course, - she promised, hugging them. Phainon only smiled, watching this scene. Even though her heart had once belonged to the stars, now it beat here, next to him and their children.

#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #hsr #hsr mydei #mydei #mydeimos #mydei x reader #hsr anaxa #anaxa #anaxagoras #anaxa x reader #hsr phainon #phainon #phainon x reader

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f1cflcfic · 3 months ago

Text

The Prophecy (SMAU ft. Lando Norris) Part VI

pairing: lando norris x singer!reader (fem!y/n)

summary: what happens after the break-up that noone saw coming? as Y/N L/N gears up to release her next album, each song reveals a little bit of the past, present and future of her relationship with Lando Norris. Inspired by a curated playlist built around "The Prophecy".

note: this is RPF and is obviously in no way, shape, or form reflective of real persons. also, this chapter contains some (implicit) references to sex.

genre: social media au (with written parts), angst, exes to lovers, happy ending

[A/N: and with this chapter, we come to an end of the Prophecy series! I've got some deleted scenes/bonus content, but other than that... time to say goodbye. I hope you've loved this journey as much as I have, do let me know!]

part i part ii part iii part iv part v

♥･*:.｡｡.:*･ﾟ♡･*:.｡｡.:*･ﾟ♥

December 8th, 2026

Second week of December, 2026

[Excerpt from Chicken Shop Date with Y/N L/N & Amelia]

“Are you a romantic?”

“I do – but I’m quite cautious, too. It takes me a while to open myself up to someone else.”

“What’s the most romantic thing someone’s ever done for you?”

Y/N thinks hard, then points at the food in front of them. “I think consistency, actually. Like, I had someone surprise me with my favorite meal every single time after major milestones. I thought it was really nice, especially because when you're tired you just want to spend time together, instead of having to work on putting dinner together for yourselves.”

“Really? You'd rather take-out over a homecooked meal?"

"Knowing your strengths is important in a partner. If you're not the best cook, take-out is the next best thing! And like I said, it's also about time."

"So what you’re saying is going on chicken shop dates is the epitome of romance to you?”

“Exactly,” Y/N says emphatically, pointing a fry at Amelia.

(...)

“Your album is called The Prophecy. Are you very superstitious?”

“Not really, no. But desperate times call for desperate plans. I think things like manifesting can't hurt,” Y/N giggles.

Amelia frowns. “Are you desperate, or are you calling me desperate?”

“Maybe not desperate. Let's go with yearning.”

(...)

“What do you think, is Christmas a good holiday to bring a date to?”

“Hmm , set the scene for me. Is it a friends only party, or family dinner?”

“It’s a dinner party with friends. Would, and should my date be willing to come?”

“Amelia, are you asking me on a second date?”

“Well, no. Maybe? Aren’t you...?”

Y/N blushes. “Let’s be present in the moment!”

“Okay, so tell me – can it be a good second date?”

“I think if you feel super comfortable with them, and you have great friends, the vibe isn’t super formal, then why not? It could be a great trial by fire. Like a new and improved orange peel test.”

“Has someone ever peeled an orange for you?”

“Yes,” Y/N nods. “That’s funny – there is an orange on our table right now.” Camera pans to a Terry’s chocolate orange.

“I’ll peel this one for you,” Y/N offers.

Third week of December, 2026

Last week of December, 2026

January, 2027

[Excerpt from Vogue]

It’s hard to think of the popstar as anything but unflappable, but she assures me there are plenty of moments in which she doubts herself. “I think anyone who craves that recognition at being good at what you do, is going to struggle with the reality of having people see you all the time. As a perfectionist, I wish I could control everything so people’d only ever see my best self all the time. But that’s a pipedream. There’s so many expectations, it can be difficult to figure out which ones were really your own to begin with – and which ones you’ve started to believe because you don’t want to disappoint anyone.”

Indeed, as a female popstar, L/N has had to deal with her fair share of hate online, oftentimes masked as mild concern or constructive criticism from supposed fans. For example, a leaked song earlier this year spurred fans on to comment and speculate about L/N’s ambition – Did she have enough of it? Was she going to give it all up for a man?

L/N’s the first to admit that it’s not entirely unsurprising, given that the song in question includes a lyric describing her willingness to carry the burdens of someone else by herself. “It’s never fun when stuff you chose not to release ends up finding its way to the public after all. There’s a reason I didn’t want it on the album,” she explains. “But in this case, I wrote the song with my friend Louis [Tomlinson] ages ago. We used it as a reference when I started writing in earnest again earlier this year, but that’s all it was meant to be. A reference.”

So why did it become such an obsession to her fans? Well, if one adds a high-profile relationship on top of a high-profile career, that’s a recipe for things to get complicated. The singer’s latest album details her experience with the subsequent public fall-out. While she previously hasn’t spoken much of her relationship with F1 driver Lando Norris and how it influenced her art, she is candid about it now. “I think for the first time, rather than wanting to use songs to capture the great moments, I used songwriting to help me reflect on what could’ve been, what it wasn't, where it went wrong. And in doing so, that also opened the door for me to grow.”

“It’s really painful to have to come to terms with the fact that sometimes love isn’t enough. Especially when in retrospect, there’s much more room for acknowledging how you contributed to the problem. So yeah, by challenging myself to be vulnerable in my art, I also had to put my own hurt and heart out there again. But I think it’s made me a stronger, better person.”

And what of that relationship now? She has a coy smile on her face. “Good, I think, really good. I firmly believe my life is a lot richer when he's in it. So I count myself lucky that I get to have his back and he has mine.”

We are just about wrapping up the interview when her phone lights up with a message from L. It’s a link to an IG reel of dogs being bundled up like tiny burritos. It’s so innocuous, you’d almost forget that the person sending it is a star in his own right.

Celebrities, they’re just like us sometimes.

February, 2027

[Excerpt E! Online Grammy's Red Carpet interview]

"And we're here with the lovely Y/N L/N! Not nominated this year, but a presenter and performer on this night all about music."

"Hiii, thanks for having me!"

"Now tell us, you've had a super exciting year in 2026 - what are you most looking forward to tonight?"

"I'm doing a duet with Miley, which is awesome. I feel so honored they asked me to do this, and I love her so much. She's really one of the iconic voices of this generation, so to stand next to her on that stage? Amazing."

"That's super exciting! The two of you are also both heading on tour, Miley over the summer, you are literally heading out next week. How are you feeling about that?"

"Really good! I'm so excited to see the fans, I've done some shows here and there, but touring life is on another level."

"What else are you looking forward to? Some of your other friends are here tonight, as well, correct?"

Y/N nods. "Yeah, I actually just saw Louis [Tomlinson] arrive - he's nominated tonight so I'll be rooting for him. The Grammy's is always a great moment to catch up with friends as well, so maybe I'm even more excited for the after parties."

"Drink of choice tonight?"

"Probably champagne? Quite like the taste of it, always," Y/N winks at the camera.

March, 2027

April, 2027

FIN.

♥･*:.｡｡.:*･ﾟ♡･*:.｡｡.:*･ﾟ♥

You can read the previous parts by going here. Keep an eye out for the bonus content/deleted scenes!

The epilogue is now available here.

♥ likes, comments, reblogs are always very much appreciated ♥

taglist (open) : @charlesgirl16, @linnygirl09, @hoeforsirius, @motorsportloverf1, @sarx164, @idkimbadwithusernamesandstuff, @formulaal, @tvdtw4ever @sadiemack9 @seonghwaexile @screamingwines

198 notes · View notes

neowinestainedress · 2 years ago

Text

wait for me | lee jeno

title: wait for me

pairing: lee jeno x fem!reader

genre: smut

warnings: smut, unprotected sex, oral (m and f receiving), facef*cking, praise kink, minor degradation (more like teasing), (consensual) filming for one scene, pet names (princess, baby/babe, honey, good girl, silly girl, etc), mentions of p*rn, loss of virginity (it’s a social construct but you get the point), soft dom!jeno, innocent!reader, romantic but rough at times, a bit of aftercare

summary: jeno keeps his promise of turning you into a mess under him

wc: 6.195k

a/n: I take my time with things, but if I promise something, I will do it, so here’s a gift for my precious @everloving-avenue ♡ it took almost a year but the sequel to this drabble is here! you don’t have to read the first part to understand. the style is a bit different from the drabble because I do write in a different way, so I don’t know how it will flow if you read one right after the other, but I hope you’ll enjoy it anyway. I missed writing just good old smut with no plot. Same thing as the original drabble; I don’t think I’m the best when it comes to writing first times, so I hope this doesn’t suck completely. ps: missed writing about Jeno ♡

general taglist: @froggyforyoongi, @wingsss45, @tddyhyck | send an ask if you want to be added (i hope i didn't forget anyone cause i didn't use a tag, but from now on i will so i'll have everyone in the same place)

“Can you take it all, pretty girl?” Jeno never looked more intimidating than he does now, looking down at you while you’re on your knees, trying to keep your gaze locked in his and don’t divert it, too embarrassed and distracted by his big, hard dick standing so close to your face.

You gulp, humming lowly and moving closer to the head of his cock, your lips brushing against it, making him laugh tenderly.

“We can wait if you’re not ready,” he says, the husky tone of his voice sends shivers down your back, and even if he has been nothing but nice and respectful to you, your brain can only focus on the sexiness of it.

“No, I...” you hesitate, lowering your head as you suddenly feel shy, “… I don’t know what to do.” Since you called him that night, you had been more daring, but Jeno always focused on you, and the bravest thing you’ve done to him was a handjob. This feels like such a big step, and you’re terrified you’ll let him down, no matter how much he has been reassuring you.

A smile curls his lips, but it’s more of a grin as he bends over and lifts your chin up. “I’m here to teach you, am I right?”

You feel your throat close for a moment as you bravely meet his eyes, you can see he’s holding back, and that makes a fire ignite in you. You’d even let him be rough with you — at least that’s what you saw while lurking on… those sites — but you don’t feel like pushing your luck. So you nod, swinging your ass on your heels as your knees rub against the carpet to move closer to him again.

“Good girl,” he coos, kissing you quickly before standing up like before. “Open up,” Jeno orders, this time holding the base of his dick as he prods the tip against your lips.

You do as he says, tongue coming out of your mouth as you try to remember what you saw in a few videos.

Jeno smiles, teasing his length on it, watching as you try so hard to don’t look away. He thinks you’re really cute, really fucking cute, to be honest. There’s a bit of fear and a lot of eagerness in your eyes, and after months, he can’t hold back anymore. His free hand reaches for your cheek as he slowly starts pushing in, whispering to you to be careful to don’t bite and keep your mouth wide open, until he’s halfway in.

You flinch, eyes squeezing as you feel the flow of air already dim in your lungs, hands immediately finding his thighs to hold onto something.

Jeno snickers, pulling out and shaking his head. “Silly girl, you have to breathe, that’s like the most important part.”

You feel like he’s testing the ground, being bolder in the way he talks to you during these moments, and you have no idea why, but you find it hotter than you imagined you ever would. Your thighs clench as you feel your pussy throb just at the way he had called you a silly girl.

“Through your nose, darling. You got it?” Something about the way he’s so condescending makes you dizzy and answer him right away, eyes fluttering as you nod and part your lips again, this time not set for failure.

He pushes into your mouth again, it’s slow and he grunts as he slides in, feeling your warm, wet mouth wrap around him.

You gag on it when the tip reaches the back of your throat, but Jeno’s ready to calm you down.

“Breathe deeply, babe,” he says, voice dropped by an octave as his thumb caresses the portion of your skin between your jaw and neck. “You’re being such a good girl for me.”

Your toes curl at his words, and you feel a heavy weight being lifted from your back. Jeno feels it in the way your throat relaxes and how your cheeks suck him in.

If only he didn’t wait so long, he would stay still for a bit more, but now that he has you like this, he can’t control himself. “Can you suck?” He asks, voice shaking.

“I guess,” you mumble before pulling away to take a deep breath. “You want me to move on it?”

“Yeah,” he hums. “I fear I won’t be so gentle if I do all the job.”

You quirk a brow, tilting your head as you stare at him. “What do you mean?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing. Just remember what I said, breathe through your nose, and you’ll be fine.”

You’re not happy with the way he dismissed your question, but you ignore it anyway, taking his cock in your mouth another time. You close your eyes to concentrate more and you start to suck, bobbing your head slowly at first, until you find a rhythm he seems to like, and it’s not too much for you.

It feels weird, yet, every time you feel like you’re doing something wrong — like when the lewd sounds of your mouth get louder when it hits too deep, or when your nails sink in his thighs hard, or when spit drools from your chin — Jeno only moans louder and the hold of his hand in your hair tightens.

“Good girl,” he praises, and when you open your eyes, you see his head reclined, lips parted and eyelids sitting on his beautiful cheeks. “Taking my dick so well.”

Your body burns up at his word, a mix of feelings you can’t explain getting to your brain, but you keep trying to do your best to work on him. Until something pops in your mind. You pull away, mostly to take your breath, but your hand immediately reaches his base to pump up and down.

Jeno doesn’t say anything, he even manages to muffle the groan of disappointment he let out when your lips left him. He knows you need breaks, but he still doesn’t quite expect what you do next. The combo mouth-hand was not on his bingo today and he can’t believe you’re doing it. It takes you a while to find a rhythm — he finds it adorable how uncoordinated you are — but when you do… fuck, when you do.

You’re moving slower than Jeno would go crazy for, but he likes it anyway. You’re trying your best, brows knitted in concentration, mouth and hand working together, and soft moans vibrating around him. Just the view is enough to push him closer to the edge, especially when you seem to relax completely.

“Stay focused,” he calls you out, fearing you might stop doing the most important thing again; breathe. “Don’t get too lost, princess.”

You hum, voice muffling around his length hitting deep in your throat while you open your eyes to look at him. His jaw is tense, and he’s breathing deeply through his nose, the veins of his arms are so visible, propping on his skin as his hand is closed in a fist. He’s trying not to look down at you, you won’t know it, but you look too hot right now, and if only his eyes move down, he would start fucking your face.

But you can’t take it. It’s your first time, and he has to be gentle. He can’t act like an animal without self-control, because he is not, right?

Yet the more you softly moan, and gag and suck him, hollowing your cheeks while your hand shily works on the base and his balls, the harder it gets.

When he practically growls, you pull back, terrified you did something wrong, unaware eyes looking into his.

“Did I hurt you? I’m sorry, I — I was careful with my teeth, I’m sure I wasn’t —”

He clicks his tongue, shaking his head as he shuts you up with his thumb on your lips, now plumper and red with spit dripping from a corner down to your chin. “You did nothing wrong,” his breath is ragged and his pupils are dilated, his chest is heaving quickly while his hair is starting to wet around the crown of his forehead. “You’re being good, baby, too good.”

You blink, confusingly staring at him. “Too good? How can I be too good?”

Jeno sighs, caressing your cheeks, wetting them with the spit that stuck to his thumb. “You really have no idea how fucking hot you look right now, don’t you?”

You purse your lips, shaking your head as you keep looking up. Feeling oh so small.

A smirk paints his face. “Should I show you?” He asks, but you don’t get it until he grabs the phone from the nightstand and shakes it in his hand.

“Oh, that,” you gasp, feeling your throat go dry.

“Only if you want, of course,” he reassures, sensing your hesitation.

“I — it’s fine. If it stays on your phone, it’s fine,” you say, feeling yourself get wetter at the thought of him taking a picture of you at such a moment. It’s also curiosity. Are you really that good? Do you look as pretty as the girls in those videos? You doubt that, even if they look like a mess they’re always so pretty, but you? Maybe Jeno is just being nice because it’s you.

“Of course, princess. Trust me, I wouldn’t let anybody else see you like this.” And also, for all the times he is going to have you in that position, he would even delete it once you are done, if you prefer it.

You nod, shifting in your place because you don’t know what to do, should you pose? Should you take it in your mouth again? But Jeno answers your questions when he grips your chin and forces your head up, you’re not as messed up as he wishes you were, but this will do. “Smile for me,” he says and you do, feeling awkward. You’d like to disappear if only you couldn’t see his cock throb in your peripherical view, he wants you so much.

So, as soon as the phone moves away with praises coming out of his mouth, you lean in, taking it inside again.

“Fuck,” Jeno curses, clutching the phone in his hand, struggling to show you the picture of you. “Let me fuck your face,” he pleads, words followed by ragged moans, “you can tap my thigh if it gets too much but — fuck — let me try.”

You pull away, trying to follow him, but even if you are doing something to him, your brain is already lost in the pleasure, and the fact you have pretty much no idea what he’s talking about doesn’t help. “Like in the videos?”

“I won’t be that harsh, I promise,” and even if pleasure is running in his body, you can hear the honesty in his voice.

“O — okay, but…” you drift your gaze away, “can you film us? So I can see after?”

A deep groan reverberates in his chest, followed by a low suck of air. He can’t believe this is real, that you are real. So innocent and pure, asking for such things. But he’s more than happy you are the one proposing stuff to him. “Yeah, fuck, yes.”

You shouldn’t feel like this just hearing his voice and moan, but you do, and the way your panties are sticking to your pussy is getting unbearable, you can’t wait to have him down there, so you part your lips, and wait for him to take the invitation.

Jeno doesn’t waste a second more, shoving himself down your throat, stopping to give you time to adjust to the rough intrusion of his girth before he starts moving his hips against your face.

At first, it feels weird, you have no control, and the pace is faster than yours, but you try to remember what he said before; you focus on your breathing and the sweet sounds coming from his mouth. Mostly because the ones coming from yours are too dirty for you to bear with.

“Fuck, babe, just like this,” he praises, one hand holding up the phone and the other caressing your cheek, trying to give you something soothing while he moves with force, it’s not too strong, surely not like one video you accidentally watched — and closed right away because it was way too much. This feels like a great compromise between your slower pace from before and the facefucking.

“My pretty baby, taking me so well,” Jeno moans, smiling at you when he sees a glint of a smile in your eyes. “You still don’t believe me, do you?”

You try to answer him non-verbally, but the way he’s thrusting into you doesn’t give your head any room for movement. He tsks, shaking his head disappointedly. “Don’t believe me when I call you beautiful when we go out on dates, don’t believe me when I whisper it to you in the morning, and not even now? Do I really have to show you?”

You feel like choking, but not on his dick. It’s because of his voice, his words, and the tone he’s using. Your breath falters more when he turns the phone to you, the video playing what you were doing just a few moments ago. You should think it’s weird, humiliating even, but you don’t. It’s turning you on even more, and you do look pretty like he says.

“See how beautiful you are even like this?” His voice is heavy, reaching deep into your core, making your pussy clench around nothing and drool out more excitement. “Your glossy eyes, your pretty lips stretched open just for me. Do you believe me now, princess?”

You nod, nails digging into his thigh because the video and him are deconcentrating you and you fail to do the most important thing; breathe. You gasp when he pulls out, a thread of spit connects your lips with the tip of his cock as you sputter, trying to catch your breath.

“Are you okay?” He asks worriedly, throwing the phone on the bed and staring at you with a concerned look on your face. “You know you should stop before reaching your limit?”

“I know,” you cry out, cleaning your chin before lifting your gaze at him. “I was doing fine, but I… I forgot how to breathe.”

Jeno snickers, caressing your lips with his thumb, smearing the mess on your chin another time. “You forgot how to breathe, baby? Didn’t fuck you yet, and you’re already my dumb baby?” He’s clearly testing the waters another time, you discussed these things a lot, but Jeno knows that videos and stories on the internet are a completely different thing from reality and he’s not so confident everything you think turns you on will actually turn you on. But apparently dirty talking, a mix between a lot of praises and just a hint of degradation, turns you on for real. He watches your thighs clench and your boobs rise while a choked moan leaves your lips.

He smiles, or better, grins, tapping your face with his cock. “Will you let me fuck your mouth until I come, silly girl? Should we see just how dumb you get on me?”

You nod eagerly, moving even closer with your knees, sure by now you were going to have marks of that night tomorrow. But not even the discomfort can stop you from letting him have his way with you.

You moan louder when he pushes inside you this time, hands reaching his thighs for support while he starts moving quickly in and out, groans falling copiously from his tongue, balls slapping against your chin, and strong grip on the side of your face.

You can’t take it anymore and you start rubbing your thighs together, trying to get a tiny bit of relief as his moans progressively get lower, aggressive and messier. He always tries to hold back but you’re loving this side of him.

“Where — fuck — where do you want me to come?” He asks, slowing down a bit, only now realizing you’re wearing your favourite tank top and he doesn’t want to ruin your clothes, but were you ready for the whole thing? “Shirt?” When you shake your head he tries to think of something else, but the only option is not much better. “Floor?” But you shake your head again, and there’s only one thing left, “mouth?” You nod, eyes beaming, and he loses it. “Fuck,” he groans, hips stilling against your face as the orgasm hits him, making him empty inside of you. He drags out to don’t make you choke on his cum and then pulls away, still shuddering and moaning, expecting you to spit, having decided to play with fire and surely regretting it, but you don’t. Your face is contorted in an expression he can’t read, but you swallow everything, and then look up at him with innocent eyes.

“Was I good?”

“Fuck, honey, yes,” he says, lifting you up by wrapping an arm around your waist, making you lay on the bed. “So good,” he praises.

You smile but feel shy once again when he doesn’t start anything more. You’re aching, and you want him. Everything. His mouth and fingers are not enough anymore, you need him now.

“Jeno,” you moan. “Please.”

“Yeah?” he asks nonchalantly.

You huff, rolling your eyes. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Oh, no, princess, I want to hear you. Use your big girl words,” he orders.

“I want you to fuck me,” you breathe out, barely holding eye contact with him.

He smiles victoriously, feeling his dick harden again just from hearing your voice say those filthy words. “Are you sure?” He checks in, quirking a brow.

You hum. “I’m dripping,” you whisper, feeling too conscious about the mess between your legs. “I’m ready.”

Jeno tried to postpone this as much as he could, not because he didn’t want you, but because he wanted to wait for you and respect your time. He knows you tend to jump into things head first, but after a brief look at you, he knows this time isn’t the case. Since the daring call, you two experimented a lot, so this was the right moment to give you everything.

“Stop me if anything makes you uncomfortable, alright?”

You nod, silently watching as he adjusts between your legs, pulling down your stained panties before throwing them to the side. You don’t expect his lips to leave kisses on your thighs, quite frankly you feel more eager than usual to get what you wanted right away, but it’s clear he has other plans.

You still shy away every time he’s between your legs, feeling too conscious about how intimate you two are being. And it makes you even more dizzy when Jeno breathes in deeply before sucking on your clit.

“Jeno,” you cry out, covering your face with your hands.

“What, baby? How many times do I have to tell you not to cover yourself?” He scolds, eyes staring at you from between your legs. “Move your hands away or I’ll leave.”

You barely give him time to finish that your hands are sitting at the sides of your body, and your hips are bucking up, inviting him to take care of you.

“Eager baby,” he whispers before spreading your thighs wider, sinking down to lick your wetness. “Taste so good, princess.”

“It’s weird,” you mumble, you truly can’t get what he finds so hot about it, and how good you taste.

Jeno clicks his tongue, groaning in disappointment. “You don’t have to taste it,” he says, giving another harsh suck to your clit that makes your thighs shudder, “it’s all for me, and I love it.”

Your head rolls back when he starts moving his tongue on you as soon as he’s done with his words. He’s neat, like his usual, sucking and licking until he has you shaking underneath him. But usually — the four times you’ve done this before — you just lay there. This time your fingers find their way in his hair, tangling in it as you push him closer.

“Fuck, babe,” he moans, voice muffled against your body. “I’m not going anywhere,” he giggles and the vibrations push your brain in a spiral while your head rolls back.

You bite down a high-pitched moan when he pushes two fingers inside you after collecting your arousal and his spit. If you want to take him — and you do — he has to get you ready for the big thing —literally. So he sucks on your clit and pumps in and out of you faster, scissoring his two digits every now and then to stretch you out more.

“So welcoming, angel,” he hums, pulling away from your clit with a loud pop, “do you want me that much?” You must be particularly turned on because his fingers slide into you with ease, more than the other times when it took him a while to get you accommodated to the intrusion.

“Yeah, I…” your words die in your mouth as you stare at the ceiling, feeling so, so close to the high. It’s a feeling you know quite well now, but it still catches you by surprise every time. And you fear you will never get used to any of this, not anytime soon, at least.

“You?” He coos. “You want my cock in you? Want to finally know what it feels like to be fucked nice and deep?”

You want the mattress to eat you as he speaks those words, but your body reacts in a completely different way, burning up as your orgasm washes over you, leaving you breathless against the bed.

Jeno pulls his fingers out of you, sucking them clean when he’s sure your watching. “Tastes so good, no matter what you say, baby.”

You let out a shaky breath, feeling your body buzz in ecstasy.

“Come here,” he says, leaning in, lips to lips, “taste yourself on me.” You kiss him with no hesitation, not because you’re eager to taste your cum, but because you want to feel him as close as you can.

“Jeno, please,” you beg, cupping his face before pulling him into another kiss. “I need you.”

“I know you do,” he says, softly caressing your side. “Can you take it, though?”

You nod swiftly, hips desperately grinding against him, feeling his cock against your skin. “I’ll be good, I promise.”

Jeno smiles softly, finding it so cute how you still worry about him when you should focus on yourself. He kisses you while his right hand is busy rummaging in the stand next to the bed to find lube.

“But I’m wet,” you complain when you realize what he’s doing, feeling a bit guilty because maybe it’s still not enough.

“Yes, you are,” he agrees, kissing your body as he slowly stands on his knees and positions you better on the bed. “But I’m big, and I don’t want to hurt you.”

You purse your lips in a thin line, trying to don’t overthink this, but Jeno gets something is wrong.

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with a bit of help. Also, lube can make things funnier, so why are you sulking?”

“I’m not, I just — I want to be good like the girls you had be—”

“No comparing, you are you, and I love you,” he stops you before you can finish, opening the bottle of lubricant but still waiting for your full consent. “Just trust me on this, alright?”

“Yeah, I trust you,” you breathe out, voice shaking, and as you stare as he pours the cold liquid on his hard dick you realize this might be the smartest choice. Also, you have to remind yourself that porn is fake, and probably not even as funny as they make it out to be, so why would you want to ruin the fun with your boyfriend just to copy it?

“For anything, even if it’s just discomfort, stop me, alright?”

You nod, feeling your nerves out of your skin, but Jeno wants you down on earth with him, and he needs to hear your voice. “Honey? What do you do if something’s wrong?”

It takes you a while to realize he’s talking to you and even a bit more to answer. “I tell you,” you stutter, searching for his eyes because this is getting real and all your confidence is falling apart.

“Good girl,” he praises, kissing you on the lips.

When the tip of his cock presses against your entrance you know for sure using lube was the best idea he ever had in his entire life. Your jaw slacks, hands immediately reaching his back to sink in the skin of his shoulders as your chest rises heavily.

“Honey, you’re too tense,” he says, pulling away.

“No, I’m not,” you cry out, trying to push him in by locking your legs around his waist but he’s stronger than you and doesn’t let you do the dumbest thing you could ever do.

“We don’t have to do it, you know right?”

“But I want to,” you whine. “It’s just… big.”

“Then we can wait.”

“No, just… ease the tip in and then sink slowly,” you breathe out.

“But you need to relax,” he says. “Let me do something.” It’s not what you expect him to do, but when his lips start leaving soft pecks on your skin, you can only relax under his attention. “That’s it, princess, loosen up,” he whispers against your neck, trailing down to kiss your chest, noting you’re still dressed in your camisole and he has to move it to have access to your skin. “Can I lift this off? Want to feel you close to me.”

You hum, nodding your head in small movements as you try to relax your muscles. He quickly takes it off of you before going back to your skin, kissing and sucking, until goosebumps pervade you, distracting you while the fat head of his cock presses against your slit and you barely even notice.

Jeno hums when he quickly glances up and you’re too lost in pleasure to tighten up around him, but he doesn’t push further in. “Good girl. Here,” he says, searching for your hand on the mattress, “hold my hand.”

You do as he says, parting your legs when you realize he’s back where he was before, barely inside. “More, please,” you implore, meeting his eyes that turn into half-moons for a brief moment as he smiles back at you.

He doesn’t ask more questions, afraid of tensing you up again, and pushes past your entrance.

“Mhh,” you bite back, forcefully trapping your lower lips between your teeth to don’t let out weird sounds.

Jeno stares at you, trying to study your body as he keeps moving, soothing circles on your waist. He’s barely halfway in and he’s not sure about what to do.

“It’s… it’s weird,” you mumble, feeling shy when you two make eye contact.

“Bad weird or good weird?”

You shrug. “I don’t know, it’s not bad, it doesn’t hurt,” you reassure him. “You can push in, I’m relaxed.”

You are, your shoulders are not tensed and your legs are parted on your own, your breath is also much more regular than before. So he does, he slowly buttons in, taking your breath away.

You gasp, head rolling back as you feel full like never before.

Jeno wants to back away when you start… laughing. “Are you okay?”

You nod swiftly, “Yeah,” you smile. “It’s… I… I don’t know how to explain this,” you try to reason but truly there’s nothing rational about this. It’s the surprise because you can’t believe it happened and it’s the way it feels as your pussy automatically clenches around him. “I think you can fuck me,” you say, feeling the shame disappear.

“I can take more time for you to adj—”

“I’m dripping and I’m ready for you, it doesn’t hurt,” you say, cupping his chin. “I’ve panicked about this moment enough, I know what I’m letting you doing.” You truly did, reading around way too much about what the first time felt like, knowing it wasn’t supposed to hurt or bleed like society said, and trusting him enough to do this.

Jeno fights a chuckle to don’t ruin this completely and starts moving in and out of you. Studying your face with every move, his thrusts are slow at first, not only because he doesn’t want to push you too far, but also because he wants to see your reaction and feel you. Your eyes are closed while your lips are parted to let out the softest whimpers and moans, one hand is still holding his tight while the other is on his shoulder to hold onto him.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispers, kissing you passionately, starting to pick up a rhythm when you don’t squirm away but your hips roll against his instead. “How does it feel?”

“Good,” you cry out, “so good.”

“Yeah? Told you it would feel good,” he groans, hips dragging in and out of you at a steady rhythm. He’d love to go faster, but he doesn’t want to hurt you or turn this into a bad experience. He wants to take it slow, and make you feel loved. “Better than those stupid videos you watch. You don’t need them to learn, they’re bullshit anyway, you have me.”

You groan, trying to hide away as you remember how he had caught you more than once as you tried to learn how to get better at this, no matter how many times he had told you he was there to guide you. “I will — I will disappoint you,” you cry out.

“Yeah, are you sure?” He hums, kissing you briefly, hitting harder inside you, making you whimper a broken moan. “Then if you’re so afraid you’ll — fuck — disappoint me, it means I’ll have to fuck you more, ugh, how’s that sound?”

You try to come up with words that make sense, but you hardly can breathe. It feels too much, lost in what’s happening now, and what is yet to happen. The idea he won’t hold back anymore, that at any chance he will try to make you feel good, and you will do too, sending your brain in a spiral.

“Oh, imagining it already, nasty baby? One taste and you’re already addicted to this?” Jeno mocks playfully, cooing in your ear, sending waves of electricity down your spine. “Next time I won’t fuck you nice and slow on the bed, no,” he chuckles, brushing away the hair that is sticking to your sweating forehead. “I’ll get a bit rougher with you, do you want that?”

You barely wait for him to finish the sentence and you’re already nodding, gripping harder on his shoulders, nails sinking in his skin, as you already savour the moment. “On the desk,” you utter shyly, slowly parting your eyes to meet his, dark and intense, piercing into your soul.

He snickers, dick throbbing inside of you because he can’t wait to slowly discover all the little things you secretly fantasize about, he wants to watch your innocence fall apart right in front of his eyes, and he wants to be the one tearing it apart. He wants you to trust him enough to let him inside all your darkest and deepest secrets.

“You want to be fucked on the desk?” He taunts, lightly slapping your ass, drawing a louder moan from you. “Yeah? Want to be bent over my desk?”

You nod swiftly, trapping your tongue between your teeth as the intense feeling starts growing more and more in your stomach. “Wa-want you to pull my hair.” You’re not even sure you will like it, but you feel like everything is worth a shot with Jeno, you trust him, and you know he will respect you if you won’t like something. Even harsher things that scare you a bit, they don’t look so scary with him.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, rolling his head back, beads of sweat pearling his forehead. “You’ll kill me,” he whispers, teeth gritted as he tries to don’t sound too raw with his moans, but it’s hard when your pussy is gripping him so tight, your face is rolled back in bliss, your boobs are bouncing with his every move, and dirty words are coming out of your mouth. He’s not used to this and your curses, it’s used to your avoiding gazes and your small imprecations that are not curse words.

You’re not used to this either. It’s like you opened the door to a new world and you don’t quite know how to move in it. There are endless possibilities, and you’d love to grasp them all now, but you can’t. You fear you can barely face what’s coming right now.

“Weird,” you breathe out, chest heaving quicker as Jeno’s thrusts get faster and the hold of your legs around his waist tightens. “Too much.”

“It’s not too much, princess. You can take it,” he says, kissing your cheeks.

“No, it’s — it’s,” you choke on your words ‘cause you can’t quite explain how you’re feeling right now.

Jeno kisses your lips again, it’s messier than before, and in the tangle of it, he asks if you want him to stop, but you don’t, and you almost scream a negative answer. “Please, no, don’t stop. I just — I feel like — I…”

“It’s stronger than the other times?” He finishes for you, at least that’s what he can get from the way your body is squirming under him and how much cum is coating his dick.

You nod, squeezing your eyes hard and opening your mouth to let as much air possible inside of your lungs. “It’s good, it’s so good, but I… I can’t take it.”

“You can, honey, you can,” he whispers, soothing you with circles on your hip. “Breathe deeply, like before.”

You’d love to curse at him because how can you focus on your breathing during this specific moment? It’s impossible, and you don’t even want to. You like the way you feel upside down, it’s chaotic but good, and you don’t want it to stop.

You pull him closer, kissing him harder, running your fingers through his hair to stop torturing his poor shoulders. “Want you, please.”

“I’m here,” he hums. “Come with me?”

You nod in a non-verbal reply, trying to don’t get overwhelmed by the feeling but it’s difficult, especially when his hand reaches for your clit and starts playing with it, and his moans get louder and messier. He sounds so hot, and that’s the last thing you need to let your pleasure invade you.

“Jeno,” you scream his name, arching your back off the bed as pleasure runs through your body and soon after the same happens to him, filling you with his cum as he lazily pumps in and out to ride your orgasms.

“Fuck,” he curses, letting his forehead fall on yours, pushing your legs closer to your chest before his movements come to a stop, and he feels like collapsing on top of you. He doesn’t, he keeps his body up with his elbows as he leaves pecks on your face.

“Are you alright, love?” Jeno asks after a few seconds and you can only nod, still short of breath. He leaves one more kiss on your lips before pulling out of you, making you sigh at the loss of contact when he rolls to the side and jumps out of bed. “Stay right there,” he says before walking out of the room.

“As if I can walk,” you giggle in a whisper, feeling your legs wobbly and your heart exploding out of your ribcage. You’re still lost in that daydream when Jeno comes up and starts to clean you up, doing his best to don’t overstimulate you — he’s got time for that.

You don’t say anything, only stare at him while his black hair falls on his forehead and you can’t believe you got so lucky. Once he’s done, he comes by your side, pulling close to his body and leaving kisses on your face. The one that breaks the silence again it’s him.

“So, how was that? Good as you expected or did it let you down?”

You giggle, moving your head so you can meet his eyes. “You really think this could’ve let me down?”

“Well, I don’t know, I thought you were pretty vanilla and there you were, begging me to bend you over and pull your hair,” he chuckles, caressing your cheek. “Maybe your fantasies were different than this.”

“It was amazing,” you smile, fighting the embarrassment caused by his words as you look at him. “Thank you for waiting for me.”

Jeno smiles, eyes lighting up before his lips fall on your forehead again. “I would wait for you forever.”

© neowinestaindress; all rights reserved. do NOT repost, modify, or translate any work from this blog on any other platform and claim it as yours. you can find my works on ao3 (neowinestaindress) and wattpad (winestaintedress_; currently inactive).

#nct fanfiction #jeno smut #lee jeno smut #nct smut #nct dream smut

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yourlocalbreadenthusiast · 1 year ago

Note

ask for infodump about Chernobyl as someone who has never even heard of it

INHALES

Chernobyl is considered to be the worst nuclear disaster in history, rated at a 7 on the International Nuclear Event Scale (INES), the only other disaster ranking at a 7 being in Fukushima back in 2011. The disaster occurred on April 26, 1986. The Chernobyl Nuclear Power plant was located in Ukraine, which was under the control of the Soviet Union at the time. It was only about 16 miles from the Belarus-Ukraine border, which was also under Soviet control. There were two main towns nearby, Chernobyl itself, which was older, had only about 15,000 residents, and was actually farther from the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant than Pripyat, which had about 50,000 residents, and was only about 2 miles from the plant. Pripyat was newer, and residents had an average age of about 26. The town itself was filled with young, well educated people starting new lives. A large number of public buildings were located in Pripyat, including a school and a sports complex, which contains the famous Azure Swimming Pool. The plant supplied Pripyat with energy, and the place was considered a sort of "dream city." The plant was an RBMK-1000 type reactor, a generation I nuclear reactor, which are the earliest, and generally most hazardous, nuclear reactors. RBMKs were used to produce Plutonium, a radioactive material primarily used in nuclear weapons. However, they could also be used to produce civilian energy, so a few were constructed to supply parts of the USSR with power. At the time of the incident, there were four reactors in operation, with reactors 5 and 6 under construction. A test was scheduled to be conducted to see if the backup generators could successfully turn on in time to keep the cooling systems running at safe levels. However, the test was delayed until the less experienced night shift was in. They turned off the reactor's shutdown feature and lowered the power to the reactor. Reactors need energy to function, as they have to be cooled. For these reactors, large amounts of water were used to cool them. Without the shutdown function, the reactor was in danger of overheating if it wasn't cooled. Regardless, they ran the test. When the backup generators took too long to turn on, panic set in, and the reactor began to overheat. Then, somehow hit the AZ-5 button, which lowers all control rods into the reactor at once. Control rods are used to absorb excess amounts of shed neutrons from the nuclear reactions. However, they momentarily increase reactions when first introduced into the reactor chambers. The undertrained staff of the night shift were not aware of this. With the increased reactivity, the reactor was now dangerously hot, and the casinging around the fuel rods began to rupture, causing white-hot radioactive fuel to come into direct contact with steam. At 1:23 A.M., April 26, 1986, Chernobyl Nuclear Reactor #4 exploded. The contact between the fuel and the steam caused a steam explosion, blowing the 1000 tonne reactor roof into the air and spewing radioactive debris and particles into the air.

Two plant workers were killed instantly by either the force of the blast or from being hit by debris. Although plant workers realized what had happened rather quickly, superiors were slow to act. Firefighters were called in, but they were not told the dangers of the radiation. Most died within a few months. But that was only the tip of the iceberg. In Pripyat, the Amusement Park that had been scheduled to open the next day was hurriedly opened a day early to distract residents from the fact that the reactor was on fire.

It took 36 hours for Soviet Officials to finally begin to evacuate Pripyat, only after residents had begun to report nausea, dizziness, fatigue, vomiting, and headaches, all symptoms of radiation poisoning. A few weeks earlier, citizens were trained with gas masks in case there ever was an incident. Officials said that they didn’t need them, as they didn’t want to cause a panic.

Residents were also told they would be returning soon, and to leave everything behind. They did not come back. This left Pripyat as an eerie ghost down where everything seemed to have simply been dropped and left. Today, it is still abandoned, and is being slowly reclaimed by nature.

During the cleanup of the incident, “Liquidators” were called in. Some knew the dangers, others didn’t. The fire of the reactor was too hot to be put out by water, so tons and tons or boron, sand, and lead were dumped onto the burning reactor by helicopters that flew over. It didn’t help much, and the reactor finally stopped burning after about 2-3 weeks. A structure dubbed “The sarcophagus” was built over the reactor to contain the radiation, though it was rushed and leaked radiation. A large area of woodlands was contaminated by the radiation, and it turned red and died, earning the nickname “The Red Forest.” Most of these trees were cleared and buried. Highly contaminated houses were knocked down, animals were shot, and crops destroyed. Absolutely everything that was highly contaminated was at least attempted to be destroyed and buried. Still, not everything could be destroyed and buried, there was simply too much. One object, dubbed “The Claw of Death” was, according to conflicting accounts, either used to assist in the overall cleanup or was used specifically in the cleanup of the plant roof. It is radioactive enough to give a lethal dose if sat in for about 11 hours.

Another rather infamous object is “The Elephant’s Foot” which is a mass of sand, concrete, and melted reactor fuel that had melted its way through the floor and down into the basement. Upon discovery, the sheer amount of radiation it gave off was enough to give you a fatal dose within about 90 seconds. Today, that’s increased to about five minutes. The foot was unyielding to sampling tools, so, they shot it with a Kalashnikov Rifle (AK-47) to get a sample.

After a very short period of time, the remaining three reactors were up and running again, as the USSR simply needed power desperately. By December of 1987, all three reactors were up and running again. They were operated for years, until the last reactor was finally shut down for good in 2000. Being so close to the border, and with the wind conditions of the time, mass amount of radioactive particles were blown north to Belarus. The Soviet Union had planes fly over and seed the clouds with chemicals, forcing them to rain on rural land instead of heavily populated areas, but this still had a major effect, as about 1/3 of Belarusian farmland was contaminated. However, the winds began to shift, blowing radiation towards Europe. Sweden was the first to sound the alarm, asking if something had happened after detecting dangerous amounts of airborne radiation and determining it was not from any of their own reactors. The USSR finally admitted there had been a “very small” incident at Chernobyl, and was very reluctant to give the world information. Careful monitoring protocols were put on resources everywhere in Europe, from grain to milk to wood, all were carefully measured for radiation. Years later, after the Sarcophagus was determined to be unsafe, the New Safe Confinement unit was constructed, which is a semicircular dome over the existing Sarcophagus. The New Safe Confinement was finished in 2018.

DONE!

(For now)

@not-wizard-council-aristocrat @anarcho-neptunism @siley-the-wizard @villainessbian

#chernobyl #pripyat #radiation #infodump #hyperfixation #special interest #rant

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skzdarlings · 7 months ago

Text

the kingsguard ; jisung x reader ; part v

pairing: han jisung/reader summary: You are a queen. He is a kingsguard - a member of a holy order that vows to defend the king in the name of the gods. They forsake all earthly goods and swear a vow of chastity to avoid all worldly temptation. When he stands in as proxy for the royal wedding, all those vows are tested.

content info: reader described with curly hair.

content warnings: the previously established story dynamics are prevalent in this chapter, please proceed at own discretion. the king threatens sexual violence again. there is explicit consensual sexual content in this chapter with reader and jisung. first times, breaking of vows, lots of mental work packed in there lol.

chapter word count: 11500 words.

enjoy <3

Despite the delay, you reach the intended campsite before nightfall. The king finds his own entertainment while everyone else works at erecting tents and constructing fire pits.

Chan assigns Seungmin to watch the king while he occupies himself elsewhere. The tension between the king and the kingsguard captain ripples through the camp, though no one – not even the king – is audacious enough to remark on it.

The kingsguard has a sanctified power, burdened with the responsibility of protecting the crown above all else. This manifests as protecting the king so long as oaths are kept and holy accords obeyed. The king is abundantly aware he is not in the leader’s good graces right now. Even that petulant fool of a man is smart enough to recognize that antagonism from an ancient religious order is a perilous position for a holy king.

Because he cannot harass Chan, the king directs his ire towards Hyunjin, so Chan sends Hyunjin across the camp to help there. Jisung accompanies him. As the lowest ranked kingsguard, his absence will not be minded.

You are irate, watching Hyunjin limp away with Jisung following behind him. You think of their skill and bravery in protecting you from the assassins. You think of their loyalty and good hearts. They both deserve better.

Stewing in irritation, you opt to stay out of the way. It is better to remain unobtrusive rather than instigate more dramatics after the events of today.

You kneel down in the grass, out of the way of the tents. You are organizing a bag of personal effects when an unfamiliar pair of painted boots appear in your line of your vision. You look up, startled to find one of the king’s courtiers looming over you. He is one of the few who has been riding in the carriage and you are surprised he is so far from the inner circle now.

“Your Holy Majesty,” he says, surprising you with the appropriately respectful title. He surprises you further by offering his hand and helping you to your feet. The final surprise is a bow so deep he bends his knees. “I ask for your grace and forgiveness,” he says. “And I ask for you to pray on my behalf that the gods may also forgive me for my petty transgressions. I would never speak ill of the gods-chosen king but—” He looks over his shoulder briefly, spots the king far across the camp with the remainder of his inner circle. Satisfied with the distance, he looks at you, expression solemn. “But I believe human error may have conquered the holy senses,” he says. In a lower voice, tinged with resentment, he says, “To raise hands to the queen in public, especially after the events of the other day…”

You are still too surprised to respond. You remain silent, hands folded in front of you.

He says with some finality, “I know I am not alone in feeling this way. Your Holiness, please ensure that you have support in some noble factions here – particularly after today. And please do recall, this is not all the court, merely the king’s personal selection, and there are those at home in the capital who will also support you.”

The sincerity of his oath leaves you stunned. You stare at his footprints long after he has departed.

The courtier does not return to the inner circle but joins a different cluster of palace residents. Their attention turns to you, followed by dips and bows.

Your bewildered mind finally catches up to your racing heart. You sweep into a quick return bow. When you turn away, you let out a breath. Your eyes trace the treeline around the clearing. The smoky orange mist of sunset winds through the branches. You look but do not see, mentally replaying the whole exchange.

It seems even the most devout courtiers have a restricted capacity of tolerance for royal misconduct. Their motivations may be selfish in seeing a flagrant disrespect of the gods’ will and worrying what ramifications will manifest for them, but it is still a significant loyalty shift.

You allow yourself a little smile. Knowing the camp is no longer brimming with hostiles lightens your heavy heart.

You are barely at ease when you turn around, startled again by yet another visitor. This time is the kingsguard Minho. He stands as still and patient as marble, hand on the hilt of his sword. He lists slightly to that side, his other hand dangling in a fist.

“Your Majesty,” he says. His bow is more of a nod as he seems lost in contemplation – or maybe that is scrutiny, studying your face like it holds the answer to some profound question.

You are open as ever, as patiently marble in waiting for him.

He exhales. It sounds like a surrendering. It makes you nervous, especially with the way he darts a glances over his shoulder. The king and other kingsguards are busy, the courtiers turned to their own affairs, and the servants are busy with meal preparation.

You cannot imagine what Minho has to say or do that cannot be witnessed.

Your answer comes without a word but a gesture, his closed first opening between you. You jump at what he reveals.

The phial of sleeping draft. You assumed it was lost in the ocean tide. Last you touched it, it went into your dress pocket and that dress is now underwater. You thought the draft was lost too. You lamented the only protection you had in prolonging the king’s advances.

It must have fallen out of your pocket earlier than that, when you threw yourself to the forest floor in sickness. Minho helped you through it. Somewhere in your distraction, he must have grabbed the bottle.

A hot flash of terror spreads through you, looking at the dark liquid sloshing around in that little phial. When you look up, his brow is furrowed, face pinched with intense scrutiny.

You are not sure what to expect. Minho is decent and he seems close with Jisung, which naturally lends your trust to him, but your interactions have been minimal. He could grab you by the wrist and drag you to Chan to accuse you of harbouring poison. It would no doubt instigate the king’s wrath and everything would spiral before you could catch your breath.

Minho sighs.

“Will it kill him?” he asks.

“Oh.” It is not the question you are expecting. With sincerity and pleading eyes, you reply, “No. I swear. It’s just a sleeping draft. For – for myself. To help me – at night.”

He has clever eyes. You suspect he can deduce what that really means.

“Mm,” is all he says. He takes your hand and puts the phial in your palm, then he closes your fingers around it. He gives you a look, something stern that demands secrecy without a word.

You nod, clutching the bottle tightly.

“Be careful,” he says.

“Of course,” you reply.

He walks away while you gather yourself, the adrenaline of two unpredictable encounters simmering. It has not yet settled when the king barks an order, his voice making you jump, particularly when your name is included in his angry tone.

It draws Hyunjin from the outskirts. He is still teeming, looking as though he wants any excuse to swing at the king again, punishments be damned. Jisung is a step behind him, looking with worried eyes while the king seeks you out.

The king stops a distance from you, speaking across a fire pit, like he cannot be bothered to cross that space. You think he is also a little intimidated because Hyunjin is fuming in his periphery.

The king does not look at the kingsguards, not even Chan who approaches on his other side. He glares at you, enunciating every word with a snarling upturn of his lip as he says, “Go to the river. Bathe yourself. You will see me tonight.”

This gives you another flash of terror, wide-eyed as you stare at his retreating form. The implications are not subtle. They are also not surprising. He has spent the day being belittled and tested and he blames the brunt of it on you. Of course a cruel and violent man would steal back his supposed dignity in the only hateful way he can, putting you in whatever perceived place he believes you belong.

You know he will make it awful. He would have been unkind on your initial wedding night but now you are certain he will be brutal. He does not just want to use you; he wants to hurt you.

You wish you could be stronger in the face of this reality, uncaring and brash and mouthy, snarking at him behind his back. Your heart is not built that way. You are frightened and very sad, fist curled so tightly at your side that it shakes.

You almost forget what that fist is holding until you glance at Minho. He is leaning against a tree, out of sight of the king. He quirks an eyebrow then mimes taking a drink.

Unfortunately, this makes you laugh, your nerves melting into the outburst of sound.

The king looks at you over his shoulder, his eyes furious. You feel the sparkle in your own as you stare back at him.

Before the king speaks again, Chan steps forward. His displeasure is obvious, his concern more so. He looks at you with that despondency, helpless to do anything insofar as the marriage bed. That is not the realm of the kingsguard, to say the least, though Chan looks like he wishes he could command otherwise.

“The queen should not be left unaccompanied,” Chan says. Looking at the king, he says bitingly, “Especially considering recent attempts on her life, Your Holiness.”

Holiness sounds like an accusation in that tone.

The king straightens, glaring back at Chan.

Hyunjin, seemingly determined to escalate the mounting tension, walks towards you with an easy gait. He smiles a very charming smile.

“I can escort the queen,” he says, in a very different voice than usual, almost sultry in its depth. It makes you blink in confusion.

The king forgets Chan entirely as he reels around, pointing a finger at Hyunjin.

“You will burn for eternity first, kingsguard,” the king snaps.

Hyunjin just smiles prettily, hands folded neatly behind his back. The lack of response agitates the already exasperated king who huffs and shakes his head. His eyes dart around and inevitably land on Han Jisung. It startles Jisung who swings into an instinctive bow. He stares wide-eyed at the ground.

“Bard boy,” the king says. “Take the queen.”

You look at Jisung as he straightens. His blinking gaze moves from the king to you.

That laughter is still caught in your throat, its bubbling delight only intensifying as you look at each other. You think of that kiss on the riverbank, the softness of his every glance since then. You do not even think it is especially subtle, or maybe you are just supremely aware of it, holding his gaze as he approaches you. You feel like it gives everything away.

The king is arrogant and he thinks Jisung is nobody important. He does not even glance at at the unassuming bard, his eyes following Hyunjin as he waltzes away.

“Are you going to take me then, bard boy?” you whisper.

Jisung chokes on a laugh, a blush darkening the tips of his ears. He looks over his shoulder but everyone else is ambling back to their posts.

He looks at your innocently fluttering eyelashes.

“Don’t tease,” he says with a nervous giggle. “I think it might kill me.”

He means it in a playfully hyperbolic way, but you grant there is a sobering truth to that statement. It succeeds in quieting you, your fingers now clammy where they grip the phial. You let your mind wander to that, preoccupied with the thought of tonight while you fetch some necessities. Jisung is dutifully quiet the entire trek, following at an appropriate length all the way down to the riverside.

You think he has similarly sobered, so quiet behind you as you step through the trees to the water. The grass turns to sand and pebbles beneath your feet, crunching with every step.

Your mind is far away, thinking of your very precarious position, how you can slip the king sleeping draft tonight, if it is even worth it to prolong the inevitable. You doubt he will ever change his feelings for you. You cannot be so demure and loving that a man with no respect for humanity will somehow see special humanity in you.

Your gaze rests on the flowing river and the setting sun. Streak of of orange and lavender flow over the water. The breeze is laced with an evening chill, brushing a curl off your shoulder.

You realize the gentle touch is actually Jisung. You shiver as his fingertips follow the tumbling curl down your back, until he is not even touching you but you still feel the proximity. It moves through you with an intensity far more powerful than the king’s threatening glower.

This warmth is not terror, a different heat that rushes and burns with startling efficiency.

“What can I do?” he asks in that careful, low voice.

You remember him behind you just like this, supporting your body, the look on his face and the feel of him as you discovered more pleasure than you ever knew existed. You are amazed that it is not the most preached phenomenon of them all, that the gods would bestow such a gift on humanity. You cannot imagine what you would have done without the revelation. The immensity of it all has you shivering.

“You’ve already done so much,” you say.

“I’ll come to you after,” he says, words flowing in a nervous rush. “I’ll help you. Whatever you need – if you’re – if something happens – I can come. The king won’t care if it’s just me. I’m just bard boy, ha-ha, I don’t – it won’t matter, at least—”

You turn around. His breath catches as your eyes meet. His hand is trembling but he drops it to his side. His eyes dart to the empty treeline and back.

“Bard boy,” you whisper with a smile, teasing. “The king may believe otherwise, but you are most assuredly admired by your queen.”

“You—” He looks at the still-empty treeline then you again. He is so clearly flustered. On a startled, nervous laugh, he says, “You can’t say things like that to me.”

“Why not?”

He kisses you, a reply made with no hesitation.

He cups a hand around your jaw, fingers firm on your neck with a guiding pull. The kiss is more than a touch. If kisses can be whispers, this is a song, rhythmic and grand.

Your knees nearly buckle beneath you. This is your third kiss but it feels like first and the thousandth, the natural way you move together, gasps of breath and pressing lips. His hand moves under your hair, cupping the back of your neck. Your own hand raises, fingertips stroking his jaw then resting between his neck and shoulder.

He makes a noise into the kiss, tilting his head, kissing you with so much intensity that you both stumble. His eyes widen at his own actions, a hand covering his mouth as he looks at the treeline. His startled expression makes you burst into giggles.

“That was my fault,” he says, throwing his hands into a surrender, then raking them through his hair until it is a dishevelled mess. “My fault, my fault, it’s fine, it’s fine.” He makes a series of faces while muttering to himself, giggling nervously at you, then walking away to stand guard.

You turn your back to him, hiding your smile as you touch your lips. Somehow a kiss provided all the courage you needed to decide, yes, it will be worth prolonging the king’s advances. You and Jisung are already outsmarting him, his arrogant eye turned to the wrong kingsguard, and you will continue to find ways to do so. The sleeping draft was made by a friend and you know you will develop more. Perhaps alone you cannot combat a king, but you are not alone.

For now, you will play his game. A quick wash will feel good after the long day in the summer sun regardless of intention.

You strip down to your shift as is appropriate for a queen bathing out-of-doors. It is about the only appropriate protocol, as you should have more company than solitary male guard, even a kingsguard. It is not surprising the king has you left you bereft of any ladies, forgoing introductions, actively discouraging his nobles. That is something you will remedy yourself in the capital.

For now, you are not mad it is just you and Jisung. You glance at him while disrobing, catching his eye, smiling at his flustered blush as he looks away again.

You pile your curls as high as you can, then step to the water. Even though there is a chill in the air, the water is warm because the hot sun has been pouring down all day. You suspect it will be colder to emerge than to enter. For now, it is comfortable as it laps at the foot of your shift, darkening the hem as you walk.

You find a smooth boulder to perch on, grateful to use one of your own soaps from home as you scrub your skin. The breeze is sharp against your wet skin so you sink into the water up to your shoulders, paddling around for a little bit as you let the day wash off you.

The sunset has lost its golden traces, the sky melting from orange to pink, and you let yourself admire the colours as they swirl overhead.

When you look at Jisung, he is already staring at you. He is sitting on a rock, fiddling with the hilt of his sword in an absent-minded distraction. He exhales heavily when you look at him.

“What is it?” you ask.

“I—” He laughs then thuds the heel of his palm against his forehead in a punishing little smack. “Nothing,” he says. He looks at the ground then slowly at you, his gaze moving across the shimmering water before tracing up your shoulders, neck, and face. “I just hope no one tries to attack us right now. Because honestly?” He lets go of the hilt to show his hand, revealing the slight tremble. He immediately crosses his arms, tucking his hands under them. “I don’t think I’d be much help,” he finishes with a laugh.

“Don’t worry,” you say, matching his smile. “I’ll keep you safe.”

“Oh,” he says. “Good.”

You smile at each other for another moment. It is disturbed when you hear the king shouting about food, far into the distance. A couple of birds fly out of the trees and away. You spread your arms in the water and watch them go, wishing it was that easy.

“We should go back,” Jisung says, though he sounds as uneasy as he looks, biting his bottom lip, his big eyes as shiny and concerned as ever.

The water is not very deep. When you stand, it comes below your hips. You squeak, a mousey and unqueenly sound, as the evening chill swarms you.

“Oh goodness,” you say, too distracted with the cold to think of much else. “Robe, please.”

Jisung is a very capable soldier. You have witnessed it firsthand. Where most of the kingsguards appear to specialize in certain skills, he has so far proven to be a master of everything.

He trips over his own feet now. He slides clumsily across the gravel, drawing a sharp line in the sand. He manages to remain upright, only just, muttering to himself as he picks up the robe you requested.

He steps to the water’s edge, the robe under his arm. He holds out a hand to help guide you forward, but he is very distracted with looking at the rest of you, so he keeps accidentally moving it out of reach.

You finally clasp his wandering hand. Only then does he lift his frantic gaze to your eyes.

This is your second time emerging from water in nothing but a shift, the light material leaving nothing to the imagination. Last time, you were shy and embarrassed, but it seems a bit silly to be modest now considering what he has seen. Furthermore, you do not feel embarrassed, not with the way he looks at you. The shift clings to every curve, nearly translucent, more so with the chill as the sensitive peaks of your breasts pebble against the wet white fabric.

His eyes dart there again, his mouth open. He doesn’t say anything. With a bit of struggle, he manages to say, “Ahhhh…?”

“Robe, please,” you say again, amused. Truthfully, you are not as cold under his gaze, flushed with a tingling warmth that conquers the other senses.

“Fuck,” Jisung says, shaking his head as he wraps the robe around your shoulders. “Sorry for cursing, pretend you didn’t hear it.”

Now that he is speaking, the words come in a breathless stream. It comes from an honest, human subconscious that a kingsguard should have under control, but which he has evidently relinquished from mental bondage.

“I can hit him on the head,” Jisung says. “I mean – fuck. I can’t do that, obviously. He’s the king. I wouldn’t do that – but also I would, if you asked. If you ask then it’s fine because I’d do anything for the queen. I should obey the queen. I must protect her. Then again, if I hit him on the head, It could go wrong, and he could die, then I didn’t just hit the king but killed him, and kingsguards aren’t supposed to do that. Well, sometimes they do, but that’s very rare and definitely not the bard’s call. I shouldn’t kill the king, even if you ask, right? Right. Fuck. Sorry for cursing. You wouldn’t ask that anyway, even if he deserves it – ah! I didn’t say that. Maybe if I get him drunk instead then he won’t be able to – you know–”

He lifts his finger, a rather impolite mime of a rising erection, which he realizes is a very rude gesture to make in front of the queen. He throws his hands together in a prayer position instead.

“By which I mean,” he says, “Nothing. I meant none of that at all. Unless you say otherwise, my queen. Then I meant it all.”

It is silent save the sound of the river lapping at the shore. His hands are still clasped for prayer and you are holding the robe closed. He blinks at you. You are already smiling.

“Right,” he says. “Umm… Fuck.”

You pat him on the arm, stepping around him. You go to your possessions and kneel down to find the phial.

“I wasn’t going to ask for help,” you say. “I fear I have already put you in a precarious enough position as is—”

“You haven’t done anything,” he says, quick and sharp. His black robes swish with the swiftness of his spin. He marches to where you are knelt down.

You look up at him, your hand closed around the phial, but he does not see it. His eyes are on your face.

“My queen,” Jisung says. He crouches down so you can look at each other. “I’m a lot better with words when I’m singing, especially a story about someone else. That’s easy. But I—” He stares into your eyes. His shoulders fall with an exhale, his expression softening just as surely. “I wouldn’t go back to the easy I knew days ago. I know I’m a mess now. I don’t know what’s happening anymore, or what’s going to happen soon, but—”

He looks at the treeline. It is still empty, of course. The king does not see the pretty bard boy as a threat to his dignity. He is probably brooding and glaring at Hyunjin and Chan while it is Jisung who lays a hand on your cheek. Jisung captures you more completely than the king could do with iron.

“It’s probably wrong to say,” Jisung speaks in a low voice, his face close to yours. A tuft of dark hair falls near his brown eyes. “It’s too selfish for a kingsguard or any mortal to say, but… You said it first, that you feel the gods when we’re together.” His thumb strokes your cheek and it might as well be a lightning bolt launched from the heavens, wracking your whole body with a shiver. “I feel it too,” he says. “I think I’m supposed to be here. My life, the war, becoming a kingsguard, a – a – a queensguard – it was supposed to happen. The gods led us here and we made it happen, and the gods allowed us, so we must – it must – it can’t be completely wrong, right? When the king is like that, and you are like this.”

You are everything I ever dreamed of worshipping, he told you two nights ago, before you ever kissed, before you even really touched.

“You’re worth a thousand kings, Han Jisung,” you say.

It is confident amidst his stammering and it makes his eyes go wide. You brush the hair away from those eyes.

“I don’t know what will happen either,” you say. “I know the king will try something untoward sooner than later, whether I am faithful and obedient or not. I believe it is thus appropriate to reserve my faith and loyalty to that which I pray directly.”

You turn your face and kiss his palm. You look at him from the corner of your eye, watching his breath catch as his eyes are bound to where your lips touch his skin.

You wonder if he is so flushed because he is remembering how you said physical love was like prayer. Hearing your words now, seeing and feeling your kiss, he seems to stop breathing entirely.

“And in such a case as that,” you say, “I believe I would like at least once more night to pray for answers.”

You open your hand and reveal the phial. His gaze drops. His eyebrows leap comically high as he looks between you and the bottle.

He snatches it, looking at the treeline, then whispering so frantically that his voice breaks again, “Is that poison? Where in the name of all the gods did you get poison?”

You cup his face with both hands, laughing helplessly at his expression. You stroke your thumbs across his cheeks and it lessens his panic.

“It’s not poison,” you whisper. “It’s just a sleeping draft.”

“A sleeping draft,” he says, words a little slurred as his cheeks are squished in your hands. He looks down at the phial again, then at you. “Well,” he says and gets to his feet. He adjusts his sword belt, swishes the length of his robe and clears his throat. “You could have started with that,” he says.

You are laughing as he helps you to your feet.

Thanks to your friend’s sleeping draft and Jisung’s help, you escape the king unscathed for another night.

Jisung completes his task in the only way Han Jisung would and could: with a great deal of theatricality.

The sun is nearly set and everyone is gathered around the fire pits. The king is with his inner circle, guarded by Changbin. After changing into a clean dress, you sit with the remaining kingsguards. The meal is simple, meat cooked in a spicy broth. Apparently, esteemed kingsguard leader Bang Chan is tragically intolerant towards heavy spice, a fact you learn because the others relentlessly tease him.

It makes him crack a smile, the first one all day. He has charmingly deep dimples when he lets himself go. You are sitting beside him and the sight delights you.

In the midst of comforting food and friendly laughter, Chan looks at you. While the others are rowdy and distracted, he takes a moment to say, “I’ll guard the king’s tent tonight,” he says. “Find me, yeah? If you need… anything.”

“Thank you,” you say, genuinely touched.

His chivalry will not be required, however. Moments after he says that, the king starts screaming.

“You incompetent mongrel!” he shouts, clear across the campsite, scaring another pair of birds.

The kingsguards are quickly on their feet, food and jibes forgotten.

You stay sitting, slurping your soup.

“Your Holy Majesty, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, a thousand times sorry,” Jisung says to the king.

You glance over there, watching as Jisung alternates between bowing and scooping up the bits of meat that splattered on the ground when he knocked over the king’s bowl of soup.

When Jisung told you he would take care of administering the sleeping draft, he did not tell you his plan, maybe assuming you would not like it. You cannot honestly say you are happy to see him intentionally drawing the king’s anger, but it is certainly a fair strategy. The king is too surrounded to truly sneak up on him. He is, however, very easy to antagonize.

Jisung tries to hold out a dirty piece of meat as offering. The king slaps it out of his hand. Jisung looks at it with dramatically wide eyes.

“I swear to the gods, kingsguard—” the king says, raising his hand as if to strike Jisung.

Jisung bows again, holding up his hands in supplication.

“I apologize, your Holiness,” he says, bowing some more as he grabs the king’s empty bowl. He remains bent over while scampering around. “It was an accident. I’ll get you more food. Forgive me, sire, I’m a worthless dog, I’m a flea on a dog, I’m a flea on a flea on a dog—”

The king kicks at him as Jisung scampers off to get more soup. The other kingsguards sit back down, either laughing at the nonsense of shaking their heads, chalking it up to Jisung being a little clumsy and silly.

You slurp some more soup.

The king only makes it halfway through his meal before he falls asleep. The remainder of his soup splashes onto the ground when the bowl falls out of his lap, so fortunately no one else ingests it.

No one seems bothered by the peculiarity of his sudden slumber. This seems to a combination of the exhausting day and simple relief that there is no more yelling.

Chan, Changbin, and Minho carry the king back to his tent where he will sleep alone and where you will not be visiting any time soon.

Seungmin is assigned the first shift to guard your tent but Jisung escorts you while Seungmin is still finishing his meal. You and Jisung walk side by side, saying nothing suspicious or untoward. Nothing beyond his wink and your smile, at least.

“Was the king this bad on the journey over?” you ask while Jisung unties the clasps of your tent.

“Almost worse,” Jisung admits. “He doesn’t like travelling. And you already know he wasn’t, um, happy with the wedding, heh. Now everything with Felix—”

“Right,” you say, watching as the last clasp comes undone. “I suppose an affair can change a man.”

“So I’ve heard,” he says.

The tent opens. There is a lit lantern inside, brightening the night with golden warmth. The interior is simple, though marginally more comfortable than the average tent. It is tall enough you can walk around without ducking. The ground is neatly covered, a thick bedroll unfurled in the middle of the space. It looks as inviting as it can be, blankets draped across the long cushion, a pillow at the head. One of your smaller trunks is in the room. There is a low table and a cushion beneath it, a tea pot and cup in wait. The lantern sits on the ground, near the bed.

You look at each other.

It would require only a step out of the darkness and into the light, then he could kiss you again. Only a step, yet a serious one with real ramifications.

Despite all that, you want him as you have never wanted anything before. You want him so much that you learned how to want. Before him, you were numb but content. Now you feel every prickling tingle of a hair standing on edge, the anticipation twisting inside you, and the flush of heat that moves through you when his eyes move to your lips.

“I—” he starts and never finishes.

You can see the complicated gears and cogs spinning in his head. You think of him on his knees before you, kissing your hands, shaking with desperation. Every kiss is both a gift and a surrendering, the forging of a serious vow in the breaking of another. You want him but not in the way a king wants his kingdom, not with a selfish and possessive cruelty, and not with a command.

“I enjoy your company,” you say. “When Seungmin takes his post, would you play some music for me? It would make me happy.”

He releases a breath.

“Yes,” he says, smiling at you. “Yes, that would make me happy too.”

Jisung stands guard until Seungmin arrives, then he leaves to fetch his guitar. You dress down for the evening, removing your layers and letting your curls loose. You sit on the bedroll in nothing but your shift. It goes without saying that it does a better job of modesty when it is dry. The recollection of Jisung’s staring makes your cheeks feel hot.

You are smiling down at your embroidery when he returns. There is only a brief conversation between him and Seungmin, the latter somewhat perplexed by his presence. It is not inappropriate for a kingsguard to guard the royal personage from inside the tent, but it has not been deemed necessary, nor has Jisung been posted.

Jisung lets the guitar does most of the talking. It is very persuasive.

Moments later, Jisung is inside the tent, lacing it closed again, the guitar on his back. Somehow, the lacing of the tent ties feel even sturdier than a lock. It would take a long time for someone to undo it, making it nearly impossible to sneak up on you.

You suspect it would also take you a long time to become conscious of the real world. Jisung is not kissing you, not even touching you, just moving inside the same small space as you, and you are already distractingly rivetted.

So distracted, you poke your finger on a needle. You put your finger in your mouth to catch and wipe the tiny pinprick of blood. You look at Jisung as he sits. He does not sit on the bedroll, just beside it on the ground.

His eyes flick to your mouth, his face a little flushed.

“Ha-ha,” he speaks it more than laughs it. “Right. Music. Um.”

The first strum of the guitar feels very loud in this small space, making your heart jump. The alarm slows to a gradual stop as you let the gentle plucking of each string soothe you. He hums softly until you are visibly comfortable with the sound, then he starts to sing too.

He starts with a familiar ballad, famous enough it reached your land at the borders. The next song you do not know but he has hummed snippets here and there over the past couple days. The third song is about you, though it takes a second to realize it. Your eyes are on your embroidery, knotting little loops of cherry blossom petals, when you realize the ‘mermaid in white with curly hair’ who has ‘wanting eyes for the soldier on the shore’ is maybe not so distant or fantastical as the lyrics might imply.

You look at him, flicking your gaze to the sealed tent flap as if to remind him that others can hear. He grins innocently and keeps singing, your story hidden in the details of some fictional recreation.

Hearing his interpretation of your supposed thoughts makes you laugh. He is often doing everything to make you laugh. Hearing the thoughts of the soldier on the shore stirs rather differently, your heart palpitating as he sings about longing and terror. Both those feelings seem to torment the soldier, a man equal parts integrity, desire, and fear.

The lyrics trail off though he keeps strumming the guitar. You suppose the story is not yet finished.

The melody changes a little. He hums to chase it, perhaps crafting another song in his mind.

You look at your cherry blossoms, listening to him, remembering the first time he sang to you. He had never even spoken to you. You did not know him at all. You were alone and miserable, sulking in the dark, and he jumped into the light and touched you with his music.

It feels like so much has changed even while technically nothing has. You are still married to the king. You have both sworn oaths.

His music still touches you.

Your vision blurs, then the first teardrop plunks onto a cherry blossom. He notices immediately, just like he was the only one to see your tears at the ceremony. The music comes to an abrupt stop, a suspended note awkwardly fractured. He puts the guitar aside and gets on his knees, leaning over your embroidery to lift your face.

You sniffle, smiling at him through your tears.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I’m not even crying because of the sad things.”

“That’s okay,” he says, his face as morose. He tries to smile softly, though his brow is still pinched with concern. “You can cry,” he says. “If it will make you feel better.”

Yes, you think it will. You have too long repressed feeling. You are allowed to be angry and passionate and sad. Crying will not necessarily solve all your problems, but it will empty the clutter of your mind and soul.

You let it wash away, then you let him wipe your eyes.

“Thank you,” you say, wiping the last teardrop as he sits back.

He picks up his guitar, though he just looks at it, running his hand along the neck while you tidy up your embroidery tools. He looks from his art to yours, blinking at the cherry blossoms.

“What are you making?” he asks.

“Just bits and pieces, really,” you say. “Spring is my favourite season. It’s beautiful back home, with the blossoms and warm rain showers. Everything sparkles all the time.”

If you had not already cried, thinking of home might have done it. You just sniffle and lay the fabric down. You smile at him.

“What’s your favourite season?” you ask.

“Mine?” His eyebrows lift. His mouth is open as he looks for an answer, then he glances at your embroidery and laughs. “Spring,” he says.

You swat his arm and he playfully howls, clutching it.

“You can’t just say that because it’s mine,” you say.

“Why not?” he asks, still laughing.

“Because!”

“All right, all right,” he says. He taps his chin with great contemplation. “Autumn? No, no, it’s gross in the capital then. The rain doesn’t sparkle there, not in the fall. It sort of just – pings.” He makes a high-pitched sound on the word, miming each droplet as it tumbles. “Let’s see then – it’s not autumn and spring is forbidden to me. Ah, winter? No. No. Guard duty in the winter is the worst. Oops, I’m not supposed to say that – of course being a kingsguard is a blessing, and I can’t wait to experience the next winter, Amen.” He opens his palms and pretends to pray, then bows his head before continuing. “So it’s not those. Then, ah, let me think. What’s left? Hmmm…”

You are already giggling when he leans towards you, grinning.

“Remind me,” he says. “What’s left?”

“Summer, of course,” you say.

“Ah, of course. Let’s think. It’s hot, muggy, and the rain doesn’t help either of those things. Everything feels a bit like soup. But…”

“But…?” You lean towards him as well, playfully eager like this is the most important secret he could reveal.

“But…” His eyes drop momentarily to your smile. “That’s when we met.”

You look from his mouth to his eyes. The joining of your gazes makes everything feel very quiet, slow, and warm. Nothing exists past the golden light beside you.

“Yes,” he says. “Summer. I think I used to hate it. I think I’ll never hate it again.”

“That’s funny,” you say. “I feel the same way.”

“Well, you can’t,” he says, abruptly teasing again. “Because that’s my favourite, and you can’t just pick it because I did.”

Your laughs turns into a snort and you quickly cover your mouth. He laughs at the sound though he tries to stifle it.

You swat each other, trying and failing to keep the laughter down. A kingsguard keeping watch or a bard playing music is one thing, but giggling with the queen is a little different.

Your embroidery is between you and he accidentally puts his hand on it. He hisses like he was run through with a sword rather than pinpricked with a sewing needle.

“Oh my goodness,” you say, shaking your head with playful irritation. You gather your embroidery things and place them out of reach so there are no more accidents. “Silly,” you say. “Big strong guard, you are. It couldn’t have hurt that much.”

“It’s the worst pain I’ve ever felt,” he says with dramatically sad eyes and a spectacular pout.

“Oh, I’m sure,” you say, taking his hand. It is not even bleeding. Still, you bring it to your mouth.

You do not intend to be seductive. You are truly just playing, intending to wet his finger against your lips and tease him some more. The moment your lips touch his skin, however, the whole energy inside the tent changes. If you did not know better, you would say the earth itself tilted.

You look at him while taking the tip of his finger in your mouth. His smile vanishes too, those dark eyes suddenly smouldering in the lamplight. Your heart is pounding so hard that it wakes up the rest of your body. When you kiss that fingertip again, moving your mouth, making no mistake of its deliberateness, your heart seems to plummet as well. It drops right between your legs where it continues to pound, sending heat in every direction, so stark and sure that it makes you want to double over.

“Jisung,” you say, your lips a little wet.

He does not have far to go, cupping your face and pulling you in for a kiss. You clasp his shoulders, closing your eyes and kissing him back. You would not notice an intruder, nor even a fire, not even a god walking the earth. You lose yourself completely, even more than those precious kisses from before. Maybe it is knowing you are truly alone, that the king is out cold, that it is nighttime and you are in your shift and he is right here, and it would be so easy to lay down and—

“I—” He abruptly breaks the kiss. He still looks lost in it, eyes half-open, face tinged with a blush. He pushes his fingers through his hair and shakes his head like that will pull him out of it.

He looks at you then at your mouth, then he falls right back in. His eyes close and he moans when he kisses you, like it is rearranging him. He cups your face with both hands and guides the kiss, opening his mouth, inexpertly but hungrily. You follow just as inexpertly but just as passionately. You make a sound of your own, higher and lighter, sweet in the kiss as he licks into your open mouth.

He is affected, either by the sound or your taste or your tongue against his. He pulls back with a shuddering gasp, like he forgot to breathe the whole time. You think you forgot too, breathing much harder than before.

“I—I’m so—” he says, forcing himself to look away. He stares down at the lantern. His eyes look a little wet, verging on tears as well. He pushes his hand into his hair and keeps it there, the dark locks messy around his fingers.

“Jisung,” you whisper his name, touching his shoulder, then his face. “Jisung, I know. This is – this is all crazy.” He looks at you, eyes still sad, hand still shoved in his hair. “I know,” you say. “You’re not alone. I know this is complicated.” You stammer, tripping over your racing heart. You cup his face and stroke his cheek. “I’m not asking for anything but what you want to give me.”

“I know,” he whispers. “I’m not scared of you. I’m scared of me. Of what I want to give. It would be—” He finally lets go of his hair. It takes a second to fall back into place after being pushed for so long, falling messily across his forehead. “It would be easier,” he says again, “if I didn’t want to, at all. But I—”

It is certainly easier for him to speak in song. He conveyed so much as a soldier on the shore, longing and terror in equal parts. Yes, that is all over his face as he looks at you, even if he cannot articulate it like this. He just breathes. He tilts his head and looks at you. He is right, that this would all be easier if that expression was not so tender and loving.

“What about you?” he asks. “What do – what do you want to – give?”

“Jisung,” you say, almost laughing, because isn’t it obvious? “I want to give you everything.”

You thought that was so obvious but his look says otherwise, that he is surprised and taken back and overcome.

“I believe,” you say, “that even though we are surrounded by danger, my heart and my body would be truly safe with you.”

“Oh,” he says. He gazes back at you for a time, then he looks down. He takes your hand. His eyes closed, he brings it to his mouth and kisses your palm. He holds it to his face after, eyes still closed, clearly thinking very hard. When he straightens, he says, “It is. But when it comes to me, I—” He laughs without much humour, his expression rather withering and his tone self-deprecating. “I think I’m broken beyond help. I think I always have been. I don’t even have a good reason why. I just know I feel worthless if I don’t cling to the only vow that has ever meant anything and you – and I – and—”

“You’re safe with me too,” you say gently. “Whatever that looks like, Jisung. Whether you think it’s broken or not, I’ll take care of it all.”

He nods, sharp and quick. He rests his forehead against yours. You close your eyes and stay there, just breathing until your racing hearts are under control again. He kisses your forehead before standing. You stand as well, mostly to see that your legs still work, everything fuzzy after all that.

He picks up his guitar and goes to the tent entrance. He unlaces it carefully, then looks at you before parting it. His expression is fond, his mouth open with some parting words, but his eyes widen and he swallows whatever gentle words were on his lips. You look over your shoulder, wondering what surprised him, but there is nothing there.

“What is it?” you ask, smiling when he does.

“Ah, uh, you—” He points behind you with the guitar. There is still nothing there. When you lift an eyebrow at him, he giggles. “Um, the light,” he says. “Behind you – it, um.”

Oh. The lantern is shining right through your thin white shift. Perhaps it is not reliable for modesty even when dry, turning almost invisible as it reveals the shape of everything beneath the fabric.

“Well,” you say, brushing the material out. “I suppose it’s nothing you haven’t seen.”

“Yes,” he says, breathlessly. His eyes move down your body and up again. It is such a thorough, thinking regard, that you think he might be changing his mind. Then he swallows, closes his eyes, and bows his head. He departs without another word.

You do not listen if he and Seungmin speak some more. You douse the lantern and climb under your blankets. You thought you had tempered yourself, but that last look was hungrier and more powerful than a kiss. With the image of him so fresh and clear in your mind, and with the tent securely laced shut again, you slide a hand beneath the covers and whisper his name again and again.

You wake in the middle of the night. You do not know what time but it is nowhere near daylight, the world in darkness all around the tent. You went to sleep to some bustling noise in the camp but now it is silent so you believe it hours have passed.

Your eyes adjust to the midnight blue, making out the shape of your table and trunk, the unlit lantern. The only light is outside the tent, the guard posted with a lantern of his own. He is holding it in the air so you can see his silhouette.

Two silhouettes.

It takes a moment for your groggy mind to catch up but it does. You realize there is a hushed argument happening on the other side of the tent. You realize you are also correct about the hour, because it is late enough that there was a guard change. That is not Seungmin’s voice or silhouette outside the tent, but Minho.

“It’s the middle of the night,” Minho whispers, in obvious agitation. “She’s sleeping. Why would I let you into the queen’s tent?”

“I just want to see her.” That voice is unmistakably Jisung. You would recognize his voice anywhere. Your heart wakes faster than your mind.

“In the middle of the night?” Minho asks. “Are you crazy?”

“Yes!” Jisung whispers back, with a high-pitched strain. “I am! Now let me see her!”

“What kind of argument is that?” Minho asks.

“I just—” Jisung sighs. You watch his silhouette, his hands moving through the air as he gestures at nothing. “I’ve been thinking—”

“I get that’s new for you,” Minho says dryly, “But the queen can be alerted to this miracle tomorrow.”

“And I just need to see her,” Jisung finishes. “Because – because I only have half my thoughts when I’m not with her. Like the world is only half full and I’m only—” He jabs his chest, exhales heavily. “Only half whole.”

The lantern lowers slightly, Minho seemingly losing power as his arm lowers.

“Please,” Jisung says. “I’m just going to talk to her. I’ll be fast. She won’t mind. The king will be passed out until noon at least. This is just – I need to see her.”

“I hate you,” Minho says. “If I hear even one disgruntled squeak from her, I’m considering it permission to kill you for being a nuisance.”

“I can’t wait to haunt you forever,” Jisung says, clapping him on the shoulder with a friendly pat.

Minho shrugs him off. The lantern swings away as Minho stalks back to his post. He plunks the light on the ground.

You can no longer see his silhouette but you can hear as the tent unlaces. Each slip of a tie has your heartbeat skipping. You prop yourself up your elbows, watching slivers of moonlight slip into the tent. Eventually the tent is undone enough that Jisung can step inside, then he grumbles and swears to himself as he laces it back up again.

You sit all the way upright but he does not see you. At first, he is preoccupied with the laces. Then, once the tent is secure, he turns around. Your eyes are adjusted to the darkness so you see him perfectly, but his are not adjusted and he evidently has no idea you are awake and upright and staring at him.

He seems to go through a myriad of emotions, his face an entire theatrical spectacle in the span of thirty seconds. Then he curses and turns around and reaches for the laces, having seemingly lost all his nerves, intent on departing again.

“Jisung?” you say.

It makes him jump, shoulders leaping. He slowly turns around to face you. He still does not see you properly, squinting through the dark, but you think your general shape is taking form. He faces the correct angle, at least.

“Um, yes?” he asks.

“What are you doing here?” you ask.

“Oh, that,” he says. “Right. Um. You see. I was thinking about everything you said. And everything I said. And did. And we did. And the king said and did. And I was just – I was thinking – what I mean is.” He clasps his hands together and punctuates his words with a pointed gesture. “The. reason. I. am. here.”

He lets his arms fall to his side. You think he can see you because his eyes finally find yours.

He should be a terrifying figure in the dark, all long dark robes with a shiny sword at his hip. You are not scared. His hands are the ones shaking, his eyes wide.

“Yes?” you say softly, encouraging.

He takes a step forward. His hand rests on the hilt of his sword out of habit, no doubt a consolation to his nerves. He looks down at it, seems to contemplate it like it has answers, or maybe just more questions. Eventually, he reaches into his robes and undoes the sword belt. You watch with baited breath as the sword falls into his hand.

He crouches, laying the sword on the ground. On one knee, looking at the sword, then looking at you, he unclasps the top layer of his robes.

“I think,” he says, “I’m here to pray.”

You are quickly out of the covers, crawling down the bedroll towards him. He drops his other knee so he is kneeling upright at the foot of your bed, his robes open to the dark layer underneath, his chest rising and falling as quickly as his heart must be racing.

You get up on your knees too, hands floating between you as you take a second to just look at each other. His mouth is open like he has more to say but he never finds the words. You think they have all been said and they are better encapsulated in a kiss.

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in. His hands find your waist, at first with the chivalrous touch of a guard, the same way he has been holding your waist when he helps you from here to there. Then the kiss deepens and your eyes close. His tongue pushes against yours and his hands are searching, squeezing, feeling the shape of every curve under his palm.

He says your name, not your title. Your shift is messily gathered in his fists. He kisses you softly, just a peck, then another, then those kisses move across your face and down your neck. You sink your fingers into his hair, holding him there as he kisses a long, hot kiss against your throat. You feel it all the way down between your thighs, liquid heat and a pounding need. You scratch at his scalp as his open mouth moves across your skin and he moans.

“Shh,” you say gently, his voice softening against your neck, just a light sound as he licks the place he kissed.

You want to tear the robe off his body but you don’t want to startle him, his hands already shaking where they move over your clothed body. You decide to go first, already more comfortable with it.

You always thought disrobing for a lover would be petrifying, aghast at the thought of ever baring yourself to a husband. Well, perhaps that last part is still true. It is not difficult to share yourself with Jisung. You like the way he looks at you, like he is writing songs of worship in his head.

You lean back and smile at him. He looks flushed and messy, his lips wet. He blinks at you, though his gaze lowers when you gather the hem of your shift and lift. His mouth is hanging open when you toss it to the side.

“It’s not like you haven’t seen me before,” you whisper, laughing lightly.

“That was different,” he says. “I couldn’t really look. I tried not to look. I knew if I did, I’d want to touch you. I tried to pray instead. But I can’t hear the gods when you’re not near me. Now—” His hand moves up your naked side, skimming your curves, his eyes following the trail. He swipes his thumb across your breast and your back arches into him. “Now,” he says again, dipping his head, “I know where I was made to be.”

His mouth closes around the tip of your breast, already pert from stimulation, hardening further between his lips. He sweeps his tongue across your skin, moves to the other side. His hands move everywhere, up and down.

He slowly lays you on your back. He tears off his outer robe and leaves it on the ground, following you down. You will not push him for more, knowing already how much he is giving you, though one day you want to feel every inch of him, skin to skin. It will happen, you decide. One day, you will be in a bed, and there will be time, and you will never be done exploring.

He lets your put your hand under his shirt, scratching down his spine. His arms are bare so you squeeze those too. Your legs part to make room for his hips. You are kissing and you make a sound in each other’s mouths when he lowers his hips against you. You can feel him through the material of his trousers, like you could feel him that other night. Where he ran away that night, this time he lets your hand wander down. When you cup the hard shape of him in your palm, it makes your breath catch in an uneven stutter.

“Jisung,” you whisper, arching against him when he says your name back.

“Yes,” he says, pushing himself upright with shaking arms. He kneels between your open legs. He pushes his hair back and swallows as he looks down. His mouth moves but he doesn’t speak, though he does make a garbled noise while running his hands along the soft skin of your inner thighs.

That skin is very sensitive. You are already arching by the time his hand is on you. You have to cover your mouth. No amount of touching yourself could prepare you for his touch, his fingers rougher and calloused both from his sword and his guitar.

You are so wet for him. He makes a face like he can feel the pleasure of it even though it his fingers rubbing through all that wetness. He finds that place he showed you, as adept with the instrument of your body as he is with any other tool he puts in his hands. Just as he is always determined to make you laugh, he is now determined to give you pleasure. He grips your thigh in one strong hand and deftly moves his other thumb around and around that small centre of pleasure.

You twitch in his grip, still gasping with those short, stunted breaths. You can keep your voice down on your own but it requires more concentration now, swallowing those sounds as that pleasure breaks apart inside you. Your hips lift, chasing his touch, before you drop in shy retreat, oversensitive.

He grips both thighs, squeezing the soft flesh, then runs his fingertips back to their centre, then up, up the curve of your chest, touching your open mouth. You take his fingers in your mouth, nothing like before which was playful then uncertain and demure. You take them like you want to take everything, deep and wet and needy, moving your head, sucking them hard between your lips until he has to cover his own mouth to stop himself from being loud.

He takes his hand back. The other drops from his mouth. You look at each other, hearts racing. His hands are shaking again as he reaches for the ties of his trousers, fumbling more than a little.

You sit up to help. With him kneeling upright, it puts your face at a rather advantageous position. His fingers get even more clumsy until he is no help at all, leaving it to you to unlace.

You look up at him, holding his gaze. This is certainly not the wedding night you were ever prepared to participate in. You were instructed to lay back and wait, then it would happen and be over. That could not be more different than your searching hands, eager to feel him, your eyes on any sliver of skin he shows you.

Once the trousers are unlaced, there is little hiding, the fabric falling open and everything inside lifting up. Truthfully, you are nervous but also emboldened with passionate wanting. You are aware you are about to do something that cannot be reversed in the eyes of the law.

I’m the queen, you think. I make my own law.

You touch him as he lays you back down. When you are on your back, you rest your hands at your sides, your legs open around him, hair spread out underneath you.

He pushes his trousers down his hips. He looks into your face for as long as he can but eventually he needs to look down. He curses to himself as he is a little clumsy again, trying to guide himself to your entrance. He finds it but your body is resistant even though you are so wet. You wince a little but shake your head when he stops, telling him to keep going, please, please, please.

You can only imagine how painful this would have been with the king. Well, that man will never be your first, no matter what he tries in future. It will always be Han Jisung, slowly pushing inside you, his face buried in your neck, murmuring your name as he fills you to utter completion.

You almost cry when he is all the way inside you, not even from the tenderness but just the rightness. You cling to him, sliding a hand down the back of his shirt. He rocks his hips a little, kissing your neck when you whimper.

“It’s okay,” he says, lifting his face to look at you. He kisses your lips, a few short pecks that leave you wanting more. He stares down into your face like he can hardly believe you are real. “I have you,” he says. “I have you.”

He knows how to listen beyond words, hearing every cry and request of your body, even if you cannot articulate it. He is careful until that tender burn lessens, careful for his own sake too, muttering the occasional oath when you squeeze around him. it soon really does sound like praying with how often he calls the gods and you.

You kiss him, moaning into his mouth, probably clawing up his shoulders as he starts to understand how to roll his hips. Those scratches won’t matter because he’s a kingsguard and he will be completely covered tomorrow. Only you will know his back is a canvas of your pleasure, fingers bruising and nails raking desperately as he takes you, deeply, thoroughly.

“I’m – I can’t – inside,” he says between breaths, face scrunched up as he nears his pleasure.

“I know,” you say, but whimper helplessly. “One day.”

That makes him moan deeply, a sharp thrust into you, then he is quickly pulling out. It just takes a single stroke from his hand before he finishes too. It is more than you knew it would be, a white streak that falls across the soft skin of your belly. It takes a second for the sight to register for him, then he squeaks and grabs his robe again.

Cleaning that off the queen is almost certainly not the intended use of the kingsguard robes, but it makes the most sense, as he is more likely to be able to clean it without any questions. Still, he seems to realize just how sacrilegious it is, looking at the black fabric, then at you.

He smiles. It turns to a short laugh, a sound of disbelief.

“We…” he says.

“Yes,” you say, giggling too.

You are not sure if he is more amazed with you or himself. It certainly takes him a moment to stop looking so shocked, even though he was the one who walked in here.

He comes to his senses, at least enough to lay down in your arms for a time.

He can’t sleep here but you hold him for a while and he is happy to let you, his head pillowed on the softness of your breasts, his arms around your middle. He turns his face and kisses your skin, just a chaste kiss, but there is a fire simmering beneath your skin now and you fear it will never be doused.

You sit up together. You kiss his bare arm, right up to where the shoulder of his shirt gets in the way. He looks at you, appreciative, fond, and a little less scared.

“We need to be careful,” he says.

“Of course,” you say.

“I can’t let anything happen to you,” he says, cupping your face. He brings it close to his, your noses touching.

“I know you won’t,” you say. “I’m safe in your hands, bard boy.”

He laughs then steals one final kiss. He doesn’t put the outer robe back on, giving you a chagrined smile while you giggle. You shuffle back into your shift while he stands up and re-ties his trousers. He smooths his hair as best he can. He hooks his swordbelt into place.

He looks somewhat more composed but not entirely untouched. You wonder if you look like that, if the change is all over your face and in the lines of your body. You can certainly feel it inside, both literally with the ache between your thighs, and also emotionally.

He unlaces the tent and looks at you again. He gives you one last departing smile before he steps out.

He has barely laced the tent shut before the lantern re-appears. You catch Minho’s silhouette, his hand swinging down to swat Jisung hard on the backside.

“Ouch!” Jisung jumps.

“That was not talking, you asshole,” Minho hisses.

Jisung, in much better spirits than his friend, simply plants a kiss on the other guard’s cheek and ruffles his hair. Even in silhouette form, Minho is clearly shocked by this. It takes him too long to retaliate, left standing there as Jisung skips away.

Minho shakes his head.

Smiling, you lay down to sleep, safe for tonight. With your growing allies, you are confident will you find a way to remain so.

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