#cosmic shake too

[lighthouseshepard]

.

[idolsummons]

so the book i'm currently reading (johannes cabal: the fear institute) has this group of people (the fear institute, as you may have guessed) that basically want to erase fear and there's a lot of "well, this emotion is just a product of fear so we don't subscribe to it" kind of thing and it's making me think a lot about hana, who is incapable of feeling fear and some of the surrounding emotions (ie anxiety) and causing me to reflect on how she responds to an even wider range of emotions

[ujuro]

The new idle song is kinda nothing but shuhua and minnie look hot so I don’t care

[philosians]

ɪɴᴅᴜʟɢᴇɴᴄᴇ

a three week paid-vacation provided by your captain gave rise to the opportunity to finally show you the gift sylus had gotten you. and no, it isn’t the yacht you’re on—but he wouldn’t be opposed to giving you that either.

[ !! ] — mdni | established relationship, smut, breeding kink, pregnancy mention, fingering, oral (female receiving), praise kink, mating press, unprotected sex, sylus is soft in the bedroom okay now hush ;; alcohol mention (sylus drinks whiskey), fluff. oh did I mention soft! sylus?? uhhh maybe more tags than this idk there’s a lot going on lmao. unedited af I know that’s a warning. if y’all see cut sentences just know it’s a brain glitch >.< lol

a/n: Happy Valentine’s Day! phew i got this out before it ended hehe just in the nick of time. I do wanna forewarn everyone I don’t actively write smut so I deeply apologize for any sort of repetitiveness or just it being inaccurate and rushed overall, my apologies. but please enjoy reading! bc i wanna curl up and die and delete this after writing it actually lmao I’ll probably never write anything like this again haha

word count: roughly 4.8k

The starry expanse of sky moves quickly outside of the window of the car, nothing but a blur of cosmic colors. Where you’re going you’re not quite sure, with all the secrecy from Sylus and the twins. It’s something Sylus has clearly planned for awhile, from the way he wanted you to dress tonight, but you’re still unable to put your finger on it.

At the very least, you’re glad that Kieran is the one that’s driving instead of Luke.

“Are you two going to tell me where we’re going yet?”

“Afraid not, Miss,” Kieran replies. “That’d be against orders from Boss.”

“Are we at least almost there yet?” you ask.

“We have about ten more minutes,” Luke chirps. “Then you’ll finally get to see Boss, don’t worry.”

You’re stunned into a mild fluster and look at your hands in your lap. You heard the twins snicker and you can’t help but shake your head incredulously. Oh well. You’re almost to your destination anyway.

After the last two months of an increase in Wanderer appearances, you could most certainly use a break. It’s been nothing short of hectic, battles here and evacuations there and the occasional dumbass that doesn’t want to listen to the warnings given out that an area is too dangerous to go into.

You softly sigh. You really shouldn’t be thinking about work.

You tug the large coat on your shoulders over you further, closing your eyes and sinking into the warmth and the smell of the man it belonged to.

Whatever in the world Sylus had planned must be big, even so that he couldn’t be bothered to tell even the twins exactly what he had in store. All the three of you knew was that he had a surprise, and the two brothers were more than happy to have the opportunity to have the base to themselves.

You just wish you knew where you were going.

“Is this it?”

“I think so. Ah, there’s Boss.”

Oh, already?

True to word, you open your eyes and see a familiar patch of silver against the darkness of the world. And you also happen to see a very, very large yacht not far from him.

A marina? You blink incredulously. A private fucking marina. Good lord, how much money does this man really have?

Upon stopping, you watch as Sylus turns his head slightly to the car. Luke quickly jumps from the passenger side and opens the door for you, ushering his hand outward dramatically and says, “After you, Miss.”

The heel of your shoe clicks against pavement as you step out, holding Luke’s hand for stability until you find your balance.

“Thanks, Luke.”

“Not a problem! Enjoy the honey— Uh, vacation!”

Luke jumps back into the car, more than likely to save himself from your questioning eyes. You can’t help but shake your head and make your way toward Sylus and the man in uniform, more than likely the captain of the yacht.

“Ah, Mrs. Sylus,” greets the captain with a tilt of his hat. His eyes blink as he does a once-over on you and then laughs. “I was wondering what kind of woman would tie such a man down, and now I understand. Please, come aboard.”

Your brows raise at Sylus as the captain pivots and boards the yacht. “Care to explain that?”

Sylus, in all his audacity, simply shrugs and smiles. “Nothing to explain, sweetie. He came up with that himself after I told him my lady would be joining me.”

You scoff in disbelief, but can’t help the small smile that falls to your lips. You take Sylus’s arm, wrapped your hand in the crook of his elbow as he leads you onto the ship.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, gazing around as he takes you to the deck. And you could only imagine what it would be like when you went out to sea.

“I figured you would like it,” he murmurs. “Glad to see my instincts weren’t wrong.”

You don’t miss the way his red eyes look to you, knowing he’s waiting for your words of affirmation. You laugh behind your hand, because yeah, he’s right.

You hum, taking his hand in your own. “Thank you for considering me.”

You also don’t miss the way his large fingers eagerly twine with your own, nor the way his eyes soften and blend with devotion and affection.

“Always.”

Thirty minutes pass before the ship takes off into the open sea. You barely feel it until Sylus has you stand to take you back outside from the dining area.

“So, where are we going?” you ask, gazing up at him.

Sylus’s mouth twitches into a smirk. “It’s a surprise.”

You grumble, humoring the man. “Of course it is.”

Sylus’s coat never leaves your shoulders the couple hours you’re both out on the deck. He seems to enjoy that, too; you wearing his clothes sparks something behind his eyes that you’re all too familiar with. The thought itself has your cheeks warming and thighs pressing together.

He flicks his wrist to check his watch when a timer beeps twice. You can’t help it when your eyes linger on his hand. You’ve always had a fixation on his them—on how big and warm they are in comparison to yours, on how his long fingers stretch across your body, and how they gently wrap around you and pull you close like he’d die without touching you. Those hands that had once forced you to attempt to resonate with him for three days had become soft, remorseful and loving. And he’d more than earned your forgiveness.

“Dinner should be ready.”

You grin. “You brought your chef?”

“Just for this trip,” he retorts, standing to full height. “Come.” His hand outstretches to you and you take it without hesitation.

You don’t miss the way his eyes briefly light up at the way your fingers immediately interlace with his. It’s a small joy to you, but to him it means everything—a testament to how far the two of you have come.

Dinner, as always, is perfect. Dessert even more so. You’re not too full, but more than satisfied. You give your compliments to the chef, who in turn happily skips back to the kitchen like he’s on cloud nine. And you can’t help but look at Sylus and smile as he downs his whiskey like it’s water.

“You don’t compliment your chef enough,” you comment. “One sentence from me and he acts like he’s never heard praise.”

Sylus hums as his brows raise, humored. He chuckles with the whiskey in his mouth before swallowing it to retort, “He knows his cooking is excellent. I suppose I just have a limit to how many compliments I can give out in a day.”

You place your chin in your hand. “Oh, really? Then how many do I get to have in a day?”

Adoration fills his ruby orbs. “As many as you want, my beloved.”

His hand reaches for your left over the table. Sylus’s thumb rubs over your fingers, resting atop your ring finger.

“Have I told you that you look exquisite tonight?” he whispers.

“You haven’t,” you reply cheekily. “I think you owe me a few more, don’t you think?”

The soft music in the background dies as you begin to hear your heart thunder in your ears. You do hope that Sylus can’t hear it pounding away like you can.

“Seems like I do,” he says in an exhale, leaning back in his seat but not letting go of your hand. His eyes have changed—once filled with adoration, now filled with a fire that makes heat rise to your cheeks and desire burn between your legs. “I don’t think I’ve shown you the bedroom yet, have I?”

You grin. “You haven’t. I’d like to see it.”

But what you don’t anticipate is your man standing and abruptly lifting you into a one arm carry. Your sharply inhale in surprise, arms immediately weave around his neck for support, but you know he’d never drop you anyway.

You trail your nose under his jaw, pressing a long kiss to his skin by his ear. Your fingers dig into his shoulder, the subtle presser making him hasten his long strides.

“Sweetheart—” Sylus gulps as you press two fingers to his mouth to silence him.

You pepper slow kisses down his neck, nipping at the skin every other kiss. It’s when you reach his collarbone you hear the click of a door. And seconds later you find the plush fabric of blankets underneath you and Sylus’s firm hand cradling the back of your head as he tilts your head back to capture your lips with his.

Between each heated kiss you attempt to catch your breath, only for your lover to devour your mouth with his own again and again.

“Mmmh— Sylus, let me—” another kiss “—catch my breath.”

He has a hard time pulling away. Sylus rests on one knee at the edge of the bed, hands grasping at the back of your bare calves as he catches his own breath and tries to pull himself back to his senses before he finishes himself off early.

While you toss your head back and close your eyes, trying to let oxygen catch up to your brain, Sylus lifts his head to look at you. He drinks in your appearance—the starry night sky sewn into the strapless obsidian dress (one that he had specially made for you) accentuated your body exactly the way he envisioned.

As he watches your breasts rise and fall with every breath, he feels his pants tighten even more. He’s so painfully hard just from simply kissing you—a testament to what you do to him, how deeply you affect him.

He rests his head against the plush of your thigh. As he trails his hand down your leg, he realizes you still have your heels on.

Your head snaps up at the feeling of one heel coming off, then the other.

“Sylus, what— Oh, shit.”

The momentum of him lifting your body further up the bed and hiking your dress up catches you off guard. His mouth latches to your thighs, kissing and biting all the way up until he reaches the fabric of your panties—the only thing between him and what he wants.

“Such a dark red, darling,” he hums. “Was this for me?”

“It might’ve been,” you tease.

As his finger loops around the red fabric covering you, Evol ready to help rip it off, your hand makes its way into his hair and tugs, forcing his eyes to attention.

“Rip these, I’m okay with that. Rip the dress, and I’ll kill you,” you say, half-joking. But damn did you really like this dress.

He chuckles, eyes glazed with lust. “Understood.”

As soon as he tears them away and hikes your dress even further around your hips, Sylus’s mouth does nothing short of devour your pussy. You let out the loudest, wanton moan you’ve ever heard from yourself as his tongue buries itself in and against your folds. Your head falls back against the pillows, hands moving to grip the sheets beneath you to maintain some semblance of being grounded as Sylus eats you out like a starved man. Your legs are over his shoulders, allowing him the best access to your womanhood.

“Oh— Fuuuck, Sylus. Ohmygod, please don’t stop,” you beg, threading one hand through his hair again, grip tighter than earlier.

His reply comes in the form of him pushing his thick middle finger inside of you and mouth sucking on your clit. You wail, bucking your hips into his mouth. His ring finger promptly follows, stretching your cunt and sinking deep inside of your walls. Tears of overstimulation line your eyes as you grasp at then pillow behind your head.

Both hands twine into his silver locks of hair, pressing him deeper into you. What you miss amidst your own haze of ecstasy is Sylus grinding himself against the mattress to find some sense of relief. His mind is at war, wanting nothing more than to cum right then and there versus wanting to watch his seed spill from your hole. It takes every ounce of self-control of his own body to not climax while he simultaneously loses his mind while his mouth is attached to your cunt.

“Don’t— Please— Sylus! Sylus, I’m gonna—”

Your back arches off of the bed, and you can’t help but press him further into you and grind against his face. Sylus’s arms wrap around your thighs, holding you steady. The deep groan of his satisfaction that leaves him only spurs you on further and further and further until your thighs clench around his head and you cum. Hard.

And Sylus more than enjoys sucking and licking away at your release as you climax, prolonging it as much as he can. He lifts your lower body into the air as he continues his onslaught of your pussy with his mouth and tongue, the pressure of your thighs on either side of his head making him dizzy. Your essence coats his chin and nose, your scent driving all his senses wild and pulls the remainder of his blood down to his cock.

He gains a free hand as you tighten your legs around his shoulders. He unbuckles his belt and slips it off with practiced ease before moving to unzip and unbutton his pants, tugging away at them.

When your hips stop shaking is when Sylus grabs your thighs with both hands and sets your body back down on the mattress. He hovers over you once again, taking in your disheveled appearance and partially-lidded eyes. His long fingers brush your skin and cradle your jaw.

“Still with me, sweetheart?” he asks.

You pant and gaze up at him. “Barely.” You swallow. “That tongue of yours is brutal.”

Sylus laughs. It’s almost enough to make him forget about the painful fact that his cock is straining against his pants. Until your knee brushes against it when you lift yourself from the bed and he groans.

You giggle as his head presses against your shoulder.

“You really shouldn’t neglect yourself like that,” you hum, wrapping an arm around his shoulder.

Sylus’s lips meet your neck opposite of your arm wrapped around him and presses a long kiss to your sweaty skin, murmuring hotly into your ear, “There’s no one to blame but you, beloved. And I highly suggest you take responsibility.”

You moan and arch into him as his hands work on your dress, unzipping the back entirely and lowering it just below your breasts. You arch your back so he can undo the bra, and as soon as it’s on the floor, his mouth is on your chest. Sylus sucks and bites at your nipples, worshipping them and your breasts as he grinds his clothed erection into your bare pussy, soaking his dress pants in your juices.

You begin unbutton his shirt through the haze of your desire… before you slip your hands through the remaining buttons and fully rip his dress shirt apart, exposing his thick torso. You both chuckle at the sound of the buttons hitting the floor.

“Impatient?”

“Like you aren’t,” you remark.

Sylus shrugs off his shirt in a fluid motion and tosses it to the side from one arm. You manage to slide off your dress within a few moments, just as Sylus manages to get off his pants and briefs and… Oh…

You’d almost forgotten how big he is. Sure, the two of you have spent a couple more… sensual evenings together since you had him use your place as a safe house (and then him bringing you to his), but it always makes you shudder when your eyes land between the apex of his muscular thighs.

His tip weeps with precum, heavy cock red and flushed and—

Sylus’s breath is hot against your ear as he asks, “Like what you see, darling?”

—goddamn it you need it inside of you.

Your nails dig into his bicep, your other hand wrapping around his neck to pull him into a heated kiss, and Sylus is more than happy to oblige. His kiss is deep and reverent. A small moan escapes him as you two briefly pull apart for air before diving back into one another.

Everything is hot; your cheeks are flushed with the heat of desire and your pussy aches to have Sylus buried inside of you.

You pull him down on top of you with the arm around his neck, your other hand grasping his cock and positioning it at your entrance. Sylus hisses, hips bucking slightly as his fingers clench at his attempts at restraint.

“Fuck,” he pants. His red eyes clear for a moment, turning into a gentleness reserved for you as he asks, “You think you can take it?”

“I think you ate me out enough earlier I’ll manage,” you joke. Then your nails dig into the meat of his back, the sensation making him softly hiss again. “But if you don’t I’ll be doing it for you then.”

Sylus chuckles, nose dipping to your collarbone.

“My beloved is always so greedy, isn’t she?”

There is no retort from you—only a loud moan as Sylus’s tip enters you fills the room. He stops after that though, and as you look up to him to ask him why he stopped, you’re stunned at the sight before you.

Sylus is flushed red, panting and sweating as his muscles flex.

“Sylus?”

“Don’t,” he warns, shaking his head. “Give me… a moment. You feel… too good.”

The implication is clear. Sylus’s head falls as he inches himself a little further, delighting in hearing you gasp as he sinks more and more inches of himself inside of you. It takes all he has not to just cum at the feel of you; every ounce of self-control he has is being tested. He’s never been harder in his life, and being inside of the woman he loves—who feels like heaven wrapped around his cock—only proceeds to spiral him into a deeper pit of pleasure.

“Sylus… Sylus, more, please,” you hears you beg.

He’s halfway in, trying to take his time and let the romance of the evening last. But at that, and the sensation of your nails digging into his back, he finds himself a goner and lets his hips fall into yours, sinking the remainder of his fat cock into the depths of your wet pussy. A deep shudder passes through him, bliss running through his body.

“Fuck. Fuck, you feel divine,” Sylus says in a deep exhale.

“You’re so big,” you gasp, eyes clouded with the haze of lust. “Oh, Sy, you feel so good.”

The praise goes to his head immediately. He drags his cock back out slowly and a whine escapes you, hating the emptiness. But when Sylus places your legs over his shoulders and leans over you, it’s over for you both.

Your eyes roll into the back of your head as Sylus rolls his hips, sliding his full length back into the warm expanse of your pussy. His head falls back, and the pace he sets proceeds to bury you both alive underneath overwhelming ecstasy.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he pants, clenching his fist into the sheet. “How I feel every time I look at you? Utter perfection is all I see. Do you feel what you do to me, darling?”

All you can feel is Sylus’s weight on top of you and the feel of his heavy cock inside of you as he stretches you open on him, carving your pussy into the shape of his cock. His pelvis rubs against your clit deliciously, spurring you on further. As much as you want to drive your hips up to meet his thrusts, Sylus has you pinned down into a mating press and all you can do is take what he’s giving you.

The papping noises of your bodies meeting filled the room, sending your thoughts into an even dirtier place. He feels so good reaching so deep inside of you, tip rubbing against that special spot perfectly, like you’re made to be perfect for each other. You clench around Sylus at another thought and he inhales sharply.

“What’re you thinking about?” he questions.

You shake your head. “N-Nothing.”

His long fingers grab your jaw gently. “Tell me.”

And then he slows his pace. “No, Sylus—”

“Then tell me what my beloved is thinking in that pretty head of hers,” he murmurs into your ear. “Or else.”

“I was thinking… about… Uhm…” Sylus rolls his hips back into you, his heavy balls pressing against your ass as he awaits your answer.

“Well?”

“I, uh— A baby.”

At the word, you shy away into your arm. But Sylus doesn’t say anything, which makes you confused. After a couple seconds, you gaze back up at him. His eyes show how stunned he is, pupils blown as no doubt the word also revolves around his own mind.

“Sylus, I— Oh, fuucckk.”

His body weight presses your body into the mattress further, leaving you at his mercy as Sylus’s pace becomes brutal, like he’s let his base instincts take over. His big hand finds yours and twines your fingers together as he drives his cock into your pussy over and over and over again, the squelching noises only growing louder and louder in your ears.

“My kitten… wants a baby then?” He hums into your ear. “She wants me to cum inside of her and carry my baby, is that right?”

“It was… just a thought.”

He laughs as your pussy clenches around him more at his words.

“Seems like it’s more than just a thought.”

Sylus’s mouth meets yours in another kiss, powered by something more than just lust. Your brain turns fuzzy and hot, reality beginning to finally blur as another climax ascends from the depths of your core.

Your eyes shut as his mouth finds the sweet spot on your neck. He sucks and nips at the skin with his teeth and you’ve no doubt that there’ll be plenty of love bites scattered across your skin for days after tonight.

When he nips at your ear, you squeak and clench around him again. Sylus groans into your ear, “Do that again.”

You oblige, clenching down on him and making him piston himself in and out of you faster. Every thrust turns into one that pushes the air from your lungs. All you can see, all you can feel is Sylus—feel his body heat as he presses your body down with his; feel the thickness of his cock stretch you open and the weight of his balls as they slap against your ass.

And it feels so good. The shlick and pap noises are getting to you. The coil that’s been winding up all night finally feels like it’s about to burst. Your back arches off the bed, breasts pressing into Sylus’s firm chest.

“Ohmygod, Sy, gonna cum, gonna cum fuckfuckfuuucckkk!”

He nips at your earlobe, biting down on it gently before whispering into your ear, “Indulge, my love. Indulge and I’ll fulfill every single one of your desires tonight.”

At long last, the coil snaps. Euphoria pilots itself to your brain and all across your body. You shake from the intensity, having to wrap your arms around Sylus to ground yourself as you reach your high.

Your orgasm sends him over the edge. He thrusts a few more times before he finds himself pressing himself as deep as he can possibly go and releasing his seed inside of your pussy. It’s almost too much, even for him. He doesn’t think he’s ever cum harder than tonight.

Your bodies rock together as you both fall from the heights of cloud nine. Sylus peppers your sweaty skin with kisses, across the bruised love bites he’d left earlier.

It’s only when he feels himself soft enough to slip out of you does he ask, “A family?”

Sylus’s voice is soft. So soft in fact that you barely hear him. You take a moment to reply, only to find yourself being easily lifted from the bed and onto Sylus’s chest.

“It’s… Something that’s crossed my mind a few times,” you admit bashfully.

Silence fills the air for a moment before he asks again, in the same, quiet tone he’d just used.

“With me?”

Your smile stretches across your face instantly. Your lips meet his chest, right over his heart. Your eyes meet his—uncertainty meeting unconditional love.

“And no one else.”

The next three days after are filled with you and Sylus partaking in all the activities that his yacht has to offer (plus more intimate times across the boat and it’s other rooms). He’d told you at one point that he would’ve just used the one he sails on regularly. But due to him wanting to spend more time with you than anything, and for you to have fun during the trip, he’d bought another and hired the captain to ensure safe passage.

Tonight however, was the night that you both were supposed to be arriving at your destination. You tried to help the anxiety and giddiness inside of you, trying to flatten it under a cool demeanor but Sylus just saw right through you.

Of course he would.

“There’s no reason to be nervous. It’s not like I’m taking you into enemy territory,” he jokes, gaze flicking to you from the stars in the open sky.

“I know that. I just can’t help it,” you mutter.

You shiver from the cold breeze, and Sylus shrugs off his leather jacket and places it over your shoulders. He leans down and zips it partway, resting his chin atop your head.

“Those hunter instincts of yours need to settle down,” he hums.

“I wish they would— Sylus!”

A hearty chuckle leaves him as you bounce away from his hold. Your eyes narrow at his treachery.

“What? Did I do something wrong?”

“Don’t you try and tickle me,” you warn playfully. You slip your arms through the sleeves of his leather jacket, trying to pull the sleeves back from over your palms to point at him. “Or I’m gonna tickle you back.”

Sylus smirks and rubs his fingers together. “Is that a challenge?”

“Mr. Sylus, Mrs. Sylus,” greets a familiar voice.

Embarrassment makes you duck your head away from the captain for a brief moment before you look at him.

“Just thought I’d come and let you know we’ll be docking soon.” The captain takes his hat off and bows before you both. “Thank you for allowing me the chance to sail you both for the last three days.”

Sylus nods his head in acknowledgment. “Thank you for giving us safe passage, Arthur.”

Arthur nods, reapplies his cap and heads back to steer the ship into the upcoming port.

You don’t get to watch as he disappears since Sylus wraps his arms around you, pulling your chin to his chest. He presses a sweet kiss to your temple and murmurs, “I do believe we’re here.”

The distraction of the captain was long enough that the scenery before you had changed into the moonlit sea into a large landmass illuminated by the full moon above.

Your jaw drops open at the sight, eyes lighting up as you get closer and closer to the port where the ship would dock.

“Sylus, where are we?” you ask quietly.

“It’s an island,” he states. “One that I bought awhile back and was making… renovations for.”

“Renovations? For what?”

He laughs softly and looks at you like you’re a goddess. “For whom, you mean.”

Your eyes widen into saucers. Is he…? Could he seriously mean…?

“Sylus, you bought me an island?” you inquire, utterly flabbergasted.

“I can’t exactly un-buy it, so I do hope you’ll like it,” he replies. To your ears and yours alone you can hear his wavering tone, like he’s awaiting your disappointment. You can’t have that.

You cup his cheeks and force him to look at you again.

“Sylus, I love it; even if it’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever been gifted, I love it. It’s just going to take me time to get used to it,” you tell him. Then you step on your tippy-toes and give him an eskimo kiss. “Thank you. I love you.”

You kiss him there at the front of the ship, wrapped in his warm, protective embrace, momentarily oblivious to the world and your surroundings.

What you’re also oblivious to, and have been since the start of the trip, is the fat diamond ring that’s been tucked away, hidden in Sylus’s bottom drawer to his dresser. And also to the fact of his other reason of being nervous.

To him hoping that you’ll say “yes” when he gets down on one knee to ask you to marry him.

But he’ll save that for later. Right now he intends to indulge and savor your lips on his and you being tucked into him, safe from the world to be loved and worshipped by him.

And hopefully, for the rest of this lifetime.

[fear-is-truth]

𝓻afe cameron x reader ┊love language — gift giving .ᐟ

“rafe,” you called out, your voice echoing through the cameron house. no answer.

so you tried again; this time dragging his name into an exaggerated, sing-song drawl. “raaay-fe!” heavy footsteps thudded upstairs, followed by the sound of a door closing.“what?” he shouted back, voice muffled.

“come here!”

“why?”

“just come here!”

a few seconds later, your boyfriend appeared in the doorway, looking thoroughly unimpressed and a little keyed up. his hair was tousled, pupils blown—classic rafe, fresh off whatever coke he’d been doing upstairs. “this better be good—” he froze mid-sentence, his eyes locking on you sprawled on the living room rug like some sort of feral child.

in your palm was a small, lumpy rock.

“it’s a rock,” he said flatly, his tone teetering between confusion and exhaustion.

“a heart-shaped rock,” you sat up straighter. he blinked, taking an exaggerated second to process this revelation. “you called me downstairs… to look at a rock?”

“a heart-shaped rock,” you emphasised, offended by his lack of enthusiasm. “you don’t appreciate the finer things in life. plus, you’re so boring,” you added, clutching the rock dramatically to your chest. “this is a rare artifact. no wonder the universe gave it to me.”

“oh, trust me, the universe nailed it,” he said, crouching down to your level. his lips twitched when he got a closer look at the heart-shaped limestone in your hand.

“say you love me,” you declared suddenly, holding the rock up to his face like you were interviewing him.

“i love you,” no hesitation, as always.

“and?”

“and you’re—” he paused, giving the rock another long stare before looking back at you. “incredibly strange.”

“that’s the nicest compliment i’ve ever received.” you beamed, sitting up.

“you’re really keeping that?”

“keeping it?” you repeated, almost insulted. “no. you’re keeping it.” you thrust the rock into his hand, your expression daring him to fight it. “absolutely not. this is your cosmic rock,” he protested, trying to hand it back.

“too late,” you declared, pushing his hand away. “it’s a symbol of our eternal love.”

rafe sighed, staring at the rock, the faintest twitch of a smile tugging at his lips. without another word, he slipped it into his back pocket, shaking his head.

“eternal love, huh?”

you nodded solemnly, eyes wide. “forever and always.”

he brushed a stray piece of hair out of your face before leaning down to press an unhurried kiss to your forehead. “well. if the universe is handing out heart-shaped rocks for you, i guess i’ll keep it.”

“you’d better,” you mumbled, tugging him closer, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt. “it’s important.”

rafe didn’t respond right away, just pressed his forehead against yours. his thumb brushed softly against your cheek, a lazy, tender gesture. “you’re right,” he murmured, so close his lips grazed yours as he spoke.

“it is important. but not as much as you.”

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

⋆˚🐾˖°𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ 🐕 COSMIC LEASH ?!

⋆⑅˚ paring : zayne, rafayel, sylus, xavier & caleb x puppy fem!reader

⋆⑅˚ synopsis : Trapped between them, you whimper as they tug on your leash, making it clear you’re nothing but their obedient little pet for the night.

⋆⑅˚ warnings : nsfw/smut, vaginal, size kink, humiliation kink, leash play, hair pulling, chocking, spanking, gagging, dacryphilia, nipple teasing, dacryphilia, rough s*x, power play, dom & sub dynamic, light degradation, overstimulation & other stuff!

⋆⑅˚ note : banner art by @/rororo_mg on X , also not proof read really sorry ૮๑ˊᯅˋ๑ა ! Also dunno if this was ooc for rafayel 🧍🏻‍♀️

．－ 𝒵𝒜𝒴𝒩ℰ （the best fucker?!）

Zayne’s grip on the leash tightens as he yanks you forward, the collar around your neck pulling you closer to him. You can feel the tension in your body—both the leash and the anticipation tightening in your core. His eyes darken with a predatory gleam as he moves behind you, his hand brushing over your tits, squeezing them roughly before dipping down to grasp your clit between his fingers. You moan, but the sound is cut off when he pulls the leash hard, choking you just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Such a good girl,” he growls, his cock already hard and pressing against your back, his body looming over you. His hands move to your nipples next, pinching and pulling them until you’re gasping, knees weak. His fingers circle your pussy, teasing at your entrance before sliding in with brutal ease. “Look at you, all needy and wet, just for me.”

The sensation of him deep inside you makes your eyes water, a mix of pleasure and pain as the leash pulls tighter, forcing your head back. His hands on your tits grow rougher, his cock pushing deeper with every thrust. You can feel the sting of his choke, the suffocating pressure making you dizzy as he pounds into you, each movement pushing you closer to the edge. Your puppy eats flattening as you whined.

“Z-Zayne—” your voice catches as the leash jerks tight again, cutting off your words. Your hands tremble where they rest against the floor, barely keeping you upright as he keeps you in place, his cock stretching your pussy with every deep, ruthless thrust.

“What? Can’t speak?” His voice is low, teasing, and cruelly amused as he watches your lashes flutter, your breath hitching from the pressure on your throat. “Poor little puppy. Just let me fuck you dumb, yeah?”

You whimper, nodding quickly, cheeks burning with shame. It’s too much—his cock is thick, dragging against every sensitive spot inside you, and his hands won’t stop playing with your tits, squeezing them, rolling your nipples between his fingers like he’s trying to make you cry.

“Sensitive here too,” he murmurs, flicking his tongue over a hardened bud before sucking it into his mouth. You gasp, your back arching, ears twitching as his teeth graze you. It’s embarrassing how loud you are, how easily you melt under his touch. You try to stifle a moan, but Zayne just tugs the leash tighter, forcing another strangled sound from your throat.

“You're shaking.” He groans against your skin, his lips hot against your tits as he nips at them, sucking harder. “Gonna cum already? That desperate?”

You shake your head frantically, but the way your pussy clenches around his cock betrays you. He chuckles, pulling back just enough to see your wrecked expression—eyes glassy, lips parted, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth.

“Cute,” he murmurs. “Now be a good puppy and cum for me.”

Then he thrusts in harder, tightening the leash just enough to steal your breath, and you break—crying out as your body seizes up, pleasure slamming through you in waves. Your walls clamp down around his cock, your clit throbbing, and Zayne groans as he fucks you through it, chasing his own release.

Zayne doesn’t stop—not when your body shakes, not when your pussy clenches down so tight around his cock it feels like you’re trying to keep him inside. If anything, he seems to enjoy watching you struggle, the way your small frame trembles under the weight of him, your breath coming in short, choked gasps as he tugs on the leash again.

“Still so fucking tight,” he groans, dragging his cock out of your drenched cunt just to slam it back in, making you cry out. “You can barely take me, puppy. Look at you—your little pussy’s stretched around me, and I’ve barely fucked you properly.”

Your ears twitch at the humiliation, your cheeks burning. He’s right—his cock is too big, stretching you wide, filling you so deep it makes your stomach bulge with every thrust. You’re dizzy from the way he’s handling you, his grip unrelenting, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

You try to speak, try to beg for mercy, but all that comes out is a broken moan. Zayne chuckles darkly, gripping your jaw and forcing your mouth open. “That's it. Keep your mouth nice and wide for me.”

Then he shoves his fingers past your lips, pressing down on your tongue, making you gag as he fucks into you even harder. Your eyes flutter, throat constricting as you choke around his fingers, drool spilling past your lips. He watches with a smirk, his other hand keeping your leash tight, his cock still slamming deep into your soaked pussy.

“Fuck, you're so cute like this,” he mutters, pulling his fingers out just to smear your spit over your lips before gripping your chin. “So dumb and messy for me.”

You can only whimper, body shuddering under the overwhelming sensations—the size of him splitting you open, the leash cutting into your throat, the way he manhandles you like you’re nothing but his little plaything. Your legs tremble as another orgasm creeps up, and Zayne notices immediately, his cock twitching inside you.

“Gonna cum again?” His voice is a low, mocking growl. “Go on, puppy. Cum while I ruin this tight little cunt.”

Then he slams in deeper, and you break all over again—gagging, sobbing, your body convulsing around him as he fucks you through it, his grip on your leash never loosening.

．－ ℛ𝒜ℱ𝒜𝒴ℰℒ （gentle but rough?!）

Rafayel holds the leash firmly, tugging just enough to make you stumble closer to him. His gaze is sharp, glowing with that cold, unreadable intensity—but there’s something else beneath it, something almost indulgent as he watches your small puppy tail wag despite the tremble in your thighs.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, one large hand stroking down your back before gripping your ass. His touch lingers, fingers pressing into the soft flesh before he suddenly spanks you—hard. The sharp crack echoes through the room, and you yelp, body jerking forward.

“R-Rafayel—!” Your voice breaks into a whimper, your puppy ears twitching as you press your thighs together. The sting of his slap spreads through you, heat pooling between your legs, and your tail wags again—completely betraying you.

Rafayel chuckles, low and amused, before giving you another sharp slap on the ass, making you jolt. “You like it,” he muses, tugging the leash so you’re forced to arch your back, your tits hanging as he positions you just how he wants. “Such a needy little thing.”

His fingers trace over your clit, rubbing slow, teasing circles that make your breath hitch. “I should make you beg,” he mutters, watching as your small frame trembles under his touch, as your pussy clenches around nothing, desperate for him. “But you’re already crying.”

You are crying—small, shaky sobs spilling from your lips, overwhelmed by how big he is, how much stronger, how easily he handles you. The humiliation only makes it worse, your face burning as he strokes your cheek, his thumb wiping away your tears.

"Poor puppy," he murmurs, though there’s no real pity in his voice. “Is it too much?”

You shake your head frantically, afraid he’ll stop. “N-no! Please—”

He cuts you off with a sharp tug of the leash, forcing your back to arch even further. “Then take it.”

And then he’s inside you, stretching you open with one deep, slow thrust. Your mouth falls open, a broken moan spilling out as his cock fills you completely, pushing in so deep you swear you can feel it in your stomach.

"Fuck," Rafayel groans, his hands gripping your hips as he stills, letting you adjust to his size. His fingers flex, like he’s barely restraining himself. “You’re so—” He exhales sharply, pulling out just enough before slamming back in, making you choke on your own moan.

His thrusts are rough despite the way he holds you, each movement knocking you forward, making your tits bounce with every deep stroke. His hand comes down on your ass again, the stinging heat only adding to the pleasure, and you sob into the sheets, your small puppy tail wagging wildly behind you.

He notices, because of course he does. A soft chuckle rumbles from his chest as he grips the base of your tail, stroking it slowly. "So cute," he murmurs, his tone almost tender—right before he tugs the leash hard, forcing your back to arch as he slams in deep.

Your walls flutter around him, squeezing his cock as you cry out, your body giving in completely. Rafayel groans, his pace growing rougher, more desperate, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the air.

“Cum for me, puppy,” he orders, voice firm but laced with something softer, something only for you.

And you do—your body shattering as pleasure crashes through you, your pussy squeezing his cock so tight it forces a deep groan from him. He doesn't stop, fucking you through your orgasm, gripping your leash, your tail, your hips like he owns you, and it only makes you fall apart even harder.

．－𝒮𝒴ℒ𝒰𝒮 （big size kink?!）

You barely have time to catch your breath before you're being pulled into Sylus’s lap, the leash in his hand tightening just enough to make your body jolt. His sheer size alone makes you feel small—his broad chest, strong arms, and the way his thick cock presses against your trembling thighs. You look up at him, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, and he smirks, tilting your chin up with two fingers.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice rich and deep, sending shivers down your spine. “So tiny compared to me… and yet, you think you can take all of me?"”

You swallow hard, your ears twitching as you nod shyly. But Sylus just chuckles, wrapping the leash around his wrist and pulling you forward until your tits press against his bare chest. “You're shaking,” he points out, his large hands sliding down to grip your hips. “Maybe I should stretch you out first. Don't want my lil’ pet breaking too soon.”

A whimper escapes your lips as he lifts you with ease, positioning you over his cock. His size is intimidating, the thick head pressing against your soaked entrance, stretching you open inch by inch. Your walls struggle to take him, your tiny body barely accommodating his girth, and you whine, gripping his shoulders.

“S-Sylus—t-too big—“

He groans at your weak little protest, his grip on your leash tightening. “Shh, you can take it,” he soothes, though his voice is thick with hunger. "You're made for this, aren't you? My pretty little puppy, all stretched around my cock."

Your breath stutters as he lowers you further, his cock sinking deep into your cunt, making your tummy bulge slightly from the sheer size of him. You whimper at the overwhelming fullness, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, and Sylus groans, gripping your ass to keep you still.

“Fuck,” he breathes, watching the way your pussy struggles to take him. “You're so fucking tight. Gonna have to train you to take me properly.”

Your fingers dig into his skin as he suddenly yanks the leash, pulling you flush against him, forcing his cock even deeper. You choke on a moan, your body clenching around him, overwhelmed by the sheer stretch. Sylus only smirks, his hand moving to your tummy, pressing down slightly.

“Feel that?” he murmurs. “That's me, buried so deep inside this lil’ pussy. Can't run from it now, sweetheart.”

You shake your head frantically, overwhelmed, but he just leans in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “Now, be a good girl and ride me.”

You let out a shaky breath, your body trembling as you try to adjust to his sheer size. Every inch of him stretches you past your limit, making you feel impossibly small compared to him. The collar around your neck feels heavier now, especially when Sylus gives the leash another firm tug, forcing you to meet his gaze. His red eyes burn with amusement and hunger.

“What's wrong?” he taunts, his grip tightening on your hips. “Too much for my little puppy?”

You shake your head quickly, even though your body is already struggling to move. Your thighs ache, your pussy throbbing from the overwhelming stretch of his cock, but you still try to lift yourself, only to sink back down with a broken moan.

Sylus groans, his hands flexing against your ass before delivering a sharp slap to it. “Struggling already?” His voice is thick with satisfaction. “Guess I’ll have to help.”

Before you can respond, he tightens his grip and begins lifting you himself, forcing you to bounce on his cock. Each motion has you gasping, your pussy clenching down around his thick length as he guides you with ease.

“Fuck, look at you,”he murmurs, watching the way your tiny body struggles to take him. His hand presses against your stomach again, feeling the way his cock fills you. LSo damn small. You're barely able to handle me, but you're still trying so hard.”

You whimper, your ears twitching as you shyly bury your face against his chest. But Sylus only chuckles, tugging on your leash, forcing you to sit up straight again.

“Don't get shy on me now,” he growls, his other hand gripping your jaw. “I wanna see that pretty face while I wreck this tight little pussy.”

His thrusts grow rougher, your moans turning into desperate cries as he uses the leash to keep you in place. His cock slams into you with each movement, stretching you wide, making it impossible to think about anything except how deep he is inside you. Your walls flutter around him, another orgasm creeping up fast, your legs shaking from the intensity.

“S-Sylus—” you gasp, gripping his wrists, overwhelmed.

He smirks, pulling you down onto his cock one last time before holding you there, his grip keeping you locked in place. “Go on, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your lips. “Cum for me.”

And with one more harsh tug on your leash, you break—your pussy clamping down, body shaking violently as pleasure crashes over you. Sylus groans as he fucks you through it, his cock twitching, his movements becoming more erratic as he chases his own release.

“That's my good girl,” he growls, pulling your leash tighter as he slams into you one last time, burying himself as deep as possible before spilling inside.

Your breath stutters as you feel the warmth of his cum flooding you, his thick cock keeping every drop inside. The leash loosens slightly, and Sylus pulls you against his chest, his large hands rubbing slow circles over your trembling thighs.

“You did so well, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss against your forehead. “But I’m not done with you yet.”

．－𝒳𝒜𝒱ℐℰℛ （fuck boy?!）

You barely have time to recover before Xavier forces you onto all fours, the leash tightening around your throat as he tugs you into position. His grip is firm, his touch almost lazy as he runs a hand down your spine, appreciating how small you look beneath him.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, amusement lacing his voice. “On your hands and knees, just like a good little puppy should be.”

Your ears twitch, heat rushing to your face as you shyly press your cheek against the mattress. His teasing always gets to you, making you whimper, making you squirm, but he only chuckles, rolling his hips against your ass, letting you feel just how hard he is.

"Already soaked," he muses, dragging his fingers through your folds, spreading the slickness. “Are you really that desperate?”

You whine, embarrassed, but your body betrays you—your pussy clenching around nothing, aching for him. Xavier hums, amused, before gripping the base of the leash and pulling your head up.

“Use your words,” he purrs. "Tell me what you need, puppy."

Your breath hitches, your thighs trembling. “Y-you…!”

“Me what?” His tone is mocking, his free hand moving between your legs, fingers barely brushing your swollen clit. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

You squirm, your body pushing back against him instinctively. "N-need your cock, please!"

“Good girl,” he praises, and before you can even brace yourself, he’s pushing in.

The stretch burns in the best way, his thick cock splitting you open inch by inch, forcing your body to take him. Your mouth falls open, a choked moan escaping as he bottoms out, his hips flush against your ass.

“Fuck,” he groans, pulling back slightly before snapping his hips forward again, making you jolt. “You're so fucking tight. Can barely even take me.”

You let out a weak whimper, your hands fisting the sheets as he sets a punishing pace. Each thrust knocks the breath from your lungs, his cock hitting deep, making your legs tremble. The leash tightens again, pulling your head back, arching your spine even more.

“You look so pretty like this,” he murmurs, his free hand sliding under your body, groping your tits. “Face down, ass up, struggling to handle my cock.”

Your cheeks burn, your body tingling from the mix of humiliation and pleasure. You try to bury your face in the sheets, but Xavier clicks his tongue, tugging on the leash again.

“Ah, ah. Don’t hide from me,” he scolds. “I want to see every little expression when you cum all over my cock.”

His pace grows rougher, his grip firmer, using the leash to keep you exactly where he wants you. Your pussy flutters around him, the overwhelming stretch, the deep thrusts, the way he manhandles you—it’s too much.

“I can feel you squeezing me,” Xavier groans. “Go ahead, puppy. Make a mess for me.”

And with one last sharp thrust, you break—your body shuddering, your pussy tightening around his cock as you cum hard, moaning his name. Xavier doesn’t stop, fucking you through it, chasing his own high until he slams into you one last time, spilling inside.

He stays there for a moment, his cock still buried deep, the leash still taut in his grip. Then, with a lazy smirk, he leans down, his breath warm against your ear.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “But I think you’ve got a few more rounds in you.”

．－𝒞𝒜ℒℰℬ （hottest fuck?!）

Caleb doesn’t waste time. The moment he gets his hands on you, he’s yanking you into his lap, the leash wrapped tightly around his fist. His cock is already hard, pressing insistently against your soaked folds, and his free hand grips your waist, holding you steady.

“You've been passed around like a fucktoy all night, huh?” he muses, his voice carrying that usual teasing lilt, though there's something darker underneath. His fingers dig into your hips as he grinds against you, making you whimper. “And yet, you're still dripping for me. Such a greedy little thing.”

You whine, ears twitching as you shyly avoid his gaze, but he just chuckles, tugging the leash to make you face him.

“Don’t get all shy on me now, puppy,” he coos, leaning in to nip at your bottom lip. “You wanted this, didn’t you?”

Your breath stutters, your thighs trembling as you nod. “Y-yes…”

“Then be good and take me.”

Before you can brace yourself, Caleb lifts you effortlessly, positioning you over his cock. The thick head presses against your entrance, forcing you to stretch around him inch by inch. You let out a broken moan, your hands flying to his shoulders, gripping onto him for support.

“F-fuck, Caleb—”

“Shh, you can handle it,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your ear. “I know you can.”

He guides you down, making sure you take every inch of him. The stretch is overwhelming, the sheer size of him making your body struggle to accommodate. Your pussy clenches around his cock, your walls fluttering as you try to adjust, but Caleb only groans, his grip on your waist tightening.

“Fuck, you're so damn tight,” he growls, his voice rough. “Like this little cunt was made to take my cock.”

You let out a whimper, overwhelmed, and he smirks, tugging on the leash again. “You like that, don’t you?”

You nod weakly, too lost in the pleasure to respond properly. But Caleb isn’t satisfied with that—he grips your hips and lifts you before slamming you back down onto his cock, forcing a strangled moan from your throat.

“That's better,” he praises, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “Now, keep going. I wanna see you bounce on my cock like the perfect little pet you are.”

Your body moves on instinct, your thighs burning as you start to ride him, his cock stretching you over and over again. Caleb watches you with hooded eyes, his smirk widening as he tugs on the leash, keeping you under his control.

“Such a pretty sight,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to where you’re impaled on his cock. “Bet you’re close already, huh?”

You nod frantically, your body trembling, the coil in your stomach tightening with every movement. Caleb chuckles, his grip tightening as he meets your movements with rough thrusts.

“Then cum for me, puppy. Show me how much you love being used.”

With one last sharp tug on the leash, you shatter—your pussy clamping down around him, your vision going white as you cry out his name. Caleb groans, fucking you through your orgasm, his cock twitching inside you before he buries himself deep, spilling inside.

He holds you there, panting slightly, his hands rubbing soothing circles against your hips. Then, with a lazy smirk, he leans in, his breath warm against your lips.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “But don’t think we’re done just yet.”

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[solxamber]

Sync or Sink || Vil Schoenheit

You, an overworked S-Class esper with the survival instincts of a damp sock, catch the eye of SSS-Class guide Vil Schoenheit. He decides you’re his personal fixer-upper project. Shockingly, it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

or: Guideverse AU!

Series Masterlist

The world was already hanging on by a thread — economic collapse, melting ice caps, influencers starting cults via TikTok. It was a mess. You’d think that would be enough. You’d hope that would be enough. But no. Some ancient cosmic being — probably named something dramatic like Thar’zul the Chronovore — looked down at Earth and said, “You know what this needs? Fun.”

And by fun, it meant Gates.

Gates are like if cursed portals, radioactive sinkholes, and a haunted Etsy store had a baby. They pop up anywhere and everywhere: in libraries, parking garages, yoga studios, even in the middle of someone’s wedding ceremony. (“Do you take this—OH MY GOD WHAT IS THAT?!”)

These glowing tears in the fabric of reality are basically open invitations to every monster, demon, and unholy abomination in the neighborhood. And if left unchecked, they break, releasing those nightmares into your already-taxed existence like a hellish game of whack-a-mole.

But don't worry! Humanity, against all odds, did not die out immediately.

Because the universe, in its infinite chaos, also gave rise to Espers. Special little guys. Think emotional time bombs with telekinetic temper tantrums and the ability to level buildings if they stub their toe too hard. Espers are the only ones who can suppress Gates and fight back the monsters. They're strong, fast, powerful—and also dangerously dramatic.

Like, “cries during dog food commercials” dramatic. “Blew up a vending machine because it ate their dollar” dramatic. If they don’t have someone helping them regulate their powers (and by extension, their feelings), they’re a walking nuclear disaster waiting to happen.

Which brings us to Guides.

Guides are born with the power to soothe, ground, and stabilize Espers before they turn into emotional IEDs. They go through rigorous training. They meditate. They are the human equivalent of “have you tried deep breathing?”—except instead of calming down toddlers, they’re keeping an Esper from melting the freeway with their grief-powered fireballs.

This entire survival system hinges on compatibility between Espers and Guides. Sounds romantic, right? It’s not. It’s mostly screaming, paperwork, and sometimes unspoken sexual tension.

So, to recap:

Gates = Bad.

Espers = Powerful but emotionally unstable.

Guides = The only thing standing between civilization and utter monster-induced ruin.

Together, Espers and Guides form the first — and only — line of defense between humanity and total monster-induced annihilation.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, this system hinges entirely on two people getting along.

Which, as anyone who's ever been in a group project can tell you, is a complete joke.

The Gate had been rough. You were bleeding, caked in monster goop, and running on exactly one granola bar, four energy drinks, and pure spite. Monsters just kept coming—one after another like it was a clearance sale on eldritch horror—and now your knees were shaking, your head was pounding, and you were 99% sure you were hallucinating the talking goat that told you to “go into the light.”

You stumbled out of the Gate zone, vision blurry. There were Guides waiting beyond the perimeter, crisp in their uniforms, radiant with that “I got 8 hours of sleep and drink water” glow. Unfortunately, most of them had already been snagged by the other Espers, who were quicker, cleaner, and not currently dripping ectoplasm from their sleeve.

You blinked. The only one left was… well, no. That couldn’t be right.

Standing a few feet away, untouched and oddly pristine, was a man who looked like he’d walked straight out of a high-end fashion magazine shoot titled "War-Torn But Make It Couture."

Tall, composed, and stunning in a way that made your brain short-circuit, he was clearly someone Important™. The other S-Ranks had actively avoided him, which should’ve been a clue. But your frontal lobe was melting. You didn’t have the bandwidth to care.

You wobbled forward like a dying Roomba, grabbed a handful of his sleek uniform, and mumbled, “Guide. That’s you, right?”

And then you slumped forward and face-planted directly onto his collarbone.

There was a pause.

“…Do you have any idea who I am?” he asked, incredulously.

You groaned. “Yeah. You’re a Guide. You’ve got the badge.”

Another pause. Longer, this time.

He sounded… offended. And faintly intrigued.

“…You don’t recognize me?”

“Should I?” you mumbled into his neck.

You didn’t see the expression on his face, but if your ears weren’t lying, he audibly gasped. Like someone had just told him dry shampoo was canceled. Like the very idea of not being recognized was a personal attack.

But instead of pushing you off, he slowly brought a hand up, fingers grazing your temple. You felt a wave of warmth radiate through your skull like a breath of fresh air had crawled into your ribcage.

It was… good. Too good.

A jolt of relief punched through your nervous system. Your heart rate settled. The Gate static stopped screaming in your ears. Your whole body sagged, weightless and calm, and you barely had time to mutter “holy shit you’re good at this” before your knees gave out completely.

You passed out in his arms.

And Vil Schoenheit—SSS-Rank Guide, national treasure, and walking perfection—stood there holding your limp, grime-covered, unconscious form with a complicated look on his face.

You came back to consciousness the way a phone boots up after being thrown into a wall. Slow, glitchy, and confused.

Something was warm under you. Something was very firm. You blinked a few times, trying to make sense of the strange sensation of not being in pain anymore. The Gate headache was gone. Your soul no longer felt like it had been sandpapered. You were, inexplicably, comfortable.

That’s when you realized: you were still wrapped around the fancy Guide like a human backpack.

Face: mashed against his shoulder. Legs: around his waist. Arms: locked in a desperate hug like a koala going through a rough breakup. And he… was just sitting there. On a recovery bench. Completely calm. Holding you like this was something that happened to him all the time.

“Oh,” you mumbled, sleep-dazed. “My bad.”

He tilted his head, glossy hair catching the light like it had a sponsorship deal with a shampoo brand. “Are you done?” he asked, voice sharp. “Or shall I assume you’ve permanently relocated to my clavicle?”

You peeled yourself off him with all the grace of wet laundry sliding off a countertop. “Thanks for, uh, not letting me die,” you offered, scratching your head.

He stared at you for a long moment. “Do you know who I am?”

You blinked. “…A Guide?”

He inhaled. Visibly. Offended on a spiritual level. The look on his face could’ve soured milk. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. “Are you actively trying to offend me?”

“What? You’ve got the badge! That’s all I need, right?”

Vil Schoenheit—as he introduced himself—flicked you on the forehead. It was somehow both dismissive and full of judgment. “Recover. Properly.” he snapped, standing in one fluid, graceful motion. “You’re lucky I’m magnanimous.”

He swept out of the room like a disgruntled ballerina.

You blinked after him, rubbing your forehead. “What the hell was that about?”

A nurse walked in and immediately gasped like she'd just witnessed a royal birth. “Oh my Seven—was that Vil?!”

“Vil… who?” you asked, trying not to sound like an idiot.

She turned to you so fast her clipboard flew off the counter. “Vil Schoenheit. SSS Guide. He’s a legend. Do you have any idea how many Espers have tried to bond with him and been turned away in tears?”

You stared at the door where he’d just vanished. “No? He just kinda… guided me.”

The nurse screeched. “YOU JUST KINDA GOT GUIDED—are you INSANE? That man once made a Grade-SS Esper cry because they wore Crocs to an informal debriefing!”

You slowly sat back against the pillow, eyes wide.

“…I told him ‘oops sorry lol.’”

You were still internally combusting about the whole “Oops sorry lol” situation when you finally worked up the nerve to go to Vil’s office. Not to bond—you weren’t delusional—but at the very least, to apologize. Maybe offer him a thank-you fruit basket. Or one of those luxury hair masks. Something.

Espers were better paid than Guides. That wasn’t a flex—it was just how the system worked. You’d always thought it was kind of unfair, but now, standing outside his office, you suddenly felt even worse. Because if Vil was being underpaid to deal with Espers, plural, like you? He deserved hazard pay.

You raised a shaky fist and knocked on the door before pushing it open.

The door opened, and you were hit with the distinct scent of wealth, vintage cologne, and spiritual intimidation. The office looked like it belonged in a magazine titled Power & Passive Aggression: Interiors for the Elite. It had velvet chairs. A chandelier. And on the floor, sobbing, was an SS-ranked Esper.

“Please,” she was whispering, clutching Vil’s coat like he was the last lifeboat on the Titanic. “Please, just once. I know I’m not SSS, but my compatibility score is so close—”

“I don’t guide based on some arbitrary number,” Vil said coolly, extracting himself with the same disdain you'd use to avoid stepping in gum. “I guide based on worth.”

You were already edging away when his eyes snapped up—and softened.

“…What are you doing here?” he asked, voice shifting so drastically in tone it gave you whiplash.

“I—uh. I just wanted to apologize. For, you know. The slumping. And the drool. And the calling you ‘a Guide’ like you’re not the Guide.” You laughed nervously. “Also. Uh. I can repay you?”

He stared at you like you’d offered to give him pocket lint.

Then, without even glancing at the SS Esper still on the floor, he waved a perfectly manicured hand and said, “Leave.”

She looked up, stunned. “W-what?”

“I said leave.” His voice sharpened like glass under velvet. “Now.”

You watched her scramble out in silence. Then Vil turned to you, posture relaxing like you were an entirely different species of Esper.

“Sit,” he said, pointing to the velvet chair.

You obeyed. Of course you did. Your legs moved like they belonged to someone else.

“I didn’t come here to be guided,” you said quickly. “I just thought I’d offer some compensation since you took care of me back at the Gate, and—”

“Hush.”

You blinked.

“I didn’t guide you for compensation,” Vil said, moving closer, “and I certainly don’t require repayment.”

“But I—”

“Do not interrupt me,” he said smoothly, placing his hand just under your jaw and tilting your head with two fingers. “Close your eyes.”

You did.

And just like before, the storm in your chest went still.

He hadn’t even made full contact yet, and already your frayed nerves calmed, your aching muscles relaxed, and that hollow echo left by the Gate quieted.

You opened your mouth to speak again—because, honestly, who wouldn’t panic under that much raw focus—but his voice cut in before a single syllable escaped:

“Did I say you could talk?”

You shut your mouth.

Vil smiled. Like he’d just won something important, and wasn’t ready to tell anyone yet.

“Good. You learn quickly.”

You staggered out of the Gate like a soldier crawling back from the front lines of a war no one believed in. Your clothes were singed, your limbs were shaking, your skin was buzzing with leftover energy that had nowhere to go, and your brain was running the Windows 95 shutdown noise on loop. You had fought monsters for the past hour with all the grace of a dying blender.

Everything hurt. Your body felt like it had been used as a battering ram. Your soul felt like it had been microwaved.

So when you saw the sweet, merciful glow of a Guide badge ahead in the crowd, your instincts took over. You staggered forward like a half-dead Roomba on its last cycle, locked onto the nearest beacon of safety.

The Guide in question had orange hair and the smug look of someone who thought they were God’s gift to humanity despite the fact they were clearly holding a vape pen and a clipboard.

You didn’t care.

You lurched toward him, arms outstretched like a cryptid emerging from the woods.

“BRO NO,” he yelped. “DUDE, I’M NOT CERTIFIED FOR THIS LEVEL OF TRAUMA—DON’T PUKE ON ME—”

But before your forehead could connect with his very punchable shoulder, a blur of movement swept in.

You were yanked back by the collar like an untrained dog trying to bolt into traffic.

“Absolutely not,” a cool, smooth voice said with the unmistakable tone of expensive disdain. “You are not grounding with him.”

You turned sluggishly to your new captor and immediately forgot how to breathe.

Vil. Hair perfect despite the apocalyptic weather conditions of a gate zone. Wearing a coat that probably cost more than your entire existence and looking at you like you were a particularly unfortunate stain on said coat.

You blinked at him. “Am I in trouble?” you mumbled.

Vil arched a brow. “You’re seconds away from slumping onto a Guide who once tried to ground an Esper by playing lo-fi beats through his AirPods. Yes, you’re in trouble.”

You were too tired to be offended.

He sighed, took your hand, and suddenly, bliss.

Like every nerve in your body was dunked in lavender oil and told to shut up. Your breathing evened out. Your vision cleared. Your bones climbed back into their sockets like, “Our bad, we’ll behave now.”

You let him guide you to a nearby bench, too dazed to do anything but follow the magical angel who had just saved you from the worst decision of your life.

Vil sat gracefully. You slumped next to him like a dying cactus in a thunderstorm.

“Post-gate recovery is non-negotiable,” he said, like he hadn’t just watched you nearly expire in public.

You closed your eyes and focused on the cool, steady rhythm of his guidance, and then—

A crinkle.

You opened one eye to see him pull a juice box from his bag. With a bendy straw.

He inserted the straw and handed it to you like you were a toddler who’d just had a very bad day at daycare.

You stared at the juice. Then at him. “Is this for me?”

“No,” he said dryly. “It’s for the other S-class Esper currently drooling on my coat.”

You blinked, deeply touched. You took a sip.

It was… heavenly.

You made a soft noise, somewhere between a whimper and a sigh.

And then—your eyes stung.

“No,” Vil said immediately, without looking at you. “Whatever emotional reaction you’re about to have—don’t.”

You sniffled. “But you brought me juice. Nobody’s brought me juice since I got classified. Everyone just shoves me into Gates and tells me not to die.”

He flicked your forehead. “If you die, I have to find another Esper whose personality doesn’t give me hives. That sounds exhausting.”

“Are you… saying you like me?”

“I’m saying your emotional resilience is marginally less pathetic than average,” he said, adjusting your posture so your head leaned more comfortably on his shoulder. “And I don’t hate your voice.”

You sipped your juice box, trembling like a Victorian child given a warm meal for the first time.

No one had treated you like this since you joined the system. You’d been weaponized, categorized, and told to sit still and kill things on command. You were a tool. A number. A sharp object.

But Vil wasn’t afraid of your sharp edges. He looked you in the eye and said, “That’s a guide badge you’re drooling on, potato. Not a chew toy.”

And then gave you juice.

You sniffled again.

“If you sob, I will end you,” he muttered, but his hand never let go of yours.

And you knew, deep in your wrecked little Esper heart, that you would fight a thousand more gates just to be guided by him again.

Even if he bullied you the entire time.

So apparently, post-gate recovery hadn’t just been juice boxes and emotionally confusing hand-holding.

No. It turned out you had to take something called a Routine Compatibility Check for “guidance efficiency optimization.”

You hadn’t known what any of that meant, but someone had shoved a clipboard at you and told you to “go sit in the glow room and don’t touch anything,” so there you were. Sitting in a sterile white room that smelled like hand sanitizer and despair. Waiting to meet your newly assigned “guidance match.”

A door creaked open.

You turned around—and in walked a guy who looked like he hadn’t seen direct sunlight since the invention of the lightbulb. His shoulders were hunched, hoodie too big, blue glowing hair all mussed like he’d lost a fight with a hairdryer. He had eyebags for days and the posture of a raccoon caught mid-fridge-raid.

He looked at you.

You looked at him.

He looked at you harder—and visibly recoiled like you’d just bit him.

“…Uhhh,” he said, voice high and trembling. “You’re the S-class?”

“Yup,” you replied.

“Oh no.”

This man looked like he was seconds from writing “HELP” on the window with a dry erase marker. His hand was already twitching toward the panic button. He was mentally Googling “what to do when assigned a battle demon.”

You opened your mouth to say something reassuring—like, “Hey, I only explode on some guides,” or “I’ve never actually flattened a building during a meltdown”—

—but the door slammed open behind you.

“Absolutely not.”

You turned around.

Vil Schoenheit stood in the doorway like the wrath of God dressed in Gucci. Impeccable coat. Sunglasses indoors. Holding a coffee cup that you knew wasn’t from the office vending machine.

He eyed the situation—your tentative shuffle toward your new guide, the way the poor guy was gripping his ID badge like a rosary—and his lip curled like someone had just handed him expired tofu.

“I’m taking them,” Vil said flatly to the Guidance Office rep standing nearby. “This is non-negotiable.”

The rep blinked. “But, Mr. Schoenheit, the match—”

“—was laughable. They’re mine.”

Your poor assigned guide looked so relieved it was almost insulting.

“Thank the stars,” he mumbled, already gathering his things like you were a bomb that’d just been safely disarmed. “No offense, but I really don’t do well with… uh… physical contact or eye contact or conflict or—”

You were too stunned to reply as Vil grabbed you by the wrist, effortlessly pivoted on his heel, and strode out of the room with you in tow like a high fashion tornado.

You stumbled after him. “Okay, hi, hello? What was that?”

“I saw your assignment,” Vil said coolly. “I couldn’t, in good conscience, let that continue.”

“But—I thought you weren’t accepting new matches?”

“I’m not.”

You blinked. “So…?”

He glanced over his shoulder at you, slow and deliberate, like you weren’t quite connecting the dots fast enough.

“I didn’t consider you ‘new'.”

You shut your mouth because your brain was full of static. Something about the way he said that made your knees consider filing for divorce from the rest of your body.

He guided you all the way to the elevator, in silence, while you tried to process what had just happened.

You, apparently, had been claimed.

And worst of all?

You thought you might have liked it.

It all started with a noble quest. A simple dream.

You just wanted a hoodie.

Not a fancy one. Not a designer one. Not a limited edition “inspired by the blood of fashion victims” collection. No, no. You wanted one of those oversized, marshmallow-soft hoodies that whispered “lay down and give up, my liege” every time you put it on. The kind of hoodie that could absorb emotional damage.

So there you were. Financially stable (thanks, murder gates), emotionally unstable (thanks, murder gates), and elbows-deep in a display bin labeled “3 for 2: Emotional Support Wear”, when fate struck.

Or rather, sashayed past in four-inch heels and an aura of contempt.

Vil.

You froze. He looked like he’d just walked out of a fashion spread. Every strand of hair in place. Jacket tailored within an inch of its life. Cheekbones that could slice open a space-time rift. And where was he going?

Straight into a boutique so fancy it looked like it would ask you for a résumé just to step inside.

Naturally, you turned the other way. This was not your world. You were not dressed for it. You were wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt with a questionable graphic of a goose wielding a knife. You were simply a humble raccoon-person in search of softness.

But then—

“You.”

Oh no. Oh god. Oh no god.

You turned around slowly, hoodie clutched to your chest like a shield. Vil stood there with shopping bags and the expression of someone who’d just discovered a stray in his favorite restaurant.

“Come. I need hands.”

“Sorry,” you said. “I left mine at home. Can’t help you.”

He blinked. Then, with all the confidence of someone who didn’t hear nonsense, he handed you his bags and turned around, fully expecting you to follow.

And you did. Because unfortunately, curiosity was stronger than shame.

The next hour? Was… actually kind of amazing.

Vil didn’t shop. He conquered. He moved through stores like a well-dressed storm, flinging judgment at poor fabric choices and muttering dark things about asymmetrical hemlines. Store staff parted for him like he was royalty. Other customers wilted under the weight of his gaze.

You, meanwhile, trailed after him like a high-end goblin, carrying his many, many bags, dressed like a sleep-deprived college student who had just lost a fight with a laundry machine.

It was great.

You watched him try on outfits with the kind of reverence usually reserved for museum pieces. He was graceful. Efficient. Disgustingly photogenic. You felt like you were witnessing a documentary: “The Endangered Fashion Icon in His Natural Habitat.”

And then, miraculously, he let you live.

He suggested a coffee break and even let you pay—probably out of pity. You made a mental note to deduct it as a business expense under “accidental deity encounter.”

Sitting across from him, sipping overpriced lattes, you made a joke. Something dumb. Something about a pair of jeans you'd seen that looked like they'd been personally attacked by a cheese grater.

Vil laughed.

You were not prepared.

It was real. Warm. Shockingly cute. Like, “I’ve been guiding murder monsters all week and now suddenly I believe in joy again” kind of cute.

You stared. He looked at you. You looked away, sipping your drink very intently, trying not to say “please laugh again, it heals my soul.”

You didn't say it out loud.

But you thought it really hard.

You walked into Vil's office like a responsible little murder gremlin, fully prepared for your weekly check-up guidance session.

What you were not prepared for was the sheer atmospheric rage brewing inside.

Vil was pacing like a cat who'd just realized its favorite toy was in the hands of a toddler—absolutely done with life. He was muttering to himself under his breath, phrases like, “Espers with zero gratitude... how dare they ask for guidance without a thank-you,” and, “I swear if one more person thinks my time is free like it's some kind of community resource—

He saw you, exhaled the deepest sigh known to man, and pointed at the couch like he was casting a curse. Not a word of greeting. Just The Finger of Sit.

So you sat. For about three seconds.

Then, something in your little gremlin heart said: No. He is cranky. He is suffering. This is a job for Emotional Support Esper.

You got up, walked behind him, and—without a word—started massaging his shoulders.

Vil tensed like a cat about to fight god. Then slowly—slowly—melted into it.

“This isn’t part of your session,” he grumbled, but it lacked bite. His head tilted forward, giving you better access. “You’re not guiding me, you know.”

“I’m aware,” you said, digging your thumbs in just right. “You’re welcome.”

He didn’t reply. Just… breathed. It was weirdly serene. You, massaging one of the most powerful and terrifying guides in the country. Him, finally looking like he wasn’t five seconds away from incinerating someone with nothing but his glare.

Eventually, you sat back down on the couch. And then—shock of all shocks—Vil slumped down next to you.

No dramatic speech. No biting commentary. Just one very exhausted, very overworked guide leaning on your shoulder like gravity had personally betrayed him.

“…Don’t say a word about this,” he murmured, eyes already closed. He reached for your hand, like it was the most normal thing in the world, and held it tight.

You stayed there for a long time.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak.

You just sat with him in silence, wondering how the hell you’d gone from emotional demolition expert to comfort pillow. And, weirdly, feeling kind of honored.

You weren’t sure how you got home, but judging by the trail of blood, sludge, and crushed energy drink cans leading up the stairs, you had clearly made the journey using sheer spite and possibly a small miracle. Your legs moved on autopilot, powered by rage, trauma, and about four remaining brain cells—none of which were cooperating.

You’d just come back from a gate that had gone so poorly, it might as well have been cursed by the gods, the devs, and your second-grade math teacher. Breach. Casualties. Screaming.

There was definitely a moment where you almost flung a monster into a building and then screamed louder when you realized it was the emergency response building. Whoops.

It wasn’t even your assigned gate. It was a last-minute scramble. You and a handful of other S-rank espers were yanked in because the gate was behaving badly. Like, “snarling, vomiting monsters that defied physics” badly. And you—foolish, heroic, caffeine-soaked gremlin that you were—ran in first like someone had dared you.

You fought. You fought so hard you forgot your own name for about two hours. And still, people died. People always died. But this time, it felt like too many. You saw a little kid’s shoe and had a breakdown mid-punch. You tried to do everything, and your body just… stopped cooperating.

You didn’t even get guided afterward.

Vil wasn't at this gate. The other guides were all assigned or recovering themselves. Some were crying. A few had fainted from strain.

And you? You looked around, felt your knees give out a little, then just muttered “okay cool” and left like a ghost clocking out after a double shift at a haunted Wendy’s.

By the time you reached your apartment, you were so dissociated you forgot how doors worked. You stood outside yours for a full minute before realizing the knob turned left. You walked in, left your boots and weapon where they fell, and didn’t even consider locking the door behind you.

Let fate come. Let a gate burst into your living room. Let some criminal wander in and steal your furniture. That was Future You’s problem. Current You was Busy.

You peeled yourself out of your battle gear like a sad, oversized fruit roll-up, leaving it in a heap that would absolutely start growing mold by tomorrow. You wandered to the kitchen, opened the fridge, stared inside for three solid minutes, and then closed it again. There was nothing in there but expired yogurt, an empty ketchup bottle, and the overwhelming sense of despair. Just like your soul.

Your eyes landed on the couch. You made eye contact. It made eye contact back.

You didn’t go to your bed. The bed had too much hope. The couch? The couch knew. The couch had seen things. It was your emotional support furniture, and it beckoned you with lumpy cushions and the faint scent of Febreze and failure.

You collapsed into it with the grace of a dying walrus, grabbed the nearest throw blanket like a life raft, and curled up.

Your muscles throbbed. Your eyes were dry, too tired to cry. Your heart was heavy and hollow, a contradiction wrapped in fatigue.

You didn’t call the Guidance Office.

You didn’t reach for your communicator.

You didn’t even consider getting guided.

Because why would you?

You hadn’t earned it.

Guidance was for espers who did good. Who came back whole. Who saved people and feel okay about it.

You didn’t want anyone to see you like this. Least of all Vil—the most terrifyingly elegant guide in existence, whose soothing voice could calm a charging bull but whose judgmental stare could reduce you to ash on the spot. You could already imagine it:

“Potato, why didn’t you call?” And you’d go, “Because I sucked. And also I was busy eating my weight in sadness on my couch.”

So no. No guidance. No messages. No crying. Just you, your depression blanket, and your ever-growing collection of trauma under a mountain of emotional avoidance.

You passed out like that, too. Face-down, limbs sprawled, snoring gently, still wearing one sock and gripping the couch cushion like it owed you rent.

And in the hallway, your door remained unlocked.

Because honestly?

Let the monsters come.

You’d either sleep through it or invite them in for leftover yogurt and mutual despair.

You woke up feeling like a truck had hit you, reversed, parked on your spine, and left its high beams on just to be petty. Every bone in your body creaked like an abandoned haunted house. Your mouth tasted like regret and half a protein bar. Your blanket was half off the couch, half on the floor, and a mysterious corn chip was stuck to your elbow.

You blinked at the ceiling in confusion. Then your phone screamed.

100 missed calls.

37 texts.

All from: Vil Schoenheit.

Each message angrier than the last.

The final one simply said: “Pick. Up. Now.”

You did.

The moment the line connected, there was a beat of silence—then his voice, sharp and low like the edge of a knife:

“Address. Now.”

You mumbled something barely coherent, possibly your zip code, possibly the ingredients of a burrito. Either way, you texted him your location, dropped the phone on your chest, and passed out again like a Sims character who ignored every need bar until they collapsed.

The next time you woke up, it was to someone violently shaking you like they were trying to exorcise a demon.

“The door was wide open. Wide. Open. Are you out of your mind?! What if someone broke in?! What if something followed you?! What if—”

You cracked one eye open. Vil was kneeling beside your couch in full luxury casuals, flawless hair tied back in a silk ribbon, eyes blazing with a fury usually reserved for war crimes or off-season fashion.

“Why didn’t you call me?!” he snapped, voice wobbling between fury and panic.

You sat up slowly. Your limbs felt like wet noodles. You looked at him—actually looked at him—and saw the edges of worry in his perfect posture. You didn’t think. You just leaned forward and wrapped your arms around him, clinging to his surprisingly warm, cologne-scented form like a soggy baby koala.

He froze.

Then he hugged you back, one arm sliding firmly around your waist, the other hand smoothing over your hair with a tenderness that made your throat tighten.

“You didn’t respond,” he murmured, voice much softer now, like he’d deflated the moment you touched him. “I was at a gate, and you—you should’ve called me. You idiot.”

“I didn’t deserve it,” you croaked, still clinging. “I couldn’t save everyone. I didn’t earn it. I didn’t—”

THWACK.

He flicked you so hard on the forehead you saw colors. You yelped and recoiled, holding your skull like he’d smacked you with a frying pan.

“OW—what the hell, Vil?!”

“Use your brain,” he snapped. “You don’t have to earn guidance. You lived. You fought. You made it back. That’s enough.”

You stared at him, stunned and blinking. Your brain, which had been curled in a ball screaming failure failure failure, screeched to a halt. It didn’t know what to do with this information. It flailed.

“...but—”

“No.” He pressed two fingers to your temple. “Quiet.”

And just like that, warmth bloomed across your skin. Calm, grounding, steady. His presence wrapped around your rattled mind like a weighted blanket.

You hadn’t realized how loud your thoughts had been until everything went quiet.

You slumped forward again, forehead on his shoulder.

“…thank you,” you whispered.

He made a soft, exasperated noise and squeezed your hand.

“Next time,” he muttered, “if you don’t call me, I will drag you to a spa against your will and lock you in a bathhouse for six hours.”

Honestly?

That sounded kind of nice.

You nodded into his shoulder and let the warmth pull you under again.

It wasn’t a thunderbolt moment. There was no dramatic gasp, no heart-skipping beat, no rom-com soundtrack swelling in the background.

No. It happened while Vil was in the middle of passionately criticizing your instant ramen consumption.

“You don’t even check the sodium levels, do you? Of course not. Why would you? That would require basic self-preservation instincts, which you clearly lack,—are you even listening to me?”

You were, actually. Kind of. Mostly you were just watching the way his eyes flashed when he got worked up, how his voice lilted, how his hair caught the light like he had a personal filter on at all times. His hands moved a lot when he was mad—elegant, precise little gestures like he was conducting an orchestra of outrage.

And somewhere in the middle of him saying something about how your body was “not a landfill for factory-processed poison,” you thought:

Wow. He’s perfect.

There was a pause.

A silence that felt loud in your own brain.

Not because he noticed—no, he was still going. But you did. You noticed. And you felt your entire emotional infrastructure collapse like a badly built IKEA table.

You sat there, nodding along, eyes wide and empty like a man realizing he’d dropped his phone into lava. Because you knew exactly what this meant.

You were so, so screwed.

You didn’t even try to deny it. You were too tired for that. Too experienced in emotional disasters to think, “maybe it’s just a crush!”

Nah. You liked him. For real. In the "I’d wear sunscreen just to impress him" kind of way. In the "he could tell me I look homeless and I’d say thank you" kind of way.

So, you just accepted your fate.

You nodded solemnly while Vil insulted your meal plan and thought:

Well. I guess this is my life now. Time to emotionally implode in private.

You weren’t going to tell him. Absolutely not. The man had standards higher than Mount Everest. You were a gremlin in sweatpants. He guided you out of what had to be some misplaced sense of moral responsibility, not because he liked you.

So, your plan was simple: keep it quiet. Let the crush rot in your chest. Maybe it would fade. Maybe Vil would never find out. Maybe you’d survive.

…Maybe.

“Are you even paying attention?” Vil snapped, snapping his fingers in your face.

You jolted back to reality. “Yes! Yes. Sodium bad. Body temple. I got it.”

He narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “You’re acting weirder than usual.”

“I’m always weird,” you said quickly. “That’s my brand. Very consistent.”

He sighed dramatically and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Hopeless.”

You watched him for a second longer and thought, God, I’m doomed.

And then you smiled and said, “Yeah. But at least I’m charming about it.”

He rolled his eyes.

But he didn’t deny it.

You were just trying to survive. That’s all.

Because being around Vil Schoenheit every other day, breathing the same air as him while he guided you while scolding you, was no longer tenable. Your heart was staging a full-blown coup against your sanity.

Every smirk he threw your way shaved years off your life. Every time he flicked your forehead for being “reckless” or “insufferable” or “a walking cautionary tale,” you internally swooned like a Victorian maiden on a fainting couch.

So, you did what any emotionally fragile raccoon-person would do when faced with unattainable love and regular exposure to flawless cheekbones: you fled.

To the Guidance Office.

You kept your voice steady when you asked for your previous guide’s contact. The poor intern looked like he’d rather explode than question you, especially once he realized who your current guide was.

Still, he handed over the transfer form and you sat down, heart racing, tapping your pen like a death drum. You were halfway through scribbling your tragic little freedom request when—

A shadow loomed.

Perfume wafted.

And the temperature dropped ten degrees.

You didn’t even have time to look up before the form was snatched from your hands with all the grace of a man committing a stylish crime.

“Up. Now.”

Vil’s voice was frost and fury and every hair on your body stood up like soldiers called to war.

You stumbled after him, too stunned to protest, as he marched you through the hallways with terrifying grace. You passed several people who were clearly wondering if they were witnessing a kidnapping, but no one dared interfere.

His office door slammed shut behind you, and he turned on you like a beautifully irate weather phenomenon.

Then—rip.

Your transfer form disintegrated in his hands.

“OUT,” he snapped, voice tight, angry. “If you’re going to be a complete and utter fool, then get out of my sight.”

You blinked. “What—why are you mad? I’m doing you a favor!”

“A favor?” he repeated, like you’d just spat in a glass of Château Margaux.

You held your ground, though you were 97% sure he could kill you with a single sigh. “You didn’t want to guide me in the first place! I’m—look, I’m making it easier for both of us. No more clingy potato energy. No more… emotional spirals. You can guide someone who isn’t a complete mess.”

He stared at you, eyes narrowed, jaw tense, and then he—kissed you.

No warning. No build-up. Just lips crashing against yours like your poor little romantic delusions had summoned it from the abyss. His hands cupped your face, tilting it just right, and you—froze.

You opened your mouth to say something.

He kissed you again.

This time, slower. Angrier. Like he was trying to shove every word you weren’t letting him say directly into your bloodstream.

“I love you,” he hissed when he finally pulled away, chest heaving. “You stupid, overthinking potato.”

You blinked. “I—wait, what?”

“Oh, now you’re speechless?” he snapped, pacing. “You think I guide you because it’s convenient? You think I chose to rip you away from that quivering ball of social anxiety just to be charitable? I don’t have to guide anyone. I chose you.”

You were still stuck on the part where he said “I love you” and hadn’t immediately revoked it.

He pointed at you. “Sit down.”

You sat. Immediately.

He sat next to you, crossed one leg over the other, and glared. “We’re going to talk about this. Then you’re going to delete the idea of transferring from your thick, tragically underutilized brain. Understood?”

“…Yes?”

“Good. And drink some water. You look like you’re about to combust.”

You obeyed. Because frankly? You were.

“You’re serious?” you asked, voice a little cracked around the edges, sitting on his plush office chair like you were squatting in a throne you had absolutely no right to. “You love me?”

Vil stared at you with the exhausted patience of a man who had been in love with a rock for three years. “Yes. I’ve loved you for a while, and you—” he poked you in the forehead again, harder this time, “—have been blissfully, astoundingly oblivious.”

“That’s not fair,” you said, already sweating. “You’re very hard to read!”

“I’m not,” he said flatly. “You’re just emotionally illiterate.”

“Give me one example.”

“Oh, one?” He tilted his head and actually laughed, as if he had been waiting for this moment. “Let’s start small, then. Remember the time I brought you a silk-lined weighted blanket because you said you liked ‘being squished by fabric’ and your apartment ‘felt like a haunted fridge?’”

You blinked. “I thought that was just you mocking me with luxury.”

“I custom-ordered it in your favorite color and personally dropped it off.”

“…Okay, that’s fair.”

“And what about the emergency juice box I carry around exclusively for you, because you tend to spiral into a puddle after difficult gates and refuse to ask for help?”

“…You said that was because I’m ‘emotionally six.’”

“That was a joke.” He ran a hand through his hair, then pointed at you again. “What about when I held your hand during guidance and you told me, ‘This is wildly intimate,’ and I said, ‘That’s the idea, darling,’ and you laughed and said, ‘Ha ha good one,’ and proceeded to talk about raccoons for twenty minutes?”

Your face was hot. Like boiling kettle hot. You were being roasted over the open flames of your own idiocy.

Vil, now fully in his villain origin arc, stood up, arms crossed. “Or the time I made you lunch because you skipped breakfast three days in a row and you cried a little, and I wiped your tears, and you said, ‘You’d make such a good husband, wow,’ and then called me bro.”

“I was tired that day,” you whispered.

He paced. “I took a personal day to guide you after that one breach because you refused post-gate care. I showed up at your house! You were curled up like a soggy blanket and told me you didn’t deserve comfort, and I guided you anyway! I even brought snacks!”

You were holding your head in your hands now, processing. “Oh my god. I’m the clown. I’m the whole circus.”

Vil sighed and came to kneel beside you again, gentler now. He pulled your hands from your face and took them in his, lacing your fingers together like it was second nature. “I assumed you didn't like me. But this?” He smiled a little. “This is honestly worse.”

“Okay. Ouch.”

“I love you,” he repeated, quieter now, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’ve loved you for a long time. And I don’t want you to change guides. I want you to stay.”

You looked down at your joined hands. Then up at his face, soft and real and so, so stupidly beautiful.

“...Can I kiss you again?” you asked.

He rolled his eyes. “Finally.”

And he did. And this time, when he kissed you, you didn’t freeze or black out or say anything about raccoons. You just held him closer and kissed him back, trying very hard not to think about how many brain cells you’d wasted missing the obvious.

(But you did apologize to him later. After the third kiss. And after asking if he’d consider writing a “Vil Schoenheit’s Guide to Realizing Your Guide is Flirting” manual for future dumbasses like yourself.)

The first time Vil met you was… unfortunate.

You'd collapsed on him like a sandbag flung from the heavens by a god with no taste.

He'd been called in to assist after a gate breach—nothing unusual, really, just a high-stress emergency with far too many untrained espers and not enough functioning brain cells among them. His job was to stabilize, guide, and keep anyone from combusting mentally or emotionally, preferably both. It was clinical, routine, and efficient.

Until you.

You stumbled out of the smoke and screaming with wild eyes and your uniform half-burnt, looking like you’d just gone twelve rounds with the concept of mortality. You locked eyes with him—briefly, like a bird recognizing glass mid-flight—and then passed out straight into his arms.

Correction: onto him.

He wasn’t sure how you managed to fall with such inconvenient geometry, but one moment he was standing, perfectly composed, and the next he had an unconscious stranger face-planting onto him, limbs sprawled like a freshly felled tree.

His first thought was: Excuse you?

His second: Do they not know who I am?

Honestly, the offense was justified. People didn’t usually touch Vil without permission, let alone treat him like a fainting couch. And yet when the medics arrived to assist, he waved them off with a sigh, brushing soot out of your hair and stabilizing your exhausted psyche with the practiced ease of someone too annoyed to be fazed. You were just another Esper, he told himself. Another mess to be cleaned up.

Then you woke up.

You blinked at him. Groggy. Confused. Soft in the eyes in a way that caught him off guard. “Oh,” you mumbled, voice hoarse. “Sorry. My bad.”

No recognition. No fawning. No demands for priority guidance.

Just that—thanks—like he was your local neighborhood guide and not one of the most in-demand SSS-ranks in the country.

And that was when it happened: the first crack.

A hairline fracture in his perfectly sculpted composure. Something warm and startlingly gentle wedged itself in his chest. The faint, whispering thought: They’re not like the others.

He'd left soon after and that should've been the end of it.

But the next day, you came to his office. Not to request a partnership. Not to ask for more guidance sessions. Not even to praise his skill, as most did when they finally found out who he was.

No.

You walked in with a slightly bent energy drink and said, “Hi. Just wanted to thank you again. For yesterday. And, like, if you want anything—coffee, or uh, a meal, or maybe a really good nap on my couch—I can return the favor.”

He blinked. “You're offering me compensation?”

“Yeah,” you said, like it was obvious. “I didn’t mean to fall on you. Also, you helped me not die. That deserves at least a smoothie.”

He stared at you. You stared back, unbothered and vaguely hopeful, like someone trying to barter with a raccoon they’d wronged in a past life.

And that’s when the thought struck him:

I wish more Espers were like this.

Earnest. Direct. Not wrapped in ego or desperation. You treated him like a person and not a tool or a celebrity. Like someone who deserved appreciation, not worship.

He didn’t say yes to your offer.

And later that evening, sipping the mango smoothie you left on his desk with a sticky note that said “Thanks again, Your Highness,” Vil caught himself smiling.

Disaster or not, you had… made an impression.

And for better or worse, that impression was starting to stick.

Soon, he found himself buying your favorite juice on the way to work.

He told himself it was to bribe you into being less reckless. That he just “happened” to know your favorite. That it was a coincidence.

He also started carrying headache meds. And bandaids. And snacks. And spare gloves because you kept losing yours and pretending you didn’t need them.

A week later, he spotted you in the hallway again. You were coming out of a gate looking like you’d been mugged by gravity and a brick. But what truly horrified Vil was not your appearance (which was a hate crime against fashion), but the fact that you were about to be guided by someone else.

Some junior Guide with too much gel in his hair and the audacity to step away from you.

Vil's soul left his body.

He didn’t even think. He stomped across the hallway, yanked you away like a cat stealing laundry, and declared, “Absolutely not.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Guiding you. Sit down. Shut up.”

“...Okay?”

He’d never been so professionally compromised. He gave you the most aggressive, possessive, emotionally repressed guiding session in history. It was like channeling affection through gritted teeth.

He was doomed.

Vil Schoenheit was a man of control. Precision. Elegance. He kept his calendar color-coded, his wardrobe steamed, and his guiding sessions timed to the minute.

So when he heard through the grapevine that you were about to be reassigned to another Guide—because of some nonsense about “compatibility tests” and “emotional interference” (rude)—he did not react well.

No, he did not pout.

He did not sulk.

He marched directly to the Guidance Office, pulled rank in that way that only Vil could—part charm, part cold-blooded menace—and made it very clear that you were off the market.

“This Esper is mine,” he said, crisp and cool like a glacier in a fur coat. “Officially. Put it in writing.”

The poor intern at the desk blinked up at him, then at the screen.

“Um… you mean, you want to—?”

“Yes. I want to take full responsibility for their guiding.”

“Sir, do you mean romantically—?”

“Professionally.” A beat. “For now.”

Vil was shopping for seasonal essentials, which of course required strategic planning, multiple fitting rooms, and approximately seventeen judgmental head tilts. He saw you wandering out of a soft-clothes store with a hoodie that looked like a blanket and a dream.

You saw him.

You tried to leave.

He grabbed your wrist.

“I need hands,” he said.

“For what?”

“Everything.”

And then he handed you a bag and moved on like a model on a mission.

You carried his bags for hours. You offered no complaints, just commentary like, “That color makes your cheekbones illegal,” and “If I try that on I’ll look like a deflated beanbag.” You actually enjoyed yourself.

And then—then—when you ended up in a café and he reluctantly allowed you to buy his coffee, you sat there, sipping from your little cup, and made some stupid joke about luxury couture and cheese graters.

He laughed.

He laughed.

And it wasn’t polite or dismissive. It was the kind of laugh that knocked loose something in his ribcage. The kind that made him stare at you over the rim of his drink and realize, with full-body horror:

I’m doomed.

Because he liked you.

He really, really liked you.

Not in the “you’re tolerable and I guess I won’t smite you” way. In the “I want to wring your neck for not wearing gloves but also maybe hold your hand” way. The “I will destroy that junior Guide if he even looks at you again” way. The “please stop getting injured or I will cry and then deny it until the sun explodes” way.

And you had no idea.

You were still out here calling yourself “emotionally bulletproof” and stealing his granola bars like it was normal. Still calling him “Vilbo Baggins” and poking his forehead like you weren’t holding the shreds of his dignity in your little chaos-stained hands.

So yes. Vil was doomed.

And he couldn’t even blame you.

Because of all the Espers in the world, it had to be you—you with your messy hair and shiny eyes and stupid brave heart.

Fast-forward to a Tuesday. Or maybe Thursday. Vil had lost track. It had been a day full of Espers with no manners, no boundaries, and one who tried to touch his hair mid-guiding.

By the time you wandered into his office, he was one broken string away from full violin villainy.

And for once, you didn’t joke.

No "What’s up, Guidezilla?"

No "Did your skincare try to abandon you too?"

You just took one look at him, walked over, and—gently—placed your hands on his shoulders.

Vil froze.

You kneaded the tight muscles there with surprising skill. Still no words. Just the quiet press of your thumbs, the steady warmth of your touch. And when he exhaled—shaky, involuntary—you didn’t tease him for it.

You just said, softly, “You don’t always have to do everything alone, you know.”

And that was when he broke a little.

Not obviously. But his posture slumped just slightly. His head tilted just enough to rest against your shoulder. Not even for a minute—maybe twenty seconds.

But it was enough.

Enough to make him realize: This is the safest I’ve felt all day.

And the fact that it was you—you, with your chaos and your grin and your glitter stickers stuck to your ID badge—that was terrifying. And comforting. And utterly, stupidly addicting.

He didn’t say thank you. Not out loud.

But later, when you weren’t looking, he moved your next few guiding sessions to the prime slot on his calendar. The one reserved for important things.

And in his fridge?

There was already more of your favorite juice.

He told himself it was just being thorough.

He was a liar.

It had started like any other deployment day. You and he had both been assigned to different gates, which wasn’t uncommon anymore. It was annoying—yes, he preferred to keep you in arm’s reach like a chaotic, overly affectionate pet raccoon—but manageable. You hadn’t called, hadn’t messaged, so he assumed it was fine. Maybe you were too tired. Maybe you’d just fallen asleep.

But then he heard the reports.

Talk around the guidance center was that your gate had gone bad. A breach. Casualties. They'd barely managed to contain it. The kind of mission that rattled even the seasoned Espers.

Vil had frozen mid-conversation, a pen slipping from his hand and clattering onto his desk.

“Did they get guided after?” he asked, voice sharp.

The other Guide had shrugged. “Apparently not. Took off the moment debrief ended.”

And that was when the spiral started.

He called you. Once. Twice. Ten times. Fifty. A hundred.

Pacing his office like a man possessed, he left increasingly deranged voicemails.

—"Pick up your phone, I swear to the God, if you are ghosting me because you’re feeling ‘emotionally crunchy’ again—"

—“If you're hurt, I need to know. If you're not hurt, I'm going to kill you myself.”

—“Potato, I’m serious. Answer the phone.”

When you finally picked up, sounding groggy and like someone had drop-kicked your soul, all you said was:

“…Vil?”

And that was enough.

“Address. Now.”

You sent him a dropped pin and then promptly passed out again.

He’d never gotten to your place so fast in his life. Nearly crashed into two pedestrians, scared a delivery driver into a full existential crisis, and parked in a tow zone without blinking.

The front door was unlocked.

He burst in like divine judgment, only to find you curled up on your couch like a sad, emotionally fried ferret.

“You left the door open. What if someone had—?! You didn’t even—! I called you a hundred times! Why didn’t you—!?”

You blinked up at him, slow and a little disoriented. “Vil?”

He was kneeling next to the couch before he realized it, shaking you like an overcaffeinated nurse trying to keep a patient conscious. “Why didn’t you call me?!”

Your voice was small. “Didn’t think I deserved to.”

Something in Vil's chest cracked with a soundless, incandescent rage. Not at you. Never at you.

At the situation. At himself. At the idiocy of a world where someone like you—who put yourself on the line for people who didn’t know your name—could think for one second you didn’t deserve comfort.

You sat up and hugged him before he could speak. And Vil, for all his pride and poise, let you.

He guided you right there on the couch, arms wrapped tightly around you like he could anchor all your scattered pieces back into place with sheer force of will. His fingers were steady against your temple, his voice low and soothing.

You didn't fight it this time. Not really. You were too tired. Too raw.

But later, when you were dozing against him and he felt the weight of your breathing even out, he looked at you and thought:

If I ever lose them, I don’t know if I’ll survive it.

And he realized, with an unflinching kind of horror, that this wasn’t just fondness anymore.

This was love. Stupid, all-consuming, feral love.

Oh, when Vil saw the transfer form in your hands—his potato, his utterly chaotic, absurdly self-sacrificing, emotionally constipated Esper—filling out a request to switch Guides?

He saw red. No, scratch that. He saw every shade of fury on the spectrum. He didn’t even remember walking; one moment he was across the hallway, the next he had the form in his fist and you in his office, the door slammed shut behind you with enough force to rattle the entire floor.

“What. Is. This.”

You blinked at him like a cat caught stealing food, caught between guilt and indifference. “A transfer form? I—uh. It’s not a big deal—”

“Not a—” Vil looked genuinely scandalized. If he wore pearls, he would’ve clutched them. “Do you think I’m running a halfway house for wayward Espers?! I have been guiding you, carrying juice boxes for you, putting up with your ridiculous snacks, and you think this isn’t a big deal?!”

You stared at him, flustered and slightly confused. “I—I just thought maybe it’d be easier for both of us if I wasn’t—like—around all the time, you know? I’m not exactly low maintenance—”

Vil’s brain short-circuited.

He kissed you.

No thought. Just lips. Panic. Longing. Rage. Chapstick.

Your sentence died like a bug on a windshield.

Vil pulled back just long enough to snarl, “I love you, you stupid overthinking potato.”

You blinked.

“I—what—”

He kissed you again. You weren’t going to ruin this with words. Not today.

When he finally let you breathe, you looked dizzy. In love. Slightly offended. Vil understood.

“You’ve been in love with me?” you asked, voice very much in the ‘I missed every single sign like a blind NPC in a dating sim’ zone.

“Oh finally,” Vil groaned. “Yes. For ages. Do you think I just carry juice boxes for anyone? I had to go to a wholesaler to find your weird imported apple-lychee thing. I do not do that for strangers.”

You looked like the Earth had tilted sideways. “Oh my god. I thought you were just—like that.”

“‘Like that?!’” he cried. “I forced you to carry my shopping bags through an entire mall and called it a bonding experience! I let you pay for my coffee! I let you touch me when I was emotionally unbalanced! Me!”

“Oh my god,” you said again, very softly. “I am Stupid.”

Vil sighed like he was asking the universe for strength. “Yes. But you’re mine now. So unless you want to see what a real tantrum looks like, stop trying to fill out transfer forms like we’re in some tragic rom-com and just stay.”

You looked at him for a moment, soft and stunned and still processing the part where he said “I love you” more than once.

Then you reached for him, and he let you pull him into a hug, and despite everything—despite the rage, the confusion, the two destroyed pens on his desk and the emotional whiplash—you smiled into his shoulder like you couldn’t quite believe your luck.

Vil closed his eyes.

And all he could think was:

If I have to live in this ridiculous, broken world... let it be with you.

You didn’t expect it to come up like this.

You were lying on Vil’s fancy designer couch, head on his lap, while he scrolled through his tablet like he wasn’t also playing with your hair and ruining your heart. It was a quiet kind of peace, the kind you didn’t get often, the kind you didn’t want to jinx.

Which is exactly why he jinxed it.

“I want to permanently bond,” he said, tone casual in the way a gun cocking across the room is casual.

You blinked. “What?”

He looked down at you like you were the idiot for not reading his mind faster.

“I don’t want to guide anyone else,” he said. “You’re mine.”

Your heart made a sound like a microwave short-circuiting.

“You’re sure?” you asked, because you had to—because you needed him to say it again, to look you in the eye and confirm this wasn’t just heat-of-the-moment emotion, or drama, or guilt, or—

Vil gave you a glare so sharp it could slice through reinforced glass. You didn’t even need to hear him speak. The look alone said: If you ask that again I will end you and then raise you from the ashes just to scold you properly.

So naturally, you pulled him closer.

He kissed you like you’d insulted him and he was trying to forgive you with his entire mouth. And then he pushed you down onto the couch with all the grace and pent-up need of someone who’d waited far too long to do this.

There was nothing dramatic about the bond itself—it was warmth, deep and golden, spreading between your minds like a whispered promise. Familiar, grounding, and so right it made you dizzy. You felt him in a way that no one else could ever match—his feelings humming beneath your skin, threaded through your heartbeat, echoing in your thoughts.

It felt like falling and landing and being caught all at once.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just pressed his forehead against yours and held you close, letting the bond settle between your chests like a vow.

Then, quietly:

“Finally.”

You laughed, breathless. “Yeah,” you said, hugging him tighter. “Finally.”

Life was still mildly cursed. You weren’t about to tempt fate by saying otherwise. The gates still opened at the worst times, your body still ached in places that didn’t make sense, and someone still managed to microwave metal in the guidance office kitchen every single week.

But—

You had Vil. And that made it survivable.

He had finally, finally reprogrammed you out of your self-destructive nonsense, though it had been a war. You were talking metaphorical trench warfare. It took a thousand forehead flicks, an aggressively color-coded sleep schedule, and a terrifying PowerPoint presentation titled “If You Die, I Will Be Very Upset (And Also Kill You) – A Visual Threat.”

And in return, you had managed to make Vil Schoenheit loosen up. The man who once flinched at the idea of touching door handles with his bare hands now shared hoodies with you and let you kiss him with gate-dust still in your hair.

It was progress.

So when the door to your shared home clicked shut behind you both after another long day, you let out a sigh and slumped like a corpse released from its mortal coil. Vil caught you by the collar before you hit the floor like “absolutely not, we are not breaking furniture today.”

You peeled off your jacket, dropped your bag, and turned to him, still stuck in your boots. “Is it bad I want to sleep on the floor?”

“Yes,” he replied instantly. “Go shower, you reeking gremlin. I’ll order dinner.”

You blinked. “Will it be salad?”

“No. I’m ordering dumplings.”

You stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “Who are you and what have you done with my overachieving nutrient-balanced microgreens–”

Vil shoved you gently toward the bathroom. “Shoo. I’ll be waiting here with your emotional support carbs when you’re done.”

And that was it.

You went to shower, and he ordered dinner. And maybe life was cursed and weird and exhausting—but it had given you Vil. And now, the worst thing he threatened you with was hydration reminders and forehead kisses.

Honestly?

You wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Series Masterlist ; All Masterlists

[woollypoison]

Never odd or even

Male reader x Le Sserafim Kim Chaewon Word count: 10k

"It’s fifty-fifty. It either happens or it doesn’t."

You set your glass down on the table so hard it nearly cracks. "It is not fifty-fifty."

She shrugs—Chaewon’s quintessential uncaring attitude about anything you say—as she falls down into the couch. "But it is, though." She pops open another beer like she hasn’t had enough to drink already.

She always does this. Chooses some ridiculously wrong position to dig her heels in. Like if she just believes it to be true, the universe will bend to her will out of sheer exasperation. You should just ignore it, and just let her believe what she wants to believe. There really is no point to it with her. You drag a hand down your face, because you've been here before. You’re always here. There is a universe where you’ve been having this argument since the dawn of time. Monty Hall sits upon his cosmic throne and watches you suffer.

"You pick a door," she says, holding up one finger like she's making a serious mathematical point and not actively committing a crime against logic. "And then Monty—whoever the fuck he is—opens another door. And now there’s two left. So, you know. Fifty-fifty. You either win the prize or you don’t win shit."

“You’re a fucking idiot.”

And she still doesn’t care. If anything, she revels in your frustration, grinning and taking a lazy sip from her beer.

“I thought you liked your girls a little stupid,” she muses. You like Chaewon. Always have; since before her rejection and until now.

She might be onto something.

“That’s what I saw earlier at the club, anyway,” she mumbles, and it’s pointed, a sharp dagger concealed by a hushed voice.

You pay it no mind. It’s just Chaewon being Chaewon. Doing everything in her power to annoy the fuck out of you. You shake your head. “I like my girls with a basic understanding of probability.”

She hums, her gaze dragging over you, and it lingers. Long. Too long. So long it’s causing the alcohol induced haze to retreat from your brain. Then she just smiles again, takes another sip, and the buzz is back.

Chaewon stretches, arms flexed into a peak above her head, sliding against the backrest of the couch, her head landing against the armrest of the couch opposite of where you're sitting. Her legs stretch out off of the floor, her dress riding up, clinging to and stretching on her hips.

It’s a performance, designed to squeeze out resistance from any sap that would dare defy her. It’s impossible to tell if this is just Chaewon’s purest form, her instincts kicking in to naturally make any man submit, or if it’s a carefully crafted weapon, deliberately utilised and aimed with immaculate precision. Either way, it’s fucking lethal. Lace-trimmed thigh-high covered feet land in your lap, crossed. You glance down at them. Stifle a thought of fucking the exposed part of skin right below her dress and above her socks. Breathe out through your nose, annoyed.

She sees. She was waiting for you to see, to be more exact.

“What?” she asks, but she knows the answer. Feigning innocence, but the chances of it convincing you are slim. “Is the view not to your liking?”

You flick your eyes up to meet hers. Flat. Unamused. Stern. “Jesus, Chaewon.”

She cocks a half smile, hands up in the air like she’s being put under arrest but confident she can flirt her way out of it. “Relax. It’s just a joke.‘

Right. Just a joke. One she’s been playing at for far too long now. One you’re absolutely not in the mood for tonight. One that is quintessentially Chaewon. Mean. Sloppy. Reckless.

That’s what alcohol does to her. She gets all handsy and touchy and feely, disregarding any feelings or reservations you’d have about being touched meaninglessly by the girl that didn’t want you.

And the joke is not exclusive to you either. You’ve seen her like this before, with other guys. Hands on their shoulders and theirs on her hips, leaning in too close, laughing too loud. It’s just her usual mess. It doesn’t mean anything.

She’s warm, just warm enough that you can feel her through your clothes. But warm enough to make you fear the sparks could ignite something that shouldn’t be. Before you can have any more prohibited thoughts, you shift, trying to nudge her legs off of you.

She doesn’t budge. Deliberately. Straight up refuses to even acknowledge the attempt.

You sigh. “Get your legs off of me.”

Chaewon blinks at you, lashes fluttering faster than your heart can beat, her lips pouting— a poor substitute for saying she can’t believe you’d say that to someone this cute. She chuckles, transforms it into a smirk, and tilts her head.

“Make me.”

She presses the arch of her foot against your crotch. It’s right on target. Light. Testing. Provocating.

It’s impossible not to react. You could sit here, not do anything, let her rub your hardening cock through your pants a bit, enjoy the feeling of her getting you worked up. But that’s not what this is about. You know this pattern. As soon as you acknowledge it, it stops, and even if it didn’t, it would all be meaningless.

So you react. You grab her ankle, and shove her legs off of you.

She lets out a soft “oh,” before laughing, low and amused. She works herself back up right, shifting her legs underneath her, but she doesn’t look the slightest bit deterred. 

“Wow,” she mocks. “Sensitive.”

You roll your eyes, reaching for your drink. It’s water. Unlike Chaewon, you know when to quit, much to her annoyance. “Stop being weird and focus.”

“I am focused!” she retorts, all tension and energy. “Are you focused?” she says finally, slow, saccharine, like honey that's taking its sweet time to drip from a spoon into your mouth. “Not too distracted by how fuckable I look in this dress?”

You don’t acknowledge it. Again, no point. You set your glass down with a deliberate clink— any noise to replace what she just asked—then reach for three random objects on the coffee table; her phone, a book, and a coaster.

“We’re settling this tonight.”

She puts her beer back on the table, folds her hands in her lap, and sits with her whole body pointed at you. She shakes her body loose with slight movements. Then, slowly, she smiles.

“Please,” she says, voice sultry and teasing. “Teach me a lesson, professor.”

You’ve probably explained the theory to Chaewon more times than there are episodes of the show that inspired the discussion. It’s time for a practical run-through. You grab the three nearest things you can find and leave standing upright to function as make-shift doors—your phone, your glass of water, and a book Chaewon has been quipping from for the past month, How to Date Men When You Hate Men—and you form a neat row of three. “Let’s drill it into your skull. Three doors. One has a prize. Pick one.”

And for all the effort you put in, she barely looks. Eyes on you, finger pointing in a different direction. “The book.”

“Right, and that was a random choice out of three, meaning—”

“That I was either right or I was wrong. Fifty-fifty.” She shrugs, and shuts the door on this method of having her understand.

She’s perfectly frustrating. “it’s not fifty-fifty—”

She shifts the opposite way from her previous slide, her head landing in your lap. Her cheek rests against your thigh, and her provocation pokes at your heart. She gazes up at you, lashes fluttering a hypnotic rhythm. “This is more comfortable. Keep going.”

How could you?

“Chaewon.”

She hums, but she doesn’t acknowledge your protest. “What? Does having a cute girl’s face this close to your dick make you nervous?”

Ignore it. If you acknowledge it, it only gets worse. You push it down, she’ll eventually grow bored, and as long as the boulder doesn’t slip from your hands, you’ll be done with this forever. “Okay, so now, Monty—”

“You’re looking a little serious,” she muses, herself looking anything but. “Would you look like that while getting head? All furrowed brows, all focused?” Her lips curve deviously like the curveballs she’s throwing you. “Or would you be more relaxed? I can go deep, you know. No need to worry about me.”

Every cell in your body is telling you to push back, take her up on what she’s offering, and let her ruin this night. But you know. You’d get your hopes up, but she’d just call it a silly joke. Keep ignoring it. She’ll get bored.

You take a slow breath. Slow down your rhythm. “Are you done? Monty opens a door that isn’t the prize. That leaves two doors with potential. Your first pick was only right one-third of the time, so if you switch—”

“Aaaah.�� Her mouth opens, tongue peeking out like a landing strip, eyes fluttering shut like she’s waiting for you to shove your cock inside.

That’s it.

You shove her off, not rough, but firm, standing up from the couch you might have sunk in immediately. “Can you cut it the fuck out?”

She’s back upright, giggling, back landing against the couch, legs curled beneath her. “What’s wrong? Blood rushing away from your head?”

“Do you ever stop?”

Her arms stretch over her head again, and you’re starting to see a pattern with the way her dress is stretching against her hips. “Not when I’m having fun.”

It’s maddening. Talking with Chaewon is selecting a door, continuing to talk with her is being shown the wrong door and choosing to take it willingly. “You really don’t care how frustrating you make the Monty Hall problem, do you?”

She smirks. She must think she has it all figured out. “I already told you. Either something happens, or it doesn’t. Fifty-fifty, dude.”

“That’s really not how probability works.”

“That’s how life works.”

You shake your head, and accompany it with an equally disappointed sigh. “You just don’t want to admit when you’ve made the wrong choice.”

She stills, and it’s eerie. It shouldn’t have happened. Then, like a mask slipping back, she recovers with a sly grin. “Or maybe I just like my way better.”

Before you can argue, she makes her move, getting up, pressing against your arm, chest squishy, warm and deliberate against you. “But you can explain it to me as many times as you want.”

She’s impossible. “Chaewon—”

And she leaves no room for response. “Go on,” she purrs, pushing her tits smush against your bicep, molding around the way your muscles tense. “Teach me.”

Your patience and her dress have one thing in common. They’re both razor-thin. “I mean it.”

She hums, and she smiles, and she’s convinced you’re going to give in any second now. “Not a fan anymore of me touching you?” Her voice drops, all warmth and provocation. “Would you rather reverse the roles, have you touch me? Be careful. I’m sensitive.”

Your fingers wrap around her wrist, pulling it high with a firm and stern motion. “Cut it out.”

She clicks her tongue, and scowls in return. The joke is over, and you ruined her fun. “You liked it plenty when that slut at the club was all over you.”

“That’s different,” you say, your jaw tightening up. She knows it is, and it’s not fair. Does she think she can get away with it just because you’ve got a thing for her? Or, used to have, you try to convince yourself.

She’s so clearly unimpressed it’s almost hurtful. It wasn’t a lie though. It was different, that girl at the club never tore your heart out. But none of that matters when Chaewon wants to have her fun. She scoffs. “Must’ve been nice. You didn’t even flinch when she touched you. Just leaned into her, didn’t push her away like you do with me.”

You don’t answer. You let go of her wrist, sit back down, unsure what to make if anything yourself. You could have gone home with ‘that slut’. Had a great evening. Instead, you’re here, keeping your promise to Chaewon that you’d make sure she got home safe, wasting another night on a girl that should have long been in your past already.

That same girl plants both her knees next to yours on the couch, dress creeping above her hips, exposing the slightest hint of black and lace panties straddling your lap, settling against you.

You hate how right she feels here.

She rocks her hips down, just slightly, just testing the waters. And like an experienced professional, the joke’s back on. “You sure you don’t want to have a little fun?”

Your hands clamp around her waist—not pulling her closer. Pushing her off.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t resist. Just concedes as the distance grows.

“Come on,” she murmurs, trying to make sense of it all. “You used to love looking at me.”

Your arm extends fully, pushing her as far as your body allows. “That was a long time ago.”

She lets out a small scoff, more hurt than the lost one, finally relenting and shifting off your lap. The joke is no longer fun for anyone in this room.

You just have to bite the bullet. Separate her from yourself, let the alcohol fade from her system and figure out what to do after that. “Go to bed,” you exhale sharply, a forced sense of finality in your voice. “I’ll sleep here, and be gone before you wake up.”

Chaewon stares at you like you just suggested the unthinkable. Her eye twitches, a habit you’ve long learned to associate with her being so upset that something is going to break. Then, she exhales sharper than you did, standing up. “Fine. Whatever.”

She turns, stomping toward her bedroom, her pumps exploding with sound every step of the way. “It’s still fucking fifty-fifty, by the way!” she yells, right before she slams the door.

It’s suddenly silent. Silent enough to hear your heartbeat going crazy.

She’ll calm down soon enough. Hopefully.

The heat of her body still burns against you, scorching where she was pressed against you. But if you ran after her now, you’d get burned alive. You rub your hands down your face, sinking into the couch, staring into the ceiling as you mentally prepare for what’s bound to be a sleepless night. There’s no escaping those as long as Chaewon is a part of your life.

-

Sleep doesn’t come.

You want to blame it on the horrible way this couch is digging into your back. Or the sounds of the city being ever present. Or the dim glow of some street lights seeping into the living room through Chaewon’s curtains that never managed to fully close. But comfort isn’t the issue.

It’s your damn mind, that can’t shut the fuck up.

Too many thoughts, all tangled together like a string of memories that wrapped around itself far too many times. Her hands, her voice, her weight in your lap. Her unusually prickly temper, and her enhanced sloppiness.

It all feels too fucking familiar, and the moment you admit that, there’s no holding it back.

It started as a night much like this one. You and Chaewon, at her place, sitting too close for friends but too far apart for lovers. Laughing at everything and nothing. Drinking just enough to make the lines blur. You had thought—maybe. Hopefully.

And for a moment, you know, you had been right. It seemed like the kind of night you’d eventually be able to tell your kids about. An edited version, to cut out the once-in-a-lifetime pounding you intended to give her, but still, magical in its own way. 

The way she let you kiss her. The way she kissed you back. The way her eyelashes fluttered to pull you into the kiss. How her left thigh rode up yours. The way her fingers locked behind the nape of your neck. The way you told her you liked her.

Then the way she pulled back. The hesitation in her eyes. The way her voice broke when she said “I don’t think we should do this.”

The way a crack formed on your heart, barely being pushed together by the rest of your more logical organs as you forced yourself to nod and agree, to act like it was fine. Like you were fine. Like you hadn’t just managed to secure the right door, only to be forced to step into the wrong one.

And the way your heart formed a second crack when you saw her again. She was still the same. Still Chaewon. Like nothing had happened.

But something did happen to you.

Your phone buzzes.

It’s not easy to ignore. Chaewon is an addiction to you, the next hit of this sweet obsession entering your veins as your screen lights up.

Chaewon: You awake??

You know you should just be failing at sleeping again. This can only lead to misery.

You: Yeah.

It’s quiet for a bit, but a new message makes its way to you all the same.

Chaewon: Cant sleep

If only she knew how she cursed you with the same fate. If not for her you’d be sound asleep in your own bed right now, or even better, in the bed of that chick you met at the club. What did she say her name was again? Kazuha? Instead, you’re here, repeating old patterns with exhausted probability.

You: That sucks.

Your answers are curt. Too perfect with punctuation for your usual back and forth. She doesn’t respond right away. She might be stubborn and annoying about things she’s convinced she’s right about, but she’s never been oblivious.

Then:

Chaewon: Are we okay?

You’re upset, but not heartless. It tugs.

You: We’re fine, Chaewon

Chaewon: Thats not a yes…

You might just scream out of frustration, your phone dropping on your chest, but obviously you can’t. She’d hear. She’s impossible. So fucking stupidly impossible. And yet, you find yourself typing anyway.

You: Do you want me to lie?

The pause is longer this time. Should you feel bad or just so tired that it doesn’t matter anymore?

Chaewon: No Chaewon: IdkChaewon: I just get nervous when ur like this

You: Like what??

Chaewon: DistantChaewon: CarefulChaewon: Upset with me

Your fingers hover over the keyboard without action. She’s not wrong. You are being careful. It’s her fault. She’d break your heart a second time in less time it took for it to beat. That’s dangerous.

You: Idk what you want me to say Chaewon

Chaewon: Idk either…Chaewon: But I miss how we used to talk

The memories flood in of the two of you just shooting the shit, countless evenings. Still…

You: We’re talking now.

Chaewon: U know thats not what i meant

And she’s right. You do know, but this is just easier. For you, for her. For the both of you.

Chaewon: Cant you just come over here and talk w me?

Chaewon: I miss you…

And before you can even overthink it—

You move.

-

There is a thought that creeps into your mind as the door creaks open and you step into her room. Something about a lion’s den, and then another one following it up about it actually being the lionesses that do the hunting. There’s no point to it. They all fade in an instant. She’s no huntress right now. She’s vulnerable, like prey, enticing you to be the hunter, looking so ready to be pounced on; curled up beneath her blankets, only the soft shape of her against the sheets to lure you in.

“Hey.” It’s a solid way to start a conversation, but you can’t help but expect more from her after calling you in.

You nod, eyes fleeing from hers, shifting awkwardly by the door. “Hey.”

It takes a while before you move. The same goes for her. She’s squinting, her eyes getting used to the darkness. She’s always been stubborn about letting you help her get a blue light filter on her phone.

She finally stops, and for a moment, your eyes meet hers. She carries a soft smile, the kind that made you fall for her in the first place. But there’s a difference in it; barely perceptible; most definitely flown under the radar by people not so obsessed with her face. There’s precaution sewn into it. The sides of her smile are constantly shifting and trembling, like she doesn’t know whether to keep it there or to switch to a more neutral expression. Then, she shifts, her left arm pulling out from under the cover and tapping the sheets next to her, an unspoken invitation.

You sit down with a sigh, back turned towards her. You’re not far, but you’re not close either. A safe distance, you think to yourself. The mood isn’t tense, but also not comfortable. Just… unsure.

You can hear her laps part, exhale, almost say something, and then close again a couple of times. It’s not until you finally turn to face her that she speaks.

“Do you remember that summer at the beach?”

Your eyebrows raise on instinct, disbelief unmistakably painted across your face, impossible not to notice, not even in this darkness. “How could I forget?”

The muscles on her face relax as her eyes drift away from your eyes, seemingly getting lost into her pillow, which she clutches tight. “You remember how you were so worried about me you gave me a piggyback ride back to the house?”

“No,” you scoff, “I remember you guilt tripping me into carrying your soaking wet ass across the sand.” Your face turns away from her again, hands clutching the side of the bed as your eyes veer off into the distance past the window; letting the glass serve as a canvas to project your memories onto.

You hear the sheets rustle behind you as she works herself upright, before reminding you exactly why you helped her back then in the first place. “You weren’t complaining back then! You were way too busy copping a feel of my ass.”

“Okay, now that’s not fair,” you snap back much too fast, much too flustered. “I wasn’t copping a feel, I was keeping you from falling. And besides, you weren’t helping either! Just hanging there all limp, mumbling you’d never be able to walk again.”

“I mean, it just hurt so bad. That jellyfish really fucked me up,” she chuckles back, and you can feel the pressure of her back leaning against yours.

There’s a soft silence, the one drenched in feelings you’d much rather stay in, instead of moving on to an uncomfortable reality. So you keep painting, hoping the window holds your memory-scape just a little longer.

“Do you remember what we kept talking about? To keep your mind off of the pain?”

You can tell she knows in the way she responds with an “Oh my god.”

Both of you say it at the same time.

“The fucking Monty Hall problem!”

There’s a beat of silence. First it’s a chuckle. It turns into laughter, and it quickly grows uncontrolled, unstoppable. The kind that makes the memories seem brighter, makes your body feel lighter, the kind that makes you throw your head back as she does hers. You both open your eyes staring at the roof, now sharing the same canvas to display footage of past days.

“God,” you breathe, your head locked in place but your eyes drifting over towards her face. “I miss those days.”

She giggles, nose scrunching. “I don’t miss what that jellyfish did to me.”

The laughter fades, and you think that maybe, just maybe you could forget about earlier and go to bed without feeling like shit. You shift, and she does too, turning towards her as she moves back to her original spot, leaning against the headrest, crawling underneath the blankets with her legs.

Your breath catches as you look at her. Your stomach turns. “Chaewon.”

She blinks, glancing up at you. “Hmm?”

“Did you—” You inhale sharply, but you can’t afford to give her the benefit of the doubt. “Did you seriously invite me in here just to talk un-dressed like that?”

Her brows furrow. Then she follows your gaze, shifting slightly, and—

Fuck.

Black lace, delicate, thin. Your favorite.

She freezes. "Oh."

Oh? Fucking oh?

“Why the fuck are you like this?” you explode.

Her eyes widen. "No! I—" She scrambles, tugging the blanket back up over herself. “I wasn’t—” “You said you wanted to talk, Chaewon.”

“I do!” Her voice pitches up. She’s pulling the sheets up hurriedly, using them as a shield from you, all you can see is her cheeks changing color ever so slightly. This time because of the embarrassment instead of the alcohol. “I promise… I do…”

It’s hard to believe that. It’s all so familiar, and all so fucking frustrating. “You know, this is just like you to do,” you ramble, and it’s hard to stop once you get going. “Always so fucking obsessed with getting a reaction out of me, never stopping to think for a second about how I feel!”

Her face softens, and the way she looks at you makes you sick. Like she thinks you’re right. “That’s not—”

“Isn’t it?”

“I swear!” She shouts, looking panicked and it’s enough to finally get you to shut up. “I was still out of it all, too mad and too drunk when I got back here. I just wanted to sleep. I didn’t—” and a big, shallow breath interrupts her, the kind that just appears and leaves you with less air than before. “I wasn’t thinking, okay?” You want to believe her. But tonight has been too much. Too many provocations, too many lines blurring that she would turn back from, and in turn, you would let form scars.

Then you sigh, sitting back down. “Okay.”

“Are you…” her voice trembles as she tries to figure out the specifics of your answer. “You’re shaking. Are you mad?”

Your mind is still trying to slow down, and answering gets forgotten. She takes that as an answer, obviously. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not so mad that I’d be shaking, you idiot.” Your voice is quiet. “It’s just way too fucking cold in here. And I was thinking.”

There’s no hesitation, because that’s just how Chaewon is as she shifts, making room. “Get under the covers.”

“Chaewon, please—” you start, but she’s not having it.

“I won’t try anything, okay? I promise,” she interrupts you, sounding calmer already. There’s a touch of pleading in it, but not the whiny kind she uses to get you worked up. It’s more desperate, more real. “Just give me a chance to prove I’m being serious.”

You don’t move at first. Stubbornness is inherent to both of you, after all. She tugs on the sheets impatiently. You sigh, but it’s obviously performative, a last jab at her to let her know you’re only doing this just because you’re cold. And she wasn’t lying. She properly keeps her distance, just sharing the warmth of the bed. It’s immediate and comforting, but you don’t allow yourself to sink into it.

“See?” she murmurs. “Not a trap.”

Not yet. You don’t dare say it, but you don’t have to. She sees the thoughts in your eyes. So she shuffles, turning away from you.

The silence stretches so long you start focusing on the noises it can’t beat into submission. Your breathing. Her breathing. The creaking and crumpling sound of the bed and the sheets as you move.

“I wanted to talk, and we talked so… that’s—that’s good. I guess,” she whispers. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind talking some more.” She lets a little space in between for you to insert yourself into. You never do. “But if you’d rather pretend like I’m not here, I get that too. I’ll shut up.”

It’s endearing, and your response is a little mean, letting her wait in silence for just a little longer before replying. “I’m not pretending. I need somebody to blame the lack of space I have in this bed.”

She smiles, soft. You can’t see it, obviously, but you feel it. Somehow. She shifts under the blanket, closer but not touching. She’s apprehensive. And she meant what she said.

“Is this the first time we’ve slept in the same bed?” she asks, but she masks her tone enough that she could play it off as talking to herself if you decided to not respond.

“Nope,” you correct her. “There was that one time in sophomore year. You showed up at my door at, like, three in the morning. Absolutely shitfaced, mind you.”

She lets out a small, embarrassed groan, and you know you’re on the right track.

“I remember that,” she mumbles. “Barely.”

“You couldn’t figure out how to get to your dorm. Said not even Monty Hall could help you find the right door.”

“How do you remember all that?” Chaewon questions, like you had no right to have that memory.

“Are you kidding me? How could I forget? I told you to take my bed, and that I was gonna crash on the couch,” you continue explaining, your lips curling upwards.

“But I didn’t let you?”

“Nope. You didn’t trust my roommate worth shit. Which, fair.”

She doesn’t say anything. You keep going though, less for her alone or you alone, both for you both.

“You grabbed my wrist when I tried to walk away. Looked me dead in the eye and said, and I quote, ‘Don’t leave me alone with that guy here, he smells like crusty socks and assault.’”

Chaewon lets out a strangled sound that’s half mortified laugh, half groan. “Oh my God.”

“So I gave in. Got in bed next to you. Fully clothed. On top of the covers. Like a gentleman.”

“You didn’t sleep for a second that night, did you?”

“Of course not. You starfished. One arm across my chest, one leg thrown over me like a fucking seatbelt. You had me trapped, dead to rights. Didn’t help you made me paranoid that my roommate was actually going to do something.”

She laughs—really laughs. Warm, unguarded. Then she rolls onto her side, facing you again. Her eyes search yours. "It was easier, wasn’t it? Back then. In college. At the beach. You carrying me like an idiot, me acting like I couldn’t walk, and you trying to turn probability into a personality trait."

You laugh, but it’s not really a laugh. More like one of those nose breaths that accompanies an abbreviated text. “Because it was.”

Her smile fades. “You never needed me to ask. You always just… stayed.”

You shift slightly, your fingers brushing the edge of the blanket. Her eyes drop there, then rise again.

“I think I’m a leaver,” she says. No warning. No lead-in. Like she had to say it fast before she lost the nerve.

“What?” It leaves your mouth before you can even blink.

But Chaewon swallows, her eyes retreating downwards. “I think that’s just who I am. Some people stay, and some people leave. You’re the kind of person that stays, and I’m a person that leaves. Because if I go first, I don’t have to wait until you become a leaver just like me.”

She looks at you like she’s afraid you’ll flinch. Like she’s already bracing for the recoil.

“I know it’s selfish,” she adds quickly. “But that night… when you kissed me, and then said you really liked me—I panicked. I did what I always do. You were giving me a choice, and that scared the hell out of me. So I picked the choice I always make.”

She breathes in. Exhales slow. Really takes her time, her eyes drifting slightly upwards now.

“And for a while, I told myself it was just another fifty-fifty. You know? Just a game of chance I lost. You either leave or get left. You either lose something or end up lost. And I thought—" she breaks off, swallowing again, part of her voice getting swallowed with it, "—that it would go away like the rest. That I’d forget. That it’d stop mattering."

You stay quiet.

“But it didn’t. It stuck. You stuck.”

She shifts again, knee brushing against yours beneath the blanket. Her voice cracks a little.

“And I started noticing things,” she says. "Little things. Like the first time you didn’t wait for me to text goodnight. Or when you were with someone else and you had that smile that I thought was reserved for me. Or when you stopped arguing with me about dumb shit just to keep talking."

Her voice wavers.

“And then I realized I didn’t just pick wrong. I watched the right door shut. And then I heard it lock. And that’s why I know your stupid fucking Monty Hall problem is wrong. I should’ve had another shot. Another choice. But life didn’t open a wrong door—it just took the right one away. And that’s why I know it’s just fifty-fifty. And I lost my coin toss at happiness.”

There’s a second of silence where your brain short circuits.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” you mutter.

She blinks, but it helps her to finally look at you. “Ouch?”

You sit up, tossing the blanket off like it offended you. “No, I’m serious. You think my door shut? You fucking locked it.”

She opens her mouth, but you cut her off, your pace quickening. “The fact that I stayed around all this time is proof enough that my door is still unlocked. It wasn’t up to me to reopen that door.” “I—” “But you had to try.” Chaewon’s eyes flicker—not away, but deeper. Her breath hitches, and you swear it’s the first real sound she’s made in a while that didn’t have a smirk behind it. She shifts forward just slightly, only enough that her leg brushes against yours again, like she’s testing if the signal’s still green.

“You’re saying… it’s still open?”

You drag a hand through your hair, eyes rolling ceilingward before locking onto her again. “It was never fucking closed.”

Her lips part. They’re trembling now. She’s not teasing this time. “Then why—why didn’t you ever—”

“Because I’m not gonna beg,” you cut in, sharper than intended. “I’m not gonna crawl through the fucking keyhole when you slammed the door in my face.”

She flinches. Just barely. But enough.

“I didn’t need you to beg, just…” she says, softer, like she’s going over the math again in her head. “I don’t know… I—” Her voice dips, trails, then steadies. “I’m here now. I’m trying.”

You look at her. Clear as day in the middle of the night. She's curled up next to you, defensive and ashamed and stubborn all at once. Her eyes are too glossy, her hands fidgeting with the edge of the comforter like they’re looking for somewhere to hide.

And then she breathes, and her voice breaks.

“I just wanted you to want me still.”

And that? That fucking cracks something open.

You reach for her—no grand gestures, no cinematic swoop—just firm, necessary motion. You cradle her jaw, fingers sweeping her hair back, and when you speak, it’s low and final and absolutely everything you’ve been holding back.

“I never fucking stopped.”

There’s no pause this time.

No “but what if—”

No “are you sure—”

No more fucking Monty Hall.

Just her lips crashing into yours, messily, hungrily, like the apology she couldn’t say and the forgiveness you weren’t ready to offer have decided to cancel each other out with tongue.

It’s not careful. It’s not gentle.

It’s honest.

She’s on your lap again, only this time it’s not a joke. Her knees bracket your thighs and she grinds down with purpose, gasping when she feels you through your boxers. Her hands slide beneath your shirt, nails catching skin, and you curse under your breath as heat swells in your gut, undeniable and urgent.

You break the kiss, forehead against hers. “Still cold?”

Her laugh is shallow, much too distracted with making sure she can properly share in your body heat. “Yeah. Make me warm.”

“And here I was thinking you were hot enough as is.”

She smirks, and it’s real this time. Like the one you saw when you barely knew her, but knew enough already. Not a mask. Not a trap. Just her.

And she whispers, “Don’t stop this time.”

Like you could. Besides, you’re not even sure it’s only meant for you. With the way she’s tugging and removing your clothes, kissing your shoulders and pulling you tighter, it’s like she’s making up for lost time. For every second spent being careful. Your hands trace her body, taking your time to really make sure every curve and beauty mark is stuck in your mind forever.

“God,” you mumble under your breath, pressing your lips to her cheek, her neck, her shoulder, working your way down until you’re kissing the edge of a black lace bra that was almost the reason you stormed off earlier. “I can’t believe how beautiful you really are.”

Her breath hitches. “I know.”

And you’ve missed that, too. Her confidence. The way she can say things like that without irony, because she knows exactly what she’s worth—she just never thought she’d be worth it to you once more.

You kiss her through the black lace, and she shivers when you nip at the edge of her bra, as close to her nipple as you can get. She doesn’t waste any time herself flicking open the button of your jeans. You’ve always thought she needed a helping hand, both of yours pushing your pants further down. They’re not even off properly when she pauses, eyes blown wide, honing in on the tent in your boxers leaving little to imagination.

“Wow,” she says, and it’s almost weird to hear her say it without sarcasm.

“Wow?” your voice is rough, coming out in a single breath.

She nods, and her lips part as she yanks your boxers down, eyes almost dazed as she takes you in. “Wow.”

It’s a reverent look. It’s a look that suits her as long as it’s directed towards you, you think. Her fingers reach out like she’s about to wrap them around you, but she stops right before she makes contact, and the look in her eyes changes. Smug now. Knowing.

“I need a moment,” she says, and you know she’s up to no good. “You can’t just swing that in a girl's face and expect me to make it easy for you.”

A throb shoots through your cock, hips twitching without your consent. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

But she just smirks.

“Chaewon.”

“Shhh,” she says as she shuts down any and all protest, and her voice is the perfect combination of exasperating and enticing. “I’ve got my own Monty Hall problem lined up for you.”

You groan, but it’s more of a plea for mercy than a protest. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m serious,” she purrs, fingers grazing the base of your cock before pulling back again, making you hiss.

“Three doors,” she says, and the way she looks at you is obscene. “My front door, my back door, and my... ehm... mouth door?”

You’re gone. You’re fucking gone. “You are so lucky you're fucking hot.”

She keeps going, relentless. Her grin is pure mischief. “Which one have I imagined you fucking me with the most?” She rolls her hips, testing you. “Pick right, and you get to fuck it.”

“And if I guess wrong?” Your voice is rough, needy, everything you never let her hear before tonight.

Her eyes burn. “Then you eat me out first.”

It’s a rigged game and you both know it, but you play along anyway, letting her set the rules and stack the deck and deal each card. You lean forward, drag your lips up the line of her jaw. “That’s an impossible choice. You want all of them.”

She moans, a hiccup of laughter and want, and the weight of her shifts in your lap, urgent. “You wish. You only get one.”

But her hips are grinding now, a rolling, deliberate pressure that tells you exactly what her body needs. The answer is and always has been: every option, at once, and all of them leading back to you.

You palm her ass, fingers splaying underneath the lace edge, and the way she shivers tells you she wasn’t expecting you to touch her with that kind of certainty. For all her bravado and gamesmanship, this is how you win: you move first, and you don’t hesitate.

“Let’s see,” you murmur, mouth against the shell of her ear, making her gasp. “Back door—” a squeeze, a knead that pulls a little yelp from her, “—doesn’t seem like your style. At least not as a first move.”

“Don’t count me out,” she breathes, and you hear the competitive edge in her voice, the same edge that made her stay up all night just to prove you wrong about some irrelevant, beautiful, dumb thing.

You laugh, slow and low, and she shakes against you. “Mouth door,” you say, and you can’t help but grin at the way she’s already licking her lips, hungry, needing to prove something. “Obvious contender. But I think you want it right here.” Your hand finds the heat between her legs, cups her through those ridiculous panties, and her eyes go wide, her breath gone.

You wait a beat. She’s never been great at waiting, but she’s trembling now, lips parted, waiting for your verdict.

“And if I told you it’s definitely not the back door? Does your answer change?” she pants.

You consider your odds. “I think—” you start, but she interrupts.

“Actually,” she says, and the way her voice drips with satisfaction is almost enough to make you lose. “I don’t give a fuck. I want your cock. Right here.”

She grinds against you, and you can’t help but think you’re never spending another day without that feeling.

“Fuck,” you groan, because she won this round, and she knows it. “You don’t play fair.”

She bites her lip, smiling, then reaches between you, fingers wrapping around you with a perfect, firm pressure. “And that’s why you love me.”

She’s right. She’s wrong about so many fucking things, but she’s right about this.

You thrust up into her hand, and she moans, her body arching, her hair falling down her back. You reach for her hips, hooking your thumbs under the lace, and she lifts herself up, letting you pull it down, off, away. She doesn’t care where it lands; she’s already lowering herself back onto you, and you’re closing the distance, guiding your cock to her needy cunt.

“Fuck you,” you breathe, so close to her you can taste it, the subtext of admission against her skin. “I’m not saying it first. I’ll force you to.”

She rocks her hips, taking you deeper, her breath catching with a shudder. “Yeah? You think you can make me?”

You grit your teeth, the friction of her tight around you making it almost impossible to think. “I know I can.”

“Big words,” she gasps, riding you faster, harder. “Think you can back them up?”

You reach between you, your thumb finding her clit, and she cries out, her whole body shaking, her walls clenching around you. “You first,” you growl, and you can tell she’s sensitive. “Say it.”

Her eyes roll back, her lower lip caught between her teeth. You know it, you have her dead to rights, this is your win, and then—”Nuh-uh.”

You thrust up into her, relentless, and the pressure builds, mounting, and she’s so fucking tight around you, and you want her to say it, need her to say it.

She grinds down harder, her nails dragging your shoulder blades, and it’s too much. Too good. Too fucking hot. “You’re gonna say it,” you gasp, your thumb circling her clit faster. “I know you.”

“And I know you,” she pants, her head falling back as she rides you with abandon, her whole body trembling, her breath hitching with every thrust. “I know—oh fuck—you.”

You watch her face as she rocks against you, her lips parting, her eyes wide and desperate and defiant. She’s so close. So close you can feel it, the way she’s fighting it, wanting to hold out, wanting to win.

“Say it,” you growl, thrusting up into her again, harder, not easing up on her clit.

She gasps, and this has to be it. She’s trembling, tightening, drowning in ecstasy and she’s— “I’m—Fuck, I’m cumming, you fucker,” she manages to choke out, and she cums hard. Her head drops forward, no further admission, still no winner as her whole body shudders, her walls clenching around you like she’s weaponizing her orgasm against you, trying to pull the words from you.

You swear, a rough sound that’s almost a surrender, and she laughs, breathless, smug, still shaking in your lap. “You first.”

Your grip tightens on her hips, and you’re so fucking close, but you hold on, hold out, your breath ragged. “I’m not going to give up,” you groan, thrusting up into her in a wild frenzy, loud clapping of flesh colliding now strangling the room. She lets out a strangled sound, and her eyes go wide letting you know she didn’t expect this.

Didn’t expect you to only go harder, to keep fucking her through her orgasm, keep pushing her over the edge again and again and again until she might pass out.You thrust harder, deeper, and her voice breaks, her body wild against yours.

You hold on, and she holds on longer. She’s so tight, so wet, and the heat is building, and you feel her clench around you, feel her mold to your shape. Her mouth opens, and you can’t tell if she’s about to say it or if she’s too far gone, and then—

She pulls off of you. You watch, stunned, as she drops to her knees and wraps her mouth around your cock, and the sight alone is enough to make you lose it. You groan, a deep, ragged sound, and she moans around you, the vibration pushing you over the edge. Your hands tangle in her hair as you come, hot and hard, spilling ropes of cum into her mouth.

“Fuck, Chaewon,” you choke out, the last of your breath leaving your body as every drop of cum you had does the same, her lips still tight around you.

Then she pulls back, and her eyes are on you, wide and bright and triumphant. She cups a hand beneath her chin, opens her mouth, and—

“I love you,” she says, letting your cum spill out over her lips, and there’s a laugh behind it, a tremor of amusement, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you. Like she knows she just won all over again. She wipes her mouth, cum streaking her chin, her neck, her chest, and she looks so absurdly beautiful you can’t even be mad.

“Chaewon,” you breathe. It’s exasperation and wonder, the way you’ve said her name so many times before. “You’re fucking impossible.”

“Really?” She bats her lashes with a coy look, licking her lips like she’s savoring every last drop of the chaos she’s caused. “Aren’t you supposed to say it back?”

You grab her by the waist, pulling her back up to straddle you past your softened cock, and she giggles, squirming in your lap. “You’re such a fucking brat.”

“And you can’t get enough of it,” she teases, her smile widening,

You stare at her, chest heaving, the words settling into the spaces that were empty for so long. Then you let out a breathless, helpless laugh, pulling her face up to yours, kissing her despite all the filth she let drip out to cover her sweetness.

“Fuck you,” you say between kisses, but there’s no heat behind it, just the weight of relief and joy and everything else you’ve been holding back. “How do you win even when you lose?”

She smiles against your mouth, and you feel it in every part of you. “I guess I’m just smarter than you.”

You do. You say it like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like you’ve spent the last year waiting for your chance.

“I love you, you idiot.”

She makes a soft sound, and for a second you think she might cry, but it’s just a laugh, bright and giddy and so fucking happy. “I’m glad you do.”

“You’re a fucking nightmare,” you say as you shake your head, trying to hide the cartoonishly large smile she forced upon your face. “And you’re stuck with me,” she says, kissing you again, her body melting into yours, all softness and satisfaction. Her voice dips, teasing, warm. “Or did you forget?”

“Never,” you murmur, and you mean it. Hell, you’d bet on it.

Her body shifts in response, her being melting into you, her skin sticky but hot against yours. “So,” she says, and it’s light and breezy like that summer day still stuck in your memory, like you’re somehow back in a familiar rhythm, but new nonetheless. “You really think you can handle me?”

You laugh, wrapping your arms around her. “I’ve been handling you for years without the benefit of getting to fuck you.”

She pinches your side, but it’s playful, and you can tell she’s trying not to smile. “Asshole.”

“Yeah,” you say, kissing her forehead. “But I’m your asshole, now.”

She nods, and that alone was worth all the suffering. Because it’s honest.

“Shit,” Chaewon breathes, your skin stuck together with dried cum, pulling loose from you. “We’re a fucking mess.”

“Yeah, well, it’s your fault for trying to be funny,” you say like you’re not covered in it too.

She shakes her head, and it’s like she’s saying it’s your fault for not being the first to say you love her. “We can’t go to bed like this,” she proclaims, trying her best not to get too much filth on her sheets. “C’mon. Shower.”

“Together?” you ask, and she just rolls her eyes like that was the stupidest fucking question you’ve ever asked.

You follow her to the bathroom, the air chilly and the tile cool underfoot. She turns on the water of her shower, letting it heat up as she looks back over at you, one eyebrow lifting like she’s pondering if she should just keep it to showering or not.

“Get in,” she says, pushing you towards the shower. “I’m not letting you sleep until you’re clean.”

She’s already stepping toward the shower when she realizes you’re still standing there. Her eyes narrow, but her lips curve. “What? You’re dawdling now?”

You shrug, and she laughs. It’s not the sound she makes when she’s trying to get under your skin, but the one you’d almost forgotten she could make. Uncomplicated. Real.

She starts taking off the only thing she still has on—her thigh high socks that were the main culprit in why you failed to pick up a girl earlier tonight. You were way too busy admiring how good Chaewon looked, and it didn’t go unnoticed.

“Don’t tell me you’re expecting me to do it for—”

You catch her hand, stop her from peeling them off. She freezes, looks at you like a deer caught in headlights.

“Let’s pretend I lost your three doors challenge,” you murmur, and you hear her breath catch. “It’d be a shame not to eat you out with how good you look in those.”

“So you were staring! I fucking knew it,” she shouts gleefully.

You don’t give it a response. You just hoist her up, and she wraps her legs around you like it’s instinct, gasping, more eager than surprised, as you let her ass meet the bathroom counter. You spread her thighs open to admire, sink to your knees in between them, and look up, getting lost in the way she looks down.

“Oh my god,” she sighs out. “Are you really—”

 You don’t let her finish. You drag your tongue up her slit, and her head falls back, the sound of the shower almost drowning out her moan. Almost, but not quite.

“Fuck,” she gasps, the first of many. “Right there. Oh, right—”

You swirl your tongue around her clit, and her hips buck, her whole body trembling. She’s close already, too close, and you know you could end this in seconds, but you don’t. Not yet.

Your hand slides up her thigh, and she shudders as you press a finger against her asshole, teasing, gentle. Her breath catches, and you feel her body tense, then relax, opening for you.

“Shit,” she gasps, her voice breaking. “I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—”

You don’t stop. You don’t even slow down. You work her with your tongue and your fingers and your everything, and she’s shaking.

“Holy fuck,” she gasps, her voice breaking. “You’re—shit—you’re better at this than explaining math problems.”

You groan, a low, rough sound, and the vibration makes her shudder. “Careful, I might bite.”

She laughs, knowing you’re all bark, and her fingers tangle in your hair, not quite pulling you closer, but not allowing escape either. “Don’t stop,” she begs, and she wears it so well that ideas flood your mind. “I’m so fucking close.”

feel her body tense, tight and perfect around you. “Right there. Oh—” You curl your finger, the final bit of tension she needed to release, clenching hard, her hands in your hair, her body on fire. “Oh God, oh—”

She cums hard, her body arching, her legs closing around your head as she cries out, the sound raw and desperate and so fucking good. Your finger slips out but keep your mouth on her, not letting up until she’s shuddering, breathless, her hands tensed up tugging at you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she gasps, and you feel the last tremors of her orgasm as they ripple through her. “How did you—I can’t—” She’s lost for words, and it’s ammunition for next time you fight over something stupid.

You don’t move until she tugs at you weakly, pulling you up, and the look in her eyes is almost enough to make you drop to your knees again.

You grab her hand, pulling her toward the shower, but she doesn’t budge. Instead, she drops to her knees, fingers splayed on your thighs. “I’ll admit, you’re pretty fucking good,” she says, her eyes gleaming with challenge. Everything’s a competition with this girl. “But I’m better.”

You don’t have time to respond. Her mouth is on you, hot and wet and perfect, and you groan, your head falling back. She works you with a skill you didn’t think she had, her tongue swirling, her lips tight, and all you can do is hold on. She pulls back, and the sudden loss makes you gasp. “Feel free to cum wherever you want,” she muses, and your mind floods with options. All too enticing.

Her pace is relentless, precise, and you feel her smile around you, a smug curve against your skin. She’s rapidly proving her point.

“Chaewon,” you groan, and you’re not sure if you’re leading into begging or commanding. “Fuck, that feels—”

She hums, a low, teasing sound, and the vibration makes you curse. Her fingers slide down, cupping your balls, and you feel yourself throb against her tongue.

You’re close, too close, and she knows it. You can tell by the way she pulls back again, her lips glistening, her eyes wild. “I’m not done with you,” she says, and you swear you might die.

“Fuck my face,” she says, and you tremble, your whole body going tight.

“Chaewon,” you gasp, but she’s already got you begging for more, her hands on your thighs, guiding you inside.

You thrust, and she takes it, takes you, her mouth so fucking good you can’t believe this is real. She moans and gags around you, and it’s a sound you’ll hear in your dreams for the rest of your life.

She looks up, her mouth full, and the sight is obscene, incredible. She’s not stopping, not giving you a second to catch your breath, just letting you use her, and it’s all too fucking much.

You’re so close, the heat building, your control slipping. You fuck her face, your hands tight in her hair, and she’s caught between you and the counter, letting you use her, letting you lose yourself.

“Oh God, Chaewon,” you groan, your thrusts erratic, desperate. “I’m gonna—”

She pulls back, and you gasp, her lips getting pressed against the tip of your dick. She strokes you, her lips swollen and wet, and— “Do it,” she commands, tilting her head back, presenting her face and her tits and her abs and every target you could choose, her eyes pleading to cover not one but all. “Come all over me.”

That’s it. That’s fucking it. You cum hard, your whole body tensing, and she moans as your release hits her face, her lips, her cheek, her chest.

“Fuck,” you groan, and she smiles, licking her lips, and you’re so spent you almost collapse right there.

Then she’s pulling you down, kissing you, and you taste yourself on her tongue.

“At least I was worth the wait, right?” she murmurs, and you pull back just far enough to see the way she’s grinning, the way she’s looking at you like she thinks she won. If only she saw herself right now, you’re clearly the winner.

“Think I’m ready for that shower now,” you say, and you can’t help but smile back, because you’re a mess, and she’s a mess, and you came into this room specifically to be less of a mess; and you love it. You love her.

The shower is still running, heating up the room, and you both stand up. She pulls you with her, and the water makes quick work of the art you just made. What a waste, but a waste you love to spend with her.

She notices your face change as the cum disappears from her visage, and chuckles lightly. “You’ll get plenty of other chances.”

You wash her and she washes you back, and it’s slow and easy and comfortable. Like you never thought it could be again. But better. No rush, no desperation. She works the shampoo into your hair, but you can’t stand to not annoy her for another second, pulling her under the spray and rinsing her off.

“Hey,” she protests, but she’s smiling, her eyes bright.

“Hey yourself,” you say, dragging your thumb across her cheek, her lips, her collarbone. “Think I like you like this.”

“Wet?” she asks, and she’s teasing, but there’s a softness behind it.

“That too. But no. Mine,” you say, and her expression shifts, her eyes going soft, her hands coming to rest on your chest.

“You know,” she says, her voice quiet, thoughtful, “That makes you equally mine.”

You tilt her chin up, kissing her, and she melts into it, into you. “I guess that means we both won today.”

She laughs, and it’s the best sound, the best feeling, the best everything. “Guess I can get used to it if it’s with you.”

Eventually you turn off the tap, and she shivers as you wrap her in a towel, pulling her close. “Bed?” you ask, and she nods, simple and easy.

She helps you dry off, and you help her, and you just can’t let each other be right now. She tugs at you, at your hand, constantly leading you, hair still wild and just damp enough to be okay going to bed with. She slips beneath the covers fully naked, but it’s too cold to worry about any of that, so you follow.

You pull her against you, or she pushes herself into you. It’s hard to tell who’s more desperate. Point is, her back is against your chest, and it fits perfectly. Like she was made for it.

“So,” she says, her voice a sleepy mumble, “are you gonna lose your shit if I say it’s fifty-fifty again?”

You groan, exasperated and affectionate, and she giggles, burying her face in your neck.

“Chaewon,” you say, and she turns just enough to look at you.

“Hmm?”

You wrap your arms around her, holding her, holding everything. “You’re fucking annoying. Never change.”

She smiles, soft and genuine, and you know this is the real win. Not the game, not the challenge, not the give and take of a thousand heated mathematical arguments—but this. Her. You. Together.

“Promise,” she whispers, and you feel her breath slow, feel her body relax, feel the unlikeliest odds settle in your favor.

You hold her tighter, and the silence this time is comfortable, a weightless, blissful quiet that lulls you both toward sleep. You barely hear her next words, but they seep into you, the last sweet, stubborn thing you need to know.

“I still think it's fifty-fifty.”

[demon-at-peace]

DC + DP a deal

Tim stared at the being, they were massive, they didn’t look human, their form was blurry, their eyes seemed to be black holes with delicate lashes, freckles that appeared to be stars dusted their skin.

If he was right then he was dealing with a good. He swallowed nervously not daring to meet the beings eyes. They smiled at him, and their voice rings out, it sounded wrong somehow, echoing everywhere, "What do you need?" the question startles Tim.

"I was wondering if you could help me? Someone I know got lost through time.." He looks up hopefully.

"Time...." they ponder, the word somehow reflecting the reality of the word. "I suppose that doesn't matter much, what is their name?"

The hairs on Tim's arms raised the second they asked for a name. That was the first rule of this, don't give them your name, or you'll be long to them.

The being laughs, "Humans are always so protective of names.. don't worry you can't give away someones name," the assure him and he stares at them.

"Bruce, Bruce Wayne," he chokes out. And the being smiles, their eyes glow, and everything shifts, the world changes around him, like a hundred fissures splitting through his reality. And suddenly it stops.

"Bruce Wayne," they speak softly. Tim stares at Bruce with shock, as if he couldn't comprehend that he was in fact here. Was this real?

"What about payment?' he stutters softly.

""A favor," they grins and Tim stares at them. A favor sounds too wrong, too unspecific, and there will be surely a catch.

"Within some limits," he barely manages to get the words out. The beings grin twists into a disturbing smile.

"What limits?" they ask their voice amused.

"Nothing that involves others, leave others out of our deal," the words are binding and Tim stares up trying to look confident.

"Heroes always are so self sacrificing," the being hums, "But fine," Tim lets out a sigh of relief. "Our deal is sealed," the being offers him a hand, though it's massive so when they shake hands it's more like a light touch.

After they shake hands, Tim's wrist burns. a blinding pain he can't fathom. He buckles to his knees.

"What is this, he stares at the intricate golden band on his wrist, it's thin, and looks breakable.

"Our deal, it breaks when I need that favor," being smiles and is suddenly gone. Leaving Tim alone in his summoning circle.

-

Years have passed, Tim is older now, the promise weighs ever heavy, it no longer burns. In fact he's almost managed to forget about it entirely. The other bats haven't constantly fretting.

Bruce made contingencies, and planned. but there was no answer, you couldn't beat a god. You couldn't fight a god. So they ignored it, he'd almost forgot about it.

But when the doorbell to his safe house rings he could almost feel something was wrong. Like some cosmic force was warning him. He answered nonetheless.

A boy with blue eyes black hair and a skinny frame stares at him. "My name's Danny," he starts. "And I need a favor."

There's a snap, a burning pain, and Tim stares at his wrist. His bare wrist.

-

first of all holy shit thank you!! Cause apparently I just reached 2000 reblogs and 10k likes and I am stunned. But thank you so much!!!

For me @bluebird8683 @itsbushytailedfox and @tkiesai you all specifically have been so sweet! There have been so many others too, um anyway thank you!!!!!!!

[cinnasite]

with great power comes great lesbianism

꩜ pairing: spiderman!ellie williams x female reader

꩜ warnings: explicit content, language

꩜ word count: 5.5k

꩜ synopsis: your campus crush is awkward, brilliant, and possibly allergic to eye contact. your city’s superhero is bold, brawny, and keeps saving your life. it takes a few close calls and some questionable physics to realise they’re the same girl—and she’s falling for you, too.

The first time Spider-Girl saves you, it's from a mugger in an alley behind the campus coffee shop. You're fumbling through your backpack for your pepper spray when she drops down like some extremely agile angel, all wisecracks and impossibly fluid movements.

"Hey there, citizen," she quips with her trademark enthusiasm, expertly knocking out the guy with a single punch. God, she’s always so extra on television. You didn’t think she’d be a hundred times worse in real life. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that walking alone at night is, like, really bad for your web of safety?"

You stare at her, dumbfounded, heart hammering from more than just the adrenaline. "Did you seriously just make a spider pun?"

"Maybe." Even through the mask, you can hear her intolerable grin. "You okay? No injuries? Emotional trauma? Sudden urge to take up martial arts?"

"I'm fine," you manage, though you're definitely not. She's hanging upside down now, her auburn hair falling in waves around her masked face, and something indescribable about her voice is making your stomach flip. You clutch your pepper spray tighter.

"Good. Great. Awesome," her extremely endearing stuttering doesn’t distract you from how delicious her biceps look in that top-notch suit of hers. "Um, you should probably get home. Soon. Don’t want to miss dinner. Most important meal of the day."

She swings away before you can thank her (or correct her on how the phrase is actually about breakfast), leaving you alone with your breathing irregular and a very inconvenient crush on a masked vigilante.

The second time is five days later, when a chunk of building facade decides to almost make friends with your head during the villain of the week’s rampage downtown. Spider-Girl appears out of nowhere, scooping you up in arms that are surprisingly stronger than anticipated (not that you’ve been thinking about her arms, haha, no way) and swinging you to protection on a nearby rooftop.

"We've got to stop meeting like this," she pants, setting you down gently. "People are gonna talk."

"Are you following me?" you gape at her, brushing dust from your jacket.

"What? No! That's—that's crazy talk. I'm a hero. Heroes don’t follow. They heroically arrive. At coincidental moments."

You purse your lips, evidently skeptical, "Right. Coincidental."

"Very coincidental. Cosmically coincidental, even. The universe is just really invested in us meeting, apparently."

While she goes off on a tangent about something too philosophical for your understanding, you’re more focused on scrutinising her mannerisms. There's something eerily familiar about the way she gestures, all animated hands and panicky grace, but you can't seem to place it. You table your suspicions for another time. That is, if there is another time.

And, oh boy, there is. 

You're walking home from a last-minute convenience store visit when a car runs a red light, heading straight for you. It’s downright ridiculous. At this point, you’re convinced that you’re undeniably cursed. Before you can ponder over the pros and cons of becoming roadkill versus finally escaping the group project from hell, a blur of red and blue tackles you to the pavement, and suddenly you're staring up at the sky wondering if you've died.

For a moment, you're pressed chest to chest with Spider-Girl, her masked face inches from yours. You can feel her heaving, quick and shallow.

"Okay," you whisper. "Now I’m certain you're following me."

"I—" she scrambles backward, nearly tripping over her own feet. "It's not what it looks like!"

You shake your head, trying to gain sense of your surroundings, "It looks like you're stalking me."

"I prefer 'keeping tabs on.' For very legitimate reasons."

You let out a disbelieving laugh, studying her, "What's your name?"

"Girl, do you have a concussion?” 

"Your real name, smartass."

She freezes, her frantic spiraling reaching an abrupt halt, "Come on, gorgeous It’s not so simple. That's classified information."

"Of course," you stand with a defeated sigh, running a hand through your hair and trying not to fixate on how she chose to refer to you (gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous). "Well, thanks for the save. Maybe next time you could text me when there's danger instead of lurking like a weirdo?"

You're halfway down the block when you hear her call out: "I don't have your number!" You turn back, grinning, "I guess you'll have to ask for it like a normal person!"

The girl in your Advanced Calculus class is strange.

Not bad strange—sort of a cute strange, truly. She showed up six weeks into the semester, all quiet and nervous twitching, taking the only empty seat right next to you. She has freckles scattered across her nose and the greenest eyes you've ever seen, and she fidgets constantly, like she's got too much energy for her own skin.

"Ellie," she'd introduced herself on her first day, awkwardly extending a hand that was covered in small scars and calluses. "Williams."

"Nice to meet you," you'd replied, and something about her crooked smile made your chest tight.

She's brilliant in class—when she shows up, of course. Professor Martinez assigns a problem set on differential equations and Ellie solves them with an elegance that makes everyone lean forward to so much as catch a glimpse of her work. But she has her quirks like not making eye contact while explaining her solutions, and doodling in the margins of her notebooks—intricate patterns that look too similar to webs, you suppose. 

Also, she stares at you. A lot.

"Earth to Ellie," you mutter during a particularly boring lecture on integration techniques. She's been gazing at you for the past five minutes, completely obvious about it.

She startles, knocking over her water bottle. "Shit, sorry. I wasn't—"

You stifle a laugh, "Staring at me?" Her face goes pink, about ready to burst if she could, "I was thinking about derivatives. Pretty intensely."

"Uh-huh, here," you hand her some napkins from your bag, helping salvage her soaked notes. "What's your take on the fundamental theorem of calculus, then?"

"It's... fundamental," she says, then grimaces when she seems to realise how that sounds. "I mean, it's inherently elegant. The way it connects differentiation and integration like two sides of the same coin."

You're impressed despite yourself, "Not many would choose to explain it that way, but it’s a fitting analogy."

"Thanks." She plays around with her pen and you wonder how someone’s fingers could be so long and slender and—

Oh my fucking god, please stop.

You snap out of your thoughts to come face-to-face with Ellie rambling, too engrossed in what she’s saying to notice how your neck is embarrassingly flushed. "I'm good with connections. How things relate to each other."

As if summoned by her words, her phone vibrates with what sounds like a notification. She glances at it offhandedly and her whole body goes tense.

"I-I have to—bathroom—emergency—" she's already gathering her things, moving with surprising dexterity despite her apparent alarm. At first, you can only blink at the sudden shift, thinking it's some kind of elaborate excuse or a joke you’re not in on. But she's already weaving through chairs, clutching her bag like a lifeline.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah! Fine! Totally fine! Just, erm, digestive issues!"

By the time you lurch to your feet, she's vanished around the corner, leaving behind only the ghost of her perfume and a rapidly cooling seat. Twenty minutes later, news alerts start buzzing about Spider-Girl stopping a large-scale robbery across town.

You start paying attention after that. Really paying attention.

From your elaborate observations, you’ve concluded the following: Ellie disappears from class every time there's a Spider-Girl sighting. She shows up the next day with new bruises she claims are from "aggressive skateboarding" or "really competitive rock climbing." Who does she think she’s trying to fool? Moreover, she knows too much about physics and momentum for someone who supposedly just likes math.

"Want to study together?" you nonchalantly ask one Thursday under the guise of Professor Kim sending out a particularly brutal assignment. In actuality, you were on the prowl for some hardcore evidence to back your hypothesis. "The library has those group study rooms."

Ellie's eyes light up, caught off guard by the offer, "Yeah, yes! Absolutely. I mean, if you want. I'm probably not that helpful, but—"

A pointed stare from you shuts Ellie up, "You're literally the smartest person in our class."

A sheepish smile is all you get in response. The study session is a disaster and the best three hours of your week simultaneously.

Ellie is smart, walking you through complex equations with a patience that makes you genuinely grateful to have her by your side, but she's also the most distractible person you've ever met. Her phone buzzes constantly—emergency alerts, news notifications, text messages that make her face go pale.

"Popular girl," you can’t stop yourself from teasing after the seventh interruption.

"Not really. Uh, I volunteer with this community safety thing. Neighborhood watch type deal."

"Neighborhood watch?"

"Mhm, very active neighborhood watch."

She's helping you with a particularly tricky problem, leaning close enough that you can smell her shampoo, when her phone starts borderline shrieking with alerts.

"Shit," she mutters, grabbing it, looking beyond apologetic. "I have to—"

"Go," you say, even though you're disappointed. "Your neighborhood watch thing?"

"Yeah. Last-minute emergency... watching."

She's halfway to the door when she turns back. "Can we do this again? The studying, I mean. Not the emergency part."

You try to bite back a more than pleased smile. You’re not successful. "I'd like that."

After she leaves, you sit in the empty study room for a while, thinking about the way she explained vector calculus like it was poetry, the way her eyes lit up when she talked about complex theorems, the way she looked at you like you were the most interesting equation she'd ever encountered.

Until reality punches all of the air out of your lungs: "Spider-Girl Saves Civilians Trapped in Terrible Industrial Fire."

The realisation hits you during the next class.

Professor Kim is explaining the mechanism behind projectile motion, and Ellie is taking notes with the intensity of someone who needs to understand exactly how objects move through three-dimensional space. Which is apt, you guess. 

"The trajectory of any projectile can be calculated using these equations," Professor Kim drawls, writing on the board. "Accounting for initial velocity, angle of projection, and gravitational acceleration..."

Ellie's pen moves across her notebook, but she's not just copying the equations, you notice. She's modifying them, adding variables, and sketching what looks like trajectory paths between buildings.

Huh, that’s interesting.

"Miss Williams," Professor Kim’s voice booms throughout the hall, "could you share your perspective regarding the topic at hand?"

Ellie looks up, startled. "Oh. I-I was just thinking about how you'd need to account for air resistance in real-world applications. And wind patterns. And if you were, I don’t know, swinging between buildings, you'd need to calculate the optimal release point to maintain momentum while accounting for the pendulum effect of the swing itself."

It’s dead silent. You raise an eyebrow. The class stares at her.

Professor Kim clears her throat, "That's a good question. Yet very specific, Miss Williams."

"I just think about practicality," Ellie mutters weakly.

After class, you corner her in the hallway, determination oozing from the way you stride over to her. "Swinging between buildings?" you ask.

Ellie can barely hold it together, itching with the need to be anywhere but in front of you. "Hypothetically."

"Hypothetically," you echo, studying her face. "You know, I've been thinking about patterns lately, since our conversation. Like how Spider-Girl always seems to show up right after you disappear from class."

Ellie goes very still. "That's... cool."

"Is it? Because I've been doing some math of my own. The timing, the locations, the way you know exactly how web-swinging would work from a physics perspective."

"Funny story, I’m… ah… writing a research paper on Spider-Girl’s abilities—"

"You have the same voice as a certain superhero who's saved my life three times."

Her face goes pale. She opens and closes her mouth, unable to devise an escape plan. And she has tons of experience in those. "I can explain."

You lean closer, lowering your voice, "Can you? Because I'm starting to think my study partner is also the girl who's been stalking me from rooftops."

"I haven't been stalking you!" she protests, then catches herself. "I mean, I don't know what you're talking about."

You tilt your head, close enough to see the panic in her green eyes. "Prove it."

"How?"

"Kiss me."

"What?"

"If you're not Spider-Girl, then kissing me shouldn't be a problem. But if you are..." you let the sentence hang, your own pulse skyrocketing.

Ellie stares at you, bewilderment painting her features. "That's not—that doesn't prove anything."

"Doesn't it? Because I'm pretty sure Spider-Girl has been wanting to kiss me for weeks. The question is whether Ellie Williams wants to kiss me too."

The words tumble out before you can second-guess them—bold, reckless, and so unlike you. But for once, you don’t care. The hallway is empty, most students having fled to their next classes. Ellie looks around desperately, like she still believes that she can scheme her way out of this.

"I—" she starts, then ultimately stops. Her shoulders slump. "Fuck."

"Is that a confession?"

"It's an acknowledgment that I'm terrible at this secret identity thing."

You grin, pleased with yourself, "So you are Spider-Girl."

"Yeah." She runs a hand through her hair. "And I've been going crazy trying to keep away from you while also making sure you're safe, and I think I'm falling for you but I can't tell if it's because I'm Spider-Girl or because I'm Ellie, and—"

You kiss her.

It’s soft, at first, almost hesitant, but it lands with the quiet certainty of something long overdue. Her words die against your lips, a half-formed thought swallowed by the warmth of your mouth on hers. She lets out a soft, taken aback sound, something between a gasp and a sigh, and then she’s kissing you back like it’s instinct, like she’s been waiting for this as long as you have.

Her hands rise to cradle your face, fingers trembling just slightly as they settle against your cheeks. She leans into you, melts, and the world narrows down to the press of her body against yours and the wild, thunderous beat of your heart.

When you finally pull back—breathless and stunned—she doesn’t say anything. Just stares at you with wide, shining eyes like she’s seeing something brand new.

Like she’s never wanted anything more.

"Both," you whisper. "You asked if you're falling for me as Spider-Girl or as Ellie. For me, it's both. I'm falling for both of you."

Her smile, the brightest you’ve ever seen, could power the entire campus. "Really?"

"Really. Though I have to say, your secret identity skills need work."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm getting that." She ducks her head, but not before you catch the rising blush, equal parts pride and bashfulness. You’re not sure if it’s the jab, the kiss, or just you that’s got her blushing like that, but whatever it is, you want to see it again. 

"We should probably talk about this somewhere more private," you say, glancing around the empty hallway.

"My apartment?" Ellie suggests, then immediately looks panicked. "If you want. For talking. Just talking. Very innocent talking."

You laugh, carefree, watching the panic bloom across her face like she’s just proposed something scandalous instead of, quite frankly, simply suggesting. It’s cute—dangerously cute—and a spark of amusement curls in your chest. "Ellie."

"Yeah?"

"It’s alright. I'm not going anywhere."

Her apartment is small and cluttered, textbooks scattered across every surface, equations scrawled on sticky notes stuck to the walls. Such a nerd, you think to yourself with barely controlled lust. There's a familiar suit hanging in the closet, and you stare in awe.

"So," you begin, settling on her couch. "How long?"

"About a year. There was this lab accident—" she sits beside you, close enough that your knees touch. "Radioactive spider. Very original, I know."

"And you've been doing the superhero thing since then?"

"Someone has to. The city's not exactly overflowing with good-natured people."

You drink in her face, taking in the small scar on her cheekbone, the way her eyes are alight with something unfamiliar. "Are you okay with this? Me knowing?"

"Terrified," her eyes widen a little, like she hadn’t expected you to ask. Like the idea that someone would care enough to check in hadn’t fully occurred to her. The tension in her shoulders eases, just barely, and when she speaks, her voice is softer. "But also... relieved? I've been wanting to tell you for weeks."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because people I care about get hurt. It's like a rule or something," her nails scratch at her skin anxiously. "And I care about you. A lot."

It slams into you—her honesty, raw and unguarded—and you have to swallow the rush of feeling that follows. You’ve waited so long for this, for her. Now, she’s here, and you don’t trust yourself to breathe too loudly in case the moment shatters. "How much?"

She looks at you then and the intensity in her gaze makes you forget how to function. "Enough that I've been taking patrol routes past your apartment building to make sure you get home safe. Enough that I nearly blew my cover multiple times because I couldn't stand the thought of you getting hurt. Enough that I've been falling asleep thinking about you and waking up wishing I could tell you everything."

Your lips quiver, "Ellie..."

"I know it's crazy. I know I've been lying to you, and that dating me comes with risks you never signed up for. I know you think I'm some kind of stalker. Fuck, I am—"

You kiss her again, slower this time, like you're trying to commit the way she tastes, the way she feels under your hands to memory. Her fingers tighten at your waist, tentative at first, then surer, pulling you closer until there’s barely any space left between you. You can clearly tell that she’s been waiting for some semblance of permission to want this as much as she does. She tilts her head, deepening the kiss with a quiet groan that makes your knees go a little weak.

It’s not a confession. It’s a surrender. A promise that neither of you quite knows how to verbalise so soon.

"I don't think you're a stalker," you mumble against her lips. "I think you're extremely awesome. And hot. And selfless."

Ellie chuckles, "And?"

"And I think I'm completely gone for you."

She pulls back to meet your eyes. "Both versions of me?"

"All versions of you. The hero, the student, the girl who makes terrible spider puns and gets flustered when I catch her staring."

"I do not get flustered."

"You look like a tomato right now."

"That's unrelated."

You throw your head back, and she grins, that same, crooked smile that's been driving you crazy for weeks. "I love your laugh," she appreciates softly.

"I love your brain. The way you see patterns in everything, the way you explained all of those formulae like they were beautiful instead of impossible."

"They are beautiful. Math is, like, the language the world uses to describe itself."

"See? That. That's what I'm talking about."

She shifts closer, her forehead resting against yours. "What happens now?"

"Now you stop trying to protect me from a distance and let me be part of your life. The real part."

"It's dangerous."

"So is crossing the street. So is falling in love with someone," you trace the line of her jaw with your fingertip. "I'm not asking you to stop being Spider-Girl. I'm asking you to trust me enough to let me choose to be with you anyway."

She's quiet for a moment, and you can see her calculating probabilities, a deep furrow set in her brows. Finally, she utters, "I've never had anyone who knew. About me, I mean. All of me."

You nod in understanding, "How does it feel?"

"Scary. Amazing. Like I can finally relax."

"Good,” you smile, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Because I plan on knowing you for a very long time."

"Show me," you say later, when you're curled up together on her couch, her arms around you and her chin resting on your shoulder.

"Show you what?"

"The Spider-Girl stuff. I want to see how it works."

She tenses slightly. "Are you sure? It's kind of intense."

"Ellie. I've been dreaming about this for weeks."

She's deeply amused for a moment, then she gently untangles herself from you and stands. "Okay. But if it freaks you out—"

"It won't."

She moves to the window, and you watch as she seems to almost, in a way, transform. Her posture changes, becomes more fluid, more confident. She presses her palm against the glass, and you see her fingers stick to the surface without any effort.

"Holy shit," you gawk.

"That's not even the cool part." She grins, extending her wrist. There's a soft thwip sound, and you jump back as a strand of webbing shoots out, sticking to the opposite wall. "Web-shooters. My own design."

"Can I...?"

"Touch them? Sure," she comes back to the couch, holding out her wrist. The device is sleek and mechanical, clearly homemade but extraordinarily sophisticated.

You run your fingers over the metal, marveling at the craftsmanship, "You built this?"

"Built, tested, redesigned about fifty times. Turns out web-slinging is more complicated than it looks."

"This is incredible. You're incredible."

She rubs the back of her neck, "It's just engineering."

"It's genius-level engineering that you did in your spare time while maintaining an impeccable GPA."

"My GPA is not impeccable—"

"Ellie," you look at her seriously. "You're amazing. Not just as Spider-Girl, but as you. The fact that you use your intelligence to help people, that you built all this to make the world safer... it's the most attractive thing I've ever seen."

She stares at you for a moment, then she's pressing her lips to yours, urgent and hungry. You respond immediately, your hands fisting in her flannel shirt as she guides you back against the couch cushions.

"I've wanted to do this for so long," she barely contains her whimper. "Every time I saved you, every time you smiled at me in class, every time you caught me staring..."

"I was hoping you'd stare," you admit, biting your lower lip. "I've been trying to get your attention for weeks."

"You always had my attention," her fingers trace the skin just above your waistband, and you shiver. "From the first day you sat next to me in class, I couldn't think about anything else."

"Then why didn't you say anything?"

"Because girls like you don't usually go for awkward nerds."

You giggle, bringing her face back to yours for another kiss. "This girl does."

"Yeah?"

"Hell, yeah," you tug at her shirt, suddenly desperate to feel more of her.

She helps you pull her flannel off, revealing a simple black tank top underneath. There are more scars here, small ones scattered across her arms and shoulders—evidence of her other life.

"Do they hurt?" you ask, tracing one with your fingertip.

"Not anymore. I heal fast now."

You lean up to kiss the scar on her collarbone. "I don't like the idea of you being hurt."

"I'm careful."

"You throw yourself off buildings for a living."

"I'm strategically careful."

You're about to respond when she kisses your neck, and whatever you were going to say dissolves into a soft moan. She's good at this, all careful attention and gentle pressure, like she's been thinking about exactly how to touch you.

"Ellie," you whisper, and she responds by trailing kisses down your neck.

"I love the way you say my name," she whispers against your skin. "Both when you're annoyed with me in class and when you're like this."

"Like what?"

"Desperate. Wanting me."

"I do want you," you thread your fingers through her hair, tugging gently until she looks at you. "I want all of you."

Something shifts in her expression, heat darkening her eyes. "All of me?"

Instead of answering, you flip your positions, pushing her back against the couch and settling yourself astride her lap. Her hands immediately find your waist, fingers digging in like she's afraid you'll disappear.

"Hi," you say softly.

"Hi yourself," her voice is rougher now, her breathing uneven. "This is... this is really happening?"

"Unless you want to stop."

"Fuck no," she sits up, bringing your faces level. "I just... I've imagined this so many times, but I never thought..."

"What?"

"I never thought you'd want me back."

You cup her face in your hands, thumb brushing over her cheek. "Ellie Williams, I've been hopelessly crushing on you since the first time you rambled about one of your silly interests. Finding out you're also the badass superhero who's been saving my life is just a sexy bonus."

She laughs, light and surprised. "Sexy?"

"Very sexy. The competence, the confidence, the way you move like you know exactly what your body can do," you roll your hips cheekily, and her grip on your waist tightens frenziedly. "It's incredibly hot."

"Oh."

"Tongue-tied?"

"Shut up," she says, but she's grinning as she pulls you down.

This time when your lips meet, it's different. Needy. Her hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing just under your ribs, and you arch into the touch with a sound that makes her eyelashes flutter.

"Is this okay?" she asks, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt.

"More than okay."

She helps you pull it off, and for a moment she just stares, dumbfounded. "You're so beautiful," she licks her lips, and the reverence in her voice astounds you.

"So are you,” you drag her into another makeout, rougher this time. She meets you halfway as you both start to move—slow, desperate grinding that leaves no room for doubt. Her thigh slots between yours, and the friction pulls a breathy curse from your lips.

Ellie’s hands are everywhere, the curve of your back, your shoulders, the line of your throat. She mouths at your chest through your bra, tongue dragging over the fabric until your head tips back and a shaky moan escapes you. She hums against you like she’s proud of your reaction and you’re already giving in, her name slipping like a prayer.

You pull back to meet her eyes. "I need you, Ellie."

Something in her expression shatters—restraint, maybe, or whatever thread of self-control she was still clinging to. Her jaw tightens like she’s trying to hold herself back and failing spectacularly. She exhales sharply through her nose, then grabs your hips with both hands, grinding up against you like she can’t stand even an inch of space.

“Fuck,” she mutters, like the word is forcibly ripped out of her. “Say that again.”

“O-oh,” you gasp at the delicious movement, clutching onto her helplessly. “N-need you, Els. Please.”

She stands without warning, lifting you with her, and you wrap your legs around her waist. The casual display of strength makes heat pool in your stomach.

"Show off," you tease.

"You like it."

"Wrong. I love it."

Her bedroom is small and messy like the rest of her apartment, but you don’t mind. She sets you down gently beside the bed, her hands immediately finding your waist again.

"Are you sure about this?" she asks, and there's a fond vulnerability in her voice.

"Ellie," you step closer, pecking the tip of her nose. "I'm sure about you.”

"I’m sure about you too," she smiles, and then she's walking you backward until your legs hit the mattress.

You fall together, a jumble of limbs and fast kisses and hands that can't stop touching. She's careful with you, gentle despite the strength you know she possesses, and something about that contrast—the deadly superhero being so tender with you—makes you feel cherished in a way you've never experienced.

"I want to make you feel good," she moans against your ear, and it sends shivers down your spine. "Will you let me make you feel good, baby?"

"E-Ellie," you can only manage to stammer, and she smirks deviously against your neck.

"Just like that."

Ellie doesn’t hesitate. Her hand slips beneath your waistband, knuckles brushing your skin as she works her way into your pants and under your panties. The first drag of her fingers through your slick makes both of you gasp—you at the contact, her at the way you’re already soaking for her.

“Jesus,” she remarks, almost in devotion, before slipping two fingers inside you, slow but unrelenting. Your hands dig into her shoulders, hips rolling up to meet each thrust, and she finds a rhythm that makes your head spin. Her palm presses snug against your clit, every movement measured and devastating.

"You're so responsive," she murmurs, pressing kisses down your throat. "So perfect."

"Not perfect," your reply is strained, hard to think with her touching you like this.

"Perfect for me."

When her lips follow the path her hands have traced, you're already trembling. She takes her time, building you up carefully, until you're writhing beneath her.

"Please," you beg for the second time that day, and she looks up at you with her insatiable, lidded gaze.

"Please what?"

"Please don't stop."

"Never," she swears, and then she's making good on it, using her mouth and hands to take you apart piece by piece.

She sinks to her knees like it's second nature, tugging your pants down completely with an urgency that makes you shy away. Her mouth is on you almost instantly, tongue parting you with aching precision, and the first slow lick is both torture and life-changing. Her hands grip your thighs firmly, anchoring you in place, as if daring you to pull away.

Not that you would, not when her mouth is right there, focused solely on your dripping cunt.

She moans against you like she’s the one being eaten out, the sound sending vibrations straight through your core, and you choke out a gasp. One hand trails from your thigh to slip two fingers inside you, easy from how wet you already are, and the combination of her mouth and the rhythmic movement of her fingers is devastating. She fucks you with purpose, stroking that perfect spot over and over as her lips wrap around your clit and suck.

Your hands find her hair, threading through it with desperation as you grind helplessly against her face, barely coherent. 

“Mmm, yeah, good girl. There you go. Use me however you want.”

Your eyes roll back at her words.

The tension coils tighter and tighter, until it snaps all at once—a blinding rush of pleasure that leaves your vision white at the edges as your body bucks against her, undone completely.

She doesn’t stop until you’re gasping, overstimulated and twitching. Until you're crying out her name and seeing stars. Afterward, she holds you close, pressing soft kisses to your temple while you catch your breath.

"Okay?" she asks quietly.

"More than okay," you move in her arms, meeting her eyes. "Your turn."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to," you reassure her softly. "I want to make you fall apart the way you just did to me."

Her face contorts into something akin to burning desire and you grin as you begin to return the favour, taking your time to explore every inch of her skin, to learn what makes her gasp and moan and whisper.

She's beautiful like this, her usual composure completely gone. When she finally climaxes, it's with your name on her tongue and her hands tangled in your hair.

You collapse together afterward, sweaty and satisfied and completely content. She pulls a blanket over both of you, and you snuggle into her side, your head on her chest.

"Hmm," you sigh eventually, tracing lazy patterns on her skin. "This is nice."

"Nice?" she laughs, the sound vibrating through her chest. "I pour my heart out, reveal my secret identity, and give you the best orgasm of your life, and you call it 'nice'?"

"Best orgasm of my life? Someone’s cocky."

"Was it not?"

You grin, leaning up to kiss her chin. "It was incredible. You're incredible."

She tightens her hold around you. "I plan on doing that a lot more, just so you know."

"I’m counting on it."

You lie there in comfortable silence for a while, enjoying the feeling of being close to her. Eventually, though, a bunch of doubts and concerns start to creep in like phantoms in the night.

"What happens now?" you ask timidly.

"Now we figure it out as we go," she presses her face into your hair, inhaling deeply. "Together."

"Together," you agree after a few beats of silence, and you can't think of anything that sounds more meant to be.

Outside the window, the city hums with its usual evening hustle and bustle. Somewhere out there, people are going to need Spider-Girl's help. But for now, she's exactly where she belongs—in bed with you, planning a future that includes both sides of who she is.

And you can't wait to see what comes next.

[lighting-and-shadow]

Ikigai, Part 3

Summary: You’re desperately in love with a man who already belongs to another.

Ikigai (n.) (Japanese): "A reason for being," the thing that gets you up in the morning.

Part 2, Part 4

You try to keep her away from Sylus. Or rather, you try to keep away from Sylus and protect her at the same time. It’s odd. Odd in a way you hope to never experience again.

Every time you grab her hand to drag her elsewhere, you want to burn your hand. Washing it simply isn’t enough. You want to bleach it, to scrub it, to do away with the hand that touches her. Not because you hate her, but because you can’t.

She’s just so… beautiful. In every sense of the word. Beautiful eyes, beautiful hair, beautiful face, beautiful voice, beautiful laugh, beautiful personality. She has all of it. You feel disgusted whenever she gives you that weak smile after you take her to her room after yet another failed resonance Sylus tries with her behind your back. She tries to be strong despite her fear.

“I’m sorry about my foolish boss.”

“It’s fine,” that wobbly smile is still there.

She doesn’t trust me yet. Good.

Miss Hunter needs that weariness in her. She needs that caution. There’s a shine about her people will take advantage of otherwise. Sunlight in human form that makes you want to protect her from any pain. Pain that trembles against your skin on the off chance you’re close enough to her threads.

Souls of many lives are weaved within each one. Hurts and pains and fears and sorrows she doesn’t remember, but others do, shake within each cosmic fiber. She is a being of suffering and care. Of hatred and love.

Yet she carries it with such grace. With such humility and beauty you can’t help but stare. Stare with eyes of envy that thankfully no one has noticed.

“It’s not fine, Miss Hunter. You haven’t done anything to deserve this.”

An evil part of you, one that you’re so ashamed of it’s probably why you treat her so delicately, thinks she does. She deserves it for the crime of being the soulmate of the man you love. She deserves it for having so much love while you have none. That part of you blames her. Hates her for her very being.

It says that she’s the reason you’re alone. That maybe one of her various potential soulmates was meant to be yours, but she stole them. You ridicule that part of you as you carefully place down a meal on her bedside table. Miss Hunter doesn’t even give it a glance. She just rubs one of her wrists in her hand.

“I said it’s fine.”

You could almost laugh at her words. She’s trying to act tough, to seem unafraid and strong in this unknown environment. You’ve spent far too much time studying people to even be fooled for a second. But you say nothing. Instead, you push the plate closer to her.

“Eat,” you try to give her a comforting smile. “It’s probably been awhile since you’ve eaten, correct? And the drug in your system doesn’t flush out well on an empty stomach.”

She says nothing.

“Miss Hunter,” you try a different approach. “I have nothing to gain by drugging you or poisoning you or hurting you in whatever way you’ve concocted in your mind.”

“Your boss would probably say otherwise.”

That hurts a bit, hearing confirmation that she fears her own soulmate. And hearing anything negative about Sylus tends to sting your heart. But that’s neither hear nor there.

She has every right to feel that way.

You keep telling yourself that over and over again. That, and the fact that this will pass, that you’ll one day see these two happy and in love (while you break on the sidelines).

“Ah, but we’re not talking about my fool of a boss. We’re talking about you.”

“What about me?”

She fidgets in place. You relax yourself more when she does. She doesn’t need to see how she affects you. With so many unknown factors around her, and Sylus’ harsh treatment, she needs something steady. She needs you. Even if she doesn’t realize it.

“How you’re doing in all this?”

You know it’s a futile question, but you ask it anyway.

“You kidnapped me, and now you’re concerned for my wellbeing?”

“My foolish boss and the twins kidnapped you, not I. I had no say in this. My boss tends to do this when he knows I won’t agree with something.”

Her expression and body language change ever so slightly at this. Maybe because she now doesn’t associate you as much with her pain. Maybe because she sees that you’re more like her in this situation: lost and angry. Either way, it works out well for you.

Miss Hunter angles her knees to face you a bit more. Her shoulders are less tense. And the hard look in her eyes seems to soften.

Good. Good. She needs to see me as a safe space.

You pull up a chair to sit across from Miss Hunter. You make your posture as relaxed as possible and give her another kind smile.

“Just because I work with that man, doesn’t mean that I get a say in everything he does. Our introduction would’ve been much smoother otherwise.”

“You mean my kidnapping?”

“No. There wouldn’t be any kidnapping in my equation because I have no need for such disgusting methods.”

“But you work for a man who does.”

Miss Hunter seems perplexed by you: someone who clearly has a different approach to things to the harsh man that is your boss. He’s only shown cruelty to her. You almost want to revel in that, how he treats his other half terrible but treats you so gently, especially after your fight a few days ago.

He’s been borderline groveling to you since then. Cooking your favorite meals, buying more material for jewelry business, and even gave you an update that James apparently survived your shootout. He hasn’t forced you to talk to him. He’s given you space without you needing to ask for it. He’s apologized.

”I’m sorry.”

Whenever he said that, you could tell he was holding something back. Was he refraining from using his intimate nickname for you? Was he stumbling over an excuse? You didn’t know. You just knew you were grateful for it. Sylus used to struggle with apologies in the past; now he said them to you without hesitation.

The sound of Miss Hunter lifting the glass you brought her off the table brings you of the memory.

“I don’t suppose you and your bosses back at Linkon think the same on every matter regarding Wanderers, do you?” You force yourself to focus on the conversation at hand. “It’s the same here. I prefer a more civil resolution to things than my boss.”

“Then how would you have gone about my… arrival?”

“The normal way: through a conversation and a simple business deal.”

“I would’ve much preferred that.”

“You and me both, sweetie.”

“So why didn’t you? You two are clearly close.”

Not for much longer now that you’ve shown up. You keep that thought to yourself.

“Sylus wouldn’t let me,” you finally say his name, and it feels dirty on your tongue. “Demanding bosses and annoying colleagues exist even in the N109 Zone.”

Miss Hunter lets out a genuine laugh. She seems to relax further, and you mentally give yourself a pat on the back.

“Sounds like you should just quit then.”

You snort at her.

As if I could ever leave him.

Sylus had such an iron grip on your heart that it was comedic. A tragic comedy, but a comedy nonetheless.

“Does Sylus seem like the type to just let people quit?” She gives you a look and you laugh. “Besides, I’m needed here.”

Miss Hunter doesn’t interject, so you continue, “The N109 Zone may be a mess, but it’s my home. My only home.”

That was only partially the truth. The full truth was that you made this place home because the place you used to call home carried too much pain. Too many memories of happy soulmates and broke promises.

Will the N109 Zone be the same after she and Sylus get together?

You look at the girl in front of you, study her scared and sad eyes in order to shake off the thought. This girl needs someone in her corner right now. She needs an ally. And no matter how much it hurt, you would fulfill that role. Right up until she replaces your role in Sylus’ life and you bow out.

You’ve started your life over before; you can do it again.

You speak again once you’ve gathered yourself, “And no regardless of how difficult it can be to live here, I want to stay. I want to stay and improve it bit by bit.”

“You think Sylus will help you do this?”

“You sure do ask a lot of questions, sweetie,” Miss Hunter splutters, and then seems to admonish herself for showing such emotion. “Relax, I’m only teasing. But, to answer your question, yes. I do think so. He has done so. While I don’t agree with him on everything, I do believe he’s the lesser of many other evils in this place.”

She scoffs. Then she takes the plate of food you placed down earlier on the dresser table and puts it in her lap. She doesn’t touch the silverware, but you hope for that to change.

“If he’s the lesser of many evils, I wonder what they’re like.”

“Please don’t,” you keep your tone light, but exasperated. It’s the same one you give the twins when you’re done with their shit and tired; Miss Hunter smiles slightly at it, much like how the aforementioned twins and Sylus do.

“Why not? Worried I’ll make trouble for your boss? Who knows, maybe I’ll find someone who will give me the princess treatment rather than whatever this is.”

You almost say something about how truly bad of an idea that is. That those other people would’ve tortured and killed her for whatever it is these people want from her. But you hold your tongue. She has enough on her plate; she doesn’t need any extra baggage.

“Maybe you’re right,” miss Hunter is rightfully surprised to hear you agree with her, even though on the inside, you’re screaming at yourself. “Maybe you’re wrong. Are you willing to risk it?”

“Maybe I am.”

“Than I’ll take you to where you want to go.”

It’s quiet between you two for a moment. That is until Miss Hunter takes the fork on the plate you gave her and finally takes her first bite of food. You almost let out a sigh of relief, but hold it in.

No need to make a big deal. That’ll just make her more uncomfortable.

“I’ll take you anywhere in the zone, even to my enemies. I’ll make my boss understand that if and when I do.”

“Why would you do that for me?”

“Because you’re innocent. And my boss knows how I feel about innocents. It’s why I started working with him.”

You get a bit wistful at remembering your first encounter with Sylus. And how it all ended with a bang.

“He turned my life upside down that day,” you say, almost more to yourself than to her.

“And as much as your sudden arrival turned my life upside down again, I’m sure it’s nothing compared to whatever plagues you.”

She gets a bit rigid at that. But you see the truth in her eyes: pain and a bit of gratefulness. She needs someone to talk to, someone to unload the hurt in her heart. But, your relationship with her isn’t there yet.

“Like I said before, I’m fine. I don’t need your concern.”

“People that are fine don’t come here, sweetie,” the pet name just slips out of your mouth again.

Nothing is said between the two of you for some time. All the pair of you do is stare: you at her plate and her at the floor.

Then she mutters, “I know. But I just had to.”

Your heart weeps for this girl again. She’s been through a lot, is carrying a lot, and is scared and alone in arguable the most dangerous place in the world. Her own soulmate is treating her like trash. And all she as to rely on is someone who wishes she would just disappear.

“I know.”

“How?”

“Because in my line of work, I see many people like you. Grieving people. I’ve seen it, and I’ve gone through it. And I know this isn’t what you need.”

Miss Hunter freezes at your words. And your heart sinks a bit more. Seems the idea of you having human emotions like grief didn’t occur to her until now. Ironic, given that she’s your biggest source of grief.

That just makes you want to laugh even more. What right do you have to grieve over a relationship you never had? A relationship you never could have?

She pushes the fork across the plate. And for a moment, you hope that she’s opening up to you. You two will be seeing each more often after all, with her being Sylus’ soulmate and you being his closest companion. So you two should get used to one another.

Then she puts the fork down. She shoves the plate further away from herself. You hope is shot to pieces.

“I’m suddenly not hungry anymore. Sorry.”

You sigh again.

“You can’t this up forever, sweetie.”

“Watch me.”

On any other day, you’d admire her stubbornness. That unwillingness to yield for even a moment despite the obstacles that lay ahead of her.

“It’s not healthy.”

“Again, why do you care? Like, what’s the actual reason and not some excuse.”

“Because like I said before, you’re an innocent. An innocent dragged into a mess of a situation I’d like to help you out of. That is the truth.”

You keep circling back to that one point: she’s innocent. Because not only does she need to hear that, but you do. This girl has done nothing to you. She hasn’t broken your heart; you did that to yourself.

Any progress is good progress.

It’s your motto in your line of work. Because even anger can be used if you know what you’re doing.

“Sweetie,” you keep your tone careful, but not patronizing; Miss Hunter is a grown woman, but you don’t want to spoke her. “Grief isn’t something you can hide with an attitude.”

“What would you know? What would you and that boss of yours know about real grief rather than the lie you’re trying to tell me?”

He knows. You both know it quite well.

Sylus knows grief all too well. The days when his memories as a dragon get the worst are also the days he teases you more often. He’ll make fun of you, make your work life a living hell, and push you around those days.

But he’ll also cling to you. Be stuck to you like a barnacle on a whale. He’ll hold you close and never let go. He’ll sometimes beg you to never leave him when he thinks you’ve fallen asleep. Or he’ll wonder aloud about how he worries if you seem him as some kind of monster, a fiend.

Sylus drowns his grief in attitude. He burns it with flirting and gun fire during the night. Then he dowses it in the smoke of hushed words and spending just a little more time looking for something in the mirror.

“This isn’t about him. It’s about you. It’s about what you need. And how I can help you get it.”

A knock at the door stops her from saying anymore. You gather up the plate, school your expression, and open the door to the ever-chipper Luke.

“Bossman needs little Miss Hunter ASAP.”

Your body stiffens ever so slightly at that. It reminds of the crucial fact that you’ve been trying to drill into your skull lately: she’s his soulmate. He needs her; not you.

Shards of glass dig into your heart at Luke’s words. And maybe it somehow reflects in your face because Luke tilts his head at you.

“Lady boss?”

His tone isn’t like it normally is. The teasing is gone. The sass is gone. Instead, he looks at you the same way you used to look at him and his brother when they first came to work for Sylus. Back when they were angry little children who had only each to rely on. Back when you were slowly but surely earning the trust of two brothers who had learned from a young age no one was to be trusted.

That look makes you pat his head and force a smile onto your lips. You didn’t need to worry the twins. You didn’t need to worry anyone. You were fine. You’ve been prepared for this for years; you should be immune to anything it does to you.

“Roger. We’ll be out in a bit.”

You close the door gently. You turn to Miss Hunter who already has a bitter expression on her face as she walks towards you. You try to give her a smile to cheer her up. No matter how you felt about her, no matter how much you wanted her gone, seeing her upset made you upset. Stupid empathy.

The two of you walk to Sylus’ office in silence. But that doesn’t stop you from the occasional glance at your companion. She wears her emotions so clearly on her face that it makes you all the more curious about her. What her life is like in Linkon. What her childhood was. Who her other soulmates are.

At that thought, you stare at her threads again. They were like branches from a tree, sprouting from her heart and curling out before fading. Their appearance wasn’t anything specular; everyone’s thread looked the same before connected. You wonder how her thread to Sylus would change once their bond established. You wonder what they would have.

Shared dreams? Shared pain? Matching tattoos? Or, and this is your personal favorite, some sort of melody? It was a rare form, one of the rarest, for soulmates to connect via a song that only they knew. It couldn’t be replicated, it couldn’t even be recorded; it was just theirs.

You stomach hurts from just the thought alone. It would all be just another thing you were exempt from. Not just in the case of Sylus and Miss Hunter, but in the case of everyone. Because you don’t have a soulmate.

You keep your gaze away from her threads once that thought crosses your mind. You suppress at chuckle at her expression. Looking at Miss Hunter’s face, you’d think you were bringing her to an interrogation.

Or execution, a darker part of you whispers. You tell that part of you to fuck off.

You open the door to Sylus’ office. There was never any knocking between the two of you at times like these, when you had business to be done. And just because he was doing crazy things didn’t mean you were going to start doing that now.

You lead Miss Hunter to him with reluctance. They touch, and when nothing happens from that, Sylus steps back to leave her on the ground.

“Three days and we’re not even able to achieve a simple resonance.”

And so the show begins once again.

Author's Note: Also, please go to the original blurb to ask to be added to the taglist (it's impossible for me to keep checking every part every time I update).

Taglist: @eolivy, @rafayelridesfisheatsfish, @animegamerfox, @jasperjokester, @schrodingerskimdokja, @just--crys, @snowdynasty, @shi-thats-kiera, @mansonofmadness, @dwuclvr, @ameilli, @katiedoesstuff101, @everythingistaken00, @napa-the-yappa, @hanaluxx, @lovesick-sylus, @madam8, @tenaciouszombiewombat, @ladyparamount, @applepi405, @midnight-reverie, @69-gojos-wife-69, @bellagrayson-wayne, @phisen, @idkmanimjusthorny, @munchychuusy, @autumn2534, @poptrim, @sillyfreakfanparty, @zaynesfirefly, @flamedancer13, @thissmartdumbass, @mrsllawliet, @jeondyy, @ssetsuka, @dels-page, @that-lost-one, @johnnysactualgf, @mariquitas-en-verano @toelady, @sinnamon-bunn, @yesbiaswrecked, @doggyteam2028, @little-rays-of-darkness, @albatrossblue, @vyntheria, @silverianni, @browneyedgirl22, @tiklestar, @beaconsxd, @pepperushia

[bullet-prooflove]

The Asshole King: Jack Abbott x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @gabsgabsvaz @yousigned-upforthis @flyinglama @cosmic-psychickitty

Companion piece to:

Masochist

Seven Shades of Fucked Up (NSFW)

Meeting you was the best thing that could ever happen to Jack, he fully acknowledges that as he watches you potter about the kitchen in a Stevie Nicks t-shirt that barely covers your ass and black panties. You have Rhiannon playing on the vinyl player in the living room, the sound from the LP serenading the two of you as he sits at the kitchen table sipping decaf tea.

Before you everything was a vacuum, a slow empty death. There was no joy in his life, no heart, just the relentlessness of living in a world that lacked saturation and colour. Now he wakes up to this every day, a wife that sprinkles kisses on his face before she puts on a Fleetwood Mac record and dances around the kitchen as she makes her to do list.

The thing he loves the most about you is the fact you don’t let anything dim that light. You see the worst of humanity in your work as a psychiatrist. The broken, the damaged and sometimes the irredeemable and you handle it with a sense of grace and calm that’s truly remarkable, even if your methods aren’t exactly conventional.

He’s talking about the singing, the way you get your patients to calm down when they’re in a heightened state by using music therapy.

One of the first things people experiencing anxiety are advised to do is to breathe slowly however telling someone that usually has the opposite effect because they hone in on the fact they’re not getting enough oxygen.

That’s where singing comes in.

It’s a form of regular, controlled breathing that stimulates the parasympathetic nervous system. Focusing on the lyrics distracts patients from catastrophising, lowering their blood pressure and improving pain management.

 The first time he heard about it from Dana, he called bullshit but then he’d seen you in action in The Pitt when a vet presenting with complex PTSD was brought in, panic stricken and injured. They couldn’t calm him down and were discussing sticking him when you’d snapped on your gloves and instead of verbally manhandling him you’d taken your phone out and asked him his music preferences.

Country, he’d told you his entire body vibrating with terror.

It had taken three songs to calm him down, Jack had literally watched the tension melt from his body as you sing along with the lyrics, pretending to check vitals while encouraging him to do the same. By the time you got through Kenny Chesney’s American Kids a med student was already in the process of stitching up the 6 inch gash in his leg from the cycling accident that brought him to The Pitt in the first place.

“He spend two months in a military infirmary in Basrah.” You tell Jack in the aftermath as you fill out the discharge paperwork. “Being here took him there, which was why he was reacting so badly.”

Jack gets it, he’d worked in a dozen of those places over his years in the military and they’re not for the faint of heart.

“You are not a real person.” He’d responded, shaking his head. “You’re a fucking Disney Princess thrust into the middle of a hellhole.”

“And you’re the asshole king of said hellhole.” You’d reminded him gesturing at the chaos around you. “You know where to find me if anyone else gets too rowdy.”

He does find you, unintentionally at the end of his shift waiting for an Uber because your car’s in the shop for the third time in three months.

“Come on Cinderella.” He’d sighed because at this time of day surge charges will be through the roof. “I’ll give you a ride.”

He doesn’t make it home that until a couple of hours before his next shift because the two of you get talking about your record collection in the car. You have a rare Bob Dylan bootleg your father gave to you before he passed away and Jack, he’s been in love with that man’s music since he saw him play Nashville in the 90s. He spends the morning in your armchair, listening to the bootleg with headphones that remind him of the ones you used to get in the listening booths of those vintage record shops before they all closed down.

He jerks awake up in the early hours of the afternoon to find a blanket tucked around him and the headphones resting on the cabinet where the vinyl player resides. His gaze comes to linger on you, asleep on the couch, the book you were reading resting underneath your palm. He raises to his feet, draping the blanket over you and you mumble into the cushion, settling deeper.

“It’s alright Sleeping Beauty, it’s just me, the asshole king.” He murmurs as he picks up the book and sets it on the coffee table. “I’m gonna let myself out, let you get some rest.”

You don’t respond and he doesn’t expect you to. He’s an insomniac at heart, he hasn’t slept a full eight hours since his first tour abroad and you’re normal, so wonderfully fucking normal it hurts his heart.

It’s when he steps outside into the sun that he realises somethings changed. The world seems a little brighter and he knows that that’s because of you, you and that bootleg copy of Bob Dylan.

When you start your shift that evening you find a gift at your work station up in Psych. A glossy black bag from one of the last vinyl places in Pittsburgh. You smile as you remove the sleeve from the packaging.  

It’s a Fleetwood Mac album, one you’ve been trying to track down for a couple of years. There’s a yellow post it stuck to front, written in an unfamiliar hand.

Noticed this was missing from your collection.

- The Asshole King

That vinyl, it’s the start of something wonderful, something he never saw coming.

“You wanna do laundry or groceries?” You ask him drawing Jack back to the present as you bend over the counter, filling out your to do list. He shifts in his seat at the kitchen table, his toast forgotten as his gaze fixates on the way your ass looks in those black cotton panties.

You’ve been married three years now and he still can’t believe that this is his life.

Fleetwood Mac, he thinks as the record switches to Say That You Love Me, I owe you the fucking world.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[himasgod]

Hi! Can I make a request for a Crowley self-proclaimed father for the reader (aka Yuu)? (The reader got to the NRC before all the events at the age of 11 (roughly) and Crowley just decided to take him in.) Yes, he's a silly bird, but I think he'd be a caring silly bird. Can we get the characters' reactions to this discovery? Or some sort of domestic moment with him? (Like she gets into NRC and he just gets hyper-aware because "his little chick is so delicate and fragile, now goes to a college full of rude guys" and "kids grow up so fast 😭😭"

CROWLEY AND READER

Where you came to NRC as a child, and he raised you, becoming your father.

Short scenarios about how Crowley would act having become your self-proclaimed father <3

maybe you're interested too in this angst where you're crowley's child, where you died during your overblot and he rebuilts you like a machine...

I. THE LITTLE CHICK.

The first time Crowley found you—an eleven-year-old child standing in the middle of the Mirror Chamber, wide-eyed and trembling—he had not, in fact, planned to take you in.

In his words:

“A mere... administrative mishap! A blip in magical mirror logistics! Nothing beyond the most slightly unfortunate cosmic coincidence!”

But something about the way you had clung to the hem of his cloak—small, shaking fingers smudged with ash—had lodged somewhere in the soft sentimental cavern of his otherwise overinflated heart.

So, he’d taken you in.

Temporarily.

Except, heh, it wasn’t temporary.

He didn’t notice the shift until much later.

Not until he spent an entire day building you a makeshift bunk-bed, or the time he stitched feathers into your blanket “so you’ll feel safe while I’m away.”

Not until you fell asleep on his couch and he instinctively put a blanket over your shoulders and whispered, “My poor little chick…”

And now, years later, you're sixteen.

Standing in the main hall.

In the ceremonial robes.

“I GOT IN!”

“YES, I CAN SEE THAT, BUT—BUT—!!”

Crowley is absolutely losing it.

II. DAY ONE.

“Don’t slouch! Shoulders back! You’ll look more confident—NO, NOT TOO CONFIDENT—”

You groan.

“Crowley…”

“AHEM. Father, if you please. And I’m simply making sure you’re not eaten alive by the ravenous beasts roaming these halls!”

Crowley adjusts the edge of your collar for the third time.

“You’re so delicate! So small! So baby chick!”

“I’m an adult now ” you mutter.

“Trein is an adult too, and you're still a baby. That doesn’t count!”

You're on the way to orientation. And Crowley— bouncing with every frantic step—has not stopped adjusting, fussing, or sniffling since you left.

“You’ll write every day, yes?”

“You live here. It’s a five-minute walk, Crowley.”

“And you’ll eat three meals? And no fighting with those delinquent first-years—”

“You’re the one who let them in!”

Several students are already whispering.

"Isn't that the headmage?" "Wait, did he just call them 'my child'??" "That's gotta be a metaphor, right?"

But you don’t answer.

You just tug Crowley's gloved hand.

“It’s okay, Dad, I’m ready.”

He freezes.

Then his mask shudders—and he breaks into a wail.

“THEY CALLED ME DAD 😭😭”

III. WORDS SPREAD FAST (Too Fast)

By the time lunch rolls around, everyone knows.

You walk into the cafeteria with a tray and is immediately greeted with:

Ace: “Sooo, how’s your dad? Did he make you a lunch box? Bet it has feathers on it.”Deuce: “Wait, for real? Crowley’s your actual father?! Like—is this legal??”Cater: “This is WILD. Okay, but like—do you call him ‘Dad' in private?”Trey: “Well, that explains a lot. You do carry yourself with a certain flair.”Riddle: “Does this mean you have diplomatic immunity?!”

You groan.

“It’s not like that! He just… he raised me, okay?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Deuce my sweet boy, blinks.

“So… he really took care of you? Like, bedtime stories and snacks and all that?”

“…Yeah. He even makes pancakes on test days.”

They fidget.

“With little powdered sugar stars. Says they bring luck.”

The table falls into stunned silence. Then Ace practically chokes.

“NO WAY. CROWLEY? THAT DRAMA BIRD??”

IV. PARENTAL SUPERVISION NEEDED.

Crowley starts popping up everywhere.

Every class. Every break. Every time you get into mild trouble.

Professor Crewel: “And then we mix the potion—”Crowley: (from the back row) “Careful, my child's hair is highly flammable!!”

Professor Trein: “Any volunteers to recite today’s lesson—”Crowley: (lifting your hand) “They’re very literate. Reads three books a week. Has been reading since the age of four—”

Vargas: “Alright, time for endurance drills—”Crowley: “NOooOOoOOOOO!!! My precious hatchling has brittle ankles!!”

You, from across the track: “I DO NOT!!”

V. A QUIET NIGHT. (And the Feather Blanket)

After a long day of trying to survive combat practice and Ace’s teasing, you stumble back into Crowley’s office.

He’s in his lounge chair, reading a dusty tome.

“…Rough day, little chick?” he says.

You don’t answer.

Just walk over and curl up beside him on the couch—like you did when you were eleven and the world was strange and terrifying.

Crowley doesn’t ask. He just puts down the book.

Pulls the blanket over your shoulders.

The same one he made years ago.

Black with bits of blue feathers.

He lets you rest your head on his shoulder.

“…You’re doing well, you know,” he murmurs. “Far better than anyone gives you credit for.”

You sniffle.

“Even when I lose alchemy lab points and forget my ingredients in alchemy class?”

“Especially then,” he says proudly. “True greatness lies in flammable resilience.”

He card fingers through your hair, gentle and quiet.

“…Thanks, Dad.”

“…Of course, my dear.”

“You’re my greatest mistake, you know.”

VI. BONUS. Crowley telling them you were raised by him.

Lilia: “Fufu~ So you are raising one of your own! I had my suspicions, you know. They even have your flair for dramatics!”

Sebek: “UNACCEPTABLE. HOW DARE YOU—wait. You made them pancakes? ...Can I have some?”

Leona: “Explains why they’re just as noisy as you. Ugh.”

Azul: “Did you sign a parental contract? Because if not, I have documents—”

Rook: “What a delightful turn! A father’s devotion—it sings!”

Vil: “Honestly, they’re much more well-adjusted than I’d expect from being raised by you. I’m impressed.”

Jade: “How heartwarming. Truly, Headmage, you are full of surprises.”

Floyd: “Whaaat~ That’s sooo funny. Can I call you Papa Crow?”

VII. FINAL.

On graduation day, you stand in full uniform.

Cloak. Gloves. Tie straightened.

Crowley dabs his eyes with his sleeve, full dramatic weeping on display.

“You were just a tiny child yesterday—tiny!!! And now look at you! A graduate! Oh, if only I’d kept that first crayon drawing of me you made—”

You hug him, tightly.

“Thanks for being my dad.”

You glance over at a graduating senior who was waiting for you at the ceremony with a bouquet of roses. You smile at him.

“WHAT??? DID THAT HORMONE-MOTH MAN JUST LOOK AT YOU? AND THOSE FLOWERS? My dearest, most wonderful, once-lost-now-found hatchling— If I see him approaching you with dark intentions OR HE THINKS TO GRAB YOU BY THE WAIST OR SOMETHING AT GRADUATION, I-.”

You laugh.

“Its okay, Dad. I'm with you. I'm safe.”

[aquaholicsanonymousworld]

I’m getting a little personal with this ask for Dr. Abbot but what if the reader always complements Dr. Abbot on his gray hairs and always loves touching his waves but he’ll just roll his eyes because it’s just another thing that shows he’s an old man compared to her. But one morning the reader looks in the mirror and sees a grey hair (in my case several brought on my stress) but on herself she freaks out so now his turn to comment on it in a loving way. Hope that’s okay!

Totally ok!!!! It's so real!

Silver Linings

Pairing: Dr Jack Abbott x YoungerGf!Reader

You’d always loved Jack’s hair.

Not just because it was him—though that didn’t hurt. No, it was the way the silver threaded through the dark, how his waves were always a little unruly no matter how he tried to tame them. Like a reminder he could never be entirely controlled, not even by time.

“You have such distinguished hair,” you’d tease, trailing your fingers through it when he sat beside you on the couch reading some journal or responding to emails at an ungodly hour. “You mean I look old,” he’d reply flatly, glancing at you over the rim of his glasses. “I mean you look hot,” you’d counter. “Mature. Powerful. A little grumpy, which—bonus points.”

And he’d roll his eyes. Every time. But he let you do it—let you touch him, admire him, revel in him. Even if the gap between you made him nervous sometimes.

Which is why the scene this morning felt almost cosmically cruel.

You were brushing your teeth when you spotted it in the mirror.

Then another.

Then another.

Your heart dropped. You leaned closer to the glass, toothbrush forgotten in your mouth. “No.”

You parted your hair, fingers shaking just enough to give you away.

“No, no, no—”

You yanked the light closer and blinked. The silver wasn’t imaginary.

Several strands, glinting like betrayal in the harsh morning light.

When Jack walked into the bathroom a minute later, you were still standing there, frozen.

He paused at the doorway, toothbrush in hand, then tilted his head. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I have.” Your voice was flat. “And apparently she’s living on my scalp now.”

He blinked. “What?”

You turned to him slowly, parted your hair, and pointed. “I have gray hairs, Jack. Plural. Multiple. Like—at least six.”

There was a beat of silence.

And then, infuriatingly, he laughed.

“Oh, don’t you dare—!” you started, slapping his chest lightly as he ducked his head, still grinning.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said between chuckles, wrapping his arms around your waist despite your dramatic horror. “It’s just—you look like someone died.”

“I am dying. Of premature aging.”

Jack rolled his eyes again—fond, this time. “You’re twenty-six. One gray hair doesn’t put you in a nursing home.”

“It’s not one!”

He reached up, brushing your hair back with a gentleness that made your throat tighten.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, eyes locking on yours in the mirror.

You didn’t speak.

“You always tell me you love my gray hairs. Said it makes me look... what was it? Powerful? Sexy?”

“Distinguished,” you murmured.

He kissed your temple. “Exactly.”

You tried not to look too pleased, even as your heart calmed beneath his words.

“Guess now you’ve got a matching strand,” he said softly, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Looks good on you, by the way.”

You met his gaze again. “So you’re saying I’m aging like fine wine?”

“I’m saying,” Jack said, “you could be covered in silver and I’d still look at you like you hung the moon.”

Your throat tightened. You turned around, resting your hands on his chest.

“Okay,” you whispered. “I guess one or two... or six... isn’t the end of the world.”

He smirked. “Welcome to the silver fox club.”

You squinted. “You’re not gonna make me call you that now, are you?”

Jack leaned in, voice low against your ear. “Only if you want to.”

[solxamber]

Signed, Sealed, Bonded || Jade Leech

Being an Esper is hard. Finding a Guide is harder. Somehow, the only one who can handle you is Jade Leech, who is both the best and worst thing that has ever happened to you.

or: Guideverse AU!

Series Masterlist

So, picture this: You wake up, make yourself some coffee, look outside the window… and BAM—a glowing hell portal is vomiting out nightmare creatures like it’s Black Friday at the Underworld’s Walmart.

No big deal. Just another Tuesday.

This is life now. The universe is one big, unstable loot box, and sometimes, instead of daily struggles like taxes or existential dread, you get eldritch horrors trying to redecorate your city with human remains.

And that’s why Espers and Guides exist.

Espers are the special little guys (derogatory) with godlike powers and a tendency to explode if left unattended. They punch things, obliterate monsters, and generally keep civilization from crumbling like a stale cookie.

But Espers have one teeny, tiny problem. A small, insignificant, itsy-bitsy little flaw—

Espers have a fun little self-destruct feature where, if they overuse their powers and aren’t calmed down properly afterward, they go berserk and start turning cities into craters.

Whoops.

That’s where Guides come in—people with the power to keep Espers from self-destructing and turning the planet into a post-apocalyptic wasteland. They are the Espers’ emotional support humans. Their job is to keep Espers stable, sane, and not prone to going Godzilla-mode on a bad day.

Cool system, right? Makes sense? Keeps society from crumbling?

Yeah, except there’s a problem.

The problem is you.

You are the single strongest Esper on the planet. SSS-Class. Top of the charts. The kind of power that makes scientists scream and military generals start sweating through their uniforms. If Espers were trading cards, you’d be the one people would sell their kidneys for.

There’s just one little issue.

You… cannot be guided.

Like, at all.

Every time a top-ranking Guide tries to do their job, your body reacts like you just swallowed a fork.

S-Class Guide tries to guide you? You feel like you’ve swallowed a beehive.

A-Class Guide reaches out? Your skin crawls like you’re being haunted by the ghosts of bad life choices.

Government’s best, most elite SSS Guide gives it a shot? You feel like throwing up and committing a crime, but you can’t decide which one first.

Basically, your Esper powers took one look at every high-ranking Guide and said, “I’d rather die.”

The entire world is losing its shit over this.

The government is stressed. Scientists are conducting emergency research at 3 AM. High-ranking Guides are offended because how dare you reject their very expensive, very prestigious guidance?

Nobody knows why.

Is it a genetic anomaly? A cosmic joke? Are the gods simply looking down at you and laughing? Science is baffled. The government is stressed. At this point, your mere existence is a “can we patch this in the next update?” level of disaster.

You’re a walking nuclear reactor with no off-switch. And people are starting to panic.

And meanwhile, you’re just standing there, the world’s most unstable walking nuke, trying not to sneeze too hard in case you accidentally vaporize a small country.

It’s fine. It’s totally fine.

It’s absolutely not fine.

Because if they don’t find a Guide who can actually handle you soon…

You’re going to go berserk.

And when an SSS-Class Esper goes berserk? Well. You know those fantasy novels where an ancient dragon wakes up and annihilates an entire civilization in one breath? That, but worse.

You had been this close to blacking out.

It wasn’t supposed to be this hard. You were an SSS-Class Esper, for crying out loud. You could sneeze and flatten a city block. But that Gate had been a nightmare, and without proper guidance, your body was losing its mind. Your veins felt like molten lava, your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and your head was pounding with the kind of stress headache that could legally qualify as an assassination attempt.

So, like any responsible, law-abiding Esper who didn’t want to be put down like an unruly dog, you dragged yourself to the Guidance Center.

The moment you stepped inside, they immediately threw their best Guide at you—a fellow SSS-Class, the crème de la crème, the poster child of the entire system.

“Let’s begin,” they said, voice dripping with confidence, as if you weren’t already suffering. They reached out, their hands warm as they pressed against your skin.

And then.

Oh, God.

It hit you like a truck full of nausea and existential horror. Your stomach flipped so violently you actually gagged. Your muscles screamed in protest, every cell in your body rejecting the touch like a bad Tinder match.

You scrambled backward so fast you almost ate floor.

The SSS-Class Guide stood there, horrifically offended.

"Are you serious?" They demanded, arms crossed like a petulant child. "Again?"

You barely heard them over the sound of your own labored breathing because Wow. That had been unpleasant.

So now you were curled up on the floor of the Guidance Center, shaking from both overexertion and the delightful aftereffects of a guide touch that had made you want to throw yourself into oncoming traffic.

The SSS-Class Guide was still watching you, arms crossed, debating whether they should be more concerned about your wellbeing or their ego.

Which is exactly when Jade Leech walked in.

There was a pause.

Then a slow, deliberate click of polished shoes as he stepped toward you, tilting his head.

“…Are they supposed to look like that?” he mused aloud.

“No,” said the SSS-Class Guide, deeply unamused.

Jade hummed thoughtfully before crouching beside you, resting a hand on your shoulder. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t hesitant.

And for the first time since your powers awakened, you didn’t want to fling yourself off a building.

Your whole body went limp.

The shaking stopped. The nausea faded.

Your mind, which had been screaming at a constant 200% volume since you turned eighteen and acquired your powers, went quiet.

It was the most blissful thing you had ever felt in your entire life.

The SSS-Class Guide was gaping at you like you had just committed high treason.

"Are you kidding me?" they spluttered. "Him?"

And then, with a huff, they stomped away, absolutely furious that you—the greatest Esper in history, the walking apocalypse—had rejected them but accepted some random nobody.

You, meanwhile, felt clear-headed for the first time in years.

You looked at Jade—at his unreadable expression, at the sharpness of his gaze.

And then you asked, voice hoarse but steady, "What’s your name?"

His lips curled into a polite smile. "Jade Leech."

"And your grade?"

He tilted his head slightly, as if entertained by the question.

“B-Class.”

Silence.

You stared at him.

Then, before you could stop yourself, you started laughing.

Of course this was happening. Of course the universe gave you a Guide you could accidentally kill.

What an absolute joke.

And yet…

You didn’t let go.

Jade Leech was the key to your survival.

Not in the romantic, fated, "I would perish without you, my love," kind of way (you weren't that dramatic, despite what your coworkers said). No, this was purely a matter of self-preservation.

For years, you had been operating like a high-powered, government-issued, barely-functioning time bomb.

Every time you subdued a gate, your body veered dangerously close to going berserk, and the only thing keeping you from breaking reality into tiny, apocalyptic pieces was the occasional half-hearted guidance session that felt about as effective as slapping a band-aid on a leaking nuclear reactor.

It was not ideal.

But now?

Now you had Jade.

Jade, the B-Class Guide who had accidentally waltzed into your life, touched your shoulder, and immediately rewired your entire nervous system.

For the first time since awakening as an Esper, you had felt calm. Like your power wasn’t on the verge of ripping itself apart. Like your own body wasn’t actively rejecting the guidance meant to stabilize you.

And it was incredible.

So, being the responsible and absolutely not impulsive person that you were, you did the only logical thing.

You decided to bribe him with a gift and ask him to temporarily bind himself to you.

Look, it wasn’t permanent.

Permanent bonding was a whole different beast.

If you bonded with Jade permanently, that was it. Game over. No take-backs, no re-dos. No guiding anyone else for the rest of his life.

Espers could still receive guidance from others, sure. But Guides? They could never guide anyone else again.

Which—haha, wow,—that had never caused any problems, ever. Definitely not an entirely predictable storm of jealousy and possessiveness among Guides who suddenly couldn’t tolerate the idea of their Esper ever touching another person.

So, no. You were not going to ask him chain himself to you for eternity. That would be both cruel and incredibly selfish.

But a temporary bond?

A temporary bond would greatly reduce the risk of you accidentally draining him to the point of no return. It would give you the stability to actually push your limits without fear of self-destruction. And most importantly, it would allow both of you to thrive.

It was perfect.

Which was why, two days later, you found yourself standing at the entrance of the Guidance Center once again, clutching a neatly wrapped gift like it was a sacrificial offering.

You marched inside with the confidence of a person who had rehearsed this conversation in their head a thousand times.

And then promptly lost all of that confidence the second Jade turned to face you, smiling like he already knew exactly what you were about to say.

"Back so soon?" he asked, his voice perfectly polite. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

You cleared your throat and forced yourself to act like a normal human being.

“I wanted to thank you,” you said, shoving the box into his hands before you could second-guess yourself. “For the other day.”

Jade’s eyes flickered with something sharp and unreadable as he took the box, his fingers brushing lightly against yours.

Then, before your already struggling brain could catch up to the recklessness of what you were about to do, you pushed forward.

“I also had a proposal for you.”

Jade tilted his head, looking far too entertained.

“I see,” he said. “Do tell.”

You inhaled deeply.

"Would you be interested in forming a temporary bond with me?"

There. You said it.

Now, all you had to do was wait for him to either:

A) Refuse outright because it was too much effort.

B) Agree immediately because having the strongest Esper in existence on a leash would give him unfathomable influence.

What you did not expect was for him to smile.

Not a normal smile. Not a polite, professional, "oh wow, what a fascinating suggestion," kind of smile.

No.

This was something else.

A slow, deliberate, sharp-edged thing.

Jade stepped closer, gaze glinting with quiet amusement.

"And what," he murmured, voice too smooth, too knowing, "would you be willing to offer me in return?"

You blinked.

Oh.

Oh, you might be in deep shit.

It had been weeks.

Weeks of asking Jade to temporarily bind himself to you. Weeks of bargaining, negotiating, and trying to convince him that this wasn’t some tragic, toxic love story where the frail Guide got used up like an expired battery. Weeks of him smiling at you like you were a particularly amusing lab rat scrambling against the walls of a maze.

And yet.

Despite all of that—he still guided you.

He still stepped in when your brain felt like it was melting from the inside out, still pressed a steady hand against your skin like it was the easiest thing in the world, still whispered, “Don’t fight it. Just relax.”

Which was a very funny thing to say to someone who could literally kill you by accident.

And that was the problem.

Because he wasn’t bound to you.

Which meant that if you drained him too much—if you accidentally pushed him past his limits—there would be no failsafe.

And if that happened—if you were even a fraction too reckless—

He would die.

And you would go to jail.

And, even worse, you would probably cry.

So, obviously, the rational thing to do was to pull away whenever you felt like you were taking too much.

Which brings you to now.

Jade had been guiding you for forty-five minutes.

FORTY-FIVE. MINUTES.

An ungodly amount of time. A suicidal amount of time.

You could already see the signs of fatigue in him. His touch had grown warmer, heavier, his breaths had slowed into something almost too steady.

He was getting tired.

Which meant it was time to get the hell out of here before you became a murderer.

You twisted, trying to sit up, and—like the absolute menace he was—Jade simply… swung his legs over yours, caging you beneath him like some deranged, smug, lanky cryptid that refused to let you escape.

You froze.

He smiled.

That sharp, infuriating, absolutely unhinged smile.

"Now, now," he murmured, voice sickeningly patient, "where do you think you're going?"

You stared at him in horror.

"You've been guiding me for almost an hour," you hissed, your muscles tense with the effort of not launching him across the room. "I refuse to let you die because you’re too stubborn to let me leave."

Jade tilted his head, considering.

"Hm."

You blinked.

"Hm"???

You had just laid out the possibility of a tragic demise and all he had to say was ‘hm’???

"What the hell does that mean?" you demanded.

Jade leaned in slightly, pressing his fingers against your neck, his touch featherlight.

"I wonder," he mused, eyes glinting with something that looked too much like amusement, "do you think perhaps you are underestimating me?"

"Underestimating you?" You nearly choked on your own disbelief. "Jade, you are a B-Class Guide. I could literally snap you in half like a goddamn glow stick."

"And yet," he said smoothly, "I am still here."

Your eye twitched.

"That is not the flex you think it is—"

"Shhh," he murmured, pressing his fingers against your temple. "Relax. Just a little longer."

You wanted to argue. You really, really did.

But the second his touch deepened the guiding, your entire body sagged under the weight of exhaustion.

You hated how much you trusted it.

You hated that, in the end, you let him win.

Because as much as you wanted to fight him, as much as you wanted to break free and flee the room—

You needed this.

And he knew it.

Which was why he was smiling so much.

The absolute menace.

Today, you did something very dangerous.

No, not fighting another Gate. Not risking your life for the safety of others. Not even getting guided by a man who was one unfortunate sneeze away from becoming a tragic obituary.

No, you did something far worse.

You asked Jade Leech what he wanted in return for keeping you alive.

It was a reasonable question! A necessary question! Because at this point, the man was essentially your life support, and it felt a little irresponsible to just assume he’d be happy with some gift baskets and heartfelt thank-you notes. If you were going to keep depending on him, you needed to know what he wanted.

So you asked.

And the menace smiled.

Which immediately sent your self-preservation instincts screaming.

That was never a good sign. Jade’s smiles were like sharks in shallow water—unsettling, unnatural, and a clear warning that something was about to go very, very wrong.

You braced yourself.

And then he said:

"A nature trail."

You stared at him.

And blinked.

And then stared at him some more.

Because surely you had misheard him.

“A nature trail,” you repeated slowly, because there was no possible way that was all he wanted. You had prepared for blackmail. You had budgeted for bribes. Hell, you had been willing to break the bank if it meant keeping him around (not to brag, but the government paid you stupidly well for constantly risking your life). And yet, out of all the possible insane, ominous, power-hungry demands he could’ve made—

He was asking for a casual stroll through the wilderness?

Jade nodded, the picture of serenity. “Yes.”

"That’s it?" You squinted at him, like maybe if you looked hard enough, you’d find some hidden, sinister agenda buried in his expression. "That's all you want? Not money? Not status? Not, I don’t know, government secrets?"

Jade’s lips twitched, his amusement almost palpable. “For now.”

For now.

For now???

You triple checked that he was being serious, eyed him with the kind of deep, unblinking suspicion normally reserved for politicians and people who ate their cereal without milk, but all he did was nod serenely.

And so, finally, reluctantly, completely aware that you were probably walking into some elaborate trap—

You sighed and muttered, "Sure. What the hell."

It was almost alarming how much fun you were having.

For once, you weren’t dealing with the constant, soul-crushing sensation of your own mind and body trying to rip each other apart like two rabid raccoons fighting over a single McDonald’s fry.

For once, you could just exist without the underlying fear of accidentally exploding something—or someone—if you weren’t careful.

And as it turned out, existing was kind of nice.

You took the time to smell the flowers (literally, because Jade had shoved one under your nose and said, “Tell me, do you also detect the faintest hint of decay?” which was an incredibly alarming sentence but a nice flower).

You watched as little woodland creatures scampered through the underbrush, entirely unbothered by the fact that an SSS-Class Esper and a B-Class Guide were just casually strolling through their home like a scenic couple in a nature documentary. And honestly?

It was peaceful. Disturbingly peaceful.

But the real sight—the real discovery—was Jade himself.

You had never seen him like this before. Completely in his element. He had dumped the entirety of your picnic basket into your arms without hesitation and was now roaming freely, examining plants with the intense curiosity of a man who had just found Atlantis.

Every few minutes, he’d pause and rattle off some absurdly specific nature fact at you, like, “This particular plant releases a toxin that causes temporary blindness if ingested. Isn’t that fascinating?” or “Did you know that otters sometimes use tools to crack open shellfish? Much like humans, they have a preference for certain objects. Some even carry the same rock with them for years.”

You had absolutely no idea why you found this so entertaining.

Maybe it was the way he spoke, all smooth enthusiasm and quiet amusement. Maybe it was the way he moved, effortless, unhurried, utterly unbothered by anything except whatever flora had captured his attention next. Or maybe—God help you—it was just him.

Not that you’d ever admit that. You’d rather eat your own boots.

Still, you couldn’t help but watch as he suddenly stilled. His gaze snapped toward something in the distance, eyes gleaming with open delight, and you knew—instinctively, immediately—that something was about to go down.

And sure enough—

"Ah."

That single, quiet syllable was so ominous you had to physically fight the urge to take a step back.

Then, Jade turned toward you, expression eerily composed despite the unmistakable excitement in his gaze, and said, “Do you see that mushroom?”

You followed his gaze toward the completely ordinary-looking tree. And then you squinted.

There, just barely within sight, was a mushroom.

A mushroom that looked like every other goddamn mushroom you had passed on this trip.

And yet.

Based on the way Jade’s entire soul had just left his body in pure, unfiltered joy, you could only assume it was some rare, once-in-a-lifetime god of the fungi.

You watched as he immediately took his phone out, snapping so many pictures you were half convinced he was going to submit them to a mushroom appreciation forum.

Then he paused.

And the exhilaration on his face dimmed—just slightly.

Because, unfortunately for him, the mushroom in question was just barely out of reach.

And you—a fool, an absolute clown, an irredeemable dumbass—

Put your bags down.

Walked up to him.

And lifted him up.

For a single, terrifying moment, there was silence.

Jade froze. His hands hovered in midair, like even he couldn’t quite believe what was happening.

Then, slowly, he reached forward.

Plucked the mushroom from its resting place.

And you—practically sweating bullets at the realization of what you had just done without even thinking about it—lowered him back onto solid ground.

The first thing he did was examine the sample like it was the most precious object in the entire world. The second thing he did was glance up at you—not with his usual smug amusement, not with teasing mirth, but something else entirely.

A slow, quiet smile.

Warm. Gentle. Uncharacteristically soft.

And that was the exact moment you thought, “Fuck my life, I’m doomed.”

Without another word, you picked your bags back up and followed him to the next area.

The Gate had been particularly easy to suppress today—by which you meant no spontaneous explosions, no sudden existential dread, and, most importantly, no feeling like your brain had been wrung out like a wet dishcloth. All in all, a successful day.

So when you spotted Jade afterward, you figured you wouldn’t need much from him. A little guidance, maybe. Some grounding. Nothing too serious.

What you did not expect, however, was to immediately slump against him like a Victorian maiden succumbing to the vapors.

At first, Jade visibly tensed. His muscles coiled, and he took a sharp breath—like he had genuinely thought you had just dropped dead in his arms.

But then he glanced down.

And instead of finding you on the verge of unconsciousness due to Esper-induced burnout, he found you…completely at peace.

Relaxed.

Asleep.

And oh.

Oh, this was interesting.

Jade stilled, the way a hunter does when something rare and unexpected steps into their sights. His lips quirked, amusement flickering across his face as he tilted his head, watching you with the same fascination he reserved for poisonous plants and particularly lively prey.

You had just…collapsed. Right into his arms.

Voluntarily.

Slowly—very slowly, like he was testing the weight of a particularly fragile glass sculpture—he adjusted his stance, shifting just enough so you could lean more comfortably against him.

And when you made a soft, barely audible sigh of contentment—an actual sigh of contentment—he almost laughed.

Jade glanced around, taking in the others in the vicinity. There were still a few agents packing up equipment, cataloging monster remains, finishing the usual post-Gate cleanup. No one seemed to be paying particular attention to your current predicament.

He debated waking you.

For about half a second.

Then, instead of nudging you upright, instead of rousing you from your accidental nap, he merely settled in more comfortably, adjusted his grip, and decided:

"A little while more wouldn’t hurt."

The first time you met Floyd Leech was…an experience.

Not in the way people say, “Oh, yeah, skydiving was an experience!” or “That seafood buffet really did a number on my stomach, what an experience!” No. This was more of a “I just survived a category five hurricane with nothing but a pool noodle and sheer willpower” kind of experience.

You knew Jade's twin was an Esper, and you'd heard the rumors about Floyd’s personality. Some people said he was unpredictable, others called him a walking natural disaster with an attention span that could either last three seconds or three months. B Rank Esper Floyd Leech, SSS Rank Menace.

And then, by sheer misfortune (or fate, depending on whose side you were on), you both ended up suppressing the same Gate.

Hearing him laugh as he shredded a monster like it was nothing but a chew toy was unsettling even for you. You had seen horrors beyond human comprehension, had fought creatures made of shadows and teeth, had experienced the kind of pain that would make a lesser being crumble—and yet.

Yet.

The way Floyd’s eyes locked onto you in the middle of the battlefield, the way his grin stretched wider, wider, as if he had just found a new favorite thing to play with—your instincts screamed at you. Your fight-or-flight response hit so hard you almost accidentally activated your Esper abilities on pure reflex.

(And the worst part? You were technically stronger than him. That did not make you feel any safer.)

Then, as if to truly cement his status as an absolute enigma, he took one look at you, tilted his head, and said:

"Ooooh~! A shrimpy!"

A shrimpy.

He just…he called you shrimpy.

And the worst part? It was kind of funny. Actually, it was lowkey adorable.

So you just. Didn’t stop him.

Which he took as an invitation, apparently, because the next thing you knew, he was slapping an arm around your shoulders like you were old friends. And with zero hesitation, he dragged you along as you both exited the Gate, whistling a happy little tune as if he hadn’t just been reveling in combat two minutes ago.

You barely had time to process what had just happened before you saw Jade.

Jade’s gaze looked…sharper.

It wasn’t obvious—he was still smiling, still polite, still the ever-composed Guide who had saved your ass on multiple occasions—but there was a distinct flicker of something behind his eyes as he looked at Floyd practically draping himself over you.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t frown. Didn’t tell Floyd off.

He simply stepped forward, placed a hand on your shoulder, and gently pulled you away.

And just like that, the weight of Floyd’s arm disappeared, replaced by the steadier, more deliberate touch of his twin.

And Floyd?

Floyd just looked between the two of you.

Then, he grinned.

Then, he laughed.

And then, with all the enthusiasm of a man about to cause absolute chaos, he threw his head back and cackled.

"Ooooh, Azul is gonna LOVE this~!"

And before you could even begin to ask what the hell that meant, he waved and walked off toward a Guide—one who was probably prepared to deal with his absolute insanity.

You barely had time to recover before Jade gestured for you to sit.

Guidance was nothing new at this point. Usually, he just held your hand, grounded you with a touch, let his presence stabilize your energy until you were back to normal.

But today.

Today, he touched your foreheads together.

Your breath caught.

His hand was light against your jaw, but firm enough to keep you still. His forehead pressed against yours, close enough that you could feel his breath ghosting against your lips.

Your eyes fluttered shut on pure reflex, your fists clenching as if that would somehow stop the sudden, ridiculous way your pulse spiked.

This was fine.

This was fine.

Your mind was clear. Your energy was balanced. You were not thinking about his breath on your lips.

You absolutely, one hundred percent, were not thinking about how his voice, so soft, so deceptively gentle, murmured:

"Breathe."

You were so, so doomed.

The Gate had been massive—one of the worst ones in years.

It had opened with no warning, no telltale energy fluctuations, nothing. By the time the first responders had arrived, the battlefield was already drenched in blood.

A-class Espers, gone.

S-class Espers, gone.

By the time you had been thrown into the fray, the situation had spiraled so far out of control that your arrival felt less like a strategic decision and more like a last-ditch gamble.

Eight hours.

Eight hours of relentless combat.

Wave after wave, monster after monster, every time you cut one down, another two would replace it.

You had fought until your muscles felt like molten lead, until your vision blurred at the edges, until the very air around you burned with overuse of your own power—until the Gate finally stabilized just enough for you to close it.

And then, you stumbled out.

And everything hurt.

Everything was too much.

The sound of voices, the shifting of energy, the distant cries of the wounded—it all crashed into you like a tidal wave, scraping against your raw, frayed nerves. You were this close to losing control, to snapping under the pressure, to letting your Esper abilities swallow you whole.

But Jade wasn’t here.

Jade, your Guide, the one person who knew how to handle you when you reached your breaking point—wasn’t here.

Apparently, no one had informed him of your involvement in the battle. He was still on his way.

Which meant you were falling apart, and there was no one to catch you.

And so, the SSS-ranked Guide on standby stepped in.

The moment their hands touched you, you recoiled. Their presence was too much, too invasive, too overbearing, like someone trying to force a puzzle piece where it didn’t belong.

But you didn’t have a choice.

Their energy pressed against yours, crushing down, shoving your frayed emotions back into place like jamming a lid onto a boiling pot.

You wanted to throw up.

Your entire body screamed wrong, wrong, wrong.

But if you pushed them away, if you lost control, if you went berserk right here in the aftermath of this bloodbath—people would die.

So you clung to them, shaking, white-knuckled, letting them guide you as best as they could.

And you hoped—prayed—that Jade would get here soon.

When Jade first stabilized you, he had thought of you as entertainment.

It was hilarious, really. The strongest Esper to ever exist, the one the government practically worshiped, the one whose very presence made monsters hesitate—completely helpless without him.

Oh, you could fight. You could tear through Gates like they were made of paper, you could reduce monsters to mist and regrets, but the moment it was over? The moment your power turned inward and tried to rip you apart? Only he could fix it.

Jade had never considered himself sentimental, and certainly not possessive. People were people. They came, they went, they lived, they died. He had met more than a few Espers in his life, had guided his fair share, and yet—none of them had ever needed him. Not the way you did.

And the best part? You were terrified of hurting him.

Absolutely adorable.

Your desperation to keep him safe was comedy gold. You were an SSS-rank nightmare, strong enough to turn city blocks into craters, and yet, the moment he touched you, you flinched like you might break him. You barely let him guide you for more than a few minutes, always watching him like he was made of glass, like he might shatter if you took too much.

Jade had never been one for attachment, so he simply dodged all your attempts at even a temporary bond. What was the point? He liked the little game you two had going on. You kept asking, kept trying to tie him down, and he kept laughing and evading, watching you get more and more frustrated. Too much fun to stop now.

Even when he invited you to the nature trail, it had been on a whim. A little curiosity, a little test. He expected you to sulk in the corner, maybe grumble under your breath about how boring it was, or sigh dramatically like you were suffering for his sake.

Instead, you had participated.

You had followed him through the trees, asked questions, even leaned in close to examine the plants he showed you. And when he couldn’t reach a mushroom, you had—without hesitation, without even thinking—simply lifted him up.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

That had been the moment something inside him had shifted.

Jade wasn’t sure he liked it.

It was unfamiliar, uncomfortable. Unsettling. A quiet sort of tug, deep in his chest, something that made him pause when he looked at you.

Before, it had been easy to laugh off questions.

"Jade, what’s the deal with you and them?" someone would ask, and he would smirk, deflect, change the subject.

Now?

Now, when people asked, he had to bite back the urge to say, “They’re mine.”

So when he heard about the Gate—eight hours, a battle, an ambush that had already killed dozens before you were called in—

He didn’t hesitate.

He had barely taken the time to grab Floyd, all but shoving him into the driver’s seat. "Drive."

Floyd, ever delighted by drama, had driven like a man possessed. Jade wasn’t entirely sure how they weren’t in a burning wreck by the time they arrived, but at least they got there fast.

And when he stepped onto the battlefield, pushing past medics, ignoring protocol—he saw you.

Sick. Wounded. Barely standing.

In the arms of someone else.

His stomach turned.

Jade had never experienced jealousy before, not in any real way. He was too patient, too controlled, too much of a sadist to truly be envious of anything. But seeing you there, shaking and exhausted, clinging to someone who wasn’t him—

Something ugly coiled in his chest.

For the first time in his life, Jade Leech felt like throwing up.

The moment you saw Jade, it was over for the poor, unfortunate soul currently keeping you upright.

You shoved the deeply offended Guide off you like they were an inconvenience, a minor roadblock between you and salvation. You could apologize later. Right now, your legs were giving out, your head was spinning, and the only thing you knew for certain was that you needed him.

Jade barely had time to react before you reached for him, stumbling forward, barely coherent, barely standing.

And he ran to you.

Jade Leech—calm, composed, unshakable Jade—ran.

You collapsed against him the second he was close enough, clutching him like a man stranded in the desert clutching the first drop of rain. His touch was the only thing keeping you tethered to reality, the only thing that made the burning, suffocating feeling inside you ease just a little.

“Thank you,” you gasped, fingers twisting in the fabric of his uniform, voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you for coming.”

Jade stiffened.

You barely registered it. You were too far gone, too exhausted, too feverish. But if you had been paying attention, you would have seen something rare, something almost unheard of—

Jade Leech looking completely and utterly shocked.

Like he hadn’t expected you to say that. Like he hadn’t expected you to look at him like he was something worth holding onto.

And then, because you were nothing if not a disaster, you giggled—actually giggled, delirious and exhausted and overwhelmed by relief.

“Your face…” you murmured, the edges of your vision darkening. “You look so—”

And then you went completely limp in his arms.

Jade was not panicking.

No, truly, he wasn’t. Panic was an unbecoming emotion, a pointless thing that only clouded one’s judgment. It was inefficient. Wasteful. Jade Leech did not panic.

So when you went completely limp in his arms, when your body sagged against him like a puppet with its strings cut, he did not panic.

He simply—assessed the situation.

He shook you gently, then not-so-gently, but you were completely unresponsive, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps. His hands slid over your back, fingers pressing against the pulse points in your wrists, your neck—too fast, too unsteady, too weak.

He tried guiding you, pushing that familiar, stabilizing force into you, but it was like pouring water into a cup that had already shattered—it wasn’t enough.

You needed something more.

Jade hesitated.

For the first time in years, he hesitated.

And then, before he could think better of it, before he could talk himself out of it, he leaned in and kissed you.

It was not soft, nor was it gentle. This was not a kiss meant to be romantic, nor was it something he had ever done before. But kissing—intimate, overwhelming, all-encompassing kissing—had long been known as one of the most effective ways for a Guide to stabilize an Esper.

And Jade had never needed to put in this much effort before.

Your lips were warm beneath his, feverish and trembling. He could feel it the second it worked—your grip on him tightened, fingers twisting in his coat as you gasped against his mouth. A shudder ran through your body as you pulled him closer, kissed him back.

Jade felt something snap.

It was an ugly thing, this feeling in his chest. Sharp-edged and burning. He didn’t know if he was kissing you to help you, to save you—

Or if he was kissing you because he wanted to.

But then—oh, then—his lips curled against yours as a slow, unbearable sense of triumph unfurled inside him. Because you weren’t just kissing him back.

You were kissing him back in front of everyone.

In front of all the other Guides who had spent years chasing after you, aching for the chance to stabilize you, to prove themselves worthy of being your match.

And yet, it was his arms you had collapsed into. His touch that had soothed you. His lips you were parting for, grasping at like he was the only thing keeping you from slipping into the abyss.

Jade had spent months dodging your attempts at forming a temporary bond, laughing as you fumbled for something more than what he was willing to give.

Now, you were clinging to him.

And wasn’t that just the most delicious thing?

Waking up to someone kissing you was new.

Waking up to Jade kissing you, though? That was absolutely not on your bingo card.

Your mind, sluggish from the near-death experience of the century, took a moment to catch up. There was warmth against your lips—soft, careful, lingering. A hand at the back of your neck, cool fingers threading through your hair. The faint scent of damp earth and saltwater, familiar, grounding.

And then, your body caught up with your brain and realized oh, holy shit, that’s Jade.

A normal person would pull away, maybe demand an explanation. Possibly scream.

You?

You wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him closer.

Jade let out a noise—half a laugh, half a surprised hum—but he didn’t stop you. If anything, he melted into you, his lips curling into a smile against yours. His hand tightened at your nape, fingers splaying against your back, and when you deepened the kiss, he sighed into your mouth like he had been waiting for you to do it.

That was almost enough to send you straight into cardiac arrest.

When you finally pulled away, you were fully awake, body thrumming with energy. Not just from the guiding—though, yeah, that was part of it—but from the undeniable, inescapable fact that Jade Leech had just kissed you. That you had kissed him back.

Jade didn’t move far. If anything, he leaned in closer, forehead brushing against yours, his breath still warm on your lips. His gaze flickered across your face, taking in the flush burning its way up your cheeks, the way you were still holding onto him like you’d fall apart if you let go.

You wanted to say something, maybe tease him, maybe demand an explanation, but words weren’t exactly functioning right now. You could barely think beyond holy shit that was the best kiss of my life.

Jade, for once, wasn’t smug.

Or, no. He was trying to be. He had the smirk, the casual tone, the playful tilt of his head. But his fingers twitched against your back, his grip just a little too tight. And when he finally spoke, his voice was a fraction softer than usual, a little too careful.

"Would you," he said, "perhaps, be interested in permanently bonding with me?"

You blinked.

Jade Leech. Jade Leech. The same Jade who had dodged every attempt you made at even a temporary bond, who found it hilarious that only he could stabilize you, who treated your guiding sessions like some kind of ongoing game.

That Jade had just asked if you wanted to bond.

Permanently.

Your heart stuttered. His hand was trembling.

He swallowed, like he was waiting for you to say no.

You didn't answer. Not with words, anyway. Instead, you grabbed him by the collar and kissed him again.

Jade made a startled sound before melting into you completely, his arms locking around you like he had no plans of letting go. His lips curled into another smile against yours—this time, not smug, but genuine.

Like he had won.

You had asked him eighteen times.

Eighteen.

And, frankly, Jade was getting impatient.

The first time, it had been endearing. You had looked at him with wide, wary eyes, like you thought this was some elaborate joke. You had stammered out a, "You—You're sure? Like, actually sure?" and Jade, who was in a good mood, had simply hummed and said yes.

The second time, it had been amusing. You had grabbed him by the wrist, pulled him aside, and, in a whisper like you were plotting treason, said, "Look, I won’t be mad if you back out. You know that, right? Like, this is a huge deal, and if this was just, y’know, heat of the moment, that’s totally okay. No hard feelings."

The third, fourth, fifth, and so on?

Infuriating.

Jade could not, for the life of him, figure out how to convince you that he meant what he said. Yes, he wanted to bond. Yes, permanently. No, he had not lost his mind.

And yet, here you were, pacing across his living room, your arms crossed, rambling for the nineteenth time about how he still had a choice, how you wouldn’t hold it against him if he didn’t want to go through with it, how he wouldn’t be able to guide anyone else ever again if he bonded to you, how that might be too much to give up.

Jade, stretched out on the couch, chin propped against his palm, sighed.

He had enough patience to last centuries.

But this?

This was getting ridiculous.

"—and I'm just saying," you continued, voice a little frantic, "I've seen Guides get really resentful about it. You could go from stabilizing a hundred people to just me. And you know how bad I get, how it hurts, and I'm not saying you can't handle it, but, like, are you sure? Like, really sure? Because—"

Jade leaned forward, grabbed your collar, and kissed you.

You stumbled, caught off guard, and his lips curled when he felt you tense up before relaxing completely. He kissed you slow, deliberate, like he was trying to make you feel the answer you had refused to believe.

And when he finally pulled away, he let his teeth graze your bottom lip just slightly, smirking when he felt you shiver.

"Does that answer your question?" he asked, voice smooth, teasing.

You opened and closed your mouth like a fish out of water.

Jade’s smirk widened.

"You're overthinking it," he said, reaching out, gripping your wrist, tugging you closer. "There’s no one who could entertain me quite like you do, you know? Maybe it’s time for a career change. I’ll be your Guide, and yours alone."

Something inside you lurched.

Something possessive.

Jade, yours.

Only yours.

His gaze flickered to your lips. Amused. Challenging.

"So?" he said, voice mocking light, but his fingers tightened around your wrist, his pulse beating just a little too fast. "Are we doing this or not?"

Your breath hitched.

And then, you grabbed him by his collar, yanked him down, and kissed him again.

This time, you bit his lip.

Jade laughed into your mouth—pleased, triumphant—before pulling you against him and kissing you so deeply you felt it in your bones.

And just like that, the bond clicked into place.

Waking up with Jade curled against you was a rare privilege.

For one, he was a light sleeper. Most of the time, you barely shifted and he’d already be watching you like some creepy forest cryptid. But today, he must’ve been exhausted from the bonding because he was still tucked against you, his breathing slow and utterly unguarded.

It was… nice.

Nice enough that you felt unreasonably smug about it.

You shifted just a little, tightening your hold around him, and he hummed in contentment, pressing closer without fully waking up. Unfair. How was this the same Jade who deliberately guided you half the time by whispering things against your lips just to make you flustered?

You could get used to this.

And then it hit you.

You’d bonded. Permanently.

But you had never actually asked him to be yours.

As in, romantically.

Your eyes snapped open. Oh. Oh, you had fumbled.

You knew Jade had agreed to the bond, obviously, but—was he in love with you? Did he see this as just a Guide-Esper partnership? Did you just lock yourself into a lifelong working relationship like some corporate contract??

He slowly stirred and just as he blinked at you, before you could think better of it, you blurted out, "What are we?"

Jade went still.

Like, completely, horrifyingly motionless.

You felt him exhale sharply, his hand twitching against your side, as if physically restraining himself.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then, finally, slowly, he pulled back just enough to look at you, and the expression on his face was somewhere between fondness, disbelief, and the soul-crushing realization that he was in love with a complete idiot.

"...Are you serious?" he asked, his voice painfully even.

You hesitated. "...Yes?"

Jade closed his eyes.

He inhaled.

He exhaled.

He inhaled again.

Then, finally, he muttered, "God give me strength."

You frowned. "Look, I’m just saying, you never actually—"

"Do you think I would bond with you permanently if I wasn't in love with you?" he asked, voice slower, more deliberate, as if carefully handling a very stupid but very precious object.

You blinked.

Paused.

And then you felt heat creep up your neck.

"...Oh," you said, a little dumbly.

Jade sighed.

But before he could say anything else, you reached out and pulled him back into your chest.

You hid your face against his hair.

"...Love you too," you mumbled, voice muffled, but he could hear the smile in it.

Jade, after a long beat of silence, finally let out a breathless laugh.

And as you held him close, warm and undeniably happy, he thought, Yup. They’re my dumbass.

Masterlist

[astrolook]

Degree Theory: Astrology’s Version of Skill Levels (Noobs to Final Bosses) 🎮🌟

You already know your Sun sign, but did you know the degree number it’s at can unlock even more secrets about you? 🤯

Every planet in your birth chart sits at a specific degree (0°-29°), and these numbers add an extra layer of meaning to your personality, strengths, and even life lessons.

Let’s break it down planet by planet—with a fun, no-BS take.

0° – The Cosmic Newborn 👶

"I’m here to start something big."

Planets at 0° act like fresh energy—pure, unfiltered, and ready to shake things up. People with 0° placements feel like pioneers, as if the universe dropped them off and said, "Figure it out!"

🔹 Sun at 0°: You radiate raw, unfiltered main character energy. You’re not here to follow—you're here to lead (or at least dramatically exist).

🔹 Moon at 0°: Your emotions are pure instinct—you don’t just feel things, you ARE the feeling. Mood swings? Nah, mood rollercoasters.

🔹 Mercury at 0°: Words just spill out, whether they make sense or not. Genius or chaotic chatterbox—depends on the day.

🔹 Venus at 0°: You love like a Disney princess—pure, big, dramatic. Also, zero poker face when you’re into someone.

🔹 Mars at 0°: Immediate action. No waiting, no thinking, just punching the gas (and sometimes people).

🔹 Jupiter at 0°: The lucky golden retriever of astrology. You say yes to everything, and somehow life rewards you for it.

🔹 Saturn at 0°: Born responsible. You came out of the womb stressed about taxes.

🔹 Uranus at 0°: You’re the definition of unpredictable. Even you don’t know what you’ll do next.

🔹 Neptune at 0°: You live in your own fantasy world, and reality is just a suggestion.

🔹 Pluto at 0°: Intensity level? Maximum. You were born with a “destroy and rebuild” button.

1°-9° – The Rising Star 🌟

"I’m developing my power."

Planets at early degrees feel like fresh talent in training—raw, ambitious, and figuring things out.

🔹 Sun at 5°: You’re the rising star in your social circle. Humble beginnings, but just wait—you're gonna shine.

🔹 Moon at 3°: Emotional development in progress. You’re learning what feels right and what just feels…ick.

🔹 Mercury at 7°: Brain-to-mouth filter? Still buffering. But your ideas? Gold.

🔹 Venus at 2°: Love is cute, fun, flirty—until you catch feelings, then it’s panic mode.

🔹 Mars at 8°: Your drive is explosive, but figuring out when to stop is the real challenge.

🔹 Jupiter at 6°: Luck works in your favor when you’re brave enough to take risks.

🔹 Saturn at 9°: Learning responsibility early in life, but still finding that work-hard-play-hard balance.

🔹 Uranus at 4°: Experimenting with your rebellious streak, but not fully committing (yet).

🔹 Neptune at 1°: A dreamer who’s just waking up to their spiritual and creative potential.

🔹 Pluto at 5°: Transformation is happening, but it’s not at full power (yet).

10°-19° – The Master of the Craft 🎓

"I know exactly what I’m doing."

Middle-degree planets are strong, balanced, and naturally expressed—not too raw, not too extreme.

🔹 Sun at 15°: Peak confidence. You own your personality like it’s patented.

🔹 Moon at 12°: Emotionally balanced—until someone messes with your peace. Then it’s war.

🔹 Mercury at 18°: Quick wit, great communicator, could talk their way out of a crime.

🔹 Venus at 14°: Aesthetic queen/king. Your love life and your fashion sense? Both on point.

🔹 Mars at 17°: Strategic AF. You know when to strike and when to chill—warrior with a plan.

🔹 Jupiter at 11°: Wise and lucky. Life is a game and you’ve got the cheat codes.

🔹 Saturn at 19°: The mature friend who somehow also enjoys chaos. You handle responsibility like a pro.

🔹 Uranus at 16°: Balanced rebel. Knows when to push boundaries and when to play along.

🔹 Neptune at 10°: Dreams are just clear enough to bring to reality. Manifesting pro.

🔹 Pluto at 13°: Power? Controlled but always present. You scare people (in a good way).

20°-28° – The Old Soul 🦉

"I’ve seen it all, and I’m here to finish the job."

Late-degree planets are intense, wise, and powerful—but also impatient because they’ve been through it all.

🔹 Sun at 25°: You’re a boss, period. No time for games, just legacy-building.

🔹 Moon at 22°: Emotionally deep AF. You KNOW things before people even open their mouths.

🔹 Mercury at 28°: Talks like a professor and a stand-up comedian at the same time.

🔹 Venus at 26°: Love is serious business. No casual dating, just intense connections.

🔹 Mars at 21°: Unstoppable force. You’ve already mastered action—now you’re here to win.

🔹 Jupiter at 23°: Wise beyond your years. You’ve learned all the lessons and now you’re the teacher.

🔹 Saturn at 27°: Life has tested you more than most, but you wear your scars like armor.

🔹 Uranus at 28°: Fully awakened rebel. You break all the rules, but somehow succeed anyway.

🔹 Neptune at 24°: Master manifestor. You make the impossible seem normal.

🔹 Pluto at 27°: Your power is legendary. You were born to make generational changes.

29° – The Fated Degree 🔥 (Final Boss Level of Astrology)

"This energy is my final test."

29° is called the "Anaretic Degree," aka the boss battle of astrology. It’s like cramming for a final exam—the universe is making sure you’ve truly mastered this planetary energy. If you have a planet here, there’s often urgency, intensity, and a feeling of fate around that area of life.

🔹 Sun at 29°: Walking powerhouse. You’ve learned all there is about your identity, and now it’s your final test to own it. Spotlight finds you whether you want it or not.

🔹 Moon at 29°: Emotional sage. You’ve felt it all, been through emotional hell and back, and now your intuition is on god-tier mode. But emotions can feel overwhelming, like you're carrying generations of feelings.

🔹 Mercury at 29°: Brilliant but exhausted mind. Your thoughts race at 5G speed, but decision-making is HARD because you see all the options. Overthinking is your enemy.

🔹 Venus at 29°: Love and beauty master. You’ve seen every possible romantic situation—loyalty, betrayal, passion, heartbreak. Now, love feels fated and no casual flings will do.

🔹 Mars at 29°: The warrior with no off switch. You’ve been in SO many battles (literal or metaphorical) that your go-to reaction is "fight first, think later." But the lesson? Not every war is worth it.

🔹 Jupiter at 29°: Lucky but reckless. You know how to take risks and make big moves, but sometimes it’s too much, too fast. Learning when to pull back is key.

🔹 Saturn at 29°: The old soul who’s been through the wringer. You’ve mastered responsibility, but you might feel like you’ve been an adult since age 5. Final test? Balancing hard work with actual joy.

🔹 Uranus at 29°: Rebel genius. You’ve already mastered breaking rules, revolutionizing ideas, and making history. Now? You need to use that power responsibly.

🔹 Neptune at 29°: Spiritual visionary. You’ve seen through the illusion, lived in your dreams, and touched the mystical. Now, the challenge is staying grounded in reality while keeping the magic alive.

🔹 Pluto at 29°: Transformation overload. You were born into powerful, life-changing experiences. Intensity follows you like a shadow, but your final test is learning to control the fire instead of letting it consume you.

So, What’s Your Degree Number? 🤔

Want to know what your planet’s degrees say about you? Message me for a personalized astrology reading and take a look at my pinned post as well! 🔮✨

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