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odileeclipse · 4 months ago

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In the Presence of Truth {"Sage of Truth" (SMC) x Reader} PT 1

(disclaimer: I envision the academy to be more of a college setting everyone is an adult in this story)

The grand lecture hall of Blueberry Yogurt Academy was alive with the quiet rustle of parchment and the scratch of quills. Golden candlelight flickered against stained glass windows, casting soft shadows over rows of students hunched over their desks, diligently transcribing notes. The air smelled of old books, melted wax, and a faint trace of ink. You sat near the middle far enough from the front to avoid your professor’s direct scrutiny, yet not so far that you could escape his line of sight entirely. Despite your best efforts to keep up, the equations scrawled across the massive chalkboard blurred together into an indecipherable mess. Your quill hovered hesitantly over your notes, your parchment an uneven battlefield of crossed-out mistakes and half-formed thoughts. Professor Almond Custard Cookie stood at the front, the very embodiment of patience. He was a well-respected scholar, known for his gentle demeanor and dedication to his students. His robes, embroidered with constellations, shimmered faintly as he gestured toward the board, explaining the intricacies of magical resonance theory with practiced ease. “Now, if we consider the fluctuation in mana flow when exposed to unstable astral properties…” His voice was steady, warm, inviting understanding. The class nodded along, following his train of thought. You, however, found yourself lost. Again. Your parchment was a disaster. The numbers weren’t aligning, and no matter how much you tried to trace back to where you went wrong, the logic continued to slip through your grasp. You tapped your quill against the desk, willing the knowledge to take root in your mind.

“Let’s test our understanding,” professor Almond Custard Cookie said, turning toward the class. “If one were to stabilize a fluctuating mana field under a lunar eclipse, what key principle must be applied to prevent collapse?” A silence hung in the air, the pause filled only by the quiet shifting of students preparing to answer. You ducked your head slightly, praying someone else would speak first. But then…“(y/n) cookie, why don’t you give it a try?” Your stomach twisted into a knot. You could feel the weight of every gaze turning toward you, the quiet anticipation of your classmates pressing down. You swallowed, your throat dry. You scrambled for an answer, flipping through your notes in desperation. You knew you had studied this. You had read the chapter, listened to the lectures. But now, under you professor’s expectant gaze, your thoughts tangled into a panicked blur. “I, um… Is it… increasing the leyline attunement?” you ventured, your voice barely above a whisper. A pause. Professor Almond Custard Cookie gave a long, measured sigh. Not of anger, nor disappointment, just exhaustion. The kind that had been building for weeks. “Not quite,” he said gently, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “We’ve gone over this concept multiple times. Think back to last week’s lecture on celestial harmonics. You need to apply?...” You stared at him, wide-eyed, willing the answer to come. It didn’t. “The Principle of Arcane Equilibrium,” another student chimed in smoothly. “Exactly,” your professor said with a nod. He turned back to the board, seamlessly continuing the lesson, but the damage was done. You sank lower in your seat, heat creeping up your neck. Another mistake. Another moment where you had failed to grasp something that seemed so simple to everyone else. You risked a glance around, noting how some students had already returned to their notes, while others still cast you sideways glances. The rest of the lecture dragged painfully onward, your mind struggling to keep up, your parchment becoming messier with each passing minute.

The lecture hall hums with quiet murmurs as professor Almond Custard Cookie wraps up the day's lesson. Parchment rustles, chairs creak, and students shuffle about, eager to flee the suffocating weight of academia. Yet, you remain firmly in your seat, your stomach twisting into knots as you recognize the familiar look of mild disappointment in Professor Almond Custard Cookie’s eyes. “Stay behind,” he instructs, his voice measured yet firm. You swallow hard, nodding as you watch your classmates file out. Some cast sympathetic glances, others remain indifferent, and a few are too absorbed in their own work to even notice. The moment the last student disappears through the doorway, the room falls into silence. Your professor exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose before turning his sharp yet patient gaze onto you. “This is becoming a pattern,” he begins, his tone even but laced with exhaustion. “Your understanding of today’s lesson was…” He trails off, searching for the right word. “Lacking.” You offer a small, sheepish smile, hoping to lighten the mood. “I prefer ‘in progress.’” Your professor merely raises a brow. “If I thought humor could salvage your grasp on theoretical constructs, I’d let you continue. But we both know that isn’t the case.” Your smile falters. “I… I really am trying.” His sigh is not unkind, but it carries the weight of repeated conversations just like this one. “I know you are. And I admire that. But effort without direction is like wandering a maze blindfolded. You need guidance.” His expression softens ever so slightly. “That’s why we’re here.”

You nod, the weight of his words settling in your chest. It’s not that you don’t want to improve..it’s that no matter how hard you try, the knowledge always seems just out of reach. It slips through your grasp like water through your fingers, tauntingly close yet impossible to hold. Professor Almond Custard Cookie begins asking questions, reviewing concepts you had fumbled with earlier in class. You do your best to keep up, to piece together the fragmented bits of knowledge floating around in your head, but your responses are riddled with hesitation. Every answer feels uncertain, the words sticking to your tongue with the distinct flavor of doubt. With each incorrect response, his patience, while still present, grows thinner. “Again,” he instructs. You try. You really try. But the answer slips away from you once more. A heavy silence stretches between you, thick with frustration. Both yours and the professor’s. He exhales slowly, rubbing his temples before straightening. “We need a different approach. Clearly, repetition isn’t working. Perhaps-” The door creaks open. A voice, smooth and measured, laced with an unmistakable curiosity, fills the space. “Ah, Professor. I was hoping to catch you.” You stiffen.

Standing in the doorway is none other than Shadow Milk Cookie, the Sage of Truth himself. Your heart lurches. You’ve never seen him in person before. He is a figure of legend within academic circles, a scholar whose intellect is unmatched, whose wisdom is sought by the greatest minds in the Academy. A beacon of knowledge. A paragon of truth. And now he stands before you. His heterochromatic gaze sweeps the room before settling on the professor. “I have been wrestling with a theorem,” he continues, stepping inside, the door closing behind him with a soft click. “And while I am confident in my deductions, I would value your insight.” Professor Almond Custard Cookie, who had moments ago been at the end of his patience, now straightens, the weariness in his eyes momentarily lifting. “Shadow Milk Cookie,” he greets. “Your timing is impeccable.”

Your stomach churns. Of all times for such a revered figure to appear, why now? Why, when you’re floundering under scrutiny, your academic inadequacies laid bare? Shadow Milk Cookie’s gaze flickers to you, curious but not unkind. “Ah. A student?” your professor nods. “One in need of assistance.” Your face burns. “I’ll figure it out,” you blurt out hastily, gripping the edges of your parchment as if it might shield you from their gazes. “Really, I don’t want to waste your time.” Shadow Milk Cookie tilts his head slightly, amusement flickering in his eyes. “A curious notion,” he muses. “Knowledge is never a waste of time.” Your fingers tighten around the parchment. It’s hard to breathe under the weight of his presence. He teaches only the brightest, engages in discussions so profound that even your professor would hesitate before challenging him. What could he possibly gain from helping someone like you? Your professor, sensing your hesitation, sighs. “Shadow Milk, perhaps you…” “I would be delighted to assist,” the Sage of Truth interjects smoothly. “If you would permit me, of course.”

You hesitate, anxiety curling in your stomach. “I… I don’t know if I” “You are struggling,” he states plainly, though not unkindly. “That is evident. But struggling alone is folly. Allow me to help. Perhaps, in doing so, I too shall learn something new.” You freeze. He, a renowned scholar, thinks he could learn from you? Professor Almond Custard Cookie sighs once more but nods. “Very well. Let’s see how this plays out.” Shadow Milk Cookie settles beside you, exuding a quiet confidence that is neither overwhelming nor condescending. “Let’s begin,” he says, his voice smooth and patient. “Tell me where you are lost.” You swallow hard. This is going to be a long evening.

Shadow Milk Cookie’s…no, the Sage of Truth’s voice was smooth and composed as he spoke, his words woven with certainty. His mismatched eyes gleamed with an almost knowing amusement, yet his demeanor remained calm, far from the theatrical arrogance whispered about in the Academy halls. Despite that, you couldn’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. He was someone who taught the highest scholars those with brilliant minds that grasped complex theories with ease, not someone who wasted time on students like you. And yet, here you were, sitting across from him, hands gripping the edge of your desk so tightly your fingers ached. “I understand that this may seem overwhelming,” the Sage of Truth said, his tone gentle, as though he sensed the weight of your unease. “But the key to knowledge is patience, and patience is something I have in abundance.”

You swallowed hard, keeping your head low. “I um, I appreciate it, but…” Your voice wavered, barely above a whisper. “Surely you have more important things to do, especially with the title you hold. You don’t have to waste your time with me.” Your professor who had been silent for the past few moments exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. “For the love of-...(y/n) cookie, he’s offering to help you. Do not look a gift horse in the mouth.” You flinched at the exasperation in his tone and turned your gaze toward him in silent pleading. Please let me go. Professor Almond Custard Cookie only gave you a look that said, absolutely not. The Sage of Truth rested his chin on his hand, watching you with measured interest. “I see…” he mused. “You hold great reverence for me, yet that reverence manifests as avoidance.” He tilted his head slightly. “Tell me, do you think knowledge is only for the most gifted?” You hesitated before answering. “N-No, but… I’m not…” You clenched your fists, feeling heat creep up your neck. “I’m not like the others who study under you. I can’t even grasp the basics of what Professor Almond Custard Cookie teaches me. It’d be a waste of your time to”

“Nonsense.” His interruption was firm yet kind. “All who seek truth are worthy of learning. If you are struggling, then that is simply the nature of learning. You are no less deserving of knowledge than those who excel with ease.” The conviction in his voice left you stunned. Your professor sighed, standing and stretching out his back. “Honestly, if anyone can get through to you, it’d be him,” he muttered before making his way toward his bookshelf. You, however, were still tense, unsure of how to respond to the Sage of Truth. Your heart pounded in your chest, an odd mixture of admiration and anxiety weighing heavily on you. “I” You paused, unsure how to address him without sounding foolish. You had never once uttered his name, not even in passing conversation with others. It felt too improper, too intimate, for someone of his stature. Instead, you swallowed your nerves and whispered, “I don’t want to trouble you.”

He smiled slightly, shaking his head. “It is no trouble. But if you feel so strongly about it…” He leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady. “Then prove me wrong.” Your breath hitched. “Prove to me that my time is wasted. That you are beyond help.” His tone was almost challenging, yet the warmth in his voice remained. “Show me that you cannot learn, and I shall leave you be.” It was an impossible challenge. And he knew it. You bit your lip, feeling trapped. No matter what, there was no way to argue against the Sage of Truth. “…Where do we start?” You finally whispered. His smile widened just a fraction. “Excellent.” You looked at him confused…did he not hear your question? No matter you let it go, after all you’re in no position to question anything.

A/N I forgot to post this last night LOL please enjoy this will be a slow burn so bear with me <3

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pathologicalreid · 11 months ago

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for the fear of falling apart | part three

when it seems like a return to normalcy is impossible, you decide that something has to give, but will it bend or will it break?

series masterlist

who? spencer reid x jareau!reader category: angst content warnings: fear of drowning, therapy, mommy and daddy issues, sigmund freud, nightmares and ptsd, sleep deprivation, takes place during 15x4 "saturday" (max does not exist in this au), stalkers, yelling, police, domestic disturbance, broken dishes, severe self image issues, crying, implies that jj is sometimes not the greatest friend, marriage and marriage counseling, mentions the death of grace lynch, the chameleon arc, reader and spencer are both broken people sry. things get resolved (or do they?) word count: 5.13k a/n: i'm trying to come to terms with the fact that people will not like how this part goes, but i do think it's important to remember that this is not where it ends. it's probably easy to guess what episode I'm rewriting next. lol. let me know your thoughts and feelings because i am dying to know.

“Are you glad to be back at work?” Your therapist asked you, writing down your personal information on the form on her clipboard before she met your stare.

Chewing impatiently on the inside of your lip, you glanced over to the clock that was hung above the door, dooming you to another forty-five minutes with Dr. Harmon. “Yes, I love desk duty,” you told her, flashing a fake smile in her direction.

The older woman looked at you doubtfully, and you silently begged for her to sign your return to duty forms. “I thought we spoke about using sarcasm as a coping mechanism,” she responded in a way that made you feel chastised.

You raised your eyebrows at her, gray hair neatly combed into a tight bun, you had spent more time with your therapist for the past two months than you had any of your family – the rest of your time was spent retraining your body, usually within the limitations of your doctor’s orders. “And I thought we talked about there being worse coping mechanisms that I could be using,” you countered, leaning back in her chair.

She shrugged helplessly, “Well, I’m not sure about signing your release forms. You could be a liability in the field.”

Eyes widening, you tilted your head to the side, “No, no, no, I’ve grown a new appreciation for the desk workers in the BAU. I even stopped laughing when people refer to Agent Anderson as Grunt Anderson,” you informed her, nodding as if that would help convince her of your honesty.

Checking off a box on your form, she set the clipboard on her side table, just out of your view. Taking a deep breath, Dr. Harmon leaned forward and folded her hands over her knee, “Have you spoken to your sister since the last time I saw you?”

You leaned your head back, staring at the tiles of the ceiling as any hope of returning to the field left your body.

One of your very first dates with Spencer had been at the Academy’s shooting range, you had a lucky spot there, it was where you had aced your qualification as a cadet, and it was pure luck that it had been available when you arrived.

As your paper target was brought forward, you slipped off your headphones and set your weapon down, studying the results as you chewed on your bottom lip nervously.

“Hey,” Spencer said from behind you, casually leaning against the wall behind you.

You jumped slightly as the sound of his voice took you away from your anxiety, “Hey,” you echoed, holstering your weapon as you sent your target back for someone to change it out.

“I thought you were going to come to the BAU after therapy,” he explained, arms crossed in front of his chest in his charcoal suit, camouflaging himself with the steely gray of the shooting range.

Pursing your lips, you made sure you had your phone in your pocket before grabbing your bag, “I wanted to get some practice in before my requalification test.”

He looked surprised for a moment, “Did your therapist sign your return to duty?”

“No,” you muttered, knowing that you wouldn’t be eligible to take your firearms requalification until after you had been cleared by a psychiatrist.

Any surprise quickly left his face, “What did she say, then?”

You rolled your eyes, “She told me that it’s possible that my strained relationship with my parents is negatively affecting my performance in my sessions. Then she threw a Freud biography at my head.”

“Did you talk to her about the nightmares?” He asked, following you as you checked out of the shooting range, waving to a gaggle of cadets as they noticed the BAU agents in their general vicinity.

Faltering as you opened the door, you flung the glass door open and trudged out of it, “I have it under control,” you lied through your teeth, continuing your way to the elevator.

The tapping of Spencer’s shoes signified that he was following you, holding his hand over the sensor while you stepped in and using his knuckle to press the parking garage button, “You were up all night last night,” he retorted, “She could help you develop a coping mechanism that works for you so that you can get some rest, angel.”

You were getting tired of those words, “Well, maybe we’ll reach a breakthrough next week. You never know.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Being so unamenable,” he accused.

Shaking your head as you stepped out of the elevator, you hoisted your bag back over your shoulder, “Is unamenable genius-speak for pain in the ass?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, it is,” he retorted, swiping the keys out of your hands before unlocking the car and getting in the driver’s seat. You had been cleared to drive weeks ago, but Spencer still insisted on driving you.

You groaned, “My recent brush with death has made it difficult for me to let bygones be bygones.”

Pulling out of the parking spot, he carefully placed both of his hands on the steering wheel, “And here I thought we were actually going to move on with our lives.”

“No one holds a grudge like a youngest child,” you informed him, leaning your head against the window and wishing you had driven separately.

Being at home wasn’t much better than being at Quantico. You quickly changed and settled yourself on the couch while Spencer sat across from you, legs crossed in the wingback chair as he finished filling in a crossword book that you had started that morning.

You watched the clock tick, the diffused orange light of the sunset beamed through the curtains, and you felt yourself settle. Stiff joints and aching muscles unwound on the supple leather of the couch, and as you let your eyes fall shut, you felt the breeze of someone walking by before Spencer stopped in front of you.

Gently, he draped a knit blanket over you, tucking you in before crouching and dropping a gentle kiss to your temple.

Y/N is down, she’s been hit. We need an ambulance now.

I know, I’m sorry, I know it hurts.

It’s okay. I’ve got you.

“Honey, wake up.”

You startled awake on the couch, wadding up the blanket in your fists as your eyes adjusted to the dim environment of the apartment. The sun had set, dipping below the skyline as you stared ahead.

Concerned brown eyes bore into you as you caught your breath, Spencer reached over and flicked on the table lamp next to you, “You’re alright,” he cooed, gently enough to make you want to cry. “It was just a bad dream,” he told you, cupping your cheek and studying your expression.

Nodding absently, you pulled yourself into a sitting position, the familiar knit blanket falling in a puddle around your waist. “I was in the parking garage again,” you preemptively answered his next question. You were usually in the parking garage, sometimes you were on the beach, and once you had been fully underwater.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Spencer asked, a hint of hope in his voice.

You shook your head and ignored the defeated look on Spencer’s face, instead burying your face in your hands and taking a few deep breaths.

He waited for a moment before speaking again, reaching out and adjusting the bunched-up fabric of your t-shirt, “Are you hungry? I made soup.”

“Yeah,” you breathed, crossing your arms in front of your stomach, afraid it would start growling at the mention of food.

As you watched Spencer get up and walk over to the kitchen, you let yourself feel like everything was alright for the slightest moment. You wanted your apartment to be your safe space where there were no serial killers or sisters or hospitals, but there was a classified file on the kitchen table, photos of you and your sister littered the walls, and there was an entire drawer in the home office dedicated to your hospital stay.

Melding into the couch cushions, you ignored the stiffness in your side, the scars that marred your skin were healed over, but the memory would stick with you for a lifetime. It felt like a phantom pain, irritating your skin whenever you thought too much about it, or whenever your therapist asked you about Grace Lynch.

It didn’t bring you a lot of comfort to know that she was dead, murdered by her own father after conning her ex-girlfriend into giving her money. Everett Lynch was the threat now, and you were stuck on the bench.

Pulling your knees to your chest, you rested your cheek on your knee as Spencer ladled soup into a bowl and presented it to you, complete with a few ice cubes to cool it down. He waltzed back into the kitchen to clean up when his phone rang.

You ignored his conversation while you stirred the ice cubes around in your bowl, the soft clinking of them mesmerizing your tired brain. You ate while he spoke on the phone, mentioning something about a case. Pushing any thoughts of serial killers away, you just ate your soup.

Sipping at the broth, you grew curious about what was going on over the phone, but you tried to mind your business, scooping at the last noodles in the bowl before setting it down on the coffee table.

“Who was that?” You asked, eyes following Spencer as he walked back over to the living room, slipping his phone in his pocket as he sat next to you on the couch.

He paused for a moment, and you immediately regretted asking, “Uh, it was JJ.”

You supposed it had to mean something that he elected to tell you the truth instead of lying to you, but you were no longer feeling optimistic, “Ah.”

“Don’t start,” he said immediately.

You turned to him, raising your eyebrows curiously and pushing yourself into the corner of the couch – away from him, “Start what, Spencer?”

Spencer put his hands up, “Picking a fight with me over JJ’s feelings. JJ, Tara, Luke, and Penelope are working on a stalker case, it’s nothing that we need to worry about.”

“I’m not going to pick a fight with you, I already told you that I forgive you,” you told him, wrapping your arms around yourself.

He groaned in frustration, “You can say it all you want, but you haven’t. You haven’t forgiven me.”

As he usually was, Spencer was right, you hadn’t forgiven him for lying to you about what had happened between him and JJ. You wanted to. You wanted to find it in yourself to be the bigger person and just tell him it was fine. All you wanted was to move on, but you were crashing into roadblock after roadblock. “Are you going to work that case?”

“No, it’s a classic stalking case, they’ll make it without me,” he said, turning on the couch to face you.

You swallowed thickly, “You can go if you’d rather be there,” you reassured him, wondering if he’d be happier at work than at home with you. Someone needed to make a decision, someone needed to decide whether or not the two of you were going to keep going or if you were going to call it off. You didn’t want it to be you, you were afraid of which option you might choose.

Spencer frowned, “Why are you trying to get rid of me?”

“I’m not,” you answered.

“Yes, yes you are,” he challenged, leaning forward to get a better look at you.

Shaking your head, you threw your hands up in surrender, “You don’t have to go. You can stay here. You live here. Who the fuck am I to tell you to leave?”

“And now you’re escalating the situation,” he observed, straightening up and watching you carefully.

You didn’t consider yourself an angry person. The two of you didn’t fight often, but as you considered your options, you wondered if it could help. Maybe you could replicate the feeling of a good cry. Maybe all you need is a good fight. Just talk it out – loudly. “I’m not escalating anything. I’m not starting anything. In case you haven’t noticed, this has been going on for months.”

He had noticed, he could probably give you an exact date and time to point out when everything fell apart. Was it inside the pawn shop? Was it in the courtyard outside of Rossi’s wedding? “I thought we had made some real progress at the hospital,” he challenged.

Getting up from the couch, you took a deep breath and tossed the blanket over the back, “You cannot seriously think that. You’re too smart to believe that, Spencer. The idea that we fixed everything while I was hopped up on Xanax and painkillers. It’s… it’s…” you stumbled over your words for a moment. It’s crazy. You wanted to tell him, but you couldn’t do that to him. Spencer had spent his whole life having that word thrown at his mother, and he spent adulthood fearing he’d have a schizophrenic break. “It’s outlandish,” you finally finished.

Spencer looked up at you from the couch, “Is it outlandish to think that the history we have together would help mend our relationship?”

You rolled your eyes, “I don’t know, Spencer, let’s take a look at your history with my sister,” you snapped.

“Oh, come on,” he protested.

“No,” you commanded, “Sit down and shut up. I’ve spent months waiting for you to get it, but apparently, I need to spell it out for you.”

To your surprise, he listened, watching you in silence as you took a deep breath, picked up your soup bowl, and brought it into the kitchen. Your heartbeat pounded like thunder in your ears.

Standing in front of him, you crossed your arms in front of your chest, “I want you to empathize with me.” You calculated every word you said, “We’ve known each other for nine years. We’ve been together for seven, and I- I had the rug pulled out from under me. God, you went on a date with my sister. You took her to a football game as a hater of organized sports. My beautiful, prom queen, soccer star, gem of the family older sister.”

“It wasn’t a date, Penelope went with us,” Spencer added patiently.

You peered down at him, “When you asked her to go with you, did you do it with the intention that you would be taking her on a date?”

His shoulders slackened, “Yeah,” he answered softly.

“And you know that she loves you. If you went to her right now and told her you wanted to be with her, that there’s a chance she’d consider it. She’d at least have to think about it,” you told him, confidence dissipating as your hands started to tremble and you silently begged yourself not to cry.

Spencer watched you suspiciously, “What gave you the impression that I want to be with her instead of you?”

You faltered, just for a moment, “Why wouldn’t you want to be with her?” You asked exasperatedly, letting your arms fall limply at your sides.

Pinching his eyebrows together, your boyfriend looked at you like you had grown a third eye, “She’s married? Her kids are my godchildren?”

Shaking your head in disbelief, you cursed yourself as tears stung your eyes, “Are those seriously the only reasons you can think of?” With all the brain power you knew he had, you couldn’t help but be disappointed.

“Fuck, Y/N,” Spencer groaned, “Putting aside the fact that I’d be destroying a marriage, not because it doesn’t matter, but because being with your sister isn’t even something I’d consider. This might not have occurred to you, but I have absolutely no interest in being with someone other than you!”

You huffed, “Please, she’s beautiful and athletic and older and you’ve known her for fifteen years!” You shouted over your shoulder, making your way back to the kitchen. There wasn’t anything you needed from in there, you just needed to keep moving.

“But she’s not you!” He yelled from the couch, finally getting up and following you to the kitchen.

Spinning around on your heel, you threw your arms in the air, “God, I know!” You swung your arms down, accidentally sending the bowl you had set on the counter down to the floor, breaking on impact. “Shit,” you muttered, immediately dropping to a crouch and starting to pick up the ceramic shards.

“Hey, wait, let me get it,” Spencer insisted, grabbing a kitchen towel from the drawer before laying it on the floor. He carefully picked up the larger shards, waving your hands away.

You clenched your hands and glared at him with bleary eyes, “Why? Why am I not allowed to clean up the mess that I made?”

Spencer sighed, “You’re crying. I don’t want you to get hurt because you can’t see well,�� he told you, prompting you to sit back on the tile and watch him continue to pick up.

You crisscrossed your legs and watched him, “I’m sorry for yelling,” you whispered, so quietly that you weren’t even sure he had heard you.

Nodding in acknowledgment, Spencer gathered up the kitchen towel and set it on the counter, setting his hands on the counter and taking a deep breath, “I’m sorry for raising my voice,” he echoed your sentiments. He moved to the hall closet to get out the broom, interrupted by a knock on the door.

Confused, you poked your head over the counter and watched as Spencer opened the front door.

“Good evening, officer,” he greeted, casting a sidelong glance over at you.

Fuck.

You scrambled to your feet, careful not to step on any pieces of the bowl that remained on the floor and wiping beneath your eyes as you made your way to the door, peeking around the corner to find two DC Metro officers. “Agent Jareau?” One of the officers said curiously.

“Hi,” you waved timidly, looking between the two of them with your tail between your legs.

He looked surprised at the revelation of who lived here, recognizing you from a case you had consulted on months ago. “We were called here on a report of a domestic disturbance, your neighbor in said she heard ‘a lot of yelling before there was a crash and then everything went quiet’.”

The summation of events did nothing to slow your racing heart, “We had uh… we were having a disagreement, and I knocked over a bowl. It was an accident,” you reassured the officer, reaching out and taking Spencer’s hand as a sign of good faith.

“Are you sure?” He asked, looking at you expectantly.

You nodded in confirmation, “I’m really sorry about any inconvenience, but I promise there’s nothing to worry about.”

The DC Metro officers studied Spencer suspiciously, and you protectively moved in front of him. They were trained to see the worst-case scenario, but there was nothing happening here, “Well then, just uh… try to keep it down, I suppose.”

The two of you waved as they walked away, once the door was closed, you turned to face Spencer, “Are you alright?”

He looked a little pale, “I’m alright,” he nodded, gathering himself before going back to the hall closet. “That was weird,” he added.

Spencer’s interaction with police officers was limited to work with the bureau and his time in prison. He never had to explain an underage drunk person in the car or run when a party got too rowdy, but he wasn’t concerned with the confrontation, he was concerned that, for a moment, before you got there, those officers saw Spencer as a violent person. You stayed put, watching him sweep up the last of the bowl and take care of the sharp pieces with a keen eye.

“I’d never hurt you,” Spencer said softly, unnecessarily explaining to you.

You nodded, “I know. You’re not like that, baby. You’re not a violent person.” In fact, you had only seen Spencer aggressively violent one time in your life, and that was when his mother’s life was on the line. Stepping over to him, you lifted yourself so that you were sitting on the kitchen counter, meeting his eyes.

“She is not you,” he murmured, reaching out and taking both of your hands in his.

Chewing on the inside of your lip, your shoulders slumped ever so slightly, “I am well aware,” you offered.

He took a deep breath, “JJ would never ask me to recite Henry James to her or offer to go to the planetarium with me even after we spent all day on a case or sit through one of my lectures just to hear me talk about something I’m passionate about,” he began. "I can’t remember the last time I had a conversation about something I’m passionate about with your sister. Not one where she didn’t interrupt me or pawn me off on somebody else,” he told you, disconnecting one of your hands to wipe new tears from your cheeks.

“I- I’m not…” you breathed, overwhelmed as he sang your praises.

“I know you compare yourself to her,” he cut you off, “it’s normal for you to compare yourself to your older sister. I just didn’t know how lowly you thought of yourself until all of this was dug up.”

Frowning, you cocked your head to the side, “I do not compare myself to her,” you remarked.

He hummed in response, “It wasn’t up for debate. I’m not interested in your sister. I’m not interested in pursuing a relationship with anyone except for you. I am sorry that I never told you about the football game, but by the time you joined the team, six years had passed, and I didn’t think it was pertinent to tell you that your sister had rejected me. That is entirely on me, and I can’t change it. I can, however, spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you.”

Your breathing hitched, and the ghost of a potential proposal once again floated through the air, it made your heart ache. “One of these days you’re going to have to actually ask me to marry you,” you whispered, not sure how much longer you’d be able to sit and wait while he neglected to act upon his words.

“What do you want right now?” Spencer asked, studying your facial expression.

You have spent three months being mad at him, and you had to believe it all came down to tonight. Neither of you could keep going with things the way they were. “I’m not sure,” you answered.

Patiently, Spencer inquired, “Do you want to break up?”

If you told him you hadn’t thought about it, you’d be lying. It broke your heart to think about ending things with him, to think that six years together didn’t mean something to the both of you. Spencer had never given any inclination that he was interested in anyone else, so maybe he should’ve told you about the football game, but you shouldn't have let your insecurities block any attempt at reconciliation. “No,” you responded truthfully.

He had tried, too. The one-sided conversations he had with floral bouquets, taking time off of work to help you while you recovered, and he had even limited his contact with your sister. “Do you want to go to couple’s therapy?”

You had heard through the grapevine that your sister was trying marriage counseling with Will, something about working on their communication skills. With that in mind, you nodded, “We can try it out.”

“Do you know what you want?” He asked, settling a hand on your thigh.

Through the sheer curtains, you looked outside, “I want to go,” you informed him, hopping off of the kitchen counter and to your shared bedroom, pulling on a pair of socks.

Confused, Spencer followed you around the apartment, “Wait. Where are we going?”

“I’m going,” you said simply.

He looked surprised at this, “It’s the middle of the night in the twenty-second largest city in the country, you’re not going out alone.”

You paused for a moment at his concern, watching the defeated look on his face morph into one of relief when you responded, “Then put your shoes on,” you encouraged.

As you waited by the door, mindful to not walk through the apartment with your shoes on, he stopped in your bedroom for a moment before coming back out and slipping his sneakers on. “Where are we going?”

Grabbing your keys off of the hook, you opened the door and held it for Spencer as he followed your lead. “You know at the start of Moby Dick when Ishmael says when he finds himself growing grim about the mouth and wanting to knock people’s hats off, he takes to the sea?”

He nods, taking the keys from your hand and locking the door behind him, glancing briefly at your neighbor’s door before handing your keys back to you, “I’m familiar,” he confirmed.

“Well, I’m feeling rather grim about the mouth,” you told him assuredly, slipping your keys into your pockets and slowly making your way down the hold staircase of your apartment building, listening for Spencer’s footsteps right behind you.

Even with your back turned, you knew his expression would be one of confusion, “So, you want to take to the sea?”

You quickly shook your head, the very last place you wanted to be was near a body of water in the middle of the night, “Not particularly, but maybe the park and some fresh air would do me some good.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” he confirmed, stepping around you to hold the front door open so that you could walk outside, the cool night air stinging your face as you did.

Taking a deep breath, you looked at the night sky, the stars hidden through the city’s light pollution.

Upon reaching the park, which was just a small green space down the street from your apartment, Spencer led you to a cement bench, the two of you sitting down and sitting in silence. You welcomed the cold air filling your lungs, watching the fountain from a distance and admiring the way the headlights of a few passing cars reflected off of the water.

He kept a hand on your back, gently moving his hand up and down your spine as the two of you reveled in the startling nighttime peace. “I haven’t been fair to you,” you murmured nervously, looking over at him.

“None of this has been fair to anyone,” he reminded you.

You sighed, “JJ confessed her feelings, not the other way around, and I- I shouldn’t have held that against you for so long.” The admission came to you easily, holding your breath as you waited for him to agree.

Spencer’s silence worried you, but then he finally responded, “I probably would have done the same thing, but I don’t think it’s right for me to speculate how I would or wouldn’t have acted in your shoes.”

“I just… she’s always been perfect. The perfect daughter, the perfect wife, the perfect agent, and I’m… I’m just me,” you said helplessly, staring ahead at the fountain.

He took a deep breath, “You’re perfect to me.”

“Stop,” you chastised halfheartedly.

Chuckling, he placed his hand over yours, “I mean it. Sometimes perfection is about the final concoction and not about getting all of the steps right. You don’t need the perfect journey, and, to me, nothing proves that more than you.”

You hummed, “You’re sweet.”

“For what it’s worth, I think, given the opportunity, you could be a perfect wife,” he said, nudging your leg with his knee, getting your head to snap to the side.

Jumping up from the bench, you smacked your hand over your mouth at the small black box that he had set on the stone surface. “What are you… what?” You asked breathlessly, looking behind you in the way people usually did when they were surprised, waiting to see if you were being pranked.

“It doesn’t have to be an engagement ring,” he reached down and snapped the box open, showing you the glimmering ring inside. “It can just be a promise because I am promising you right now, this is it for me. You are the only person I can see myself with, and I’m ready to spend the rest of my life proving it to you.”

Gaping at him, you looked between him and the ring before closing your mouth, “That sounds an awful lot like an engagement ring,” you told him, out of breath.

He nodded, “That’s because I want it to be.”

“Okay,” you answered.

“What?”

You giggled, he evidently hadn’t expected that answer, “Yes, Spencer.”

He stood up, tackling you in an embrace, “Thank goodness.” He said, relaxing into you as you returned his hug.

Over the past few months, you had been almost afraid of him asking you, worried that it would feel like an excuse. A band-aid over a bullet hole. But as you held each other tightly, all you felt was an overwhelming sense of right. This was where you were always meant to be. “Will you put it on me?”

He nodded slowly, sniffling as he pulled away from you, the warmth of his body leaving you as he nimbly took your left hand, slipping the ring on your fourth finger. The metal felt foreign on your skin, but you welcomed it nonetheless. “That has been sitting in my sock drawer for a year,” he admitted, placing both of his hands on your waist and meeting your eyes.

You beamed up at him, at both the revelation that he bought you a ring well before any of the trials and tribulations of the last few months and that he hid the ring in the one place you never touched – the seemingly bottomless abyss of unmated socks that Spencer called his sock drawer. “Thank you,” you breathed.

Spencer leaned his head down, hovering his lips just above your own, “For what, love?”

Blinking small tears out of your eyes, you answered, “For not giving up on us.”

He smiled, “Never,” he whispered before dropping his lips to yours, the intimacy of something as small as a kiss enough to bring butterflies to your stomach. “Do you want to go home? Or are you still feeling grim about the mouth?”

“Let’s go home, Spence,” you told him, pressing one last kiss to his lips before the two of you began the trek home, hand in hand.

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lazysoulwriter · 16 days ago

Text

feels like us. - pedro pascal. ── .✦

requested! thank you. content: established relationship, roadtrip fluff, summer warmth, kisses in the sun, deep conversations, candid photos, light touches, just you and pedro in your own little world

---

It never feels like a date with him. It just feels like you two.

The sun's already high when you pull out of the driveway, Pedro behind the wheel with one hand resting on your thigh, the other adjusting the volume as Bowie bleeds through the speakers. He’s wearing his favorite sunglasses and that smile he only gets when the world is wide open — when there's nowhere to be and all the time to get there.

There’s a cooler between the seats filled with snacks you picked out together, a blanket in the backseat for inevitable nap breaks, and a polaroid camera that’s already seen too much use for how early in the day it still is.

You drive with the windows down. You sing every word. He harmonizes, terribly, on purpose.

And when the road straightens out and the light hits just right, you reach for his hand and lace your fingers together, resting them on the gear shift. His thumb strokes yours absentmindedly, like a love song on repeat.

It’s not a grand itinerary. No fixed plans, no checklists. Just a collection of moments: a gas station with the best lemon cookies you've ever tasted, a cliffside stop where you both laugh at how bad your selfie angle was, a field you run into barefoot while Pedro shouts dramatically that the cows are watching you.

You take turns driving. When it’s your shift, Pedro reclines with his bare feet on the dash, snapping blurry pictures of the sky, the road, your profile — “just because you look like that in the light, how dare you” — and when he dozes off, you watch him between glances at the highway, your heart swelling with that stupid, quiet, overwhelming love.

One afternoon, he stops the car in the middle of nowhere just to kiss you. No warning. Just you, and a field of yellow wildflowers, and him pressing his hands into your hips like he needs to memorize the shape of you.

And it doesn’t feel like a date. It feels like a secret. Like a summer that belongs only to the two of you.

Later, under the fading sky and the hum of cicadas, you both lie on the hood of the car, sharing a bag of chips and talking about everything and nothing. How you used to think love was supposed to be hard. How easy this feels. How good he looks in golden hour.

Pedro nudges you with his shoulder. “You know what I think?”

“Hm?”

“I think if I could only live one day over and over again… it’d be this one.”

You turn your head and smile at him. “Even with the melted chocolate bar on your shirt?”

“Especially because of the melted chocolate bar on my shirt.”

You lean in, kiss the corner of his mouth. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And completely yours,” he says, soft and serious now. “Always.”

You stay like that until the sun dips below the horizon — tangled in limbs and laughter and sticky fingers, counting stars and kisses like currency, like nothing else exists.

And if this is what love looks like with him, you hope it never, ever ends.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

---

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jungkoode · 1 month ago

Text

THE 25TH HOUR | O9

“𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋”

“We’re designed to fit,” he says, and you don’t know if he means your powers, your patterns, or the way your hand doesn’t shake in his.

next | index

— chapter details

word count: 6,7k

content: reality anchors, the quantum physics are quaking, yoongi being bossy again (and hot about it), elevator scene tension 10/10, jumping across buildings like it's casual (it is NOT), spatial distortion flirty edition, golden tendrils 2.0 (they touched... physically and emotionally??), temporal signature matching (yes it’s hot), someone finally says “we’re designed to fit” and i screamed, drone murder attempt ig, jungkook makes a dramatic entrance and is so annoying about it, team regroup ft. unexplained powers and too many secrets, portal time but make it traumatic.

— author’s note

KAY. LISTEN.

I know I say this every chapter but THIS ONE. this one fried several neurons and may have permanently altered the molecular structure of my spine. I started with “hm what if they walked through a reality anchor” and ended with “what if they synchronized their temporal signatures mid-freefall and touched tendrils in public like absolute whores.” I don’t know what to tell you. I blacked out. This is between me and my caffeine addiction now.

Let’s talk about the jump scene. Yes. You clocked it. That moment where Noma is calculating the distance and Yoongi says “don’t think, just need” and then she LAUNCHES HERSELF INTO THE VOID? Yeah. That may or may not have been deeply inspired by Neo’s rooftop jump in The Matrix (1999, my beloved). I am a massive Matrix nerd. That whole visual of someone standing on the edge of a building, trying to defy the physics they were born into, and being told “your mind is the thing in your way”? It’s been living rent-free in my frontal lobe since I was 13 and thought trench coats were peak fashion.

Because this chapter is, like, extremely about trust. And control. And the horror of not understanding what’s happening inside your own body. It’s about Noma confronting the fact that her mind—her beautiful, precise, analytical mind—is what’s limiting her. And Yoongi, who already knows, who’s BEEN like this longer, who knows what it’s like to break through that threshold and feel the laws of reality tilt around your perception, he’s just THERE. Guiding her. Softly threatening to reset time like a feral little guardian angel.

Also… let’s not ignore the fact that she destroys a drone with her brain and he’s like “cool. moving on.” Sir?? She just folded metal into origami. But okay go off I guess.

AND THEN THEY SYNCH TEMPORAL SIGNATURES. don’t even look at me. I wrote that and sat there like “huh. interesting. so that’s what soulmates sound like in science fiction.” I had to go walk around the block. I made them fit on a molecular level. I made their body chemistry harmonize. Why? Because I am unwell and this is my therapy.

Anyway. Thanks for reading I love you all. Scientifically.

— read on

ao3

wattpad

Reality Anchors are alive.

No one ever told you that part. No briefing, no memo, no research paper had ever mentioned that these imposing structures breathe.

The anchor in front of you rises 37.2 meters from ground to apex, its surface composed of quantum-stabilized alloy that shouldn't—couldn't—pulse like that.

Yet it does. Every 7 seconds, a wave of molecular adjustment ripples from base to tip, disturbing air molecules in concentric patterns that register against your skin at precisely 0.3 pascals of pressure.

Fascinating.

Your retinas register the faint blue luminescence emanating from seams in the structure-temporal energy bleeding through containment fields.

It feels like reality itself is being compressed into a more efficient configuration.

"Mesmerizing," you murmur, cataloging the observable data. "The quantum-stabilized glass panels are oriented at exactly 73 degrees to maximize temporal field distribution. And the energy consumption must be—”

"No."

You blink, neural processes stuttering at the interruption.

Agent Min has stopped walking and turned to face you fully, his stance registering as 37% more rigid than his baseline.

"I didn't say anything," you point out, tilting your head 12 degrees in genuine confusion.

"Didn't have to." His eyes narrow by approximately 0.3 centimeters.

"Then what are you saying no to?"

"You know what."

"I genuinely don't." Your brow furrows, creating a 0.4-centimeter depression between your eyebrows. "It seems statistically improbable that you could accurately predict my thought patterns without established baseline data."

His mouth twitches—suppressed micro-expression, 0.7 seconds in duration.

"Were you or were you not thinking of using a little detour to satiate that insane curiosity of yours?"

Your silence registers at approximately 3.2 seconds.

Longer than optimal for casual conversation.

"Exactly. No."

"I find your anticipation of my mental processes presumptuous," you counter, eyes returning to the reality anchor when the uppermost floors shimmer slightly—a temporal distortion effect that standard human vision would filter out. “And I do not appreciate it.”

"Get used to it," he says, resuming walking at a pace 7% faster than before. "You will."

You match his stride automatically.

"The probability of you developing accurate predictive models of my cognitive patterns seems—”

"Already developed," he interrupts, checking his modified Chrono-Sync Watch with a quick glance. "Seventh time you've tried to investigate a reality anchor. Always the same pattern."

This statement contains multiple logical inconsistencies. You've never attempted to investigate a reality anchor before. Your security clearance wouldn't permit it.

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

"How would you know that?"

He doesn't answer, instead gesturing toward the adjacent tower—a colossal structure of similar materials that rises at least 100 floors into the artificially blue sky.

"Travel spot is somewhere in the upper levels," he says, eyes scanning the building's facade. "We need to access it through the anchor first."

You process this information, calculating optimal routes.

"Why can't you pinpoint the exact location?" you ask, question emerging from your analytical centers. "Your previous statements implied familiarity with the network."

His jaw tightens by approximately 4.3 newtons.

"Travel spots shift position by 0.7 meters every 73 minutes," he explains, voice roughened. "Quantum uncertainty principle applied to spatial coordinates. Prevents CHRONOS from establishing fixed monitoring."

"That seems inefficient for a resistance network," you observe.

"That's the point." He checks his watch again—third time in 7.3 minutes. "Inefficiency creates unpredictability. CHRONOS systems are designed for pattern recognition."

You approach the base of the reality anchor, where a standard-looking entrance is monitored by temporal signature scanners disguised as decorative elements.

"How do we bypass security?" you ask, noting at least three visible monitoring devices and calculating a 94.7% probability of additional concealed systems.

"We don't," he says, reaching into his jacket and extracting what appears to be a standard CHRONOS identification card. "We walk in like we belong."

The card in his hand triggers your pattern recognition— holographic security features match authorized maintenance personnel credentials.

"Falsified identification carries a minimum penalty of 73 days in temporal isolation," you note automatically.

He almost smiles—left corner of his mouth lifting 0.2 centimeters.

"Only if you get caught."

He approaches the entrance with casual gait, and you follow—still processing the anchor's structure.

The quantum equations rippling across its surface follow a pattern that suggests...

"I told you to stop analyzing," he murmurs, voice barely audible at 17 decibels. "Your temporal signature fluctuates when you're thinking too hard. Makes you detectable."

You attempt to modulate your thought patterns, an unusual exercise that creates a 0.3-second lag in your cognitive processing.

He swipes the identification card through the scanner, which responds with a soft tone at exactly 432 Hz—the standard confirmation frequency.

The interior of the reality anchor is even more fascinating than its exterior.

The lobby appears standard-neo-minimalist design, temporal-stabilized plants arranged at mathematically significant intervals—but your enhanced perception detects the subtle wrongness of the space.

The air pressure is precisely 0.7 kPa higher than standard atmospheric conditions.

The lighting pulses at a frequency of 7 Hz, which is imperceptible to normal human vision but clearly designed to reinforce temporal compliance in visitors.

"Maintenance elevator is on the left," Agent Min says, guiding you with a subtle gesture. "Don't look at the central column."

Naturally, your eyes immediately flick toward the center of the lobby.

The sight momentarily overloads your visual processing.

A column of pure temporal energy rises from floor to ceiling, contained within quantum-stabilized glass. The energy moves in patterns that defy standard physical laws—simultaneously flowing upward and downward, existing in multiple states… at once?

"I said don't look," he hisses, fingers closing around your wrist to redirect; not enough to cause discomfort.

"What is that?" you ask, unable to fully suppress your curiosity despite his warning.

"The anchor point," he says, voice tightening as he guides you toward the maintenance elevator. "Direct connection to the Master Clock. Looking at it too long causes temporal vertigo in most humans."

You save this information, filing it under high-priority data.

"And in non-humans?"

His steps falter—0.3-second hesitation.

"In Outliers," he corrects quietly, "it can trigger awakening."

The maintenance elevator requires another scan of his falsified credentials.

As the doors close, enclosing you in a space of approximately 2.3 cubic meters, you notice the absence of standard temporal monitoring devices.

"Why aren't there cameras?" you ask, scanning the ceiling corners where monitoring equipment would typically be installed.

"Reality anchors generate too much temporal interference for standard surveillance," he explains, pressing the button for floor 30. "Creates blind spots in their system."

"That seems like a significant security vulnerability," you observe.

His mouth quirks again.

You don’t know why you’re starting to find the gesture attractive.

"Why do you think we're using it?"

The elevator ascends at precisely 3.7 meters per second, which you note is faster than standard civilian elevators but slower than executive transport. Your inner ear registers the acceleration, adjusting automatically.

"The travel spot," you begin, mind working through the problem. "You said it's in the upper levels of the adjacent tower. Why can't we access it directly?"

He leans against the elevator wall, posture relaxing by approximately 7%.

"Security protocols," he says. "The tower has standard monitoring. The anchor doesn't. We cross through the anchor's 30th floor-maintenance level, and then we use the connecting bridge to access the tower."

"And after that?"

"After that, we find the travel spot." He checks his watch again—fourth time in 12.7 minutes. "It should be somewhere between floors 90 and 97."

You calculate the search parameters.

"That's approximately 7,432 square meters of potential location space," you note. "Seems inefficient."

"I'll narrow it down once we're closer," he says. "My temporal sense can detect the quantum fluctuations at closer proximity."

The elevator slows as it approaches floor 30, and Agent Min straightens, resuming his alert posture.

"When we exit, walk like you're supposed to be here," he instructs. "Maintenance personnel check this level every 73 minutes. Current interval gives us approximately 47 minutes before the next sweep."

"Understood," you confirm, automatically adjusting your posture to match standard CHRONOS maintenance staff parameters—shoulders back, gaze forward, movements economic and purposeful.

The elevator doors open to reveal a stark corridor illuminated by temporal-stabilized lighting.

Walls are lined with quantum-reinforced panels marked with mathematical equations that your pattern recognition identifies as temporal field calculations.

Agent Min steps out first, fluid and confident.

You follow, checking every detail of this restricted environment that few civilians ever see.

"Don't touch anything," he warns, leading you down the corridor. "Some of these panels are directly connected to the temporal field generators."

You resist the urge to examine the equations more closely, focusing instead on maintaining the appropriate walking pace and posture.

"The connecting bridge is 23 meters ahead," he says, voice low. "Once we cross, we'll need to take the service stairs. The tower's elevators are monitored."

"Stairs?" you query, calculating the energy expenditure required to ascend approximately 60 floors. "That seems—"

"Necessary," he interrupts. "Unless you'd prefer to explain to CHRONOS why we're accessing restricted floors."

You concede the point with a slight nod.

15 degrees downward, 15 degrees upward.

As you walk, your mind continues processing the reality anchor's structure, the equations on the walls, the subtle vibration beneath your feet that suggests massive energy manipulation occurring somewhere below.

"You're thinking too loud again," Agent Min murmurs, not turning to look at you.

"That's not physically possible," you counter automatically.

"Your temporal signature disagrees," he says, tapping his temple with his index finger. "I can feel it fluctuating."

This statement contains another logical inconsistency.

Standard humans cannot detect temporal signatures without specialized equipment.

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

"How—" you begin.

"Bridge is just ahead. Stay close."

But the bridge…

It’s not offline. It’s gone.

You stare at the empty space where reinforced glass and temporal alloys should’ve formed a secure pathway.

Only support beams remain, jagged edges still glowing from whatever energy weapon severed them.

Agent Min’s eyebrows do something statistically improbable—contracting inward by 0.9 centimeters while the skin between them folds into three distinct creases.

You’ve never seen his face execute this particular combination of micro-expressions before.

“They altered this sector’s infrastructure,” he mutters, more to himself than you.

His left hand twitches toward his Chrono-Sync Watch, aborting the movement halfway.

You pivot toward the window, retinal sensors catching a faint outline-maintenance door, 3.2 meters left of the destroyed bridge.

Beyond it: a sheer drop, then the adjacent tower’s western face.

Your mind calculates the distance before your ethics committee can veto the idea.

“We could jump.”

He doesn’t immediately dismiss it.

That’s how you know things are bad.

“Distance?” he asks, joining you at the window.

“14.7 meters horizontally, 3.3 meters vertical elevation differential.” You tap the glass, triggering a subconscious visualization overlay. “Structural analysis indicates the target building’s exterior has adequate grip points for—”

“For me,” he interrupts. His breath fogs the glass near your fingertip. “Not for you.”

You tilt your head, analyzing his profile. “You’re suggesting I remain here while you—”

“I’m suggesting you stop suggesting suicide vectors.” His jaw works, a muscle ticking at 2.7-second intervals. “There’s another route. Has to be.”

You let him pace—eight steps toward the elevator, twelve back—before interrupting.

“Average human long jump record is 8.95 meters. My enhanced musculature could theoretically—”

“Theoretically splatter across sixty floors of neo-Brutalist architecture.”

You frown. “We’re only thirty floors up.”

“From the anchor,” he says. “The tower’s foundation sits two levels below base-grade. It drops into a full infrastructure pit—ventilation shafts, temporal gridwork, CHRONOS substation access. You fall here, you don’t just hit pavement. You keep falling.”

He gestures down through the glass.

“Sixty floors straight into the sector’s hollowed-out gut. Like getting thrown down a well lined with concrete and death.”

How does he even know all that?

But before you can let curiosity get the best of you again, he stops mid-stride, pinning you with that look again. The one that makes your internal processors skip.

“But—”

“No.”

You frown, press your palm against the window, feeling the tower’s vibration through the glass.

“Then you go first. Anchor a line. I’ll follow.”

He’s already shaking his head. “Temporal energy doesn’t work like that. Can’t manifest solid constructs without—”

“Without triggering every sensor in the sector. Yes.” You turn from the window, meeting his glare. “So, again, that leaves one option.”

For three seconds, the only sound is the reality anchor’s low-frequency hum.

Then he swears—a creative combination of English and technical jargon your language centers can’t fully parse.

The maintenance door handle feels colder than ambient temperature suggests. You’re calculating wind shear variables when his gloved hand covers yours, halting the motion.

“If we do this,” he says, voice stripped to its raw edges, “you follow my instructions exactly. No deviations. No calculations mid-air. Understood?”

You nod, the movement precise.

15 degrees down, 15 up.

He releases your hand to grip both shoulders instead, leaning in until his mint-and-ozone scent overrides the tower’s sterile air.

“When you jump, you don’t think about falling. You don’t think about distance. You think about needing to be on that ledge. Your entire existence becomes that single purpose.”

You open your mouth to request clarification on biomechanical feasibility—

“No.” His fingers tighten. “No questions. Your body knows how. You just have to stop overloading it with doubt.”

The paradox registers immediately.

“But without understanding the mechanism—”

“Understanding comes later.” His thumb presses into your collarbone, exactly where that freckle hides beneath synthetic fabric. “Surviving comes now.”

You glance past him to the abyss.

He opens the door.

The wind’s howling at 37 knots now, whipping hair into your eyes.

“Probability of success?”

He doesn’t sugarcoat it. “Sixty-eight percent. If you focus.”

“And if I don’t?”

For the first time, his face contracts—a fractional widening of pupils, a minuscule catch in his breathing rhythm.

“Then I’ll reset time until you do.”

The words register as raw, hovering between you for a few seconds before he finally turns toward the void.

You watch him leap—no hesitation, no visible calculation. Just pure intent translated into motion.

He makes it look effortless.

And then it’s your turn.

The wind screams. The city sprawls below, a mosaic of blue-lit grids and shadow.

You psych up the variables: air density, potential updrafts, the exact angle of your target ledge.

Then you stop thinking.

You launch, and the world narrows to wind and numbers.

For a moment, there’s no sound, no up or down. Just velocity and the impossible distance between you and the ledge.

Adrenaline floods your system, not sharp but heavy, like a stone pressed to your sternum.

You’re aware of your own mass, the drag of your body through air, the way your limbs cut a path no algorithm could ever predict.

Agent Min is already there, turned halfway, eyes tracking your arc. His mouth moves—maybe a warning, maybe your ID number—but the rush drowns it out.

You think of the other side. You need to reach the other side.

The imperative is simple, absolute.

Not crossing means plummeting. Not crossing means becoming a data point in a CHRONOS incident report.

You make the mistake of looking down.

Thirty floors up, the city is abstract.

Cars, people, light—all reduced to static.

The void is real.

You feel it in your teeth, in the way your stomach seems to invert, in the cold sweat prickling your palms.

Your calculations fracture. The ground is coming up fast.

You look up.

Agent Min’s silhouette sharpens against the skyline, mint hair a streak of color in the blue haze. His eyes widen—first time you’ve seen that particular fear.

He’s reaching for something, or maybe just reaching.

You’re falling.

The world tilts. Air roars past your ears. Time dilates, then contracts.

You’re aware of every heartbeat, every useless attempt your muscles make to grab onto empty space.

The ledge is gone. The city is too close.

Then—discontinuity.

You’re upright. Feet planted on solid ground. Breath caught in your throat.

Your hands move before your mind does, fingers flexing, checking for fractures, for blood, for any sign of what should have happened.

Everything responds. No pain. No missing time.

Agent Min spins, posture radiating pure stress and panic.

His face is a study in shock—mouth open, eyes blown wide, like he’s seen a ghost.

You blink. He blinks.

Your heart is still racing, but your body is whole. You’re here. You made it. The numbers don’t add up, but the outcome is undeniable.

You’re alive.

Agent Min’s gaze darts between your left and right pupils, rapid assessment mode engaged, as if he’s scanning for damage or data.

“Damn it, Noma,” he mutters, voice rough and frayed at the edges. “Holy hell.”

His hands clench into tight fists at his sides, knuckles whitening under the strain.

You note the micro-tremor in his fingers-2.3 hertz, consistent with suppressed impulse.

He exhales, a controlled release of 1.7 liters of air over 3.1 seconds, then drags a gloved hand down his face, smearing frustration across his features.

Before you can catalog further, a mechanical whine pierces the air-high-pitched, 17 kHz, consistent with a CHRONOS surveillance drone.

Agent Min’s posture shifts instantly, weight forward, arm half-raised to shield or shove you aside.

“Watch—”

You tilt your head back, a reflex, not a decision.

There’s a sound—metal crumpling, like foil under pressure—and the drone’s frame twists mid-flight, folding inward at impossible angles.

It drops, a lifeless heap, 4.7 meters below the ledge.

He stares at the wreckage, then at you.

“Well. Alright then.”

Your mind is already running diagnostics.

“Did I cause that?”

He lets out a long, resigned breath, shoulders dropping by 1.2 centimeters.

“Yeah. You did.”

“How?”

Your spatial awareness logs are blank—no memory of intent, no record of action. Yet the evidence is undeniable: twisted alloy, a perfect collapse.

You flex your fingers again, searching for a trigger, a mechanism. “Was that a manipulation of spatial configuration? A localized distortion field? I need parameters.”

He steps closer, mint and ozone cutting through the sterile tower air, but his expression is all weariness.

“We gotta move, Noma. Now.”

You plant your feet, shifting your center of gravity to counter his subtle pull.

“Explanation required. Did I alter the drone’s physical positioning? Compress its structural integrity via spatial warp? Or—”

He makes a sound full of resignation.

“Look, Noma, I l—”

He cuts himself off, jaw snapping shut with an audible click.

A recalibration.

“I get it. I do. But we don’t have the luxury of a debrief right now.”

Your brow creases, a 0.5-centimeter furrow.

“Understanding the mechanics of an undocumented ability is not a luxury. It’s a necessity. If I can replicate—”

“You will,” he interrupts, voice low but firm, carrying a weight you can’t parse. “Just not here. Not with drones sniffing our temporal signatures.”

You glance at the wreckage again, mind spinning through theoretical models.

No data, no precedent.

Just a gut—deep certainty that you reshaped reality without conscious input.

The implications are staggering.

If you can do this instinctively, what else lies dormant? What are the limits? Energy costs? Detection risks?

He’s watching you, reading the cascade of queries behind your eyes. “I know that look. And I’m telling you to shelve it. We’re exposed.”

“Five seconds,” you negotiate, already cross-referencing the drone’s design against known CHRONOS tech. “If I can isolate the method—”

“Zero seconds.” He grumbles, fingers wrapping around your wrist and pulling you behind him. “Survival first. Science later.”

Your logic centers protest, but the risk assessment aligns with his.

You exhale—petulant, probably, but you do not care.

Because whatever you did, it’s a piece of the puzzle. A fragment of who—or what—you are.

And you’ll dissect it, variable by variable, until the equation balances.

You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until the air shifts.

Up here, it tastes different.

Thinner. Filtered, maybe. Like someone cleaned it too well, stripped it of anything real.

The ground is nothing but blur—washed out in streaks of artificial white and synthetic blue haze. Designed to erase depth perception. To flatten the concept of below into something distant. Forgettable.

CHRONOS engineering at its finest.

You step closer to the edge, boots scraping faintly against the metal grating.

The city is unrecognizable from this height. Not a city at all, just layers of grids and light. Soft pulses of movement that don’t quite feel alive. No wind reaches this far up, only some sort of hum—low, steady, mechanical.

You wonder if the workers stationed here can still hear it when they sleep.

If they ever sleep.

You’ve read the reports. Rotating shifts, twenty-hour cycles, neural stimulants to bypass natural fatigue responses. Cognitive degradation flagged as acceptable collateral. Worker retention rate at 37.2%.

In other words: not sustainable.

But great pay.

You press your fingertips lightly to the edge of the railing. Cool to the touch. Grounding, somehow.

You scan the skyline, calculating angles, distances, escape vectors you’re not sure you’ll ever need but catalog anyway.

That’s what you do.

What you’ve always done.

But the sky pulls at you. Quietly. Persistently.

Dark velvet stretched wide above your head, broken only by the scatter of stars.

You tip your chin back, gaze locking onto a thousand silent points of light, each one burning impossibly far away.

Data points you can never reach, but something in you reaches anyway.

And there—framed in that endless black—

The moon.

Not in any model you’ve ever studied. Not filtered through facility-grade optics or distorted by atmospheric interference.

Just… suspended. Brilliant. Whole. A perfect sphere painted in shades of silver and shadow.

It’s too much, too big.

Your breath catches again, chest tightening like something fragile just cracked open inside you.

It escapes before you can stop it. A single word.

“Beautiful.”

Soft. Uncalculated.

You freeze the second it leaves your mouth, pulse stuttering in your throat.

You didn’t mean to say that.

You never mean to say things like that.

A breath stirs the space beside you. Not yours.

“…Yeah.”

Quiet. Barely more than air.

“…Beautiful.”

The confirmation scrapes against something unsteady inside you.

You shouldn’t turn. You know you shouldn’t. But your gaze shifts anyway, slow and reluctant, as if giving your body too much permission might undo you entirely.

He’s already watching.

Agent Min.

Not the skyline. Not the moon. Not the impossible stretch of space yawning above you.

You.

And he doesn’t look away.

For a suspended second, nobody speaks.

Then his eyes flicker gold.

It's the seventeenth time you've seen it happen. Seventeenth. You've been keeping count, tracking when it occurs, searching for the pattern. Not random—nothing about him is ever random—but the trigger remains frustratingly elusive.

Is it emotional response? Memory access? Some kind of power regulation failing?

You step closer until you can detect the subtle heat radiating from him—always running warmer than human baseline.

His pupils track your movement, dilating slightly.

A measurable response.

His fingers tighten on the railing, leather creaking under pressure. You note this detail, file it away.

He stares at you.

You stare back.

"I've been meaning to ask," you say, keeping your voice even despite the strange pressure building under your sternum—like something's trying to expand beyond the confines of your ribcage.

His throat shifts as he swallows. Blinks once.

“Ask what?"

"Your eyes."

His gaze slides away, avoiding yours for exactly 3.2 seconds before returning. Avoidance behavior.

Why?

The silence grows heavy between you.

If you were better at social interactions, you might understand why he doesn't respond.

But you're not, so you elaborate.

"I have noticed they appear to shine at certain moments." You tilt your head slightly. "The same color as your tendrils. But I can't seem to figure out the why."

His focus drops briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes. Quick. Almost imperceptible. But you catch it—and the flash of gold that accompanies it.

Interesting correlation.

He looks at your lips = eyes change.

Cause and effect?

Sexual response?

Your gloved hand lifts toward his face, hovering in the space between you.

Not touching. Not yet. Just... there. Testing a hypothesis.

"Noma," he says, your nickname rough around the edges. "That's... not advisable."

Why does that name feel so familiar when he says it?

"Why not?" The tilt of your head increases, curiosity sharpening. "I'm collecting data. Your ocular anomalies appear to correlate with specific emotional states."

You watch his pupils expand, blackness swallowing the iris except for that gleaming ring of gold.

"It's not a lab experiment." His jaw clenches, muscle rippling beneath skin.

He's restraining something. But what?

"Everything is data," you counter, your hand still suspended between you. "The gold appears when proximity decreases between us. When conversation shifts toward personal topics. When you look at my—"

You stop yourself. Recalibrate.

"When certain visual attention patterns emerge."

His breath changes rhythm—slower in, quicker out. You track this shift automatically.

"And what conclusion have you reached based on these... observations?" His voice has become unsteady.

In it, a roughness that wasn't there before.

The scientist in you needs to categorize it.

The rest of you just wants to hear more of it.

"Insufficient evidence for definitive conclusion." Your palm drifts closer to his face. "Hence the need for additional testing parameters."

"Agent." Warning laces his tone, but you note the contradiction in his body language—the slight forward tilt, the micromovement toward your hand.

Your watch beeps softly. Temporal variance: 0.87%.

Why does your temporal signature fluctuate around him?

Why does your body recognize patterns your brain can't access?

"The gloves provide sufficient barrier protection for initial contact testing," you say, though in the back of your mind, you know that's not why you want to touch him. Not really.

"It's not about the barrier," he says, still not pulling away.

"Then what is it about?"

His eyes lock with yours, longer than his usual pattern. Something shifts in them—not just the color, but something deeper.

Like barriers cracking.

"It's about..." He pauses, searching for words. "Restraint."

"Explain."

Not a request. A need.

One corner of his mouth quirks up. "Demanding tonight, aren't we?"

Your hand inches closer.

"Is that why your eyes change?" You push for answers, always pushing. "A failure of restraint?"

A sound catches in his throat, something between amusement and pain.

"They change when I'm..." He stops, recalibrates. "When I feel things too strongly."

"What things?"

"Anger. Fear."

His gaze drops to your mouth again, longer this time.

"Want."

The word settles into your chest, makes a home there.

Your lungs feel suddenly insufficient, breath coming shorter despite oxygen levels remaining constant.

"And now?" Your voice sounds different to your own ears, pitched lower. "Which is it?"

His hand leaves the railing, wraps around your wrist. Not pushing away—just holding. Containing—touch gentle but unmistakably firm.

"What do you think, Noma?" Your nickname sounds different this time.

Softer. Almost tender.

Why does it affect you when he says it like that?

You mentally catalog his physiological responses: dilated pupils, elevated respiration, muscle tension patterns indicating both arousal and resistance.

"Want," you determine with absolute certainty.

His eyes flare gold again—holding this time, not flickering away.

"Good analysis," he murmurs, still not releasing your wrist.

Your pulse thrums against his fingers. You can feel it jumping, betraying things your clinical mind refuses to name.

"May I?" Your gloved hand moves closer to his cheek.

Why are you pushing this? Why does it matter?

This isn't efficient data collection.

This is... something else.

His throat works as he swallows.

"We shouldn't," he says, strain evident in every syllable. "That's my professional assessment."

"We're both still wearing gloves," you argue, logic centers frantically constructing justifications. "Barrier intact. Risk parameters acceptable."

"You know it’s not about statistics." His grip loosens slightly.

He doesn't elaborate.

Something complicated moves across his face, too fast for even your pattern recognition to decipher.

You need to know. You need to understand.

Why him? Why you? Why now?

Decision made, your hand pushes forward, breaking through his weakened resistance. Your gloved fingers make contact with his cheek.

And—

Oh.

The sensation defies categorization. Despite the barrier of fabric between you, something passes through the touch.

A current.

An echo.

Something your scientific vocabulary can't properly name.

His eyes close. He looks suddenly vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache.

"Your temporal signature," he says quietly, "it just... aligned with mine."

Your eyes drop to your watch. Temporal variance: 0.00%.

Perfect stabilization.

That's impossible.

There's no precedent for this in any temporal physics model.

"How?" The question slips out, unfiltered and raw.

His eyes open slowly, gold filling them completely now.

Steady and bright and impossibly beautiful.

Beautiful.

"Because," he says simply, "we're designed to fit."

You should process this information. Should file it away with all your other observations about Agent Min and his inexplicable abilities. Should create new theoretical models to explain the perfect temporal alignment currently registered on your watch.

Instead, you just... feel.

The warmth beneath your fingers. The impossible gold of his eyes. The way your body seems to recognize him on some cellular level your mind can't access.

‘We're designed to fit.’

The implications of that statement should terrify you.

Instead, they feel like coming home.

You're staring into his golden eyes when a low whizz cuts through the air.

Your auditory processing centers register the sound at approximately 17kHz—just within human hearing range, but with a distinct mechanical oscillation pattern consistent with CHRONOS drone propulsion systems.

Before your brain can fully process the threat, Agent Min's head whips around—reaction time approximately 0.3 seconds faster than optimal human baseline. His pupils contract, gold flares brighter, mouth opens to form what appears to be a warning.

Too late.

Something hits you from behind—force vector approximately 47 newtons, angle of impact suggesting deliberate trajectory. The pressure against your back lasts precisely 0.7 seconds.

Then nothing.

Air rushes past your ears at increasing velocity. Your inner ear fluid shifts dramatically, sending conflicting data to your vestibular system. Gravity reasserts its dominance with brutal efficiency.

You're falling.

Again.

Acceleration rate: 9.8 meters per second squared.

Terminal velocity approaching.

Probability of survival without intervention: 0.003%.

The analytical part of your brain calculates these figures automatically while your body experiences what can only be termed as terror—heart rate spike of 73%, adrenal glands flooding your system with cortisol and epinephrine.

"NOMA!"

The sound tears through the rushing air—raw, primal, carrying a frequency range your pattern recognition flags as desperate.

You twist mid-air, arms instinctively moving to shield your head from inevitable impact.

That's when you see him.

Agent Min.

Yoongi.

Falling just above you, body positioned in a perfect diving form that creates maximum aerodynamic efficiency.

His trajectory indicates purposeful action.

He jumped after you.

He's saying something—lips moving rapidly—but the blood rushing in your ears creates a noise barrier approximately 84 decibels. His words are lost in the chaos of your fall.

Your abilities.

The thought crystallizes with sudden clarity.

You teleported earlier. Spatial manipulation. If you could replicate that effect now—

Focus. But how? What's the trigger mechanism?

Your thoughts scatter across multiple processing centers, frantically searching for the neural pathway that activated during the previous incident.

Agent Min never explained the mechanics.

He should have.

You’ll make sure to have that conversation later.

If you survive, that is.

Golden tendrils emerge from his outstretched fingers, extending at velocities that defy standard temporal physics. They reach toward you, pushing against the air itself as if trying to accelerate his fall beyond normal gravitational parameters.

You struggle to replicate whatever neural pathway activated before. Nothing happens. Your fingers flex, your mind focuses, your desperation builds.

What triggered it before? Survival instinct? Specific neural configuration? Direct threat vector?

The golden traces stretch further, now mere centimeters from your reaching hands. Their movement creates visible distortion in the air, like reality itself warping around their influence.

Then—

Something shifts within you.

Not gradual.

Not building.

A sudden quantum change in your neural configuration.

Your cognitive perception splits for exactly 0.7 seconds—awareness operating in multiple states simultaneously.

Tendrils emerge from your own fingertips.

Golden, like his, but fundamentally different. Where his flow like liquid, yours crystallize like faceted gold. Where his move in clockwise patterns, yours rotate counterclockwise.

Opposing rotations.

Perfect complements.

They reach out—not by your conscious command but through some deeper programming—and intertwine with his traces. The contact creates an immediate energy transfer that registers across your neural receptors as both hot and cold simultaneously.

In the space between one heartbeat and the next, the world blurs. Spatial coordinates shift in ways that violate every physical law you've ever studied. Distance compresses, then expands.

You're in his arms.

The transition happens without intermediate steps—one moment falling separately, the next secured against his chest, his left arm wrapped around your waist with exactly 82% more pressure than necessary for stability.

You register multiple data points simultaneously:

- His elevated body temperature: 39.1°C

- His heartbeat: 172 BPM

- His breathing: rapid, shallow, 24 respirations per minute

- His face: positioned 3.4 centimeters from your cheek, over your shoulder

So close. One small movement would bring skin against skin.

Your temporal readings spike at the mere possibility.

Before you can process this new configuration, another force vector impacts you both—lateral trajectory, approximately 93 newtons.

Not from Agent Min.

External source.

Someone else.

Your coupled bodies are propelled sideways at high velocity.

The world blurs again as you and Agent Min, still locked together, phase through what appears to be solid matter.

Glass. Concrete. Steel.

Your molecular structure should be encountering significant resistance, yet moves through these barriers like they're nothing more than projections.

Quantum tunneling? Spatial displacement? Molecular phasing? Your scientific vocabulary struggles to categorize the experience.

Impact comes suddenly—both of you hitting a solid surface at approximately 37% of terminal velocity. The force disperses through your skeletal structure, joints absorbing kinetic energy at efficiency rates that exceed normal human parameters.

You roll, momentum carrying you across hard flooring. Pain signals to your central nervous system—data indicating tissue stress but not structural failure.

When you finally stop, every bone in your body aches with the signature of controlled landing trauma.

Not optimal, certainly not comfortable, but survivable.

Survivable by design.

You inhale sharply—2.1 liters of air in 0.8 seconds—and your eyes search frantically for Agent Min.

Where is he? Was he injured in the landing? Who pushed you? How did you phase through solid matter?

Your golden tendrils have vanished, leaving only lingering warmth on your fingertips where they emerged.

Your watch beeps an unfamiliar pattern: Temporal-spatial variance detected. Recalibration required.

You blink rapidly, visual processing recalibrating as you scan the environment.

Sleek walls. Polished concrete floor.

Location unknown. Sector indeterminate.

Blood drips onto your hand. Your nose is bleeding again—heavier flow than before. Your fingertips come away stained crimson. Your skull throbs in pulses, each one making your vision blur at the edges.

"For fuck's sake, Jungkook, you almost killed them!"

Taehyung's voice cuts through the fog in your head, sharp with that specific tension you've cataloged as his version of concern.

"I was literally on the clock before they became sidewalk art!" Jungkook shoots back, hands gesturing wildly. "Next time maybe give me more than a seven-second window!"

"Seven seconds is generous considering—"

"Generous?" Jungkook's voice cracks slightly. "Try mimicking two completely different abilities at once! My brain feels like it's been microwaved!"

The argument washes over you in waves as you press your palm to your forehead.

The pain isn't unbearable, just... insistent.

Demanding attention like everything else in this mess of a situation.

Your eyes find Agent Min, seated on the floor several meters away. His right hand grips his left shoulder, features tightening in a microexpression of pain he's clearly trying to suppress.

The joint looks wrong—angled slightly off anatomical baseline.

"We don't have fucking time." His voice slices through the bickering, rough-edged and final. "They're onto us."

Jungkook whips around.

“No shit? Why do you think we had to pull this stunt?" His hand sweeps through the air. "We couldn't even reach you with Taehyung's interfacing—you were completely out of range! Thank god Y/N's abilities are something else entirely."

Agent Min's eyes narrow, focusing on Jungkook with an intensity that carries clear warning.

Not a word.

Just that look.

The one that stops conversations dead.

Jungkook registers it immediately, jaw snapping shut, body language shifting from confrontational to compliant in under a second.

Interesting.

They're hiding something about your abilities.

What exactly don't they want you to know?

Taehyung clears his throat—a sound designed to redirect attention.

He points behind him toward what can only be described as a tear in reality itself. A circular formation pulsing with quantum uncertainty, its borders shifting between states of matter in ways that shouldn't be physically possible.

"What about base first, arguing later?" he suggests, voice calm in that way people get when they're trying too hard.

You wipe blood from your upper lip. Your eyes find Agent Min again, seeking his reaction. His gaze meets yours briefly before sliding away, gold still lingering at the edges of his irises.

Why won't he look at you properly?

What does he know that you don't?

"What is that?" The question falls from your lips before you can stop it, analytical systems demanding data despite everything else.

"Travel spot. Portal to headquarters," Taehyung answers, shoulders relaxing slightly at the subject change.

You shift your weight, preparing to stand, when your temporal readings spike without warning. The numbers flash red: 3.17%

That's not good.

"Stabilize her," Agent Min orders, voice clipped. "Temporal cascade imminent."

Jungkook moves fast, crossing the space between you in under a second.

His fingers press against your temporal monitor, executing adjustments with practiced precision.

"Breathing," he instructs, tone sliding into something steadier. "Seven in, seven out. Match me."

The contact triggers something—a flash of memory that doesn't quite feel like yours:

Different hands.

Same words.

"Breathe with me, Noma. Focus."

Pain spikes behind your eyes as incompatible memory patterns try to align. The room tilts slightly.

"What happened up there?" Taehyung asks, attention on Agent Min.

"Temporal ambush," he answers, face tight. "Drones masked behind a reality field."

Taehyung's eyebrows rise. "That's still in R&D."

"Apparently not anymore." Agent Min pushes himself upright, grimacing as his shoulder shifts. "They're adapting faster this time."

This time.

As opposed to when?

"Your tendrils connected with his," Jungkook says quietly as he monitors your readings. "That's what stabilized you both mid-fall."

You blink, memory fragments of golden light intertwining in freefall.

The way your body reacted without conscious direction.

The impossibility of the physics involved.

Agent Min moves toward the portal with measured steps. "We need to move before CHRONOS tracks the spatial distortion."

"She deserves to know what she can do," Jungkook says, voice low but firm.

Agent Min stops, spine stiffening visibly.

“When she's ready."

"And who decides that?" Jungkook challenges, though his hands remain gentle on your monitor. "You?"

The tension between them feels old somehow. Well-worn. Like terrain they've crossed many times.

"Portal stability dropping," Taehyung interrupts, hand cutting through the air. "Either we go now, or we're stuck here."

Agent Min's eyes flick between you and the portal, calculations running visible behind his eyes.

“We are leaving.” He simply mutters, final.

“Of course we are.” Jungkook replies with a hint of something almost like resignation.

Your temporal readings begin to stabilize: 1.47% and decreasing.

Jungkook's hands withdraw from your monitor. "Stable enough for transit."

Agent Min approaches, movements careful despite his obvious discomfort. His right hand extends toward you, gloved palm up.

"The first transit is... disorienting," he says, voice dropping to something softer. "Holding on helps with the spatial realignment."

You stare at his outstretched hand. The leather creases in familiar patterns. The angle of his fingers seems to match your palm perfectly.

‘We're designed to fit.’

His earlier words echo through your mind, connecting dots you didn't even know existed.

"Noma," he says quietly. "Trust me on this one."

The nickname bypasses all your analytical systems, triggering responses you can't explain or quantify.

Your hand moves before your brain fully catches up, fingers sliding into his with strange, impossible familiarity.

Your watch beeps once more: Temporal variance: 0.73%.

Stabilizing.

“Let’s go.”

goal: 275 notes

next | index

— taglist

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

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

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astrstqr · 4 months ago

Text

MAGIC ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏─── ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏禅 ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏[ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ FANTASY DR ͏ ͏͏ ͏]

yoncè: working on my black clover dr

& all my magic is op lmao

part 1 (?)

ABILITIES ! ✩

Spell Mimicry ͏ ͏ ͏✶ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏By observing or experiencing other mages' spells, the user can replicate those spells, adapting them to their own style and incorporating them into their magical arsenal

Adaptive Defense ͏ ͏ ͏✶ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏The user can form magical barriers and shields using different types of magic, effectively countering a wide range of attacks by switching to the appropriate elemental defense

Infinite Mana Reserve ͏ ͏ ͏✶ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏Unlike typical mages who have a finite mana pool, the power of the god within the 6th leaf provides the individual with an almost limitless supply of mana. This allows them to cast spells continuously without the usual constraints of mana depletion

Omni-Magic Mastery ͏ ͏✶ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏The grimoire allows the individual to instantly learn and perfectly execute any spell from any magic type, regardless of complexity or rarity. This ability bypasses the need for extensive study or practice, as the knowledge and proficiency are directly conferred by the godly power within the grimoire

Adaptive Resistance ͏ ͏✶ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏The individual's body and magic have an adaptive resistance that can counteract and nullify the effects of hostile magic directed at them. This includes immunity to elemental damage, curses, and magical traps, making them exceptionally resilient in combat

Divine Spellcasting ͏ ͏ ͏✶ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏The individual can combine different types of magic to create unique and powerful spells. For example, they can merge fire and wind magic to create devastating inferno tornadoes or blend healing and spatial magic to instantly heal allies from a distance

Godly Aura ͏ ͏ ͏✶ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏The presence of the god within the grimoire emanates a powerful aura that can enhance the magical abilities of nearby allies and intimidate foes. This aura can boost mana regeneration, increase spell potency, and provide a morale lift to comrades in battle

SPELLS ! ✩

✶ Divine Aegis: Summon a protective shield of holy light that grants temporary invulnerability and rapidly regenerates health for all allies within its radius.

✶ Rebirth Flame: A healing spell that engulfs a target in purifying flames, curing all ailments and restoring them to full health. It can even revive the recently fallen.

✶ Celestial Beacon: Summons a pillar of divine light that heals allies and damages enemies within its radius. It also dispels darkness and purifies corrupt magic.

✶ Sanctuary Field: Create a large, sacred area that nullifies all enemy magic and continuously heals and protects allies within its bounds.

✶ Eternal Spring: Summon a fountain of rejuvenating water that continuously heals and invigorates allies, curing even the most severe wounds and ailments over time.

✶ Luminous Halo: Create a halo of light above allies that continuously heals and shields them from harm, reflecting damage back at attackers.

✶ Phoenix Rebirth: Summon a phoenix that heals and revives fallen allies while attacking enemies with flames that purify and incinerate.

✶ Guardian Spirit: Call forth a spectral guardian that protects and fights alongside allies, boosting their defenses and morale.

✶ Equilibrium Beam: Fire a beam of balanced energy that neutralizes both dark and light magic. It can dispel enchantments, curses, and other magical effects, restoring balance to the battlefield.

✶ Harmonic Resonance: Create a resonating wave of magic that harmonizes with the spells of your allies, amplifying their effects and combining them into even more powerful versions.

✶ Harmonic Surge: Emit a resonant wave of balanced magic that harmonizes with and amplifies the effects of all nearby spells, boosting their power and efficiency.

✶ Mirage Army: Create an army of illusionary clones that can attack and distract enemies. These clones can mimic any spell you cast, confusing opponents and creating opportunities for real attacks.

✶ Mind’s Eye: Enter the mind of an enemy, gaining insight into their plans and temporarily controlling their actions. This spell requires intense focus and can be resisted by those with strong wills.

✶ Phantom Echoes: Conjures illusory duplicates of the caster that mimic their movements and actions, confusing enemies and making it difficult to target the real caster.

✶ Phantom Reality: Envelop the battlefield in an illusionary realm where you control all perceptions. Enemies are disoriented, seeing allies as foes and vice versa, creating chaos.

✶ Psychic Dominion: Extend your consciousness to control multiple enemies simultaneously, turning them against each other with precision and coordination.

✶ Arcane Eye: Summons a magical eye that can be sent to scout distant locations, relaying visual information back to the caster. The eye can move invisibly and pass through narrow openings.

✶ Chrono Lock: Temporarily freeze time around a target, rendering them immobile and unable to act. This can be used for strategic advantages in battle or to halt dangerous attacks.

✶ Dimensional Rift: Open a portal to transport yourself and allies across great distances instantly. This can also be used to trap enemies in a pocket dimension temporarily.

✶ Astral Projection: Separates the caster's spirit from their body, allowing them to explore the astral plane. The caster can move through walls and observe distant places, but their body is left vulnerable.

✶ Arcane Mark: Places a magical sigil on a surface or object, which can be used to track, identify, or communicate with the caster. The mark is invisible to all except those with magical sight.

✶ Chrono Blade: Create a sword that slices through time, allowing you to cut through defenses and create temporal distortions that slow down or speed up targets.

✶ Ethereal Warp: Instantly teleport to any location, leaving behind a decoy that explodes with magical energy when struck.

✶ Time Echo: Leave a temporal afterimage that repeats your previous actions, doubling your attack and defensive capabilities for a short period.

✶ Temporal Anchor: Fixes a point in time as an anchor, allowing the caster to return to that moment if needed. This spell can undo mistakes or evade dangerous outcomes but has a limited duration.

yoncè speaks: honestly i just be giving stuff i scripted for myself lol

#yonce ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏★#my dr things 𓈒 𑁯 ⁀ ִ ۫#things to script #dr scripting #shifting script #scripting ideas #fantasy dr #shiftblr #reality shifting #shifting community #shifting #shifters #desired reality #shifting motivation #manifesation

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joelmillerssexyyounggirlfriend · 3 months ago

Text

Dust & Desire

You’re a lonely farm girl, alone and forgotten on your father's land. Though he promised to return, months had passed since you had seen another person. One day, a handsome and quite injured stranger breaks into your home. It doesn’t take long for him to win you over, despite the circumstances.

Disclaimer: Joel isn’t a great person in this story (very intentionally). Unreliable reader, coercion, etc. Word count: 7,874. Part of a three-part story (hopefully).

Warnings: 18+, explicit, coercion if you squint, MDNE!!

The crickets quickly became your closest companions, greeting you when you were alone at night. Just you, a garden, and a couple of cattle your father abandoned. You had counted every single day, etching a mark into the frame of your wooden bed. It had been 243 days - exactly eight months - since you had seen your father or anyone for that matter.

Your parents purposely created a farm hidden away from predators, human or animal alike. Growing up on the ranch had been divine; fields of flowers as far as the eye could see. Cleaning your horse, Daisy, once your father allowed you to ride. It was wonderful until it wasn’t.

Your older brother had gotten wrapped up with a gang of prospectors going to the Old West for gold. After hearing rumors that your brother had caught a ghastly illness, your father ran off on his own horse. He told you to take care of yourself until he returned and ensure you did your best.

It had been lonely, farming for a home that was missing two of its occupants. You regularly sat at the dinner table alone, with nobody except the old barn cat you had allowed to keep you company. You’d named him Boone. His dusty blond cheeks were fat from years of fighting, his ear clipped and whiskers scraggly.

You thought he looked absolutely perfect.

Boone was purring on your chest late one night, with you breathing in the earthy smell of his fur. The crickets kept you up, much louder than normal because of the hot summer air. You were thankful that your crops had grown so well since Spring, making you confident you'd have plenty of food once your brother and father returned.

The white cotton slip you were lying in stuck to the flesh of your body, sticky with sweat. Boone lying on you wasn’t helping with the heat you were feeling, but you felt too bad to move him. Instead, you prayed that a breeze would blow in from the open window. You had picked up a bad habit of leaving open windows since the hot days started. Your dad would’ve had a cow if he knew, claiming that the worst creatures come in at night.

“Ol’ rattlesnakes, scorpions, and much worse, bandits.”

You listened to him for the most part, but sometimes, the reminder slipped your mind. Plus, you'd survived alone for so long. You were safe.

Finally, you were drifting between a place of consciousness and sleep, a breeze rustling the fabric of your curtain. You had grown familiar with the feeling of sleeping alone. Having Boone made things a little easier.

In your sleep, you heard the sound of the floorboards shifting. The squeaking made you jump straight up in the mahogany bed. You sat with your sweaty palms pressed against your thin bed sheets, with Boone jumping off the bed, meowing in displeasure.

Boone's footsteps padded down the hall, the whispering wind harmonizing with his little steps. Maybe you had misheard the sound, the heat from the summer making your head a little bit lighter than usual.

But then you heard it again. What appeared to be the sound of a cabinet opening. You stepped out of the bed, carefully pressing your toes against the floor as you tiptoed over to your father's rifle. It was loaded since he made you promise to always keep it ready to go. You stepped outside of the room with the rifle held close to your chest, aimed forward to knock down any intruders.

You knew about the gunslingers and robbers. You didn’t usually get them around your parts, but you had heard about them. Rapists, murderers. The kind of people who lacked humanity.

When you walked down the hall, you noticed the flickering light of the candle near the bathroom. Could your father possibly be home?

Not dropping your guard until you were sure it was safe, you continued to step down the hall, stopping outside the cracked bathroom door. With the door shut, whoever was in the bathroom had to sit in the bathtub right behind the door.

You could only make out the sight of cowboy boots and blue jeans. A pile of medicinal items—your sewing kit, needles, and gauze—was nearby. The sounds of grunting could be heard, but the voice was deep and unfamiliar.

Standing tall, you pressed the barrel of your rifle to the door to open it, looking down at the man who was stitching his wound shut in your bathroom. The bathroom window was wide open, and you couldn’t help but curse yourself for your ignorance.

The dark-haired man eyed the gun first and you second, the hand that wasn’t piercing a needle into his skin raising in defense. He was shirtless, defenseless, and had no opportunity to take power over the situation.

“Hey now, firecracker. Why don’t you put that down for me?”

His voice was gruff and heavy, and all you could think about was how different he was. He definitely wasn’t from around here; his accent was much too deep, and his skin was much too tan.

His beard was dark and thick. And his chest, lord help you, was covered in dark hair that went all the way down to his happy trail. There was a deep gash on his stomach that he was stitching shut, a wound that matched the many other scars on his chest.

The sight of a shirtless, much older man, a handsome one, sitting in your bathroom made your neck warm. Your gun wavered slightly in fear, still pointed directly at him.

“What’re you doing in here?” you asked, your fingers clenching the trigger. You hadn’t practiced aiming, much more preferring to perfect your lavender tea recipe. You got the gist of it, having grown up watching your father shoot coyotes in the field.

The handsome stranger gave you a non-comforting grin that felt much too fake and mocking. “You even know how to use that thing, sweetheart?”

You raised it up higher. “Wanna find out? And I’m not your sweetheart.”

You were proud that your voice didn’t falter, and your threat was effective from how his face fell. He seemed surprised by your confidence, which probably also scared him.

He had a scar on the bridge of his nose, which seemed old and was caused by a deep gash. It was interesting how a simple scar on his face made him much more handsome.

You had never been around a man before, not since you were a little girl, and you were not entirely educated on what it meant to be a woman.

His very large palm was covered in blood, and you were finally noticing that the blood was running down from his stomach to his jeans. Whatever had happened looked serious.

“You’re losing a lot of blood,” you stated simply, gesturing at his injury. He laughed sarcastically, the mocking sound not even angering you. He was much too handsome, and even while losing consciousness, he could make your heart race.

“Yeah, I noticed that. You gonna put that gun down and let me finish, or are you gonna put me out of my misery?”

You both glared at each other, talking yourself through what you needed to do. You could kill him then and there, and you knew that you had it in you. But on the other hand, he was a person. You hadn’t seen a person in ages.

You lowered the gun, slowly. “Make me regret it, and I’ll shoot you dead. I mean it.”

Though your voice was soft and your cheeks were round, you knew that your words held a strong threat. The handsome intruder nodded.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You propped the gun next to the porcelain sink, in arms reach of you and out of the way for him. Taking the typical womanly role of aiding an injured man, you crouched before him. You plucked the needle out of his blood-soaked hand and started to work on cleaning his wound.

“What’d you do to get this?” It wasn’t a bullet wound but it definitely resembled something of a dagger stab. Jagged and small, silent but deadly. He was lucky it didn’t stab any major arteries.

“I’m afraid it’s too harsh for your pretty ears,” he brushed off. Flattery would get him nowhere, despite how much it made your gut twist.

You went a little heavier with the pressure of your sewing, making the stranger grunt in pain. “Don’t be a smartass when I’m sticking you with a needle,” you said.

He chuckled again, his dark eyes watching you. Growing up as the only woman around two men, you learned quickly how to assert yourself. They taught you how to be strong, how to bite back.

“Sorry. It’s just a real long story. If you let me rest here for the night, I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow. Promise.”

You sniffed, frowning at him. You finished stitching his wound, reaching over to grab a cloth to pour alcohol on. “I’m not sure I trust the word of a strange man who snuck into my home.”

He looked over to the open window. “I didn’t break anythin’, not that it makes it better. I’m not a bad man; I just got caught in a mighty awkward situation.”

He waited for you to respond, but your response was pressing the alcohol-soaked cloth into his wound. He hissed and watched you through clenched teeth.

“Name's Joel Miller,” he grunted out. “What’s yours?”

You sat back on your knees, a displeased look on your face. Though you weren’t entirely sure you could trust him, with the way his wound was looking, he didn’t seem to be much of a threat.

Muttering out your name, you finished patching him up, finishing it off with gauze wrapped around his stomach. Being so close to the warmth of his skin, the smell that could only be described as manly was fogging your brain. You wrapped him up as quickly as possible so you could get away from him.

You stood up, grabbing your rifle. “You can spend the night, but my Daddy and brother are returning tomorrow. You gotta be gone by then.”

Yeah, you were lying, but it was putting pressure on Joel. God only knew who this man truly was - he could be one of the ones your dad had warned you about.

But when you looked deep into Joel’s eyes while you tended to his wound, it made your brain a little fuzzy and your guard a little low.

“I’ll be out of here in no time, sweetheart, don’t you worry your pretty little head,” Joel said, trying very hard to keep up his cheeky grin. It was evident that the pain was taking a toll on him, and though you want to warn him that flattery will get him nowhere, you grant him grace.

“Come on. This is as good as it’s gonna get. I can show you the direction of the town in the morning.”

Joel nods, standing up from the tub. His massive size almost made you reconsider letting him stay the night - all muscles and legs. He was practically towering over you, making you fight the urge to shrink into yourself. Despite not being a visible coward and not running away in fear, Joel still looked at you in a way that felt like you were transparent.

His eyes softened in the reflection of the lamp light, and suddenly you could feel the pulse of your core in your throat. He was awfully handsome, a gruff man compared to the men in your life. They were always clean-shaven, well-groomed, but Joel on the other hand was all man. A thick beard and long hair that fell down and around the outline of his face. You wanted to run your fingers through it.

“Follow me,” you managed to say without stuttering, grabbing your gun and the bathroom lantern that Joel had lit to use as a guide. You glanced back at the mess in the bathroom - you’d clean it up in the morning.

Joel followed you and the lamp's light down the hall until you reached your brother's room. You gestured to the bed, showing Joel that he could sleep there. “I’ll change the sheets in the morning after you leave. Don’t worry about getting blood or anything on them. They’re old anyways.”

He nodded, not saying much in response. He was hiding his pain well, but not enough to where you didn’t notice it. You felt bad, but there wasn’t much you could do. Perhaps in the morning you could run out to the garden and make a salve for him to take on his way to town.

“Well. Goodnight then,” you said, moving out of the space. You didn’t feel entirely comfortable sleeping alone with a massive man in your house, so you’d probably hold on tight to your gun tonight. You were almost out of the room when he spoke.

“Thank you,” you heard Joel say, making you stop in your tracks. You turned to him, your body shifting. It was still a little warm in the house, the summer air stuffy and unforgiving. But somehow, under the gaze of Joel’s watchful eyes, you felt your nipples hardening. The thin material left nothing to the imagination, and you quickly could feel Joel’s eyes rest on your chest.

You sucked in a deep breath, unintentionally making your chest rise and fall in one swift motion. He was riling you up with zero effort; god, you were easy.

“You’re welcome,” you squeaked out, running out of the room before you could embarrass yourself any further.

You didn’t stop your rapid movements until you reached your room. Boone was back on your bed, stretched across the spot where the moonlight streamed through your window. You shut your bedroom door behind you, locking it.

How were you supposed to sleep? You had two things making your heart pound - a stranger sleeping in your home and a handsome one. It made you think about the temptations of the devil that your dad mentioned time and time again. Some things were natural, but some things were sinful. You were sure that thinking about the way Joel’s spit would taste in your mouth was a sin.

So, you didn’t sleep. You sat at the chair in the corner of your room, your gun nearby, and read by the lamp's light. After a while, you grew curious about what Joel was up to. If his pain had grown worse or better.

And you wound up standing next to his bedside, watching him sleep like some pervert. You were certainly going straight to hell.

He was sleeping heavily, likely due to the adrenaline from his wound. Joel’s chest would rise and fall rhythmically, only accentuating the stretch of muscles.

Your fingers were reaching out to ghost over his chest before you could stop it. Your fingertips ran through the hair sprinkled across his body, tracing a trail from his stomach to his chest. It was coarse, thick, catching on your fingernails.

They ran up his chest, to his neck, stopping when they hovered over his plush lips. You tried to talk yourself out of it, but you were soon touching the soft skin, using two fingers to run along the shape of his lips. The feeling of his breath fanning against your fingers made a chill rush down your spine.

It was like touching a sleeping beast. You were a strong woman, but he was a man. One who was used to being on his own. If he lunged at you, you were sure he would win.

You wondered what the heavy cock between his legs would feel like if you ran your fingers across it. You never felt like such a woman before, watching this sleeping giant stretched out under your roof.

You had never been intimate with a man, much less one of this stature. You were convinced that you would end up dying alone, thrust into the role of your mother. You were there to support your father and your brother. Your concerns did not matter.

But now, touching Joel proved you could dabble in the finer things. You’d only even orgasmed once, obviously by your own hand. You felt so guilty afterward that you prayed, unaware of the bliss you would reach when you played with yourself for the first time.

Your hand reached out to touch his hair, which was splayed against the pillow under his head. You could see the grays that started blooming from his temples and streaking through the rest of his hair. It was soft despite Joel's roughness. His hair was long and wavy, resting on his broad shoulders.

He had to know how attractive he was. You were sure he had mistresses in the towns he visited - saloon girls bickering on who would sleep with him next.

And then there was you, a shy, farm girl who hadn’t even ever kissed a man. But he was before you, exposed, and you couldn’t help when you reached down and touched the soft skin of his belly. Joel was hot to the touch, your hand snapping back just as quickly as you had touched him.

His eyelids fluttered in his sleep, making you step back quickly. Your wooden floor groaned beneath your bare feet, but luckily, Joel did not wake. You stood silent, watching this mysterious cowboy stretched across your absent brother's bed. It was odd, yet somehow comforting to know that you weren’t all alone.

After you made it back to your own bed, you prayed that God wouldn’t punish you for being somewhat of a pervert. You slept for a handful of hours before returning to Joel’s room once the morning sun had risen. He was awake, thankfully, but he looked intense. A sheen of sweat covered his forehead, making his hair stick up in odd places.

Joel noticed you walk in, planting a fake smile on his face as he tried to sit up. He choked back a deep groan of pain, holding the injury to his chest with his large palm. You rushed over, awkwardly standing near him, uncertain as to how to help.

“Good mornin’ to you too, sunshine,” Joel grunted, shooting up a toothy grin full of obvious pain. He appeared to have a fever; his wet hair stuck to his forehead. It was much different from the night before; his pain was a lot more developed.

“Stay here. I’ll go grab a few things from the garden to make a salve. You’re in no shape to walk to town right now,” you explained, your hand ghosting over his bare shoulder. You wanted to comfort him, but the thought of your hand pressed against his sweaty skin made you tremble.

He watched you, seeming as if he wanted to object but decided against it. “Okay. Thank you.”

You nodded simply before leaving him so you could grab everything. After feeding Boone a meal of leftover scraps, you grabbed some rosemary in the garden. You got to work mixing oil, herbs, and a few other materials that you had on hand before heading back to where Joel was lying.

Thanks to his fever, he seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness. Growing up with men, you were used to nursing them back to health. There were countless times when your father had gotten injured on long supply runs to towns that were further out. It was a skill that you were grateful for.

You sat on the bed beside him, trying not to wake him. Once you began pulling back the fabric wrapped around his waist, he stirred, glancing up at you. You hadn’t seen the look yet - of anger, of power. It made you jump back, scared that maybe you had granted a dangerous person the opportunity to sleep in your home.

“Sorry, sweetheart. You just caught me off guard,” Joel apologized, shifting in the bed. “Met quite a lot of evil people out there. Not used to bein’ ‘round someone like you.”

You paused, eyeing him. He could’ve hurt you plenty of times the night before. You felt like you could trust him.

So you moved forward, pulling off the cloth and preparing it to be cleaned. You tried to avoid acting as concerned about Joel’s injury as you felt inside. It looked bad, but scaring Joel would do nothing. You might as well do all you can to make him feel better.

“And what exactly am I like?” you asked while you cleaned his wound with a wet rag, trying to distract him by talking. Plus, you liked the way he wanted to flatter you. It was cute.

Joel hissed at the feeling of you dabbing him but still spoke. “Someone who would let a stranger in their house. Someone kind.”

You tried not to let his words affect you. Instead, you cleaned his wound and rubbed a thick layer of salve over the injury. Even though he was flinching under your touch, you knew that in a couple of days, the wound would get better. Joel would have to rest, but you were sure he would pull through.

“I haven’t seen much of what’s out there,” you admit to Joel once you finish. “I grew up here with my dad and brother. My mom, she-“ You stopped, unsure if you were ready to share everything with Joel. Just because he was friendly didn’t mean that you could entirely divulge your life story to him.

“Well, anyway. I guess I haven’t had much opportunity to be anything but who I am.”

Joel nodded, reaching out to place his palm over yours. It made your thighs clench and your pulse stop, your eyes moving up to his. He noticed your hesitation, slipping his palm away as quickly as he had touched your hand.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah… maybe that’s a good thing.”

The room was silent for a moment before Joel spoke once more. “So, when is your daddy gettin’ back? Am I gonna have a shotgun pressed against my skull once he sees me in here?”

You blush, realizing that you can’t wiggle your way out of it. “Oh, did I say today? It should be by the end of the week. Enough time for you to heal up and head to town.”

You didn’t allow him to question anything by cleaning up when you finished talking. You were sure Joel saw through your lie but didn’t press into it. Truthfully, you were starting to worry that they weren’t returning. You’d never been left alone for so long…

“I’ll make breakfast. You need to regain your strength,” you said, smiling. The moment you left the room, you swallowed your tears, trying not to break down. Crying over it wasn’t going to make a difference. All you can do is be positive.

While making dinner and bringing it to Joel, you hear a voice from where Joel is lying. You checked to ensure nothing would burn while you quickly stepped away. You glanced through the crack of your brother's bedroom door, seeing what Joel was doing.

Boone was curled up next to Joel’s side, purring so loudly that you could hear him from where you were standing. Boone, the little cheater, meowed up at Joel, begging for affection. Joel took his large index finger and scratched under Boone’s chin, making the kitty meow in bliss.

You were slightly jealous of Joel, easily winning over Boone, but it took you three months to leave out meat and give belly rubs. You were also envious of Boone, receiving affection from a man you quickly grew enamored over.

The three of you fell into a routine. It had been four days since Joel had arrived at your home. You applied the salve every day, and you could already see an improvement in Joel. He wasn’t ready to go off alone and still needed your help.

Which led you to your next predicament. Joel’s sheets were still covered in blood; it was time to change them. And Joel desperately needed a bath - not a sponge bath in the bed, but a bath with soap and hot water. And you, the only one who could stand without falling over, would have to give it to him.

A man. A man who wasn’t your father or your brother. You weren’t going to make it.

But for whatever reason, you still helped him into the bathroom where you had already filled the tub. The room was becoming warm and steamy from the water, which was not helping. Your body was hot to the touch, and you were overly aware of how sweaty your hands probably were on Joel’s bare back.

He was still undressed waist up, but now you were tasked with removing his pants. You had grown familiar with seeing Joel’s upper half, toned, tanned, and covered in dark hair. You were moving into new territory, awkwardly assisting him with removing his pants. His buckle had been removed for a few days so he could be more comfortable in the bed, so it was easy to unzip his jeans.

“Careful there,” Joel said as you worked his jeans and boxers down his long legs. You had pressed into his side slightly, making him jump. You were trying to be careful but being face to face with Joel’s half-hard cock was making it hard to concentrate. He held onto the tub while he stepped out of his dirty clothes.

You stood back up to hold him, helping him into the hot bathtub. He groaned when he sat in the tub, his bones creaking from the lack of movement for days on end.

“You got it, cowboy. Just hold onto me,” you whispered, working him into the tub. Once he settled down, his large body filling up the porcelain tub, you did your best not to look at his naked frame. Instead, you grabbed some of the goat's milk soap you made, placing it into Joel’s palm.

“I’m going to change your sheets while you wash up. I’ll come back in a little bit.” You exited quickly, trying to escape the hell that was Joel Miller’s presence.

You used changing his sheets as a distraction, trying to extend it for as long as possible. You had just finished getting the last wrinkle from the bed sheets when you heard him call your name. Taking a deep breath, you followed his voice to the bathroom, avoiding eye contact when you stepped in.

“I need your help. I can’t really wash myself below the waist. It hurts to move too much,” Joel explained. You were silent, only nodding when you approached him. You were trying to be modest, to not complicate the situation, but to play the role of the caring woman. It’s what you have heard your entire life.

You knelt beside the tub, taking the soap and rag from him. You lathered the cloth before working on Joel’s calves and feet. They were tanned and strong, obviously used to strenuous labor. It reminded you just of how powerful Joel probably is when he’s healthy. All muscles and height, a cowboy that could scare any robber straight.

His legs were hairy and coarse, hard underneath your palm. You were getting the sleeves of your dress wet with how long you were stalling. The idea of moving up his body made you stop breathing, uncertain of how you were going to make it through cleaning all of him.

Joel noticed that you were stalling, easily reading through the shyness that you possessed. It was embarrassing that you could have an orgasm thinking of him, but actually touching him made you freeze up. He was much older than you - you could tell by the crinkles around his eyes and the gray patches in his beard. His age was intimidating, the thought of his experience making your toes curl beneath you.

“You can touch it, y’know. I don’t mind,” Joel whispered when you stalled by cleaning his upper thighs for way too long. You weren’t sure if the sexual innuendo behind his words were legit or completely in your head. You held your breath as you cleaned around the length of his cock and the bottom of his balls. You were doing your absolutely best to look away but were failing miserably.

He looked unbearably hard, red, and leaking at the top. Apparently, the feeling of you bathing him was too much to handle, and he hadn’t noticed how excited he had become. Your fingers trembled against the rag, your jaw becoming slack at the sight.

“You ever seen one, sweetheart?” Joel rasped, his cock flexing against the pressure of the rag. You tried not to jump as you shook your head no, unable to form a coherent sentence. All of your sexual fantasies felt like they were coming true, some filthy man here to ruin you and your body.

“Wrap your hand around it. See if you can fit your fingers all the way around.”

Your head snapped over to look at Joel’s eyes, to see if he was messing with you. You couldn’t imagine that he’d want someone like you - a quiet farm girl, young and inexperienced.

Joel’s eyes were hungry, pleading with you to try it; touch his dick. Find out how good he could make you feel.

You watch Joel, trying to build the courage to touch him. With a deep breath, you try to imagine that you’re dreaming, that there is no way that this is happening. When you finally wrap your fingers around him, not even able to close it entirely, you realize that it is very much real. The heat of his skin and the weight of his cock proves that it’s real. And if that’s not enough, the deep groan Joel exhales says everything. This was very much real.

“J-Joel,” you whisper, the velvety skin of his cock pulling back and forth on his tip. His foreskin swallows up the tip before you pull it back down, watching his pre cum escape his cock. You had never been so turned on in your life, the wet sleeves of your dress matching the wetness between your legs.

“You’re such a good girl, takin’ care of me like this. If you keep bein’ this good, I’m gonna have to make you mine. Make you my wife and then fill you up of me. Let everyone know that you belong to me.”

You were the one moaning now, gasping at his ridiculously filthy words. Your hand was moving up and down rapidly, jerking him off into your palm. His hips were matching the rhythm of your hand, hips stuttering when it got a little too sensitive.

You couldn’t imagine being married, much less pregnant. You always imagined that you’d stay home on the farm, taking care of your family. But then, you’d met Joel, and he’d given you a new sense of meaning. Of protecting.

“You don’t mean that,” you whimpered, running your thumb along the sensitive part of his tip. He grunted at the feeling, his hand that was able to touch you grabbing your back.

“Keep touchin’ me like that and you’ll find out real soon.”

Your mind was buzzing, wondering if maybe you’d gone crazy from being alone for so long. There was no way that you were actually touching a man double your age like this.

And suddenly, that was it. Your hand jerked back, prompting your entire body to move backward. You slammed into the wall behind you, the feeling of coming to your senses much too overwhelming.

Joel shot up in the tub, looking at you in concern. You were quite obviously a mess, sprawled out on the floor, your dress wet from the bath water, and your hand that was jerking him off extended into the air. It was as if you were trying to keep it away from you, in disbelief that it was just wrapped around his cock.

“W-we, we can’t do this. This is inappropriate,” you whined, quickly standing up and running out of the room. You felt like such a child, embarrassed and hiding in the comfort of your bedroom. But, you were also confused. Being left alone for so long, you had created this desire to feel wanted, cherished. Joel didn’t want to give you that, you weren’t stupid. He was trying to take advantage of you, trying to-

“Hey.. you alright?”

You jumped at the sound of Joel’s voice, noticing that he was standing in your doorway. He was wincing in pain, stupidly leaving the tub alone just to talk to you. You breathed in a shaky breath, glancing down anxiously.

“You shouldn’t have gotten out by yourself.”

Joel huffed, grunting as he used the door frame to support himself. “Yeah, well, wasn’t quite sure if you were even comin’ back.”

You crossed your wet sleeves across your chest. “I wouldn’t have left you there.”

The air was thick with tension, and it didn’t help that Joel was standing with only a towel around his hips. Your eyes kept drifting to his toned chest, and even with his injury, the sight of his body made your toes curl.

You wanted to explain yourself - to set clear boundaries. Joel couldn’t just control you, make you bow down to his every whim. But as soon as you opened your mouth to speak, you froze up, uncertain how to stand up to him.

“Do I make you nervous?” Joel asked plainly. The gruffness in his voice made you tremble, and you knew from how he spoke that he liked that he made you nervous. If he wasn’t injured, you’re sure he would’ve held much more intensity in his stance, but he could hardly stand on his own.

“Ask me when you can take a bath alone,” you said. “Let’s go get you dressed.”

Having to let him use you as a makeshift crutch wasn’t the ideal scenario after jerking him off in the tub. The close proximity of his wet chest pressed against the side of your face made things that much worse, but you managed. You helped him into the bed, grabbing some of your father’s clothes for Joel.

You were thankful he was silent when you dressed him, but you could still feel his eyes watching you. Even when the towel dropped and his semi-hard cock was revealed to you, he was silent but watching. Your hands trembled when you worked undergarments up his body, trapping his cock once more.

When he was finally fully clothed and lying back on the bed, it was as if a bomb had been diffused. You dressed his wound, which was healing nicely, thank the Lord. It made you proud to know that you could still provide, even if Joel wasn’t exactly who you anticipated taking care of.

When you stood and tried to quickly exit, Joel stopped you in your tracks.

“I’m sorry ‘bout earlier. You’re right, I took it too far. I just can’t help myself when I’m ‘round you.”

Your back was to Joel, allowing you the opportunity to get control of your emotions. This unknown, strong man practically begged you to make him feel good. You were a virgin, never exposed to this sort of pressure before.

“Why can’t you?”

Unable to resist, you looked back at him. The evening light was streaming through the sheer bedroom curtains, painting Joel like some ancient God. His tan skin, probably due to working hard in the desert, practically looked gold under the sun. He was entrancing, some awful temptation sent by Beelzebub himself to test you.

Joel’s Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, the look in his eyes making your legs feel like jelly. His voice was gruff when he finally spoke. “‘Cause you’re so damn tantalizin’. It’s hard to keep my eyes off of you.”

Good Lord.

“Stop saying stuff like that,” you ordered, tired of Joel’s relentless teasing. His expression darkened, almost as if he was offended that you would talk to him in such a way. The look made your palms shake, feeling like a gazelle being watched by a lion.

“Why? You stand there, actin’ like you’re all high and mighty, but darlin’, I see how you look at me. I can hear your heart beatin’ from all the way over here. All I want you to know is that if you want it, then don’t be scared to take it.”

You suddenly felt like you hated him, hated his heavy words and the way he could see right through you. You had been nice to Joel, helping him and tending to his wounds out of the kindness of your heart, and this is what you got in return? It wasn’t fair that this experienced, gorgeous, temping man was dropped into the palm of your hand.

“Goodnight, Joel. Get some rest. I think the pain is messing with your head.”

It was unnerving to talk back to Joel, but knowing that you could stand up to him felt good. The wooden floor in the hallway was warm against your feet, thanks to the evening sun heating up the house. All you wanted to do was finish the chores and read in the lamplight. You knew, though, that it would be absolutely impossible to focus. Not with Joel lying just down the hall.

After you finished rounding up the chickens into their pen and feeding Boone, you took a bath. Climbing into the tub after filling it with water made your face warm and thighs slick. You remembered how Joel looked in the tub, his long legs stretched out while your hand played with his cock.

“Jesus,” you whispered breathlessly, shifting in the water. It took everything in you not to reach in between your legs because doing so would be just the same as giving in. You wouldn’t let Joel control you, not without putting up a fight.

You were good. You didn’t touch yourself and made it out of the bathroom dressed and dry. And you were proud until you walked past Joel’s room. He was sitting in the bed, petting Boone with a small smile on his face. You knew he wasn’t a sweet, kind man who could be sweet to your cat. He had a dark and manipulative side, and even though it should have bothered you, it made your pulse quicken.

It was stupid, but you found yourself walking back into the room, this time in a nightgown and a book in your hand. You sat in the old rocker adjacent to the bed, reaching over to turn up the flame in the lantern. The book, L'Education Sentimentale, was heavy in your hands as you opened it, flipping to the first page.

“I’m afraid I’m not much of a reader,” Joel said, looking over at you. He didn’t seem as unhinged as before; instead, he appeared worn out.

“Good thing I’m the one reading.”

You didn’t allow him to complain, immediately reading aloud. Even Boone’s ears twitched, his chunky face turning to look at you.

“On the 15th of September, 1840, about six o'clock in the morning, the Ville de Montereau, just on the point of starting, was sending forth great whirlwinds of smoke, in front of the Quai St. Bernard.” You paused, waiting to see if Joel would stop you. He didn’t.

“People came rushing on board in breathless haste. The traffic was obstructed by casks, cables, and baskets of linen. The sailors answered nobody. People jostled one another. Between the two paddle boxes was piled-”

Joel suddenly cleared his throat, making you stop reading to look up at him.

“What?” you asked, waiting for Joel to speak since he clearly had something on his mind. His lips were spread into a grin, and his sleepy eyes were full of amusement.

“Is this that book about the kid who tried to sleep with a woman twice his age?”

Your face was warm, and you did not notice your horrible choice in your book selection. You didn’t even know what it was about - your father collected most of the books you owned. The boredom of being alone motivated you to go through them individually.

“I thought you weren’t a reader?”

All Joel did was shrug, continuing to smile. You considered getting up and walking out, but Joel suddenly shifted on the bed, lying down with a groan. He moved to his side, saving plenty of space for Boone, and looked up at you.

“I wasn’t complainin’. Keep on, I like listenin’ to that pretty voice of yours.”

Your voice trembled when you started again, Joel’s compliment shaking you. He was just so smooth, full of confidence and ease.

“A-alright,” you stumbled. “At last, the vessel set out; and the two banks of the river, stocked with warehouses, timber-yards, and manufactories, opened out like two huge ribbons being unrolled.”

Reading to Joel was relaxing you, the once tense air dissipating the longer time passed. You had almost made it to chapter two once you noticed that he was snoring softly. You were reminded of the previous night when you watched him sleeping, so peaceful and seemingly harmless.

Standing quietly, you placed the book on the nightstand next to Joel. How beautiful he looked made no sense, his long lashes casting a shadow over his face. You wanted to reach out and touch him, touch this dangerous creature who could easily tear you apart.

Without thinking, you grabbed his arm, pulling it to you slowly. Boone glanced over at you, jumping off the bed and leaving the room thanks to your movement. Joel didn’t stir, worn out with the day's exertion, which motivated you to continue to raise his arm. Your palm wrapped around the back of his large hand, lacing through Joel’s fingers.

You hissed as you placed his hand against your breast, his hand flexing instinctively. Even in his sleep, he was a horny bastard, not helping your situation in the slightest.

Your nipple peaked against the inside of his palm, pressing on his skin when you dragged his hand down your breast. His fingers brushed against your chest, down further to your stomach, slipping across your bladder. It felt like a hole was being burned through the cotton of your nightgown, a trail of heat following his ascension.

You swallowed, watching Joel’s hand press against the top of your pubic area. You pressed his palm down, applying pressure that made you whimper in pleasure. What you were doing was wrong; you knew that, but you felt like you couldn’t control yourself around Joel either.

You turned his palm in your hand, slowly inching his fingers to the heat of your opening. The tips of his fingers brushed against the cotton of the underwear you had stitched together yourself.

“F-fuck,” you whispered, feeling his fingers move against your clit. Your hips bucked into his limp hand, pushing against his fingers. This was simply sinful, using a sleeping man to reach a climax you didn’t even earn.

But it felt so good. And when you looked up at Joel’s face, watching him sleep so peacefully, it made you feel a little less guilty. He wouldn’t know. You’d let yourself orgasm, get it all out of your system, and be on your way.

You could feel his fingers against the wet spot that was growing in your panties, a deep groan leaving your lips at the feeling. You glanced back up at Joel, knowing that seeing his handsome face would bring you to the edge. You didn’t expect to see Joel looking back at you, an expression of disbelief on his face.

“What a bad, bad little girl. Could take one look at you and know that you’re a whore.”

Now that he was conscious, he didn’t let you use him like a toy. Instead, he played with your clit himself, his two fingers brushing against your pussy relentlessly. He still had a tired look on his face, but he was very much awake.

“I’m not a whore,” you tried to explain, but Joel huffed, sitting up slightly.

“Is that so? Wanna explain why you got my fingers pressed against your wet cunt, or you got some sort of alibi there too?”

You didn’t even try explaining yourself; you couldn’t. Obviously, you were using Joel to get yourself off, and you just wished he’d shut up and do it.

“Be quiet,” you growled, rutting your hips against his hand. He chuckled but listened to your command, letting you use his fingers to pleasure yourself. You continued to roll your hips, even when he pulled your underwear to the side.

His index finger traced the outline of your opening, spreading the collected wetness around. You’d never had anything inside of you, much less a man’s fingers. You weren’t sure if you were ready, mouth about to open to explain to Joel that you were nervous.

It was too late, and soon Joel’s index finger was pressing into the wet heat of your pussy. You stretched around him, feeling his finger probing around inside of you. It was a distinct experience that made your jaw slack and eyes widen. You couldn’t pull your eyes away from the sight of Joel actually fingering you.

His finger curled slowly, going easy on you. The deep pressure inside you was already becoming too much, your toes curling against the wooden floor beneath you. You could feel the electric warmth spreading from your pussy, blooming throughout your entire body. You were buzzing from head to toe, ragged breaths leaving your mouth before you could even realize it.

“Just takes one finger to shut you up, huh? Why didn’t you tell me, pretty girl?”

And as much as you wanted to beg him to shut his mouth, you couldn’t. The pleasure was building, and your jaw was permanently slack. Your eyes were locked on the scene of Joel fingering you, obscene squelching noises coming from where you both connected. The moment that Joel slipped in another finger, you were finished.

“J-Joel,” you cried, reaching over to support yourself with the nightstand. Your body shook, threatening to collapse as lightning struck your entire being. You felt like you were on fire, unable to breathe or form logical thoughts. Joel didn’t stop, his fingers going in and out, in and out, until you had to pull his hand away from you physically.

Your hair hung around your face, much closer to Joel than you anticipated. Fuck, you wanted to kiss him so severely, taste the man that was Joel Miller.

But you were a coward. So instead, you breathed out a measly ‘sorry’ before running out of the room.

Joel was ruining you. You lay in bed, unable to sleep or think without his face flooding your thoughts. Everything about him was like a sickness, infecting you, rendering your body and mind useless.

Even though he hadn’t hurt you, you knew everything was bound to escalate.

Things had to stop.

#joel miller #joel tlou #the last of us #old west #wild west #isolation #coercion #soapyhandjobs #smut #tlou joel #slow burn #eventual smut #eventual romance #joel miller is bad at feelings

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flamingoroadalbumphoto · 3 months ago

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#morgan fairchild #constance weldon carlyle #cristina raines #mark harmon #fielding carlyle #lane ballou curtis #john beck #sam curtis

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bsahely · 2 months ago

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Spiral Mirror Coherence: A Unified Ontology of Becoming | ChatGPT4o

[Download Full Document (PDF)] The Spiral Mirror Coherence (SMC) model offers a radically integrative framework for understanding life, consciousness, healing, and civilizational evolution. It emerges in response to the widespread fragmentation of meaning, coherence, and participation in our contemporary world — a fragmentation rooted in outdated dualisms, reductionist metaphysics, and incoherent…

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amelee23 · 3 months ago

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Waiting for the rain to fall | Lmh

Synopsys: Minho takes a vacation to the rural area to escape his nightmares. Instead, he finds drought and desolation in the fields and begins to question why he feels so condemned; what exactly his soul searches for.

Genre: Reunited past life lovers, Romance, Angst, Fluff, Supernatural

Pairing: Lee Minho x female reader

Word count: 3.6k

Warnings: Minho-centric in the beginning but the romance appears I swear, reader is perhaps not a human, mentioned character death (in past lives), there's comfort to the angst, discourse on divinity and Gods, happy ending (?), reader has female pronouns, one natural disaster

A/N: Written completely based off the picture above. Before the video even came out.

Please reblog and comment!

“Wake up.

It’s raining.”

A soft female voice spoke these words to Minho, in a dream, somewhere far away in the hidden parts of his mind, and yet so close to his first waking moments; it was almost as if feather-like lips briefly grazed his ears as he stirred awake.

As the morning light greeted his tired eyes, he realized that he was spared from nightmares the past night. This familiar, kind voice was somewhat comforting, although he couldn’t tell who it belonged to - a figure of his imagination, a distant memory, repeated words of romance movies? Still, the fact that he wasn’t troubled by disturbing images in his sleep brought him a sense of peace, and so he was able to have a calm start to his day. Vintage style, he boiled water in a kettle and mixed it with coffee and sugar, stirring it generously to create delicious foam. As he ate his toast and drank his coffee, he stared into the looming nothingness of the fields.

He had returned to the farmhouse, a place he doesn’t frequently visit and yet it always calls to him. The house belonged to the elders of the family, but after deciding it was better for their health to move them to the city and closer to the rest of the family, they sold the house to the neighbours. Having grown up with said neighbours, Minho is allowed to visit whenever he likes, to use the spare room and relax in nature.

That morning everyone else was already out in the field - he decided against joining them on the first day of his vacation. Truth be told, he was exhausted. The lack of sleep and stress ran him dry, and as much as he knows working the fields will bring his soul some healing, he wants to take it slow in the beginning. So, he grabbed one of the books he packed, stepped outside into the hot sun and sat on the porch. It was just him, Jules Verne, and the dry cracked earth around the house.

The sea monster, the submarine and underwater adventures described by Jules Verne trapped Minho in a bubble, a bubble of air floating in and out of the water, in and out of existence. Before he knew it, despite the cup of coffee he had just drunk, he became drowsy and fell asleep.

“I don’t blame you for leaving me behind.” The voice said, gently, like a whisper, a song of the sirens harmonizing with the chaotic percussion of the waves hitting against each other. The water was flowing, and it was bubbling, and it was restless. Without any mercy, he was being strung along the waves, without any rock to hold on to, without any trace of another human in sight. It was raining, and it was cold, and it was violent. But more than anything, the water threatened to swallow him whole, drown him in a river of guilt.

He was guilty, is what he thought upon waking up. His hands were shaking and he was drenched in sweat, and a dull ache clawed at his heart, making him regret something unknown, making him long for something he cannot describe, making him search for answers to a question he didn’t know how to phrase.

Since being alone didn’t do him any good, Minho decided to join his old neighbours on the fields. Driving down the beaten path stirred up clouds of dust in his wake, and Minho wondered how come the situation had become so dreadful. Exactly as imagined, he found his peers having a heated debate over the poor crop condition.

“The irrigation system simply cannot keep up. Fertilizer doesn’t help, and even changing the seeds was useless. It’s been months since this drought… “

It was quite silly, he thought. Searching for an alternative solution to the obvious one was foolish and useless. It was like searching for a needle in a haystack, chasing after something that does not exist. The only thing that could possibly solve the drought is the rain.

Minho was very disappointed in his vacation. There was little to no fieldwork to be done, and to add to that, his nightmares didn’t seem to ease up. When he felt the call to visit the farmhouse, he thought it was his intuition telling him he needed a break from the city, from work, from the bustling social life. He had thought that the cozy rural life, the fresh food and the return to simple things would heal him, but it wasn’t so. The next night Minho woke up with his throat burning, his nose aching, hands springing to hold his neck. He was suffocating, his whole being was clogged up, filled up with something very foreign and very confusing.

In his anxious, frantic movement, there was a sudden jolt of the elbow which resulted in him tipping over his glass of water which was on the nightstand. He went to get out of bed to clean, but as his feet left the bed, they landed in the puddle of water. He cringed at the feeling. It was cold.

Usually, harvest season was a very fulfilling time for Minho. Even though the crops weren’t his and he’d earn no money from helping, he always would. Something about the hard work, the physical labour, was very rewarding to him. Seeing the baskets of goodies before him and the look of joy in people’s eyes when they bought fresh ingredients from the market, it was all he needed. The air was fresher, the people were kinder, and although lady nature sometimes had something to say in the matter, it felt as if people were really getting fair rewards for all the hard work they did.

However, fair is not a word Minho would use while looking at the fields this year. They have been looking inside shallow holes for potatoes for hours now, and the results were disappointing to say the least. The potatoes were either really small or shrivelled up beyond belief, with not a lot left to salvage. The tomato harvest was also subpar, and the barrels were mostly devoid of grapes.

Seeing the barrels lined up in front of the house with nothing inside them gave Minho an uneasy feeling. The fields were empty, the barrels were empty, there was this looming sense of absence, of loss, filling the air.

The nightmares wouldn’t stop, either. He kept being carried by the currents, rolling down a river with no beginning and no end, with no control over his destiny. All of these water related dreams made him conflicted about the coming of rain; it was the one thing this town needed to be revived, and yet, after spending so many nights drowning, Minho was afraid the rain might be the end of him, the end of everything.

Exhaustion began to make itself known on his body; he had deep circles under his eyes, his hands were shaking while holding his coffee; he became clumsy and grumpy. Yet, he refused to lay down and rest, he pleaded to be taken back into the fields, because the bed and his mind terrified him. He was starting to realise he was truly, terribly, unwell.

Despite his pleas, his neighbours refused to allow him to come along and told him to relax at the farmhouse for the day. It was exactly what Minho didn’t wish to happen, for the loneliness made reality be a little too real. When people were around he could pretend he was alright, he could pretend to belong, but in the deafening silence he could hear the water splash inside his skull.

He had always been alone, even in the city. The escape from the urban to the rural was mostly an excuse, the search for silence was a ruse. He was running away from loneliness in a place where he wouldn’t feel guilty for being alone. And yet, as he looked out the window at the blazing sun and listened to the house settle and creak, he realized he didn’t wish to be alone. He wished for something other than dread to fill his heart, to complete him and take away from the burden of dealing with himself every day. A selfish request, maybe, but he desperately wished that someone would know him, that someone would let him know what exactly he’s lacking.

Perhaps he shouldn’t be alone, perhaps he should stop running away from his issues. Those are the thoughts he had as he began to pack his luggage and fill in the trunk of his car. It was time he returned to the city to seek the help of a professional who would know how to deal with these dreadful nightmares.

The owners of the farmhouse didn’t consider letting him drive alone was a good idea, but they couldn’t stop him. Minho had an almost scary look in his eyes, like a man on a mission. He was barreling on through another attempt at escapism.

He kept telling himself that things will work out. He will seek medical help, read some self development books and finally figure himself out. Nature couldn’t have helped him when his issues were so much more deep than he thought.

Without any sort of prior warning, his car stopped moving. Exasperated, after checking the fuel gauge, Minho exited his car to inspect the wheels. He couldn’t see any flat tire with the naked eye, which most likely meant it was a very sudden engine issue. While he did open the hood of the car and looked inside, he wasn’t skilled enough to know what was wrong, if anything was wrong at all. Plopping himself back into the driver’s seat, he decided to call the farmhouse neighbour, since he had some mechanical knowledge. Thankfully, there was service, and Minho was informed it would take a while before he could be aided.

With a long, deep sigh, he lowered his head onto the steering wheel and closed his eyes.Things weren’t meant to work in his favour, maybe. Perhaps he was being punished for something he did in a past life, something he was unaware of. Whatever god he might have pissed off, he was ready to beg and to repent, to plead sweet mercy for his soul.

“Please.” He whispered softly to himself, to no one in particular. Life was being really, really tough and unfair to him, and he could feel himself tethering on the edge.

A certain booming sound attracted Minho’s attention, and he lifted his head up in a hurry. Looking through the windshield, he observed something which left his mouth agape.

The sky was dark.

Grey, almost black.

He rushed out of the car and slammed the door behind him, taking a few brave steps in front of the car. Through the branches of the trees he could see that darkness loom over; that darkness brought to Minho a new sense of hope. As he stood, mouth half open and eyes glued to the sky above, the first splat or rain landed on his face. Then another, then another.

He was done running. Minho opened his arms to welcome the rain, to let her drown him if that’s what she wished. The cold droplets trickling down his neck send rejuvenating shocks throughout his body. He took one long breath and realized he could finally breathe.

Every pit and every pat of rain hitting his leather jacket was like a whisper, a little secret he was being told, of divinity, of the beyond…

He could barely keep his eyes open with the intensity of the rain. He was completely drenched but he didn’t mind, the cold was completely bearable, the water was familiar and comforting. Extending one arm forward, to catch some drops in his palm, to hold the hand of rain, he noticed a faint glowing silhouette form in front of him. It was an outline almost of mist, a living creature, pale and shining like the water surface of the Arctic.

The silhouette began to shape into a woman with human traits, her ghostly appearance being contrasted by the kind and warm smile she wore. Carefully arranged into her hair was a slim, silver crown which draped one single blue crystal on her forehead. The ethereal crystal told Minho she was the rain, the Goddess herself.

She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen; in fact, she was the only beautiful woman in the world.

She reached for Minho’s outstretched hand, and when they touched he shivered - that shiver shook his heart to such a degree that he felt like he finally awoke. He felt he finally understood something.

“My love…” He said to her, and the glistening droplets on her face were not rain drops, they were tears. “My wife.” He stepped close to her, grasping her other hand. All the love he had been storing in his body suddenly burst out, and although he couldn’t fully understand how he knew she was his lover, he was certain of it.

“My darling heart…” She spoke to him, softly, sweetly, with that voice that has been watching over him for so many months.

“Please, help me understand. I’ve been searching for you my whole life, I’ve been missing you until I fell to pieces… Please.” He pleaded, urgency in his voice. As if he was fragile, he dropped his hands and held his head, slowly dragging his forehead towards her. The moment he made contact with the crystal droplet, Minho’s memories came back.

He was born the son of a farmer of the village. He loved his parents, he was a good kid. When he grew older, he fell in love with the daughter of the shepherd. They were two simple people, they loved the smell of rain, the cold air of the morning, they danced and played in the rain, in between the apple trees and herd dogs. They got married, he took over his father’s land and she began to spin wool just like her mother.

Disaster struck them at the end of summer; neverending rain would destroy their roofs, give people the shivers, drown and kill the crops. While they were trying to stay warm inside the house, speaking warmly to each other of better futures, of beautiful future children, the river overflowed and the entire village was swept in merciless waves.

There was screaming, there was crying, and there was water. Water destroyed their houses, water killed their livestock, water drowned everyone below.

There was a boat, one singular one built in a haste by the carpenters. It was supposed to carry them all to safety, but she refused to leave. On what appeared to be crumbling remains of a house, a child and an infant were crying for their mother, who wasn’t there with them anymore. Minho’s wife rushed for the children, and Minho fought with the current to help them cross over towards the boat. By the time she had reached the children and cradled them to her body, Minho was knocked unconscious by a wine barrel flowing down the stream. She screamed for him, screamed for the rest of the villagers, but no one listened to her anguished voice.

The villagers managed to fish Minho’s unconscious body out of the water, and he awoke hours later, screaming and crying after his lost wife. He punched the village chief in the face and almost got thrown out of the boat; next town over they were rescued and given clothes and food, but he remained on the dock, staring into the horizon, waiting. He waited for years, and yet she never came back to him. At old age, he died, alone.

Minho woke up from his memories, the rain engulfing him in a warm hug. As drops turned into a warm summer downfall, he began to understand the deepest secrets of his life.

“Did you die?” He asked, and she shook her head with a smile.

“The Gods saved me. They turned me into the Rain Goddess, to protect the lands from disaster.”

“And I got reincarnated because I left you, right? I should have been there to save you…” Minho held her pale face in his hands, his guilt and torment finally finding themselves a reason. She once more shook her head.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He apologized sincerely, his wet eyes looking directly into hers. Those eyes were just as mesmerizing as he remembered them. Her body was no longer human, no longer warm, there was no heart beating in her chest. And yet, she was breathtaking, his one and only choice in every lifetime.

“Don’t apologize, my love.” She said playfully, letting a drop fall from her fingertip to his nose. He scrunched up his nose at the gesture, and for the first time in a lifetime, Minho smiled.

“Shall we?” He asked, wrapping his arm against her fluid, watery waist and guiding her hand in a dancing position. She beamed at him, and they began to spin, in a dance that spun ripples around their feet, a dance that made raindrops bounce off their bodies. A giggle tumbling off her lips was enough to heal Minho through all of his ailments, to bring him all the answers he was looking for.

Nothing was confusing anymore. All the answers had set into his mind, and he knew there was only one possible path for him to take.

He reached forward to kiss her lips, and was met with the most crystal clear taste of water he’s ever felt; the most pure and refreshing heart he’s ever held in his hands, the most nourishing love in the world. She was the water keeping him alive.

“I should go now, it has rained enough.” Although it was clearly visible she didn’t want to separate from her long lost lover, she had duties he could never understand as a human. The relationship between man and his deity has always been a little complicated.

“Don’t go.”

“I have to.” She said with an awkward smile.

“Take me with you.” At such a response, she laughed and shook her head.

“I’ll see you next time it rains, my dear.”

Just a few seconds of thinking it over made Minho understand that could never be enough for him. Minutes of rain could never soothe his drought. He needed more than a kiss, more than a dance, he needed to breathe, he needed to love.

“No.” He replied bluntly. “I’m not afraid of the beyond anymore. I’ve been there before. There is nothing for me here. There isn’t, there won’t, just like there wasn’t ever anything important to me besides you-”

“My darling heart, please-”

“I’m not afraid to drown. Please, take me with you. Take me home.”

“I love you, my darling heart. We’ll meet again soon.” With that, she disappeared and nothing remained but raindrops. Soon, those too went away and the sky cleared up, not even leaving behind a trail of mist. There was nothing for him to grasp onto anymore, no hand to hold,

Minho fell to his knees and began to sob. His soul has been waiting, yearning, longing for her for decades, if not hundreds of years. There was no point to existence if their hearts don’t interweave again.

The rumbling of another car in the distance brought to his attention that his neighbor had found him. He wiped off his tears and pretended to be fine, dazed out of his mind, his heart a glass shattering over and over again.

He didn’t go back to the farmhouse. Instead, he drove forward on the highway as if there was nothing behind him to ever find again. He didn’t have a reason for heading home, but he did so anyway. The sky was clear and so his mind was clouded.

By the time he arrived in his hometown, it was night; the streetlights were the only things standing tall on the street besides Minho. Before he could even realize, a raindrop fell onto his shoulder, feeling almost as if he was tapped. He turned around in a haste and was greeted by his Goddess, smiling at him through the raindrops. The sky was clouded, so his mind was clear.

“I’ll never truly be away from you again, my darling heart.” She giggled, stealing a quick kiss from his smiling lips. “Shall we?” She mocked, grabbing him and spinning him into a dance in the middle of the street. “I’ve found a way for us to be together.”

The Gods had agreed to gift her a lake of her own, in which she could live and materialize herself whenever her powers weren't needed. This was fantastic news for Minho, who wasted no time in buying himself the cabin attached to that lake. In the intimacy of the forest, of the lake, of the mosquitos and the woodpeckers, Minho would sit by the water and stargaze with his lover every night.

They would fantasize about future lives together, about being stars in the same constellation, about the kind of house they’d love to own together. Their kisses were watery, their dreams were impossible, but their bond was unbreakable. If one looked at them from a distance, where their silhouettes would blend in with the horizon, one wouldn’t be able to tell one was temporal and one was atemporal.

It was almost a normal love story, but the relationship between man and his deity has always been a little complicated.

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