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ssa-dado · 2 months ago

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24 - Logos

Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: fluff, hurt/comfort, SMUT Summary: A few weeks ago, Aaron had read a passage from Plato's Symposium - "And when one of them meets the other half, the actual half of himself... the pair are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy, and one will not be out of the other's sight, even for a moment." He hadn’t fully understood it. Not until he found himself sitting on your couch at 3 a.m. Warnings: + 18 MINORS DNI (I will ground you) alcohol consumption, some cuss words here and there, VERY GRAPHIC AND DESCRIPTIVE SEX because I'm a weirdo, it's basically porn with philosophy (not in the middle of it - of course - I'm not that weird), dirty talk, unprotected sex, piv, oral sex and a lot of pining. Hotch is a whore. Word Count: 18.9k Dado's Corner: I don’t know, I’m both proud and deeply insecure about posting this. It’s my first time writing smut. Ever. I have no idea if it’s good. No idea if it’s too much or too little - if I over-explained things or if I didn’t explain enough. It’s their first time actually sober, and they’re supposed to be a little cringe - uncertain, hesitant, not entirely sure what to do with each other or where they fit and that’s deliberate. I wanted it to feel real - flawed, messy, something that isn’t just perfect and seamless, but human. There’s good and bad, there’s laughter and uncertainty, there are tears of joy and tears of fear. And I just hope it feels like something.

masterlist ; mandatory first part because if you skip this, you'll be utterly lost and it's not my fault

In Stoic philosophy, logos represents the rational principle that governs the universe, uniting logic, physics, and ethics into a cohesive worldview. It is the divine reason permeating all existence, structuring nature according to order and necessity.

In Stoic logic, logos manifests as the foundation of rational thought, guiding human reasoning toward clarity and truth. Mastery of logic enables individuals to distinguish between valid judgments and deceptive impressions, ensuring alignment with reality.

In physics, logos is the active, organizing force (pneuma) that sustains and directs the cosmos. Everything unfolds according to its rational design, making the universe an interconnected, purposeful whole rather than a realm of randomness.

In ethics, living in accordance with logos means harmonizing one’s will with nature’s rational order. By cultivating wisdom, self-discipline, and virtue, individuals align their actions with universal reason, achieving tranquility and moral integrity in a world shaped by necessity and change.

Happiness is a complex concept - or at least, it became one once thinkers like Aristotle started overanalyzing it.

He distinguished between fleeting pleasure (hedonia) and deeper fulfillment (eudaimonia), and ever since, that debate has been stitched into the fabric of western culture.

Now, most people unknowingly follow this hierarchical model of happiness, never realizing it originated from a handful of bored, existentially troubled men desperately trying to intellectualize their own misery.

Maybe that’s why it’s considered completely normal to ask if someone is really happy - because centuries of philosophy decided that happiness alone isn’t enough – it had to be the right kind of happiness.

And yet, even you weren’t immune to that trap. Because standing there, dancing with Aaron, you admitted to yourself that you were, in fact, truly happy.

Not just for yourself, but for him - for the man who, for the first time since signing his divorce papers a few months ago finally looked light. Not weighed down. Not lost in some invisible battle in his mind. Just… happy.

And the moment felt so sweet, a microcosm where locking eyes with each other was ordinary conduct in such close proximity, where neither of you felt the need to temper that undeniable - if slightly terrifying - undercurrent of chemistry.

Just the understanding that this was safe, that this was allowed.

And somehow, that made it even sweeter.

Not just the warmth of it, not just the effortless way you fit into this tight space together, but the inescapable fact that your probably borderline-manipulative plan to drag him out of his self-imposed exile - had actually worked.

"Now you have to tell me how you managed to get not only Rossi but Hotch to join us tonight, sweet Teach - what kind of sorcery did you pull?" Penelope beamed, not even giving you a second to breathe after you’d opened the door to your apartment.

Ever since she got shot and still struggled with being alone in her house, the two of you had built this little ritual - getting ready together, spending a few hours just the two of you in your apartment before a night out.

A win-win, really, considering you also took your time settling into this place, figuring out how to make it feel like home. Penelope had even been the one to help you unpack your very last box, and now this little tradition had taken root.

She brought the wine, you experimented with vegan appetizers - some more successful than others - and the two of you would rant, gossip, and talk about everything and nothing. But, most importantly, Penelope took on the herculean mission of wrangling your ridiculously high-maintenance team into one place for a night out.

It was a diplomatic nightmare. The venue had to be quiet enough for Spencer but still have music good enough for Derek, serve whatever mocktail JJ was obsessed with that month, and somehow accommodate Emily’s inevitable last-minute curveballs - which, incidentally, was how Spencer found himself at a drag show for the first time.

Shockingly, he’d been asking to go back to that bar ever since.

You, meanwhile, were more like Penelope’s unpaid secretary. She desperately needed one, given the sheer level of effort it took to coordinate this mess.

"You asked, and I delivered," you said, shrugging. "Told Rossi that Hotch was coming, told Aaron that Rossi was coming too - he actually turned out to be much easier to persuade."

"I wonder why… oh, right," Penelope sing-songed, eyes gleaming. "Big Bossman has a soft spot for you, smiley little thing."

You rolled your eyes. "The fact that we’re friends doesn’t change that he is infuriatingly stubborn once he makes up his mind. So annoying."

"Nine years of ‘friendship’" Penelope quipped, stretching the word out suspiciously.

"Actually, it’s ten," you corrected, sipping your wine as you settled onto your kitchen stool.

Penelope gasped - full dramatic hand-to-chest gasp. "Oh my STARS and MOONS! Ten years?! And you didn’t tell me?! What did you do? What did he do? Just the two of you , alone somewhere private, existing in your natural secretive habitats like the little pretty, reserved, woodland creatures you two are… especially now that he’s divor-"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down, Pen!" you cut her off before she could run that train straight off the rails. "How many times have I told you we're-"

But no. She didn’t let you finish.

"Oh, Teach!" she grinned, eyes sparkling enough to concern you. "I was just suggesting you two do something to celebrate… something you two love to do. You know, stay up all night bonding over files… bending over files…"

You choked.

Actually choked.

Wine went straight up your nose, burned your throat, and splattered all over you, going everywhere.

Your counter.

Your floor.

Your poor, innocent, pristine white pants.

Penelope screamed - but not in horror, in absolute, unhinged delight.

"OH MY GOD," she cackled, slapping a hand against your back like that would somehow help you breathe again. "I HAVE NEVER BROKEN YOU SO FAST."

You wheezed, still coughing. "Penelope-"

She wiped a fake tear from her eye, grinning. "Oh no, sweet pea. You absolutely just got - wait." She paused mid-celebration, tilting her head as if she had just made a discovery.

Then, in a tone far too calm for the amount of damage she was about to inflict - "Much like I imagine Aaron Hotchner could do."

A horrible, inhuman noise clawed its way out of your throat - your last dying breath, probably.

Penelope lost it. Full-body laughter, already snatching a towel but making zero effort to hide the criminal glint in her eyes.

"I’m just saying," she went on, barely containing herself, "you and Mr. Tall, Dark, and Emotionally Repressed have this whole agonizingly slow-burn, will-they-won’t-they, tragic yearning thing going on, and you know I’m right."

You groaned, dabbing furiously at the stain. "There is nothing slow-burn about a decade-long friendship."

"Aha! So you admit it’s a burn!" Penelope beamed, pointing at you like she had just cracked a conspiracy wide open.

The more you dabbed, the worse it got - just like this conversation, apparently. "Oh, no, I never-”

"All I’m saying is," she steamrolled over you, completely unfazed, "the energy you two radiate is so thick I could slather it on a bagel. Toasted chemistry. Smothered in slow-burn spread. One time I saw him look at you like you personally hand-crafted happiness from scratch just for him. Like you reached into the fabric of the universe and said, ‘Here you go, Hotchner, a reason to believe in joy again.’"

You paused, glaring at her. "That is insane."

She ignored you, fully in the zone now. "And don’t even get me started on the way you look at him when he isn’t paying attention."

You looked at him completely normally. Totally neutral. A textbook, regulation-approved gaze.

Even Anderson looked at him with more fervor than you ever did - and as far as you knew, he wasn’t even into men.

You scoffed, crossing your arms. "And how exactly do I look at him, Penelope? Enlighten me."

She grinned - dangerously - and leaned in like she was about to drop the biggest bombshell of your life. "Like you already know what he looks like naked and are trying very, very hard not to think about it."

You froze.

For exactly half a second - which, unfortunately, was half a second too long.

Penelope’s entire face dropped. Eyes huge. Mouth hanging open. A moment of stunned silence. And then-

"OH. MY. GOD."

Your stomach plummeted. "Penelope, don’t-"

"OH MY GOD. YOU DID."

"Penelope," you tried again, desperately attempting to rein in the chaos - but, to your credit, you did at least try to keep your voice level.

"JESUS, MARY, AND EMILY PRENTISS, YOU TOTALLY DID THE HORIZONTAL TANGO WITH AARON HOTCHNER. YOU SNEAKY LITTLE MINX. HOW DARE YOU HIDE THIS FROM ME?!"

"Penelope, for the love of-" you started, but of course she chimed in again.

"WHEN?! WHERE?! HOW?! DETAILS, WOMAN!"

You exhaled through your nose, dragging a hand down your face because there was no getting out of this.

"Once," you muttered. "Nine years ago."

Silence.

Then, with the most scandalized expression you've ever witnessed on her face, she shrieked, "ONLY ONCE?!"

You threw your hands up. "Yes, only once! And never again."

"WHY ONLY ONCE?!" she shrieked, as if you had just admitted to committing the single greatest injustice known to mankind.

You exhaled, bracing yourself, hoping that a little honesty might finally get her to calm down. "Because, at the time… I might have had a bit of a crush on him. And we were coworkers. And it wasn’t exactly… ethic-"

"FUCK THE ETHICAL!" she screamed, thrilled by the sheer scandal of it all.

You should have seen that coming."Penelope!"

She flailed her arms so violently she nearly knocked over her wine glass, eyes wide "You had a crush on him?! ON HOTCH?! AND YOU ONLY DID IT ONCE?! Oh, I cannot with you right now. You are so infuriating sometimes! You have the emotional restraint of a saint, and I do not mean that as a compliment."

"We were both drunk, and it was a mistake. It happened, we moved on, and that was the end of it. We’re friends, and that’s all it’s ever going to be." you said, unwavering. " Honestly, I don’t even think about it anymore - sometimes, I even laugh about it."

Penelope squinted, gears visibly turning in that devious head of hers, already cooking up something absolutely unhinged. "Mmm-hmm. Okay. Fine. Sure. Let’s pretend I accept that. But-"

Oh no.

"-if it were to happen again, hypothetically speaking, do you think it would be even better now that he’s aged like a fine, expensive, top-shelf wine? And, and, anddd - follow-up question - on a purely objective, scientific level - how would you rate him? You know, visually?"

"Penelope!" you groaned, but unfortunately, your traitorous brain had already started answering the question.

Yes.

And no comment.

"Okay, okay, fine, no ratings," she huffed dramatically, rolling her eyes so hard you were surprised she didn't sprain something. "But-"

This was it. Your moment. Time to end this madness with a good old, firm, satisfying -"No."

But, of course, that would have been too good to be true.

She continued "-would you say he's more on the impressively sized side or-"

"Penelope, please." You were already suffering.

She waved you off like your dignity was a minor inconvenience to her scientific research. "Listen, I’m just saying," she went on, tone now fully deranged, "the man carries himself like he’s got something to be confident about. Big hands, big energy, big…"

You froze. "Do not finish that sentence."

"BIG, HUGE D-"

Time to draw the line.

You shot up so fast your chair went flying, rattling against the floor as you grabbed your phone.

Penelope screeched. "Wait - what are you doing?!"

You scrolled, thumb unwavering, and hit call. "Giving you a direct source."

Her soul left her body. "NO. NO, YOU WOULD NOT-"

You absolutely would.

And you did.

"Come on," you said, completely deadpan, as the dial tone rang. "It’s just Aaron."

Penelope malfunctioned. She glitched like a corrupted file. She stared at you, horrified, mouth moving but no sound coming out.

"He’s just 'Aaron' to you?" she whispered, her hands flailed before slamming onto the table as if physically stabilizing herself. "No last name? No title? Just oh, you know, my casual little ex-lover, Aaron? Just ‘hello, this is a man I have been biblically familiar with, Aaron?’ Just ‘we had sex nine years ago, and now he’s simply Aaron, like we’re old college roommates and not two people who have seen each other naked’"

…Hmm. Well. Yes?

To be fair, you’d never really thought about it before. It just… happened. One day, he was Hotch, then - sometime after that night - he was Aaron. And after that, you never really stopped.

No big discussion, no conscious decision - just a shift so seamless that you hadn’t even registered it until right now, in this very moment, with Penelope practically having a full-body breakdown in your kitchen.

Not important. Moving on.

Because, frankly, you had bigger concerns - like how you were about to experience instant, irreversible consequences for your actions, since the call, after one, two, three rings-

Connected.

"Hello?" His voice came through the line - slightly huffed, a little breathless, like he’d just moved across the room.

"You took a while to pick up," you said casually - a joke, a throwaway comment.

There was a pause. A beat.

And then, in that deadly flat, unbothered tone of his, he answered, "I was still in the shower."

You froze.

Penelope froze.

Somewhere, on the opposite side of your living room wall, your elderly neighbor Mrs. Lee - who had been subtly not subtly eavesdropping through the thin drywall of your apartment - probably froze.

You could feel Penelope vibrating beside you, gripping your arm so tightly she was cutting off circulation, meanwhile, your brain was running in circles, slamming against metaphorical walls, and screaming into the void because-

Aaron in the shower.

Aaron, freshly out of the shower.

Aaron, picking up the phone, standing there, probably half-naked, hair wet-

No. Nope. Absolutely not.

You leaned back against the counter, schooling your expression into something completely unfazed. "Well, now I feel bad for interrupting."

"I doubt that," he said dryly. "Is something wrong?"

"Not at all. It’s just that Penelope had something very important to ask you," you said, glancing over at her with the most innocent, borderline sadistic smile you could muster.

"I - what - no, I don’t-" she sputtered, frantically shaking her head and waving her hands.

Aaron, still completely unaware of the impending disaster, said, "What is it, Penelope?"

Dead silence.

Garcia looked like she had been struck by divine retribution.

"Go on," you mouthed, biting back a grin. "Ask him."

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Nothing.

Just the sound of sheer existential regret.

"Garcia?" Aaron prompted, his tone patient, if slightly concerned.

"I - um - hi, sir Sir," she finally managed, voice several octaves higher than usual. "I - I just - well, you know - um. How was your shower?"

You slapped a hand over your mouth to keep from screaming.

Aaron, completely unfazed, just answered like this was a normal human interaction,"It was fine."

"Good! That’s great!" Garcia blurted, nodding furiously at no one in particular. "Love a good shower! Love hygiene! So important! Huge fan of cleanliness! Showering - what a concept! Water? Incredible. Soap? Revolutionary. Scrubbing? Life-changing. Anyway, I have to go bye!"

And then she hung up so fast it was a miracle she didn’t break the phone.

You just stared at her.

She just stared back.

Then, in perfect sync -

You both screamed, laughing.

"You traitor!" Penelope wheezed, still half-laughing, half-mortified.

"You were the one who wanted answers!" you gasped, nearly crying from laughter.

"Not from him directly!" she shrieked, burying her face in her hands like that could somehow reverse time - but she was laughing anyway, because this was, undeniably, the funniest and most horrifying thing that had ever happened.

"Well, I just saved you the effort," you teased.

She ripped her hands away from her face, wild-eyed. "You made me ask our boss about his shower."

"You made me listen to your entire dissertation on whether or not he’s impressively sized - I feel like we’re even."

You still somehow winced thinking back about it.

She groaned, collapsing against the counter. "I will never recover from this."

"Oh, I’m sure you absolutely will," you said, reaching for the wine bottle. "Do you want more wine?"

She lifted her head just enough to nod. Begrudgingly.

You poured, sliding her glass across the counter. Then, with the kind of magnanimous generosity only wine-fueled chaos could inspire, you added, "And - because I am a good friend - I will allow you one question about that night. One. With a detail."

Penelope snapped upright faster than the speed of light, gasping. "Oh, this is the best day of my life."

You chuckled, shaking your head, sipping from your own glass too. "Make it count."

She took a deep breath, steadied herself, and then, she leaned in and whispered- "Was it at least good enough that you'd do it sober?"

You nearly choked, again. "Penelope!"

She lifted a hand. "No, no, no, this is a very fair, very respectable question."

Sure, a question that required another sip of wine to be answered, especially because at this point you literally had nothing more to lose. "Penelope, I would do it sober, wide awake, fully caffeinated, after eight hours of sleep, in a well-lit room, with a legally binding contract ensuring I’d remember every single second."

Penelope screamed.

"OH MY GOD," she wailed, collapsing onto the counter. "THIS IS MY NEW FAVORITE NIGHT."

You took another sip, completely unfazed, as she flailed so hard she nearly launched herself off the stool.

"I NEED TO LIE DOWN," she gasped, gripping onto the counter for support. "I NEED TO CALL EMILY. JJ – OH SWEET LITTLE JJ – SHE’S IN NEW ORLEANS SHE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW”

"You need to calm down," you deadpanned.

She pointed at you, accusatory, still half-breathless from screaming. "You were gonna take this to the grave. You were gonna let me die not knowing this. ME. PENELOPE GARCIA. The person who has kept all of your secrets and asked for nothing in return except unfiltered chaos."

"I was absolutely going to take this to the grave," you confirmed, refilling your wine.

She let out a dramatic gasp. "YOU MONSTER."

You shrugged. "You survived."

She slammed a hand on the table. "You know who wouldn’t have survived?"

You tilted your head. "Who?"

She leaned in, eyes glinting. "Aaron Hotchner."

You made a low, strangled noise in the back of your throat.

"Oh, he absolutely wouldn’t have survived if he knew this just came out of your mouth," she continued, giddy, thriving off the absolute chaos she had unleashed. Then, dead serious - "Text him right now and tell him."

You slammed your wine down. "I am definetely not texting him that."

"Why not?!" she howled.

"Because I told you - I’m never doing that. Ever. I’m serious. If I could go back in time and relive that sober? Sure. But not. Now."

She narrowed her eyes, assessing, calculating.

"Okay, okay, alright then - next question." she said too fast, taking a sip like she was preparing for battle. "Do you think he’d do it sober?"

You opened your mouth - but nothing came out. Because you hadn’t actually thought about that before.

Penelope gasped so loudly that you were surprised the walls didn’t shake. "OH MY GOD, YOU DON’T KNOW."

"I-"

"OH MY GOD, WHAT IF HE THINKS ABOUT IT, WHAT IF HE REGRETS NOT DOING IT AGAIN."

"Penelope," you said slowly, carefully, " you know what? I have reached my limit. This conversation is getting put away. We are going to the bathroom, I am curling your hair, and we are talking about something else."

"You know, Teach," she mused, stretching luxuriously as she grabbed her wine glass. "You have a really weird way of showing love."

You took a slow sip of wine, watching her over the rim of your glass. “I agree - it’s because I hate you just as much as I love you, PG. Opposites aren’t really opposites, you know? They kind of fold into each other - love, hate… same fire, same burn. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.”

You were actually proud of this philosophical pearl of wisdom. Penelope? Not so much.

She cut you off immediately. "Oh my GOD, this explains so much. This is exactly why you and Hotch looked like you were about to fuck in the middle of the bullpen yesterday."

"PENELOPE."

She pointed at you, completely unbothered. "OH NO NO NO - I was sitting there, minding my own business, when suddenly you two were arguing about the profile like you were in some kind of battle for dominance, standing way too close, talking way too low, making way too much direct eye contact."

"We were disagreeing about the profile."

"YOU WERE HAVING A MENTAL THREESOME WITH THE PROFILE BETWEEN YOU."

You let your head drop onto the counter.

She kept going. "It was totally foreplay - and then, mid-argument, he even took you to his office."

You lifted your head just enough to glare at her. "We went to his office to continue the discussion in private."

"Sure..." she grinned, skipping toward the bathroom. "Fine, fine. But just so you know," she threw a look over her shoulder, "if Hotch ever does take you to his office for anything other than work, I expect a full report."

Oh fucking hell.

"I hope your curls come out uneven," you muttered, grabbing the curling iron.

"I hope you get stuck in an elevator with him," she shot back.

You narrowed your eyes. "I hope you trip in your heels tonight."

She grinned wider. "I hope Hotch sits across from you at the bar and just stares at your lips the whole time."

You scoffed. "I hope your mascara smudges so bad you look like a raccoon by the end of the night."

She perked up. "I hope you two sneak away to the bathrooms at the bar, and you have to keep quiet while he-"

"PENELOPE."

She continued, undeterred, "I hope he backs you up against the bar, leans down all serious like he’s about to tell you something important - and then just whispers the filthiest thing you’ve ever heard."

"I hope you break a heel on the way there and have to borrow one of Morgan’s sneakers."

"I hope he offers you his jacket and you realize it still smells like his cologne and suddenly you’re thinking about it again."

"I hope you stub your toe so hard you rethink everything."

"I hope he says your name in that low voice of his, and for a split second, you remember exactly what he sounded like nine years ago-"

"I hope you spill something on your dress and have to go home early."

She cackled, victorious. "I hope you wake up in his bed and don't regret a single thing."

And maybe, exactly because the two of you had this conversation, you shouldn’t have agreed to go to the bar together in a single car – hers.

You should have seen this coming.

Indeed, as you and Aaron made your way back to the bar, drinks in hand, you spotted Derek and Penelope approaching with a very specific look on their faces.

Derek clapped a hand on your shoulder and said, "Teach - Babygirl had too many drinks to drive, I’m bringing her back home, can-"

Aaron didn’t even let him finish.

"I’ll give the professor a ride," he said immediately, smooth, confident, like he had already made up his mind before Derek even spoke. "You go, Morgan. See you tomorrow morning."

You barely had time to process how utterly inevitable this was - how there was no escaping the tension that had been building up all night until the very moment you stepped out of his car and reached your apartment door.

And then - Penelope smirked.

The smuggest, most self-satisfied, most evil little smirk in existence. You hoped, deeply and sincerely, that this wasn’t her plan all along - but judging by the way she waved so innocently as Derek dragged her away, eyes twinkling like the devil himself-

Yeah. You were doomed.

You were doomed the second you and Aaron stepped out of the bar and, with zero effort, he pushed open the massive, heavy wooden door like it weighed nothing at all. Casual. Effortless. Like he hadn’t even thought about it.

Just naturally stepped aside, one hand braced firmly on the doorframe, the other resting lightly against the door, waiting – watching - as you walked past him.

You were even more doomed when you reached his car and - of course - he opened the passenger seat for you too.

Didn’t even let you reach for it yourself.

Just beat you to it with ease, pulling it open - but instead of walking away immediately, he lingered for half a second longer, his hand still resting on the handle, holding it just firmly enough so he could be the one to shut you in himself.

Like this wasn’t already a lost art. Like this was just how things were supposed to be.

To top it all off, he got in, and as he backed out of the parking spot, his arm reached behind your headrest, fingers resting exactly there, his body leaning in just slightly closer as he turned to glance over his shoulder.

You had never wanted to fight for your life more.

Not because of the closeness.

Not because of the way his short-sleeved polo shifted, muscles tensing subtly, biceps flexing just enough as he turned the wheel -

No.

It was because he chose this exact moment to mutter, in that low, distracted, completely serious voice, something about the structural failures of public infrastructure.

"Parking lots aren’t properly illuminated," he murmured, half to himself, half to you, as he pulled out of the space - leaning in just enough for you to be wrapped in the warmth of his woody cologne. "Streetlamps are too far apart - against regulation. Visibility’s compromised."

You blinked.

It was so incredibly Hotchner of him to be thinking about streetlamp regulations at a time like this that you nearly lost your mind.

But you couldn’t even react, because then he turned on the car radio. And instead of some normal, pre-set station, it booted right into his most recent activity.

Which meant - of course - it immediately picked up in the middle of whatever custom CD he had been listening to on the way to the bar.

You had exactly one second to register the unfamiliar tune before it clicked - this was from whatever Broadway musical he was currently obsessed with.

Oh, he was such a loser.

You turned your head toward him, but Aaron - unfazed, unbothered - simply reached forward and turned the volume down to a casual, background level.

Like this was all perfectly normal.

Like you hadn’t just caught him.

"Aaron." You bit back a smirk.

He kept his eyes firmly on the road, expression unreadable. "Hmm?"

"Which one is this?" you asked, already knowing the answer but needing him to say it out loud.

"Wicked," he muttered. Then, quickly -"I can change it."

"Oh no, no, don’t you dare, Hotchner." You chuckled, settling in. "Always wondered what your music taste sounds like."

He exhaled deeply. "It is not only this-" he started, trying, truly trying to make you understand the complexity of his other music tastes, to defend his honor, but – they just started singing. And he knew.

He knew.

You were never going to let him live this down. Better off saving his breath.

Hilarious, and the best part? He didn’t even know he was.

Halfway through, you tilted your head, listening. "So this whole song is about two girls absolutely hating each other because they’re complete opposites, but they’re forced to be roommates?"

"Pretty much, yes." His answer a little too quiet, and - though he tried to hide it - deeply embarrassed.

You grinned. "It kinda sounds like they have a crush on each other," you commented, trying your best not to notice how his fingers tapped the wheel, completely in rhythm with the song, while his face remained perfectly composed - extremely normal about something he so clearly wasn't at all.

"That’s the whole point," he said, deadpan, keeping it short.

"Oh “ You blinked. “Do they get together at the end?"

"Unfortunately not." He sounded so genuinely bitter about it that you nearly laughed. "They become best friends, though."

Though, judging by the way his gaze flicked toward you for half a second, he wasn’t entirely sure if you were still talking about the musical - or something else entirely.

Especially when you simply hummed, turning to look out the window. "Best friends."

"Yes. Best friends." His fingers tightened on the wheel.

And damn if you didn’t let the silence linger just a beat too long.

"They don’t get together because they’re completely different, so they’re not compatible?" you asked, your voice just a little too earnest.

"Not because of that," he started. "It’s because one of them becomes a political fugitive and is declared a national threat, while the other is essentially forced into being the corrupt government’s PR puppet."

Ah. Okay.

There was no possible way to explain it in a way that didn’t completely kill the mood - impossible, really. But he tried anyway.

"Although," he added, keeping his voice even, measured, like this was not something he had many thoughts on, "they do have a really dramatic goodbye, where they sing about how much they changed each other’s lives and how they’ll never be the same again."

He felt you turn toward him, and though he kept his eyes on the road, he felt it - that shift in your attention, God knows on what, though.

"Best friends," you repeated.

He gripped the wheel just a little too tight. "Best friends," he confirmed, again.

A beat. A pause. Too long.

"And you think it would have been better if they had been together?" Your question landed way too heavy, like you knew exactly how much weight it carried.

Like you knew exactly how his mind worked, how he had spent far too long thinking about this, not just in the context of some musical, but in general.

He exhaled, keeping his eyes fixed ahead, but his grip tightened again.

And then-

"Fuck yes," the words left his mouth way too fast.

So fast that he heard you laugh before he even saw you smile from the rereview mirror of the car.

And God - that laugh.

It wrecked him.

Not because it was loud or sudden, but because it was yours. Because it was real. Unguarded. Effortless. Because it was him that pulled it from you - and it was then, in that moment, that he knew.

He was so, so fucked.

Because this wasn’t new. This wasn’t some sudden realization, some reckless thought that had just wormed its way into his mind out of nowhere.

It had been there. For a long time. Ten whole years.

He had just never let himself look at it too closely.

Because if he did - if he let himself really think about it, about how he felt like he was burning alive every time you looked at him like that - it would be too much.

It would consume him.

And he could not, would not, risk this unless he was absolutely sure.

Unless he knew you wanted him too.

Unless he knew you burned for him the same way he was combusting for you in real time in this car.

And that terrified him, because he was not sure.

Because you laughed like it was just funny.

Because you smiled like this was just a conversation.

Because you did not look wrecked.

Not like he felt.

So instead, he cleared his throat, steadied his grip, and forced his voice into something casual, distant - yet still, somehow, not completely backing down. "You think they should have ended up together too, then?"

Not ‘do you think I’m wrong’.

Not ‘do you disagree’.

But - you think so too.

Like some small, cowardly, pathetic part of him needed to hear you say it.

There was a pause - not a long one, not anything noticeable if he wasn’t paying attention. But he was.

He was paying attention to everything.

To the way your breath hitched just slightly, to the way your fingers twisted at the hem of your sleeve, to the way you turned your head to look at him.

“Obviously.” You gestured toward the radio. “You don’t harmonize so effortlessly with someone you’re just calling a ‘friend.’ That’s literally just denial with extra steps.”

He almost told you that harmonizing perfectly was the entire point of musical theater. That it was scripted, practiced, designed to fit together.

That it didn’t mean anything.

But he didn’t, because he knew what you meant. “So you believe in that?” he asked, voice steady, casual, like this was just another discussion.

You raised an eyebrow. “In what?”

His fingers tapped against the wheel, once, twice – thoughtful - before he finally spoke. "That some people are just... deluding themselves."

The shift was small, but he felt it. Your smile didn’t falter. Your posture didn’t change. But something in your expression - in your eyes specifically - shifted.

It was dangerous, talking to you like this.

Because you noticed too much. Because you understood more than most. Because you saw through things - through people - with a clarity that was often unnerving.

Especially when it came to him.

Especially when he wasn’t sure he was ready to be understood like that.

It was your job, afterall.

"Oh, absolutely," you said easily, your tone way too light for his liking. "People are the most oblivious to themselves. We exist in a perpetual state of contradiction - endlessly chasing clarity while fiercely protecting the illusions that comfort us. We reshape our own realities, bending them to fit the narratives we can live with, refusing to confront the truths that feel too heavy - even when they’re staring right at us."

And didn’t he know - hadn’t he always known - how precise you could be with words in moments like this? The moments where he wasn’t, the only moments where he wasn’t precise at all.

How effortlessly you could thread meaning into silence, weaving it into something he could either acknowledge or ignore.

How your gaze lingered just a fraction too long, like you were offering him a choice.

And he didn’t know whether to turn away from it - or step straight into it.

Because for once, he couldn’t read you and that terrified him.

He had spent his entire life seeing through people, understanding them before they even understood themselves.

Yet here he was, in the quiet of his car, in the space between you, not entirely sure who you were talking about.

And he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.

So he did what he had always done.

He lived with it.

With the sound of his heart thundering louder than the music - louder than your occasional singing along when something familiar played, or the rhythm of your voice alternating with his as you both filled the car with conversation about everything and nothing.

Each block closer to your apartment building felt like a loss, something slipping through his fingers before he even had the chance to hold onto it. He was already mourning the night before it was over.

And neither of you seemed to want it to end, given how relentlessly the talking continued, stretching time as far as it would allow.

It wasn’t until half an hour later that it even occurred to either of you that you were standing outside in the cold, leaning against the driver’s side door, your arms wrapped around yourself in a futile attempt to keep warm. He was still in the car, window rolled down, engine still running, caught between staying and leaving.

It made him ache, interrupting you mid-sentence to point it out. “You’re shivering,” he said quietly, apologetic, as though he were to blame for the biting chill in the air.

It made him ache even more when, instead of brushing it off or saying goodnight, you invited him upstairs, at how his jacket was discarded somewhere along the short path to your building’s entrance, now draped over your shoulders along with his arm, pulling you closer.

It was ridiculous how, even with two jackets on, the only thing keeping you from freezing was his arm.

What was even more ridiculous - hideous, really - was how he should have been the one freezing, left in nothing but short sleeves, yet somehow, standing there with you wrapped up in him, he’d never felt warmer in his life.

So warm that he didn’t even notice the chill of the night.

So warm, in fact, that he didn’t even need the blanket you handed him when you both settled into your living room, waiting for the heating to kick in. He let it drape over his lap out of politeness more than necessity, as if pretending to care about staying warm.

Now, you sat on opposite ends of your couch, shoes abandoned by the door, both of you leaning on the armrest closest to the other, legs angled toward one another, the space between you steadily narrowing. Distance itself felt like an insult, your arms resting along the back of the couch so you could still face each other, still hold onto the moment that neither of you wanted to let slip away.

And he didn’t dare lose sight of your eyes.

It was in that exact moment that a memory surfaced—some weeks ago, sitting alone in his living room, reading Symposium, a book he only picked up because he had seen you so engrossed in it on the jet. Because he had wanted to understand what had captured your mind so entirely.

And everything that followed - a whole night of texting, deep conversations neither of you ever brought up again, like always.

His eyes had analyzed the book twice, dissected its structure, its meaning. And yet, only now, in the absence of it but in your presence, did he finally understand that one passage.

"And when one of them meets the other half, the actual half of himself… the pair are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy, and one will not be out of the other's sight, even for a moment."

He understood.

Because he couldn’t look away from you - not now, not ever.

The world outside was so quiet that every word exchanged between you felt magnified, as though the universe itself had leaned in to listen. And when even your whispers felt too loud, you shifted closer, scooching toward him on the couch.

Just a few inches at first.

And then he did the same.

You moved again. Then so did he.

And suddenly, your crossed leg was draped over his, the fabric of your tights brushing against his jeans as naturally as if it had always been there. His left hand settled somewhere near your knee - hesitant, not gripping, but resting. Shy.

The ticking clock on the wall was the only tether to the concept of time, because what he’d assumed to be ten, maybe fifteen minutes revealed itself to be a full hour.

3 A.M. And neither of you seemed to care.

By then, his hand had already found the courage to rest between your thighs, still safely on your knee. Though it didn’t take long before his thumb began moving on its own, tracing slow, idle patterns over the thin fabric of your tights.

He didn’t say anything about the way your foot brushed his calf, or how his name on your lips sounded softer in the early hours. Or at how all of this mutual care betrayed his mind, cracking open a small window to what it could have been.

Yet somehow, it felt far more like a glimpse of what it could be.

“Aaron,” your said, soft enough that it sounded more like a thought than a spoken word.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a statement. It was just his name. Him.

And somehow, that made it all the more devastating.

You hesitated, your eyes dropping to where his hand rested on your knee. He followed your gaze, and in that moment, even though he’d memorized every fleck of color in your irises, their absence felt like a loss.

So dull that his thumb stilled its movements across your knee under your inspection, as if the simple acknowledgment of the two of you now might shatter everything.

He braced himself for a shift - for the game you always played, where lines were drawn, and walls went back up. Where the closeness between you was something fleeting, fleeting enough to pretend it never existed.

But then, you looked back up.

And instead of retreat, instead of scolding or teasing or anything he expected, there was something else entirely. “I really don’t want this night to end.”

He wasn’t sure he’d heard you right, but the look in your eyes left no room for doubt. You weren’t just talking about the night… and neither was he.

But he didn’t know how to give you the honesty you deserved without completely unraveling, not until his thumb resumed its gentle movements on your knee - more to selfishly steady himself than anything else.

“Neither do I,” he admitted finally, even if each second was daring him to say more, to close the space between you entirely. But he didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not yet.

It was you who moved first.

Plato said that ��At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet.”

Maybe he was right, because as your hand slid down his arm, it felt like a verse being written. The way your fingertips barely grazed the surface of his skin, tracing the map of his veins with a tenderness you hadn’t realized you possessed, pretending the warmth under your fingertips didn’t make your stomach tremble, until finally, your touch lingered on his knuckles.

A pause, hesitant. Then, almost instinctively, you laced your fingers with his. It felt... inevitable. Natural in a way that terrified you.

“Didn’t expect you to be this warm,” you murmured, your voice light, almost teasing, though you couldn’t hide the way it trembled.

You finally found the courage to meet his eyes. Hazel. Searching. Devastating.

And you weren’t afraid of what you saw, you already knew. What terrified you was that, with one touch, you might have unraveled something too fragile to survive.

His gaze fell to your joined hands, his thumb gliding softly over the back of yours, speaking in the ineffable language of touch.

“I didn’t expect to feel this… right,” he said, the words so quiet they felt more like a confession than a statement.

The smallest smile tugged at your lips, and you leaned in just a little more. “Aaron…”

And that was it.

Whatever restraint he’d been holding onto slipped away entirely. Before he could overthink it, his hand came to rest against your cheek, his calloused palm cradling the softness of your face.

Gentle. Steady. Tender.

The contrast was almost startling, culminating in the soft whimper that escaped your lips as the cold metal of his watch grazed your neck. And so, apologetically, his thumb began to move, tracing gentle patterns along your cheek, as though committing every curve, every subtle shift, to memory.

You didn’t pull away.

Instead, your hand slid to his wrist, holding him there, your thumb tracing the same delicate patterns along his inner wrist, matching his movements with the same ease that echoed in the way you ordinarily mirrored each other’s posture, each other’s language.

His gaze flickered to your lips. “You have no idea how hard it is to stop myself here,” he just said, now without a hint of regret, not when your eyes searched his with the same intensity he felt pulling at his chest.

“You don’t have to,” you whispered, the words so soft they barely reached him, but he heard them as clearly as if you’d shouted.

His breath came shallow now, his gaze searching yours, as though looking for any sign of hesitation.

But there was none. Only the quiet, unspoken truth reflected back at him.

And so his other hand found your waist, pulling you closer - so close that, without thinking, you moved to straddle him, your knees settled on either side of his hips.

“I-” he stammered, as he looked at you wide-eyed tilting his head back slightly, before shaking his head, a breathless chuckle escaping him.

“Sorry,” you blurted, heat rushing to your face as you realized just how intimate the position you’d claimed truly was – the cruelty of not having even thought about it once before moving, how it was the only way to still communicate with his eyes.

“No,” he said quickly, almost shy, but the way his thumbs brushed your sides betrayed how much he didn’t want you to move. “Don’t apologize. I just wasn’t expecting it...” he trailed off, though you didn’t miss how his gaze flickered to your lips more than once.

“…Are you comfortable?” he asked softly, his eyes wandering across your face.

It wasn’t just a question; it was a moment stretched taut, as if he was buying himself time, wanting to keep this moment balanced on the edge of the razor for just a little longer.

On this space of tenderness, where care outweighed desire, where everything still hung in the balance, where there was still time to hold back, to savor the precipice, waiting for one of you to risk it.

You nodded. “Very.”

The smallest, warmest smile flickered across his lips. “I’m happy you are,” he murmured.

How could he be even so sweet? How could he, in the middle of this - when your body was pressed so close to his - still be so considerate, so cautious, so Aaron?

How could his hands, now steady on your waist, have only settled there after he’d murmured a careful, overly-polite, “May I?”, the formality of it, juxtaposed with the intensity of his touch, was enough to make you giggle.

“Please don’t smile at me like that when you’re this close,” he said, his voice dropping to a low rasp, his gaze fixed on your lips.

You couldn’t help but grin wider. “Why not?” your fingers brushing lightly against his jaw.

“Because,” he began, his lips twitching up, “it makes me forget how to think.”

Crazy, really. The idea that Aaron Hotchner, the most precise and methodical man you’d ever met, could forget how to think. Thinking was practically the core of his being, wasn’t it?

Cogito, ergo sum. I think, therefore I am.

Because if forgetting how to think meant losing himself, then you were the cause. You had undone him.

Shaken the core of a man who had carved his entire existence around reason – or at least, tried to fool everyone into thinking so. And now, here he was - disarmed by nothing more than a smile, a touch, and the mere proximity of your lips.

If existence is rooted in thought, and Aaron’s thoughts were consumed entirely by you, did that mean his existence was yours to hold? Did that mean, right now, he existed only because you allowed him to? Couldn’t be that.

Still, how dizzying it was to consider how quickly you’d become his undoing – yet, perhaps what was even more terrifying was the way he seemed to welcome it.

“You’re not wrong,” he murmured, his voice quiet but steady, like a confession meant just for you. His dark eyes searched yours, their intensity almost overwhelming. “You do undo me.”

Your breath caught. “How did you even manage-”

But he didn’t let you finish. His forehead pressed softly against yours, his nose brushing yours in the faintest of touches.

And so your eyes closed together, as if the nearness alone was too much to bear, especially when his lips hovered so close that you could feel the warmth of his breath.

How paradoxical it was that you both desperately craved each other’s mouths, yet now, in this unbearable closeness, neither of you could summon the courage to take the last step.

How you continued lingering in the tension, your breaths mingling, your bodies pressed so close that those strong hands of his, still firmly on your waist, urged you even further onto him.

Neither of you wanted to bear the responsibility of what came next. What was about to happen. What was meant to happen. It wasn’t a game anymore. You were done waiting.

You wanted him. Now.

You were ready - to let it all go.

“Aaron,” you whispered, looking into him.

And as always, he seemed to be the only one who understood you, he began to trail kisses across your face, soft, slowly, taking his time.

Your temple.

The side of your right eye.

The curve of your cheek.

Down to your jawline.

Then, he traced his way back up, planting one final kiss at the very edge of your mouth.

When he pulled back, intoxicated, his eyes found yours - wet, shining, unguarded, just like his.

“Please, ask me to stop,” he whispered, his voice breaking, his eyes already glistening with unshed tears.

“Aaron, I can’t,” you murmured, the words trembling on your lips as your breath mingled with his, the space between you growing thinner with every passing second.

The moment.

How do you measure a moment like this?

One tick of the clock. Two tears slipping free from both of you. Three uneven heartbeats, each louder than the last.

And then, finally, he closed the distance.

You should have probably expected that your first kiss would taste like salt, the tears trailing down your faces mingling somewhere in between and masking the real sweetness of it. How the flavor of each other’s mouths was obscured, just as you’d both hidden your true feelings for so long.

It was so cruel in its irony, yet somehow, it fit so perfectly that neither of you could bring yourselves to care.

Because his lips were too soft against yours for your own good, the gentleness of his hand gripping the nape of your neck pulling you closer, while the other rested against your tear-streaked cheek, damp from both the lingering press of his lips moments before and your tears.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t to retreat - it was to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that wouldn’t stop falling, even as his own streamed freely, unchecked.

And as much as you wanted to keep going, to lose yourself in the solace of his mouth, something greater pulled you both in.

Without hesitation, you collapsed into each other’s arms, clutching tightly as though the world around you was slipping away, tears soaking into the other’s shoulders.

Was it penance? For realizing too late how simple this could have been? For all the wasted years, the missed chances, and the pain endured in silence?

Or was it just acceptance -that only now were you both ready to bear the weight of this, to hold each other completely, to disappear into one another?

Maybe that was the point.

Because in that embrace, unplanned and unbidden, came a feeling so familiar it ached.

That same resonance in your chest, the same connection of that first time you ever held him like this, nine years ago in your old apartment, when his walls cracked just enough to let you in.

And so the memory bleeds into the present, and it’s almost unbearable how much has stayed the same, and yet, how utterly everything has changed.

That stupid Hegel wasn’t wrong: the synthesis always becomes a new thesis, a cycle repeating itself. The moment was reborn, again and again, every time.

But damn, how it changed with every turn.

The same, yet entirely different.

The weight of then. The depth of now.

It was all there, in that fleeting, aching embrace. Not just holding on to each other, but to every version of yourselves that had come before - and every one still waiting in the future.

Even as the moment began to fade, as you pulled back - both drawn by the undeniable hunger to find each other’s mouths again - the synthesis was already shifting, reshaping into something new.

Another storm, another struggle, another antithesis loomed ahead, but always, always, the cycle reached for a new synthesis. And Hegel, damn him, was right again.

The cycle never ends.

But neither, it seemed, did you.

Competing with each other, as always.

Neither of you willing to back down, both so eager to claim the other that it became impossible to tell who started the second kiss, it just… happened.

This time, there was no softness, no hesitation - just urgency. Your hands tangled in the back of his hair, pulling him closer, keeping him right where you wanted him, while his hands gripped your lower back.

The moment your lips parted, offering him the faintest invitation, he deepened the kiss without even thinking it twice. His tongue slid against yours with so much hunger you were intoxicated, only for you to interrupt with a sharp bite to his bottom lip.

He growled at the challenge, he had to one-up you, returning the favor by sinking his teeth into your jawline, as if to stake his claim all over again, a sound so low and primal it seemed to vibrate straight into your skin, making you gasp and tighten your hold on him even more, eager to hear it again.

Damn him and his competitiveness.

You couldn’t help but meet it head-on, your hands roaming over the taut muscles of his back, feeling every shift, every flex as he moved against you.

He broke away briefly, not to stop, but to catch his breath as his lips found new territory. From your mouth to your jaw, and then down to your neck, your head tilting back reflexively, granting him even more access.

He smiled against your skin, insufferable even now, and when his lips returned to yours, that grin only widened. You kissed him again and again, but since his stupid smile kept getting in the way, you ended up kissing his teeth more than once.

Damn him.

And yet, you found yourself smiling like a fool, because how could you not? There was no way you could be making him feel this way, yet here you were - both of you lost in it, pushing and pulling, both refusing to surrender.

The more you had of each other, the more you wanted, never satisfied, never close enough, as though the only way to end this ache was to somehow crawl into each other’s skin.

And so, blame the position.

Blame the dress you’d chosen tonight, skimming your thighs, leaving so little to the imagination as it rode up with every shift against him.

Blame the way your kisses had shifted, growing hungrier, messier, more tongue than lips, more heavy breathing than words.

Or blame his new-found obsession to place wet kisses on the spot just behind your ear just to hear you gasp, while he had the audacity to hum into your neck, utterly satisfied with himself, like he was savoring your every reaction to the exquisite work of his mouth.

Blame his body, the way he pressed against you, his hands sliding from your waist to your hips, then lower, settling on your ass with a grip that didn’t make the things any easier.

Blame the way his growing bulge rubbed against you through the rough fabric of his jeans, the friction hitting exactly where the ache was blooming, pulling shudders from deep inside you.

Blame all of it - the kisses, the position, the maddening press of his body against yours - because it only made you more desperate.

The carnal realization of just how badly you wanted him, left you unable to stop. Your hips moved instinctively, grinding against his hardness, the rhythm of your kisses syncing with the desperate roll of your bodies.

Thank God his jeans were dark, because you were sure by now your arousal was leaving its mark on him, soaking into the fabric, leaving evidence of just how far gone you were – and if he noticed, if he felt it, the way his grip tightened on your waist told you he didn’t care.

If anything, it spurred him on, pulling you closer, holding you tighter, neither of you could stop moving.

The worst part? You didn’t want to. Not even a little.

What was even worse than this? The fact that Aaron, ever the master of timing, felt the need to comment on the obvious.

“You know what you’re doing, don’t you?” he asked breathless, lips flushed and slightly swollen from yours.

No shit, Sherlock.

You didn’t hesitate. “Aaron, do I look like I don’t know exactly what I’m doing?”

That even managed to earn a chuckle from him – speaking of victories - “Just… wanted to make sure you’re alright with this pace. We’re not exactly taking it slow, you know?!” he rasped, as his hands slid up and down the sides of your hips.

No shit, Sherlock, part two.

Was he worrying about you or himself?

You tilted your head, searching his face, the faint crease in his brow, the way his eyes softened as soon as they were met with yours. “Aaron,” you cupped his cheek. “Do you want to take it slow instead?”

Shit. What if you’d misread him? What if this hesitation wasn’t about concern for you but second thoughts about the entire thing? You hated yourself. How could you even think that-

“Not really,” he admitted, his lips curving into the most kissable smile. “I just… don’t want you to regret this. I’d wait forever if you asked me to, but right now…” His words faltered, his gaze dropping to your lips. “Right now, I don’t think I can. But only if you want it too.”

Oh God, how considerate he was.

Oh God, how much you never trusted anyone as him, how safe did he make you feel, how it almost brought tears to your eyes because you’d forgotten what it felt like to be looked at, cared for, wanted like this.

Oh God, how much you didn’t want to respond with words, to just take his hand, guide it between your legs, and let him feel exactly how much you needed him.

But words it was, then.

“I do, Aaron,” you said, taking his hands in yours. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more sure of anything. I want this. I want you. But…” Your lips curled up. “Not on my couch. Could we maybe hold out until the bedroom?”

Ah, yes. Turning 30 had officially made you someone who prioritized the longevity of their furniture over their sex life.

How responsible.

How tragic.

And yet, neither of you moved. It took a second - or two, or three - for both of you to gather the energy to even try standing after spending what felt like an eternity tangled up on your poor, overworked second-hand couch…

…a poor overworked second-hand. Hm. Now there was a pattern.

You hated yourself a little for how evil the thought was. Poor couch, poor him.

Not that it wasn’t true. But still - evil.

Still nearly as evil as the absolute disaster you’d made of his hair with your hands while you were making out. A fitting match for the flush on his face and the state of his half-untucked polo, which you’d been yanking at so fervently it was a miracle it hadn’t come off entirely.

Speaking of things you couldn’t stop noticing, the sight before you now was definitely a huge… huge walk with him to your bedroom. Because surely your hallway hadn’t been this long before.

Or maybe he was thinking the same thing, because just as you reached the doorway to your bedroom, he turned you, your back pressing against the wall before you even had time to push the door open.

You didn’t expect him to be this passionate – and desperate, when his mouth was back on yours, claiming you in a kiss so hot and wet it that the wetness surely wasn’t exactly isolated to your mouth at all.

You gasped, caught completely off guard, and that was apparently all the invitation he needed to slip his tongue deeper into your mouth, tasting you, claiming you, and it was so good that you barely managed to catch your breath, let alone remember the damn bedroom door.

“Aaron-” you managed between breathless kisses, barely stringing the words together.

As if you could talk.

As if you could pretend to hold any moral high ground here when your leg was already wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer. And oh, he was there - all of him. Thick, hard, and pressing against you.

He groaned into your mouth as his hands slid lower, gripping a handful of your ass, “I know,” he muttered, his voice rasping against your skin. “I know. The door.”

Oh, but why did his voice have to sound like that - so low, so wrecked… so unfair.

Anyway, the door.

Not that it mattered, apparently, because he didn’t move. His lips found your neck, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin there, as his hands kneaded the flesh of your ass like he couldn’t get enough.

“You’re not exactly working on it,” you managed to gasp, and oh, you were so proud of yourself for having the strength to bicker with him even now, even like this.

Of course, Aaron, being Aaron, couldn’t resist biting back.

You felt the curve of his lips against your neck, he chuckled as his teeth grazed the hollow of your throat. “Well,” he murmured, returning to nip at your earlobe. “What about you?”

The man was infuriating. And hot. And so completely overwhelming you could barely think straight.

“I’m very busy right now,” you managed to counter, though what you really meant was that your back was far too occupied arching into him, practically begging for more.

At least he somehow found the self-control to pull back after what you could most graciously describe as an obscene amount of very enthusiastic dry humping. You were both so doomed. His hands steadied you just long enough for him to fumble for the doorknob.

And then the second you crossed the threshold, all bets were off.

His lips - no, his mouth - were on yours again, the kiss so heated it was more teeth and tongue than finesse. Probably because it hit you both at the same time - the realization of just how painfully simple it would be to strip the other bare.

His polo? A quick tug away from being tossed aside. Your dress? One little zipper stood between it and the floor. No barriers. No obstacles. That was all it would take.

And it was as if he read your mind because without a word, his hands found your waist and spun you around, pulling you back against him.

You barely had time to gasp before his head dipped to your neck, as his fingers found the zipper of your dress way too easily without even having to look. Just before he moved it, he paused. “I might’ve left a mark.”

Oh no, what a pity…

“Make it two,” you whispered, your voice trembling as your hand slid into his hair, pressing his head right where you wanted it.

And because Aaron apparently took instructions very well when they suited him, he bit down, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you shiver, the sharpness of it immediately soothed by the warm drag of his tongue.

The sound you made was embarrassing - breathless and high-pitched – that only seemed to spur him on, since in less than a second, the dress was pooling at your feet, leaving you bare save for your tights and underwear.

Mismatched underwear.

A good lace bra - at least there was that - with the most comfortable white cotton grandma pants you could have pulled from the depths of a multipack that were, by how the things have been going now, almost certainly transparent. Perfect.

Not that any of this was supposed to happen, of course.

You hadn’t exactly planned on getting laid by your… what even was he? Your best friend? Your boss?

An objectively gorgeous man with dark eyes that burned into you, whose voice could make your knees completely weak? The person you’d been quietly, stubbornly, and stupidly in sexual tension hell with for a decade?

He was all of that. He was none of that. He was Aaron, and whatever Aaron Hotchner was to you, you hadn’t planned on getting laid tonight. Or this morning. Or whatever ungodly hour it was now.

But plans didn’t seem to matter anymore.

Not when his hands were sliding over your body like you were something he’d wanted for so long that touching you now felt like the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

Not when his lips found yours again, claiming them in a way that made you wonder how either of you had ever survived without tasting each other.

And certainly not when the moment your back hit the mattress of your bed, his full weight pressing into you fully, how your legs opened instinctively, welcoming him, pulling him closer, your body arching into him like it was chasing something only he could soothe.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, scanning your face like he was trying to memorize every detail. “God, you’re so beautiful,” he said softly, his voice rough but sincere.

“God, you’re so clothed,” you shot back without thinking, your quick wit betraying you yet again, unsure whether to curse yourself for ruining the moment or to thank your sarcasm for always wanting to keep things… balanced.

But instead of appreciating your humor or giving you the satisfaction of stripping him, the insufferable man had the audacity to bypass your comment entirely.

With a swift motion, his hand reached behind you, unclasped your bra, and tossed it somewhere into the abyss of the room without so much as a second glance.

You blinked, momentarily stunned, a flush creeping up your neck at the brazenness of it. “I was referring to you, Hotchner.”

“Eventually,” he murmured, his lips brushing yours before capturing them again in a kiss that effectively cut off any protest you might’ve had. Clever man.

And so he started his descent, a study in patience, still hopelessly romantic about it, as if the situation weren’t already infuriating. Because even though you knew for sure he could feel the way your nipples had hardened against him, he still took his time.

Kissing his way down your throat, spending far too long mapping out the curve of your collarbone with his mouth, fingers just hovering - like he wasn’t already touching you everywhere.

And then, finally, his hands moved. Possessively. His palms covered your breasts, kneading them in a way that sent sparks ricocheting through you, his lips pressing a single, scorching kiss right in the middle of your sternum.

That did it. That had your thighs clenching on instinct, a desperate attempt to manage the growing fire low in your belly.

But you refused to let a sound escape.

Oh no. You weren’t about to give him that satisfaction. Especially not when he got to enjoy the full view of you laid out beneath him while you were left with only the delicious flex of his biceps.

Biceps, which, while spectacular, were not the bare expanse of his back. Not the firm ridges of muscle you knew were under that godforsaken polo, the one thing keeping things uneven between you.

He seemed to catch on to the game you were playing, though, because without warning, his mouth closed over one of your nipples, his tongue swirling over the sensitive peak so perfectly that it had your breath catching in your throat.

At the same time, his fingers found the other, pinching, rolling, teasing - the combination so damn lethal when paired with the languid flicks of his tongue, sending shocks straight to your clit.

Still, you bit your lip, stubbornly holding back the sounds he so clearly wanted to pull from you, even if the ache between your thighs was unbearable now - a dull, insistent throb that begged, no, pleaded for attention.

Attention that the insufferable man was withholding.

Or, unlike you, he simply didn’t want to rush… damn him. He was making it impossible to keep up the charade.

Because every flick of that damned talented mouth of his - now moving onto your other breast - every brush of his fingers, every sound he made against your skin that revealed just how hungry he was of your flesh, was undoubtedly designed to unravel you, piece by piece.

Every piece, that is, except for your poor, neglected, throbbing clit.

And of course, he was enjoying every second of it. Smug bastard.

“You know,” he murmured against your skin, his lips still grazing your nipple, “sounds are appreciated.” …Oh, fuck him.

“So is nudity,” you managed to snap, though your voice trembled, betraying just how close you were to falling apart.

He stilled. Lifted his head just enough to meet your gaze. And then he smirked.

Ah. That smirk. Never a good sign.

Especially not when paired with the way his hands started working your tights down - so slowit was almost unbearable. Always careful, always considerate Aaron. But God, right now, you wanted him ripping them off you.

His gaze swept over you, his eyes instantly darkened as they dettled on the on the damp patch at the center of your underwear.

“You’re soaked,” he murmured, his voice dipping lower, rougher, as his thumb grazed over the edge of the fabric.

Before you could process how pleased he was with himself, he spread your legs further, settling himself between them. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thighs, pinning you down, and he started trailing kisses along your inner thigh.

From the knee.

Oh, come on.

Still, you hissed at the contact, at the way his mouth devoured your thighs like he was savoring every inch of them.

Like this, this was what he lived for. Worshipping you.

And the way his lips moved, how drunk he looked as he worked his way upward, kissing, sucking, biting - just enough to make you twitch, the way his breath shook when he exhaled against your thigh - it only made it worse.

The closer he got, the more impossible it became to hold back the sounds slipping from your lips.

And then - one last kiss, right there, where your thigh met your core.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he murmured, and before you could even think about responding, his tongue flicked out, tasting the arousal that had trailed up to where his mouth lingered.

Oh. What a whore.

“You’re such a who-” you began, but the words barely escaped before he bit down lightly on your clothed clit, sharp enough to send a jolt through your entire body and rip a strangled cry from your throat.

Your reaction must have been exactly what he wanted, because his fingers replaced his teeth immediately, pressing against you through the thin, damp fabric.

“Oh, there you are,” he murmured, dragging his fingers down the length of your slit. “For a second, I thought I wasn’t doing it right.”

You scoffed, or at least you tried to. The sound barely made it past your lips before breaking into another sharp, breathless cry as his fingers rode back up, pressing against your clit in slow circles, the cotton barrier dulling the sensation just enough to drive you insane.

One, two, three strokes - then you stopped counting, too caught up in the feeling of him until he finally tossed the fabric aside, making you feel the cool air against the wet heat of your core, but he didn’t move.

Didn’t touch.

Just -

"You're a goddess."

He stared for so long that you started to wonder if he was waiting for you to say please, some kind of power play.

Your lips curled slightly as you lifted your chin. "If you think I’m going to beg you now, Hotchner, I’m absolutely not.

Apparently, you had never been more wrong in your life.

Because his head snapped up so fast it was almost comical - except for the way his entire face flushed. Not just with arousal - well, yes, definitely with arousal - but with something else.

The way his mouth parted slightly before he swallowed, his throat bobbing, his gaze flicking away for half a second like he had to collect himself, undoubtedly made you think-

"I was actually…" he cleared his throat, "asking for permission."

Oh. Oh. Apparently, someone couldn’t hide being a bottom for more than a few minutes.

Aaron ‘Attitude’ Hotchner? Gone. Reduced to sheepish glances and waiting for permission like a damn Victorian gentleman the second he actually looked at your cunt.

Hilarious.

"You have it," you murmured.

That was delicious.

And because he was so whipped, he didn’t just dive in immediately. No. Of course not. He had to come all the way back up first, had to kiss you before anything else.

And then he was gone. Gone from your mouth, gone from your chest, gone from anywhere but exactly where you wanted him most.

The very first swipe of his tongue across your folds obliterated any coherent thought, reduced your world to this - to the wet heat of his mouth, to the steady press of his hands holding you open, to the obscene sounds of him devouring you.

There was nothing but him, the way his tongue curled against you, the way his lips closed around your clit with just the right amount of pressure, the way his name tumbled from your lips and melted into the deep, guttural moan he let out as he first tasted you.

And honestly, you couldn’t decide what was hotter - the way his sounds came in perfect harmony with your own cries, or the fact that he was so vocal while eating you out, like it brought him just as much pleasure as it did you.

And it probably did.

Because he lapped at your dripping cunt like a man starved, frantic, desperate, moving with such a hunger that made your fingers dig into his hair, gripping tight like you could somehow hold on to reality through him.

But he didn’t want space. Didn’t need it. If anything, he leaned in further, groaning low against your soaked, swollen cunt, letting you drip down his chin as if he loved the way your arousal was entirely coating his flushed face.

Loved being drenched in you. Loved ruining himself on you.

“Aaron-” your voice broke, your hips jerking up into him, needy. “God, your tongue is unreal.”

And oh, he heard you, loud and clear.

Because his immediate response? Teeth. A quick, sharp graze of his teeth against your clit, followed by a suction so deep, so overwhelming, it ripped a scream straight from your throat.

Fuck him.

“Your-your mouth is unreal,” you stammered, correcting yourself, because apparently, he wasn’t letting you off the hook without acknowledging his full range of talents.

Smiling against your skin - as if it wasn’t blatantly obvious that he had a praise kink, too.

“Sorry,” he said with a kiss to your inner thigh as his thumb kept working on your clit. “I just thought you were a thorough one, Professor.”

What a whore.

“Oh, fuck you for calling me ‘Professor’ like it doesn’t turn you on just to say it,” you shot back.

“Oh, it does,” he admitted with no shame whatsoever. “I just wish you could feel how much.” His gaze flicked down, daring you to follow it - to the thick, aching bulge straining against his pants, so hard it had to hurt, so obvious it made you clench around nothing.

How cruel of him.

“Keep talking to me like that, Aaron, and I’ll crush your head with my thighs,” you warned, voice shaking, hands fisting into the sheets because he was still teasing, still circling with his thumb instead of putting his damn mouth back where you needed it most.

“Please do,” he said.

And then he gave you exactly what you wanted. His tongue plunged into you, pushing past the unbearable emptiness, giving you something to clench around, something to grind against, something to drown in.

And because he was, apparently, crafted to be the most infuriatingly perfect thing to ever exist - his nose pressed against your clit with every movement, sending white-hot jolts of pleasure through you so intense your legs tried to snap shut around his head.

He was faster. Stronger. Hands tightening against your thighs, keeping them spread as he pressed you further, pinning you down so he could devour you properly. And when your thighs twitched again, reflexive, desperate-

"Stay open for me."

That awful, awful sound. That little flick of his tongue against his teeth, a wordless tsk of disapproval - he did it every time, every single time, and it should have pissed you off but instead, shot straight through you, coiling low in your belly, leaving you breathless, made you arch into his mouth, made you-

"Still, please," he growled, more desperate now, fingers tightening like the control freak he so obviously was. Apparently, the man simply could not function if his so-called work space wasn’t perfectly in order.

Some things never changed.

“You’re such a hypocrite, it was-” Your breath caught on another roll of his tongue, hips jerking up against his face. “It was you who begged me to-”

"Mm," he hummed against you like he was thinking about it, his mouth hot and slick as he pressed deeper, let his tongue flatten. "And?"

…And then his lips closed around you, sucking just right, and you broke. You felt it coiling, tighter, tighter, low deep in your stomach.

"Aaron, I'm so close."

"I got you," he murmured, suddenly warm, suddenly gentle - because despite all the arrogance, the smug little smirks, he was nothing but a softie. All bark, no bite. Well… except for the other kinds of bites. "Don’t worry. Let go."

Then his tongue flicked - once, twice… and you were gone.

Shattered apart, trembling beneath his mouth, your fingers tangled in his hair, yanking, desperate. The pleasure hit sharp and fast, so intense it almost hurt, your muscles locking up as wave after wave crashed through you.

But he didn’t stop. Not until you’d come on his face just one more time.

So his tongue was back on you before you could even recover, dragging you higher, keeping you there, refusing to let you go. His mouth was relentless, but his fingers - God, his fingers.

How many times had you daydreamed about them? How many nights had you imagined the way they’d feel sinking inside you, stretching you open, fucking you deep and slow until you couldn’t think?

A reasonable number of times. That’s what you told yourself.

So it only made sense that you were impatient now, desperate to feel them inside you instead of just ghosting along your soaked folds, teasing, tracing, dipping in just enough to have you thinking, finally -

Only for him to pull away again, just as fast.

“Need some help finding it, Hotchner?” you bit out breathlessly, your voice dripping with sarcasm despite the whimper it ended on. “Don’t be embarrassed. I can guide you if-”

Before you could finish, one thick finger thrust deep inside you, cutting off your words with a strangled moan.

“I think I’ve got it,” he said smugly… oh, he definitely did.

The stretch of just one finger had you reeling, but then he added a second without hesitation, the fullness making you gasp. Two of his fingers felt like three of yours, stretching you perfectly, pressing against spots you didn’t even know existed.

“Fuck, Aaron,” you moaned, gripping the sheets as he started to move faster, stroking that perfect spot again and again until your vision blurred.

“You like that?” he asked, his voice so low and rough that made your toes curl, unable to respond if not with a whimper.

“Yeah, you do,” he murmured, his lips brushing your thigh as his fingers curled deeper, pressed just right, dragging a broken moan from your lips, his own voice dark with approval. "God, you’re so wet."

Your cheeks burned because well, wasn’t he right?!

The evidence of it was everywhere - slicking his fingers, his hand, his face, and the way he said it, so casually, like he was just stating a fact, only made the heat in your belly coil tighter.

"Damn, you’re so fucking good," you gasped between shattered breaths.

“Mm, so is this cunt,” he shot back between licks, groaning as he felt you flutter around his fingers.

What a dirty, dirty mouth. And damn, if he did he put it to use.

It didn’t take long. Barely a few more thrusts of his fingers into your slick, throbbing cunt, barely a few more drags of his tongue against your clit - before he had you unraveling completely.

Your body seized, back arching clean off the bed, a sharp, helpless cry ripping from your throat as you came so hard you almost sobbed.

He didn’t stop.

His fingers kept fucking into you, curling just right, stroking deep, drawing out every last shudder, every last desperate moan. His tongue never left your clit, flicking, sucking, keeping you there, forcing you to take every wave, every aftershock, dragging you through it until your thighs trembled around his head, until you were whimpering, pleading, too overstimulated to handle another second.

Only then did he finally pull away, lips gliding up your body, dragging sticky, open-mouthed kisses along your stomach, your ribs, your breasts, until his weight was pressing you into the mattress again, until you were surrounded by him, the scent of sex thick in the air, his mouth still hot and wet against your skin.

"God, you’re a fucking vision when you come," he murmured, voice husky, lips brushing over your jaw as his hand slid up to cradle your face.

And then he kissed you.

Deep, filthy, his tongue sweeping into your mouth without hesitation, letting you taste yourself on him, letting you feel the slick mess he’d made of you, the evidence of how thoroughly he had devoured you.

Romanticism truly was dead.

“Still too clothed,” you whispered, voice low, teasing, as your fingers trailed from his jaw down to his chest, nails scratching lightly over the fabric of his polo, feeling the heat of him beneath it. Annoyingly in the way.

“You’re very welcome to change that now,” he huffed, smirking, giving you another quick, teasing kiss, the barest brush of his lips over yours.

Who were you to refuse?

Your hands moved swiftly, gripping the hem of his shirt and tugging it up, over his head, before tossing it somewhere behind you - who cared where? That would be his problem in a few hours anyways.

And oh damn-

If you thought the polo highlighted his frame, without it he looked absolutely massive. His chest, his shoulders, the way his muscles shifted beneath his skin - it was almost unfair how goodlooking he was.

You leaned in to kiss him, letting your fingers roam all over him - probably lingering a little too long on those broad, perfect shoulders. Honestly, you were doing your best not to bite them.

Mostly. A little nip didn’t count, right? Surely it was allowed. To test. It wasn’t your fault they looked like they could carry the weight of the world - and you - without breaking a sweat. But of course, he couldn’t know that. He couldn’t know that his shoulders alone were making you go feral.

So you distracted him the best way you knew how - your lips pressing against his neck, soft at first, teasing, before nipping lightly at his pulse point, teeth scraping just enough to earn you a sharp inhale.

Still, even as your lips worked to keep him occupied, your thoughts betrayed you.

You were sure you’d implode the moment you saw his back - the way those muscles would shift and flex. Just the thought of it had your pulse racing. Thankfully, he was still facing you, so you had a little more time to live. But not much, considering the way your mind still found a way to betray you.

Because now all you could picture was his weight on top of you, pressing you into the mattress, pinning you down with no way out. Now all you could feel was the phantom stretch of him, the way he’d fill-

Right. His jeans. Still in the way. Still ruining your life.

You swallowed hard, forcing your hands to move lower, fumbling with his belt and zipper. If your hands trembled, you’d blame it on how hard you were trying not to stare at the thick bulge beneath the denim. Trying being the keyword, because at this point - you weren’t better than a man.

His jeans hit the floor, leaving him in just his boxers, making it quite difficult to ignore the outline of him anymore - thick, hard, already straining against the fabric, the damp spot at the tip teasing at just how ready he was.

Your pulse pounded in your ears as you glanced up, silently asking if you could take things further. He gave a small nod, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, and that was all the encouragement you needed.

Your hands turned momentarily shy as you hooked your fingers into the band, slowly tugging them down. He sprang free, thick and hard, flushed at the tip, already glistening with slick arousal, and God, you swore your mouth went dry and then wet all in the span of a heartbeat.

You couldn’t stop yourself from murmuring, “God,” as your fingers wrapped around him, thumb brushing over the swollen, leaking head, smearing the wetness there, spreading it over the burning skin.

The reaction was immediate.

His head tipped back, his grip on your hips tightening, trying hard not to just rut into your fist like some desperate, touch-starved needy thing. But he was trembling , his self-control fraying one slow stroke at a time as you worked him over, your fingers squeezing around the slick head before dragging back down his length.

"Fuck," he muttered, the sound wrecking you, shooting straight between your legs.

“You’re so-” you started, but the words failed you. What could you even say? You were too distracted by the weight of him in your hand, the way he twitched against your palm and the way the thick vein along his shaft throbbed with every stroke of your hand.

All you knew was that you wanted him in your mouth. Wanted to drag your tongue along that vein, wanted to feel the heavy weight of him on your tongue, wanted to take him down until tears pricked the corners of your eyes. The need burned in your gut, tight and relentless, but still, it wasn’t enough. Because as much as your mouth ached for him, the fire between your thighs was worse. So much worse.

“Aaron,” you breathed, voice shaking as you looked up at him, your fingers still wrapped around his cock, still stroking him, enjoying the way his chest rose and fell with every movement of your hand.

His eyes - dark, heavy-lidded - met yours, his breath coming uneven, jagged, as he rasped, desperate, "Take whatever you want."

“I want you.”

Aaron groaned, his lips twitching into something that might have been a smile if he wasn’t so wrecked with desire. “Come here,” he murmured, as he leaned down and kissed you. And God, what a kiss.

Before you knew it, he had you back on the bed, his body hovering over yours, his broad shoulders framing your view of him. He settled himself between your legs, his mouth moving to your jaw, then down to your neck, at the point there was no doubt in a few hours you’d wear a turtleneck to work.

Still, he paused, hovering just above you, his lips brushing against yours as he asked one more time, “Are you sure?”

At this point, if you weren’t aching for him, you might’ve had the patience to be sarcastic. Something like, No, actually, I’m not sure. Let’s both get dressed again and see if that helps.

“Aaron, I’m literally begging you,” you said, exasperated, though you didn’t miss the glint in his eyes – if he just wanted you to beg him he could have simply asked. You would have never said it out loud but at least he could have tried…

“Just making sure,” he said so softly his voice seemed even deeper than it already was, but his hand slid between your legs, fingers gliding through your folds, and the way he groaned when he felt how wet you were made you shudder.

“God, you’re soaked,” he muttered, almost to himself, as if confirming what he already knew.

You didn’t think it was possible to be more turned on, but apparently, Aaron Hotchner could always prove you wrong.

And ever the hopeless romantic - because apparently, he was so much of a kisser - he kissed you again. It wasn’t fair, honestly, how good he was at this, how much intention he poured into every press of his lips , every flick of his tongue, every sharp little pull at your bottom lip that had your hips rolling up against him. It was infuriating.

"I’m on the pill," you gasped between kisses, cutting straight to the point because at this rate, you were about two seconds away from losing your mind.

"Good," he murmured, his lips ghosting over yours again. "That’s good."

Of course it’s good, Aaron. As if you were trying to create another insufferable Hotchner. One man who could argue his way out of anything was already more than enough for the world.

He shifted, aligning himself at your entrance, the thick head of his cock pressing against you, dragging through your slick folds with just the slightest roll of his hips. The stretch, even in just the promise of it, had you gasping into his mouth.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he rasped, his forehead pressing against yours, still searching for any sign of hesitation. Classic Aaron.

And because he was Aaron, of course he kissed you again, stealing what little breath you had left as he began to push inside.

Holy fucking-

Your nails dug into his shoulders as he filling you inch by inch, his cock sinking in with a slow, thick glide that made your head tilt back into the pillow, your mouth falling open as sounds escaped your lips - a moan, then a gasp, and a whimper.

When he bottomed out, buried to the hilt, so deep you swore you could feel him in your stomach, you swore you might break, and you loved every second of it. How the hell did he even feel this good?

"Jesus Christ," he gritted out, breath hot against your jaw.

He paused, his cock throbbing inside you as he let you adjust, his lips ghosting over your jawline with kisses so soft they felt almost reverent, as though the slight ache of the stretch was something he needed to apologize for.

“God, you’re so tight.”

You involuntarily clenched down around him in response, "Fucking Christ," he groaned, his forehead dropping to yours for a moment. “You’re going to kill me.”

And fuck, if the second he started moving you weren’t utterly determined to hear every name of every deity from his long-lost religion tumble from his lips, as long as it meant he kept thrusting so deep inside you – making your breath catch from the mere drag of him pulling his entire length out before pushing it back in.

“Fuck Aaron, you feel so good,” you gasped, your hands tightening on his biceps.

And damn him, because he loved it - loved your praise so much that a low chuckle rumbled in his chest, even as his breath came uneven, ragged. “Fuck, you look so beautiful from here,”

He leaned in, his hips still moving, his lips brushing against yours just enough for you to feel the heat of his breath, to taste the promise of his kiss. “You’re perfect,” he whispered, making your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, needing him deeper.

The shift in angle made his next thrust hit you in a way that tore a cry from your lips. He must’ve felt it - the way your body tightened around him, the way your nails sank into the strong muscles of his back, leaving red lines in their wake - because his pace quickened, each thrust better than the last.

And damn it if he didn’t fuck you so good.

“Right there,” you gasped, arching your back as the head of his cock hit that spot “Oh, Aaron-”

“God, I love how you say my name,” he rasped, his forehead dropping to yours as he planted a kiss on your temple between thrusts.

Sweat beaded on his forehead, dampening the dark, thick strands of his hair that clung to his face, his brows furrowed all concentrated, his cheeks flushed, jaw tight, and God, if he wasn’t the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

How stupid, how utterly reckless, it was to feel yourself falling for him all over again. And not just falling - but plummeting, freefalling into the abyss of him. Exactly now, exactly like this - when he was buried so deep inside you that it felt like he was carving himself into your soul.

How shallow, how ridiculous, to let your pupils blow wide with hunger, to let your chest ache with something too tender, too raw, while your body burned for him like this.

Because it wasn’t just the way his hips buckled into yours, wasn’t just the rhythm of his thrusts, wasn’t just the stretch and fullness that made you gasp. No, it was the way his name tumbled from your lips like it was the only word you knew, and the way he rasped your name back, hoarse and desperate, like it was his prayer.

The wet slap of his hips meeting yours, the creak of the bed beneath you - it was way too loud for the early hours, you knew that. Too wild, too shameless, probably waking every neighbor you had, giving them the privilege of hearing his name tumble from your lips and yours from his.

But how could you care? How could you even think about anything beyond him, especially when he shifted suddenly, leaning back and lifting your legs over his shoulders?

“Like this,” he muttered, his voice rough and breathless. His hands gripped your thighs, steady, holding you in place as he adjusted himself, his cock driving deeper - God, how was it even possible to feel this full?

His next thrust stole the breath from your lungs, and the one after that made your vision blur, leaving you gripping the sheets, then the bedframe, his arms - anything you could reach.

“I got you,” he rasped, his tone softer now, and if it weren’t for the fact that he was absolutely wrecking you, you might’ve laughed at how he said it. So casual, so reassuring, like he wasn’t currently fucking you out of your mind.

And then, just to make sure you were well and truly destroyed, Aaron leaned down and pressed a kiss to your trembling leg. A kiss. Soft and lingering, like he wasn’t simultaneously driving into you with enough force to make you think about it for days. A true gentleman, really. Absolutely chivalrous.

“Oh, fuck you,” you managed to gasp, your voice shaking as your nails dug into his arms.

He smirked, his hips snapping forward harder, making your back arch off the bed.

“I believe I already am,” he shot back smoothly, and damn him - despite the situation, or maybe because of it - you laughed.

The sound made him pause for a fraction of a second, his brow quirking as his lips twitched into something softer, something that could almost be called tender if he wasn’t currently wrecking you.

He leaned in, clearly intending to kiss you - except you were still laughing, leaving him kissing your teeth instead of your lips.

“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered against your mouth, his voice filled with faux exasperation, as if it weren’t entirely his fault. But the way he looked at you, his eyes soft and sweet despite the hunger blazing behind them, made it clear he wasn’t serious at all.

“I really hate you,” you managed to say, still laughing, the words breathless and shaky.

“Liar,” he countered smoothly, his lips curving into a grin of his own before he kissed you properly this time, slow and deep, stealing the air from your lungs. “You’ve never hated me at all.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the next thrust silenced you, sending a bolt of pleasure straight to your core, leaving you gasping instead of speaking.

“Yeah,” he rasped, his voice thick, his eyes locked on yours as he watched you fall apart beneath him. “That’s exactly what I thought.”

Bastard. Oh, how he’d pay for this. Just… not now. Not when the heat in your stomach was building too quickly, you could already feel your toes curling, your legs trembling where they rested on his shoulders.

“Aaron-” His name spilled from your lips in a broken cry, your hands clutching at him desperately, your body trembling beneath him.

“I know,” he rasped, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath hot and uneven as it fanned over your lips. “You’re close. I can feel it. Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight.”

And then, just to destroy you completely, he spat on his fingers. The sound alone sent a shiver through you, but watching him, seeing the way he reached down and slid his slick finger to your clit, circling it, left you utterly wrecked.

That alone was so unfairly hot you were surprised you didn’t come on the spot just from seeing it.

“God,” he groaned, his hips keeping the same rhythm as his fingers worked you over, the combination of his cock driving into you and his fingers basically breaking you apart. “I’m close too. Come for me. I want to feel it - I need to feel you.”

And there was no stopping it. The pressure snapped all at once, a tidal wave of pleasure crashing over you, leaving you shaking and gasping for air. Your body clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to reality, your nails digging into his back as your orgasm ripped through you.

“Aaron,” you cried out, his name falling from your lips in a broken, desperate plea as your cunt clenched around him so tightly that it pulled a guttural groan from his chest.

His movements stuttered, his rhythm faltering as he buried himself deep one last time, his head tipping back, lips shaping into your name.

You felt him spill inside you, the hot rush of him filling you, the heat prolonging the throbbing waves of your own climax, as your body convulsed with the lingering echoes of pleasure. It was too much. Too raw. Too perfect. The kind of climax that left you completely destroyed, your mouth falling open as you tried and failed to even catch your breath.

Your limbs felt boneless, your heart was about to burst out of your chest, a haze in your head. Wow.

Aaron’s thrusts slowed, his movements becoming languid as he guided you both through the final waves of pleasure, his hips rocking into you softly.

When he finally stilled, he stayed inside you, his body collapsing onto yours, every muscle undone, spent, his breath hot against your neck. His skin was slick with sweat, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and fuck, you never wanted him to move.

A slow, lazy kiss landed on your shoulder, his lips lingering there for a second before he murmured, "Are you okay?"

Really?

A laugh bubbled up before you could stop it, as your fingers threaded through his beautiful damp hair. “Okay?” you echoed, still struggling to breathe, still feeling the aftershocks of him inside you. “Aaron, I think you might’ve just killed me.”

He huffed out something that could’ve been a laugh if he had the energy, and just because he was perfectly positioned - completely wrecked, head buried against your shoulder, practically melting into you - you pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.

It felt almost paternalistic, sure, the kind of kiss that came with the smug satisfaction of having him completely undone over you, like he might fall apart if he even tried to move. The salt of his sweat clung to your lips, a stark contrast to the bitter taste of the tears you’d swallowed earlier. It felt better - so much better.

Aaron sighed against your skin, lips twitching like he wanted to smile but was too exhausted to bother, he pulled out, leaving you wincing at the sudden emptiness.

He sat back on his heels, his gaze dropping to the mess he’d made of you, and for a moment, you swore he looked almost proud. But, of course, because Aaron fucking Hotchner couldn’t let you have five uninterrupted minutes of post-orgasmic bliss without switching into Mr. Practical, he tilted his head and said, “You should probably clean yourself up.”

You blinked at him, deadpan. “Wow. Romance is truly alive and well.”

He grinned just enough to make you want to hit him and kiss him at the same time. “Where do you keep your towels?” he asked.

“Wow,” you muttered, flopping back onto the bed. “Absolutely fantastic. I give you my soul, and in return, you turn into a housekeeper.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple before standing and stretching.

And, of course, because the universe hated you, he looked absurdly good doing it. Broad shoulders, sweat-slicked skin, and the faint red lines your nails had left down his back. God, his back. Huge. Muscular. You really wanted to-

“Dramatic?” you scoffed, snapping yourself out of the borderline feral train of thought. “I just had the best orgasm of my life, and now you’re asking me about towels. What’s next, changing my bedsheets?”

He shot you a look over his shoulder, that infuriating smirk still tugging at his lips. “Best?” he echoed, his tone dripping with mock surprise. “Did I hear you correctly?”

You groaned, “God, you’re unbearable.”

“No, no,” he continued, turning back toward you, his smirk widening into something dangerously close to smug. “Say it again. Best orgasm of your life? Because I recall giving you three - you might need to pluralize that.”

Oh, how cocky he was. You grabbed the nearest pillow and chucked it at him, unfortunately the man also had perfect reflects. “So, where are these towels?”

“In the bathroom,” you muttered, gesturing vaguely in its direction. “Third drawer on the left. Please, by all means, go do your very important post-coital housekeeping.”

He chuckled as he made his way to the bathroom, and you watched him go, biting your lip as your gaze drifted lower. Because of course you looked. How could you not? The way his muscles moved as he walked, the strong lines of his back leading down to that quite flat yet perfectly sculpted-

“Stop staring,” he called over his shoulder without even looking back.

You scowled, sitting up and grabbing the other pillow to hurl at the bathroom doorway. “I wasn’t staring!”

He was no fun.

“You know,” you called after him, unable to help yourself, “it’s a shame you’re so good in bed, because you are the single most annoying person I’ve ever met.”

“Funny,” he shot back from the bathroom, his voice echoing slightly. “You didn’t seem too annoyed about it five minutes ago.”

Not that you had been even a little annoyed when you woke up right into his arms - despite the fact that you distinctly remembered falling asleep holding him.

“How much time do we have?” you murmured, your words muffled as your head stayed nestled against his chest.

“You’ve got 1 hour... I got half” he chuckled, then continued “I need to head home and get changed.”

But his arms instinctively tightened around you, like he wasn’t quite ready to let you go just yet. Like he could pretend, just for a little longer, that there was still time.

“How amazing would Agent Hotchner be if he just called to say we had the weekend off?” you said, tracing patterns of his flexed bicep tighetened around you.

He chuckled softly, the vibration of it rumbling beneath your cheek. “I doubt Agent Hotchner even has the strength to get up and take his phone from his jacket.”

“Well, since I’m feeling so generous, I could go and hand it to him,” you offered with faux magnanimity, but before you could move, his hand slid to the back of your head, pressing you back into him, while the other hand gripped your waist.

“Stay,” he said too softly for your own good.

You smiled against him. “I could stay longer if we didn’t have to go to work, you know...”

He chuckled again, this time shaking his head in amusement. “Nice try, sweetheart.”

Your head lifted slightly, an eyebrow raised. “Sweetheart?”

And there it was.

Fuck.

Was this the time to tell you? That if he’d been smitten before, now he was utterly undone? That despite making a living solving puzzles, he couldn’t think of a single scenario in which he wasn’t yours?

It was logic, wasn’t it? A proposition is true if it’s reflected in reality.

And this was his truth: he was yours. Irrevocably, undeniably yours.

There wouldn’t be a more evident fact - not until the marks you’d left on his neck and chest faded away. But even then? He would still belong to you.

Damn the stoics for being right.

“Sorry,” he said, as though the endearment had slipped past his guard.

Before he could say more, you tilted your head up and kissed him, catching him completely off guard. His startled expression was so genuine that you couldn’t help yourself - you kissed him again, determined to wipe it off his face.

His lips curled into a smile against yours, and when you finally pulled back true to form, he couldn’t resist deflecting. “If you’re trying to charm me into giving the day off, I’ll save you the trouble - it’s not going to work. Even if you keep kissing me.”

You laughed and leaned up to give him another kiss. But this time, you didn’t stop there. You moved down, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along his jaw. “I just want to make sure you understand the opportunity you’re blowing here,” you murmured into his skin, your lips ghosting over his pulse.

“The reports aren’t going to fill themselves,” he replied, though his voice lacked conviction.

Oh, neither was your cu-

“You sure about that?” you teased, nibbling gently at his collarbone as your hand trailed lower, brushing over where something was definetely starting to grow in between his boxers, making him hiss.

“What’s the matter?” you asked innocently, your hand now resting over his hardening cock, feeling the heat of him through the thin fabric.

“Maybe it’s the fact that you’re devouring my neck at seven in the morning,” he managed.

“Devouring? Not yet.” Your lips descended again, this time grazing over his collarbones, the faint scrape of your teeth dragging along his skin. When you bit lightly at his chest, his sharp inhale was all the reward you needed. “But don’t worry, I plan to.”

His mouth opened like he was about to fire back, but before he could, your hand slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers.

You stroked him slowly, dragging your thumb over the slick head, smearing the precum as if you had all the time in the world. “So,” you started lightly, as he cussed at your touch, “what are you going to do with the hour we have left?”

He tried to respond, he really did.

“I-” His breath hitched when your tongue darted out to trace just above his lower stomach.

“Well?” you pressed, lifting your head to look at him, your grin so sweet it could’ve killed him. “Breakfast? A shower? Or, you know, something else?”

“Breakfast sounds…” He barely managed to get the words out before his voice broke entirely, his body jerking slightly when your tongue flicked out to tease the tip of his cock.

“…like a good idea,” he finished weakly, though you weren’t convinced he even knew what he was saying at this point… better like this anyways.

“Good,” you hummed, dragging wet kisses along his length, while your hand kept moving, stroking him slowly, savoring the way his cock twitched in your hand. “So, Aaron, what do you feel like having for breakfast?”

His head fell back against the pillow, a low groan escaping him as his fingers tangled in your hair. “God,” he rasped, the word dragged out of him so pitifully it was almost tragic.

You grinned against his skin, looking up at him. “I’m pretty sure that’s not in my fridge,” you replied deadpan.

“Sweetheart…” He was absolutely desperate as your kisses moved lower, your tongue tracing a path along the underside of his cock.

“Hmm?” you hummed innocently, as if you didn’t notice the way his grip tightened in your hair or the slight tremble in his thighs.

He didn’t answer - but his phone did instead.

The sharp buzzing from the pocket of his discarded jacket in the living room shattered the moment.

Both of you jerked back, adrenaline ripping through the haze, already halfway off the bed before you even thought about it.

It was clumsy, both of you scrambling, bumping into each other as you stumbled toward the sound, breathless for entirely different reasons now.

Aaron got to it first, answering with the efficiency of a man who had switched back to work mode in an instant.

The call clicked on, and a voice - male, urgent - filled the room. "…The two bodies. The man died from a gunshot to the head, though he was stabbed multiple times post-mortem. The woman died from stab wounds."

You stilled.

Aaron’s face hardened. Rocher’s victims.

The ones he had been taunting you with.

"Agent Hotchner, there’s one thing…" the agent on the other end hesitated.

Aaron’s eyes sharpened. "What?"

"These bodies were killed exactly fifteen days ago," he said.

Aaron froze, you felt it at the same time he did - fifteen days ago.

You and Aaron had been interrogating Rocher exactly fifteen days ago.

He hadn’t killed them himself. He couldn’t have.

You were both there.

Your eyes met his, and for a split second, neither of you spoke.

“He had a partner,” Aaron said, his arm sliding around you instinctively, pulling you closer before you even realized you were starting to breathe too fast.

“Did you manage to identify the victims?” he asked.

“Yes - the man’s name is Michael Fowler, 34, a lawyer, junior associate at Madison & Green. The woman is Renee Hudson, 22, student at Columbia University, enrolled in the faculty of…”

You didn’t even know why you tensed so much.

The answer was obvious before he even said it.

“…philosophy.”

The call ended, but the silence left behind was louder than the voice on the line had been.

And in that silence, you could hear everything - the inevitability of it, tangled with the sound of the tears slipping down both of your faces.

And when your gaze flicked to Aaron, when his arm instinctively pulled you closer, you knew - without a word, without a glance – you’ve been both staring at the exact same spot on the wall.

Because it wasn’t just the age gap.

It wasn’t just the coincidence of numbers.

It was what made it undeniable.

A lawyer.

And a philosopher.

And the way your broken voices found each other in the quiet, harmonizing each other’s names in perfect, unintentional sync, just a few rushed heartbeats later.

Almost like in the musicals.

Almost sweet.

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mxblobby ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softestqueeen ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24

I sincerely apologize - but the cockblocking was absolutely necessary. Otherwise, they'd never keep their hands to themselves. Honestly, with a job like this, interruptions are basically a given. If I had a nickel for every time these two got cockblocked by a phone call, I’d have two nickels - which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it happeend twice.

Ahem... so, uh, let me know what you think... of this. All of this. I need your feedback because I am currently gnawing at the edges of my enclosure

#aaron hotchner #hotch #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner smut #aaron hotchner x reader smut #hotch x reader #criminal minds

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keyotos · 3 months ago

Note

“please stay” after a nightmare from aventurine pls!!! i 🫶 how u write him hehe <3

the way that i am

summary ↯

aventurine's nightmare has him spiraling left and right. and also into you.

apart of the niche microtropes event!

word count ⎯ 3.5k

tana's thoughts ⎯ i am so sorry i got to this so late! i started working at a hospital this summer (working, not volunteering—BIG SHIFT YAY) so i've been a bit occupied!

aventurine doesn't even bother to look at the clock when he jolts up. his back is utterly slick with sweat—a feeling he detests. the room feels as though it's spinning slowly, then quickly, and slowly again. the cavity where his heart lies is pounding.

his fingers grip into the hotel sheets as a way to tether himself back to reality. but the attempt proves to be futile. his breaths have gotten even shallower before; aventurine begins to think that he may pass out from hyperventilation.

this is not the first time something like this has happened. aventurine knows what the protocol usually is. he'll be awake for a few more hours, and then eventually fall asleep for an hour before he has to wake up again.

however, this time it's different. swarmed by not only his childhood, but also red splotches covering his hands, rough metal, and thousands of eyes glowering down at him. everything overtook him—multiple topics all at one time, crashing down into his mind.

the hotel room was pitch black and frigid. the thin covers that the "5-stars" establishment provided did not render any heat whatsoever. not that it mattered to aventurine at the moment. his body felt like it was running a fever: how a nightmare could make him sweat, ache, and scalding was beyond him.

his sweat began seeping through his shirt, causing the material to stick to his skin. he needs it off.

aventurine didn't bother to turn on any lights (or use his phone light, even)—he doesn't think he could bare look at himself if he did. when dealing with nightmares, most people usually shake it off, distract themselves, and fall back asleep. but for aventurine, the waves of shame that wash over him are strong. dismay, embarrassment, and regret are some of the few emotions that crash into him left and right.

the mirror is hard to stare at after a nightmare. aventurine recalls one night—when he was a bit younger—where he turned on the bathroom light to wash his face. upon seeing himself in the fluorescent glint; a lethargic, sullen, and heavy reflection looked back at him. sunken eyes and cheeks that sink down to the floor—both paired with a sickeningly pale face.

he retched in the toilet shortly after.

aventurine put on some slippers as he stumbled on the way to the closet. luckily for him, it was right across from the bed, giving him easy access to change. however, the trip to the closet was still full of its' challenges: aventurine ran into the bed-frame multiple times, and almost tripped on his own feet.

yet, he managed to be successful as he hastily unbuttoned his previous shirt to slide on a new one. he would call it luck that he didn't run into the corner of the bed-frame.

aventurine didn't bother to finish buttoning up his shirt. his mind reeled to the next thing his body needed: a cold glass of water.

though the new shirt alleviated some of his discomfort, he was still running hot. sweat still beaded down his head, and he ran a hand through his damp, blond hair to straighten up.

with a bit more shuffling, his hands guided him to the door to leave his room. aventurine considered sleeping on the couch for the rest of the trip—not wanting to be back in that room for the next week—however he was worried you'd begin to question his antics.

you're smart. you catch on instantaneously and you're too quick-witted for your own good. sometimes, your big mouth gets you in trouble, but that's why aventurine is your partner: he's damage control. but your biggest flaw would have to be your nosiness. and aventurine—though he harbors no negative feelings towards you (except the minor annoyance)—is not ready to detail the specifics of why he planned to sleep on the uncomfortable couch for the remainder of the trip.

aventurine opens the door and tries his best to not slam it, just so he doesn't wake you. he rubs his eyes and yawns as he traverses down the corridor. his hands are scattered throughout the walls, and aventurine tries his best to not hit any corners as he walks.

there's a slight murmuring noise as he gets closer to the kitchen, and he pauses. there's a bright light being emitted, but it's not from the overhead light. aventurine slows down his breathing (which—is quite hard in his predicament) to better hear the sound.

aventurine's feet creep closer and closer, until he hears the noise suddenly stop. now would be a good time to go back to your room, he internally voices. but aventurine doesn't move. he's planted on the ground, anxiously anticipating what would come next. he doesn't know if it's due to shock from his nightmare, or because he was too exhausted to move any more.

"hey. what are you doing up?" you turn the corner, shining the light from your phone to see.

aventurine moves his hand up to cover his face from the light, "aeons, that thing is bright." you lower the brightness while aventurine puts his hand down. he continues, "you're going to go blind looking at that thing in the dark like this."

this is how it always goes. pretend nothing ever happened. no nightmares, no terrors, no deep-seated fears. aventurine was just tired, which wasn't exactly a lie.

he just hopes that you won't be able to see through it like everyone else does.

"i'm pretty sure that's a myth," you put your phone in the pocket of your shorts. the dark setting makes things a lot more intimate, aventurine thinks. he gulps—thankful for the darkness concealing it—and tries not to dwell on the topic for much longer.

"pretty sure that it's science," aventurine responds, leaning on the wall.

you mock him, repeating his words in a distorted voice that makes aventurine question what he is still doing here. yet, he doesn't leave. not even when you say, "since when do you know anything about science? aren't you a glorified tax collector? shouldn't you be worried about... tax evasion?"

the blond rolls his eyes, even when you couldn't see it. "it's basic knowledge, first of all. and i worry. how are you supposed to complete our mission if you can't see?" he lets out a yawn afterwards.

"yeah, yeah," you say, voice drawing out, "whatever. i know you just secretly care for me!" you tease, attempting to poke him in the shoulder, yet missing due to the lack of light.

funny, aventurine thinks. real funny.

"you also never answered my question by the way. what are you doing up?" you ask.

internally, aventurine sighs. he should've known that you would've circled back to that. he thought that exhaustion would cloud your judgement too (considering that it was 2:30 in the morning), but alas, it has not.

sometimes, he thinks that nothing could cloud your judgement, even if it was the strongest effort in the world. aventurine has always found it admirable, though he would never admit it.

"no reason. i'm just not feeling tired," he lies, standing straight up. it makes no difference really, because it wasn't like you could see him anyway.

"you lying liar who lies!" you laugh, "you just yawned like... thirty seconds ago."

aventurine brushes you off, "that doesn't mean anything."

"if you yawn that literally means you're tired," you exaggerate, "pretty sure that's science."

"do you really have to mock me at two in the morning?"

"um, is there ever a time to not mock you?"

aventurine groans. this time, not out of exhaustion. "how are you not tired yet?"

"i haven't gone to bed yet," you shrug, "like, at all." in the darkness, aventurine can see you fiddle with the string of your pajama shorts. "i've always been that way—abnormal. but i'm usually not tired in the morning, so i guess i'm fine."

aventurine hums in response. you talk quite often, but it's not usually about yourself. he leans back on the wall again, letting his head rest as you continue to tell him anecdotes about your chaotic sleeping schedule. this is your normal.

it's certainly not his. aventurine made sure to get eight hours (or more) of sleep each night. he had a routine—a perfectly constructed one, in fact—that would ensure he'd be rejuvenated in the morning. and it was good. it helped him forget; the focus on the ritual would subside any memories of his past that would haunt him.

like tonight.

although, it seems as though his nightmares are an abnormality as well, but he doesn't accept it like you do.

"i'm not gonna pry if you don't wanna tell me," he hears footsteps pattering closer to him. he still can't see you, but he knows you're close. his breath slightly hitches, just in case.

you continue, "but, i can invite you to what i was doing. you know, if you can't sleep either."

before aventurine could reject the idea, you open up your phone, the bright light blinding the both of you. you squeak a quick apology and turn the brightness down, just to where the both of you could see each other.

from his point of view, aventurine nearly has you pinned against him. his body is leaning against the wall, while his arm is propped up on it. you're below his arm, leaning against the wall as well; except, your head is underneath his arm.

you don't seem to notice the position the two of you are in, seeing as you are glued to your phone. in other circumstances, aventurine would've made a snarky comment about it, but the ability to speak was stolen away from him. there you are, right in front of him, obliviously scrolling through your social media. you haven't looked up, not even a glance.

part of him thinks that he should be grateful. tonight has been a rough night, and he's sure that he doesn't look particularly pleasant right now. his hair is tousled, blond strands mangled due to the earlier rustling. his eyes must be drooping, since he's not used to waking up during these hours.

but you don't notice whatsoever. you're here, aimlessly scrolling on your phone—searching up whatever (probably some kind of niche reference)—and not even looking up. and that's when the other part of aventurine comes in. why aren't you peering up at him? do you not feel his eyes boring into your body? can you not feel the rigidity of his stare?

aventurine would do anything to see you glance up: to see your breath hitch when noticing the position the two of you are in, or to finally see you be rendered speechless. he wants to see you hide away from his gaze, looking at anything except for him. then, he might able to come up with a remark as good as yours. only then.

he's torn between two halves of himself. you're his greatest relief tonight (shocking, as aventurine would usually refer to you as his greatest nuisance), but also his greatest fear. when he talks to you, aventurine feels like he's feverous: his heart rate increases when thinking of a retort to your wits, and he shivers with chills whenever you make wondrous and logical reasonings. but he's terrified of what would happen if you saw him—truly saw him. would you be able to come up with a witty response, or would you look at him with pity? would you pull back your punches, replacing your ardent jabs for dull responses?

aventurine didn't want to lose that.

"found it!" your excited voice knocks him out of his head. you click on a video of a wooden bowl filled with water and some blocks. or cubes. or spheres?

"um," aventurine peers down, "what is that?"

"wood soup!" you enthuse, scrolling through your social media to find more.

aventurine decides that he is lost. "wood... soup..."

"i don't see why you're so baffled by this," you shake your head, "it's not edible if that's what you're wondering. it's water and wood, ergo the name is: wood soup."

you pull the blond down a rabbit hole of wood soup videos, and aventurine becomes glued to your device with you. the two of you were definitely standing there for more than five minutes. you glance at him a couple times—just out of the corner of your eye—and aventurine has to suppress the urge to swallow every time.

"oh, oh," you pull up another video, "this one is my favorite!"

you've said that about ten times now. you definitely have not been keeping track, but aventurine has. sometimes, his gaze switches from your phone to you. you're distracted enough that you didn't notice him staring. aventurine silently thanked the aeons for "wood soup" being a distraction.

"this one is pretty good," aventurine murmured down to your neck. he occasionally felt his eyes sag, but blinked a few times to get rid of the fatigue. he rubbed his hand against his eyes to wake himself up.

"works like a charm, doesn't it?" you voice is soft when you give aventurine a slight smile. "these videos always put me to sleep."

you look up at him—actually making eye contact—and place your head on the spot on the wall directly under his arm. your arms are crossed over your chest, and you're biting down on your lip in an effort to not smirk or become smug.

aventurine knows this expression. it's your, "i was right from the whole time" expression.

and for a second, aventurine is scared. he should've walked back to his room earlier, instead of getting swooped up in your presence. judging by the expression you're donning at the moment, aventurine can tell you have him figured out. you were right about his lying earlier, and now you were gonna question him. and what was he going to say? what excuse was he going to come up with now?

would he tell the truth and reveal his most vulnerable bits of himself? what would you even think of that? what would you even say to that? aventurine admits, he's always wanted you to be rendered speechless, but not like this.

and what would you two be afterwards? not just coworkers, as aventurine wanted it to be originally. but you two are far away from becoming close friends. you are the person he needs by his side right now; you are one of the most important assets in the game he is playing. he can't lose you now.

and there's one more reason for aventurine's fears. though he will never admit it: he enjoys spending time with you. from a mission standpoint, you are one of his perfect partners. you balance him with your wit and observation, while he balances you with calculation and persuasiveness. but it's not just that. you're funny (annoyingly so) and you distract him. you make it easy to forget everything else when you're standing in front of him. sometimes, his heart races and all he can think about is you, you, you; every beat of his heart is a syllable of your name.

you make him feel normal. aventurine always knew he was abnormal, whether it was due to his eyes or status, he always knew. and then you waltz in, making sure that you are the weirdest person in the room. it makes him feel okay. safe, even.

safe. aventurine's heart is pounding out of his chest, waiting for you to say something. you make him feel safe, he realizes.

he can't lose you now. not like this.

you tilt your head, glancing up at his face. he watches as your eyes move from the furrow of his eyebrows, to his drooping eyelids, to his pursed lips, and to his slightly clenched jaw. you bite the inside of your lip—a sign that you want to say something, aventurine notes—and let a light sigh slip.

"rest up," you nod, placing your hand on his shoulder. your thumb brushes the fabric of his shirt, barely covering his shoulder. you're nearly touching skin. "you look like you need it," you quietly chuckle. if aventurine heard correctly, you muttered a soft, "yeesh," as well.

aventurine let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. you didn't say a thing. and that may be for the better.

you didn't pry, like you normally would. there were no additional questions. no follow-ups, no interrogations. your fingers brushed his shoulder and he had to make sure he wasn't going delirious from lack of sleep.

nothing was ruined. everything is okay. he is safe. it is a mantra he repeats in his head over and over. he had to make sure it was real. aventurine thought about pinching himself, but feeling your hand on his shoulder was enough evidence for him. your hand hasn't moved. neither has he.

aventurine's eyes are wide when he looks at you. you give him another small smile, "goodnight, okay? i don't wanna see you when i'm awake at 3 in the morning," you joke. "i have a feeling you get real cranky if you don't get your 12 hours of sleep."

first of all, it's 8. aventurine fought off the urge to correct you. this moment was too good to be true.

he couldn't go back to sleep after this. not when he'd be thinking about you and your hand all night. not when he knows that he'd be putting his own hand on his shoulder, recreating how you brushed it with your delicate ones. most of all, he felt like he couldn't fall asleep without you there with him. a chilling realization, he notes.

this is definitely one of the most craziest things he was about to do. insane, actually. when you're about to pull your hand off of aventurine's shoulder, he places his hand on top of yours, trapping it there.

"please, stay," he breathes. it's a shaky plead, and you can feel his hand tighten on top of yours.

"um," he looks around the hallway the two of you were in, "in my room."

you blink, "what?"

aventurine begins to chastise himself. this was a dumb idea. you shouldn't do this. run. but he continues, "could you stay with me in my room tonight?"

is this selfish? possibly. aventurine knows that you and him aren't close enough to share a bed. you guys haven't even shared a drink yet. but he needed you tonight. you help him feel safe. secure. okay. normal.

just for one night, could he indulge? he trusts you.

you blink a few more times. your chest has an unsteady rhythm of rise and fall. has he done it? are you speechless?

"uh. um," you pause. aventurine can tell that you're debating between yes and no. he waits, staring back at you. you bite back down on your lip, turning away.

"you know what. sure."

you and aventurine stumble over to his room in the dark. your footsteps are the only audible noise in the hotel room, and it invites an air of close intimacy between the two of you. he falls into bed first, with you awkwardly clambering in after him.

aventurine lies down like a stick at first. you are not much difference. your back is facing him, and you realize that the two of you cannot fall asleep like this.

you sigh and turn around, facing the blond next to you. it's awkward, for sure. anyone would probably be able to tell that neither of you has gotten into bed with another party before. but you've seen your fair share of movies, so you come up with an idea.

"turn around," you mumble. aventurine listens with no retort on his tongue. you gulp.

"let me know if you don't like this, okay?" you inch closer and closer to the man beside you, until your chest touches his back. you feel him tense, and you inch away a little. you bring your arms out in front of you and wrap them around aventurine.

aventurine's body is taut at first. he's stiff as a board, and you let go a bit to get him to relax. his hand slowly comes up and brushes over where your hand is. he grasps onto it—not as tightly as before—but a light touch, as if he was curious if you were still here or not.

"is this okay?" you whisper. your body is so close to his. you feel insane.

"yes," he responds. he isn't sure if he's capable of saying any more words. aventurine is already worrying that you can hear the way his heart his clamoring. he doesn't want to worry about nonsense spewing from his mouth as well.

your chest is pressed directly against is back. his instincts tell him to squirm away, but is body is telling him to stay right where he is.

later, when he feels your chest synchronize with his, he sighs. your head digs into his shoulder, and he's nearly about to fall asleep. his past nightmare has been forgotten. a topic for another time, he thinks.

you speak up again, your voice no louder than a whisper, "did you know that cuddling leads to an easier time falling asleep?"

aventurine lets out a light chuckle, "really? and how did you know that?"

"oh, i don't know. science?"

#tana writes (∗´ ᨔ `∗)#honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail #hsr #hsr x reader #aventurine #aventurine x reader #aventurine x you #aventurine x y/n #keyotos 1k event

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betonfaith · 16 days ago

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JUST ONE DANCE, YOUR HIGHNESS!

hsr royalty au! ft. aventurine sunday mydei & anaxa! | fem!princess!reader.

cw for ooc anaxa </3 I'm still figuring him out.

AVENTURINE... as the frail boy you remember being dragged off to your father's dungeon when you were both young, you remember seeing him in his dingy cell each time you took a trip downstairs. By some unknown method, he's recently reappeared in fancier attire, adorned with the finest of jewellery and more importantly — he's somehow grabbed a seat on your father's counsel. The thin teenager dressed in rags you remember from your childhood now stands before you with a confident grin. He never told you what his name was before, but he's now changed it to *Aventurine. *He spends his leisure time at the tavern, although he seldom indulges in the drinks and opts to sit at the blackjack table instead, violet eyes drifting away from his cards hoping for a glimpse of the princess who spared him a glance all those years ago.

SUNDAY... as the prodigal son of the aristocracy in your homeland. You don't think you've ever caught him with a single hair strand out of place, or even slouching on his chair. Everything he does, he does with grace. Your father insists that you'll marry him if you're unable to find a royal suitor. He's been with you since your childhood, tying your shoelaces, kissing your hands, swearing that he'll never leave. Never. You realise quickly that all those sweet promises will never be fulfilled when he runs for the hills one fine day, words of his treason litter the streets, words of how he's forsaken his lord, his home, his family, his beloved. The knights run amok looking for him, black and white posters of him with a red stamp on every town wall. But just when you start to believe the heretics, you hear a polite tap on your window. To your own surprise, there he is. Your precious Sunny, out of breath from climbing the castle wall with his wings fanning to cool him down. His pristine outfit has been discarded and replaced with something far more casual. A gloved hand caresses your cheek with utmost care, and you realise he never broke his promise after all.

MYDEIMOS... as the fearsome heir of a far away kingdom, who meets every criteria to inherit the throne... except having a bride. None of the maidens in the entire land had any interest in taking his hand, his kingdom fell to anarchy soon after he took his father's head, and to put it quite frankly... he's not the most approachable of the bunch. However, for some unknown reason, your father thinks he's a lovely young man who just happens to be the perfect match for you. The two of you don't hit it off, and now your arrangement seems more like a chore than anything. One starlit night you stroll the gardens, only to find him huffing on a bench and staring at the moon like it's personally offended him. You take a seat next to him, your hand slowly slides to embrace his own. He's hardly wearing anything himself, although his cape has made its way around your shoulder to protect you from the nip in the air. He's not so bad, you suppose.

ANAXAGORAS... as the mad philosopher of the court. You don't know how or why your father tolerates him, he seems to have an issue with every little thing everybody does. He's always picking up on the tiniest flaw — you've witnessed the man find a singular speck of dirt on Sunday of all people. The most irritating person you've ever had the displeasure of meeting, point blank. Yet, he always makes sure to fix your clothes for you, brush off any dust, realign your tiara, rather than only pointing it out. He still does it with so much annoyance that you can't tell if he really cares or not. You suppose you'll never find out, and he's just grateful you don't see the small smile on his face every time he pisses you off.

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0cta9on · 4 months ago

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Today

Length: 1.3k

Genre: Fluff

IVE Liz x Male Reader

(Author's Note: Motivation is hard to come by these days, I hope you can forgive my lack of frequent updates. For the sake of my mental health, please imagine that Liz's eyes are the slightest bit of gray, I swear they look gray but they could easily by colored contacts :> Enjoy <3)

【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★

It’s a Tuesday evening. Tuesdays always seemed like an awkward time of the week—way better than Mondays obviously, but still too far away from the weekend for any real excitement to build. The trees outside sway with the oncoming breeze, flecks of autumnal browns and golds dancing against the current before gently landing on the ground. The spontaneity of their movements reminds you of a certain someone that’s running a couple minutes late.

You take another sip of your coffee, warming and pleasant, as your gaze stays glued to the windowpane of the cafe, scanning each passing visage for a semblance of familiarity. You never had this habit before knowing her. In a past life, you kept your head down, too sheepish to look most people in the eye. Yet now, you're actively searching for the eyes of strangers, waiting until you see that glimpse of gray like the sky before a storm.

It’s a little creepy, you admit, but a billion weird glances are worth it for that split second where your eyes meet and you feel light as a feather, like the autumn breeze could carry you away with the leaves.

Across the street, the crowd splits like curtains at the start of the play to reveal the star of the show—Liz, weaving through the crowd and wearing that same apologetic look that’s become an unofficial symbol for the start of your meetings.

“I’m so sorry for being late!” she says, her voice ringing alongside the jingle of the cafe’s door.

“It’s okay,” you chuckle. “I haven’t been waiting long.”

“Still,” she removes her scarf and drapes it against her chair, the same cyan checkered scarf you bought her last year after she lost her old one, “This is, like, the millionth time I’ve been late, I feel awful about it!”

Liz rests her head against the table in defeat and you fight every urge to pat her head and comfort her.

“It’s really okay, I swear. I don’t mind waiting a little longer for you,” you say.

A smile dances across her lips, and suddenly you’re floating. “You’re so sweet, you know that?”

Your heart pounds against the confines of your rib cage like a lovesick prisoner begging to be set free. You’ve always wondered how someone like her can exist on this planet. Someone so charming, so beautiful, so perfect in every way that her only flaw is her lack of time management. Irises like raging storm clouds, paired with the personality of a calm evening in the shade. The angle of her smile, the dimples that adorn her cheeks, the luscious waves of her hair—

“Hello?” Liz waves a hand in front of your face, bringing you back down to Earth. “Are you alright?”

“Y-yeah, yeah, sorry, I just, um… Anyways…” Timidly, you rummage through your backpack for the reason why you invited her here in the first place, taking a little extra time to calm your nerves. “H-here,” you mutter, producing a fairly hefty box from your bag.

“Ooooooh!” Her eyes excitedly glean over its matte finish. “Are these the noise-canceling headphones you were talking about yesterday?”

“Yeah, I was wondering if you could help me test them out,” you explain.

“Of course!” With an eager grin, Liz takes out the headphones and places them on her head. “Ready when you are!” she exclaims, flashing you a thumbs up.

Liz has this super power of somehow making even the most mundane tasks feel like you’re having the time of your life. As you fiddle with the bluetooth settings on your phone, you forget that it’s just another Tuesday, you forget about the countless pairs of eyes you scanned through earlier just to find hers, you forgot about the fact that you don’t actually need these headphones and only bought them as an excuse to spend time with her.

“There we go,” you say as you press play on a song. Almost immediately, Liz starts to shimmy her arms in a goofy looking dance as she mumbles along to the lyrics. You don’t even try to hide the smirk on your face. “Can you hear me?”

“Huh?” she utters a little too loud.

Chuckling, you decide to see if the headphones are as good as advertised. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Uh, my mother is at home right now, probably watching a show or something.”

“When’s your birthday?”

“Earl grey? I don’t know, I’m not much of a tea drinker.”

You keel over with laughter from her nonsensical answers while she continues to dance on like no one is watching.

Then, an inkling of an idea slips into your mind. The smile on your face fades as that idea begins to form into something new—an opportunity. What was once glee is now replaced with an anxious excitement. Your heartbeat overpowers all the background noise and all you can focus on is the gray highlighting her eyes.

The calm before the storm.

“Liz, I…” you start, voice shaky and laced with apprehension. It’s not too late to turn back and forget about this. And yet, Liz’s lack of a reaction to your change in tone calms your nerves the slightest amount. You take a deep breath and continue going.

“…I, uh, need to tell you something important. It’s been on my mind for a long while. Like, a year at this point, and, uh…”

A choppy sigh empties from your lungs. There’s no going back after this. As the last bit of oxygen brushes past your lips, you take in another mouthful of air and clamp your eyes shut.

“I like you, Liz. As more than a friend. I really, really like you.”

As soon as those words leave your mouth, you collapse face first into the table like a rickety bridge finally crumbling underneath its own weight. You did it. Sure, she didn’t hear a thing, but you finally vocalized what you’ve been keeping inside and that’s good enough for you. Maybe one day, you’ll finally build up the courage to say it when she can actually hear you. Maybe.

The sound of plastic hitting the table jolts you back up. “Oh right, how was it?” you ask, unable to meet her eyes.

“They, uh… good,” she mutters, uncharacteristically quiet. “I-I mean, they work good.”

“G-good. That’s good.” You grab the headphones from the table and put them back into their box, making sure to unpair them from your—

Your eyes grow wide as you double and triple check your phone screen. The headphones are already unpaired.

Your mind starts to race with a million questions, but only one echoes in your head—How long were they unpaired?

You shoot your gaze back up to Liz, her once milky white cheeks now stained with a bright pink hue. Your mouth opens to say something, but nothing comes out. It’s too late. You know what that reaction means. And you know what’s gonna come next.

“I-I should go,” you stutter, clumsily throwing your belongings into your backpack. How could you have been so reckless? Why didn’t you double check before attempting something as idiotic as this? You’ll have to move cities now, fake your death, create a new life on an undocumented island in the middle of the Pacific—

“I like you too.”

Her voice sounds so sweet and harmonious, you wonder if all the adrenaline pumping through your system is giving you auditory hallucinations. You’ve imagined similar scenarios to these countless times before, but to hear her actually speak those words and mean them is a whole different experience.

The tidal wave of emotions washing over you renders you completely catatonic. So you sit. You let the feelings stew. You let the smile creep onto your face until your cheeks begin to ache. You let your eyes take nervous yet excited glances towards the girl sitting next to you, watching as she does the same. Those beautiful pearls of gray, gazing at you in a way that you’ve only seen in movies, TV shows, and your dreams.

Not so bad for a Tuesday.

#ive #kim jiwon #ive liz #kpop fanfic #kpop gg #ive x male reader #ive x male oc #ive liz x male reader #ive liz x male oc #fluff #liz fluff #ive liz fluff

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sasheemo · 3 months ago

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Friday Thoughts

Chapter 3

Chapter Summary: Sharing dinner with Agatha and Nicholas shouldn't be too hard, right? But Saturday night at Agatha’s has other plans. As the evening unfolds, tensions escalate and desires ignite, promising anything but an ordinary end.

Chapter Tags: Mutual Pining, Power Dynamics, Gay Panic But Make It Domestic, The Tension Is Tensioning, Accidental Eavesdropping, Masturbation

Word Count: 7.4k

A/N: Chapter 3 is here! Spoiler alert: it’s long. Like, the longest chapter I’ve ever written for any multi-chapter fic, it took a lifetime because I wanted to pack in so much. Honestly, I don’t even want to think about how many times I wrote, re-read, and completely tore it apart because I hated it. It’s been through the wringer, y’all.

Am I 100% happy with it? No. Will I ever be? Also no. But if I keep tweaking it, it’ll never see the light of day, so… here it is, flaws and all!

Let’s just say things are heating up, and this chapter sets the stage for the spicy goodness that’s coming in Chapter 4.

As always, feedback is greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading, enjoy 💜

Chapter Index

Read on AO3

The clock creeps closer to seven as you sit on the floor with Nicholas, your hands idly stacking blocks while your thoughts wander to the kitchen.

Agatha has been in there for a while now, the faint clinking of dishes and the soft rush of running water weaving through the quiet of the house.

At one point, unable to resist, you’d stood and smoothed your sweater nervously before edging toward the kitchen doorway.

“Do you need a hand with anything?” you’d asked, your voice hesitant as you lingered just outside.

She’d glanced over her shoulder, a wisp of hair falling loose from behind her ear. Her lips curved into a faint, almost absentminded smile.

“No need, hon.” she’d said lightly, returning to the cutting board without missing a beat. “After a day like today, this is how I unwind. Just keep Nicholas entertained, and make sure you’ve got an appetite.”

You’d nodded, retreating to the living room with a strange mix of relief and unease, unsure whether to feel dismissed or reassured.

Now, your gaze drifts toward the kitchen doorway again, catching fleeting glimpses of Agatha as she moves gracefully through the space. The subtle flicker of her silhouette, the fluid motion of her hands as she reaches for something on the counter, it’s almost hypnotic.

You find it harder and harder to look away, your eyes drawn back to the doorway every few moments.

Then, the realization that you’re about to sit at the same table as her hits you like a brick wall, and your brain immediately kicks into overdrive. Where will you sit? What will you say? How will you stop yourself from staring at her like some starstruck idiot? The thought alone makes your chest feel tighter, and you let out a quiet, resigned sigh.

Dinner hasn’t even started, and you’re already losing it.

Finally, her voice calls out from the kitchen, announcing that dinner’s ready.

Nicholas springs up instantly, his blocks forgotten as he rushes toward the kitchen. You follow more cautiously, your pulse quickening as you step into the room.

The table is set simply but elegantly, with the kind of care that feels distinctly Agatha. At the center, there’s a steaming dish of herb-roasted chicken rests on a platter, surrounded by golden baby potatoes and vibrant roasted vegetables.

The scent of rosemary, garlic, and lemon fills the air, rich and inviting, but it only makes your stomach flip—not from hunger, but from the realization of where you are and who you’re sharing this moment with.

Agatha stands by the head of the table, placing the final plate in its spot, her expression is calm as she straightens and meets your gaze.

“Sit.” she says lightly, gesturing to the seat across from hers as though this is all perfectly normal.

You glance at Nicholas, who’s already climbing into his chair without hesitation. Taking a steadying breath, you lower yourself into the seat she’s indicated, trying not to think too much about how surreal this feels.

Agatha moves with her usual composure, taking her place at the table. She leans back slightly, one hand curling around the stem of her wineglass, her gaze drifting over the food before landing on you. It lingers just long enough to send a flicker of heat up your spine, your pulse quickening under the weight of her attention.

“Let’s eat before it gets cold.” she says, her voice warm but commanding, the kind of tone that makes it sound less like a suggestion and more like a quiet decree.

“This is so good, Mom! Did you make the potatoes crispy on purpose?” Nicholas asks with a grin, already halfway through his first bite.

“Of course.” she replies, arching an eyebrow as her lips curve playfully. “Is there any other way to do them?”

Nicholas shakes his head vigorously, his mouth now too full to reply properly. You suppress a laugh and glance at Agatha, who catches your eye with an amused glint in her own.

“And what do you think?” she asks, her gaze settling on you like a spotlight. “Passable for a last-minute effort?”

You blink, caught off guard by her directness.

“It’s delicious.” you say, and you mean it, though the compliment feels inadequate. “I think Nicholas might be right about the potatoes. They’re perfect.”

Agatha tilts her head slightly, as if weighing your response, before giving a soft hum of approval.

“Good.” she says, her voice low and velvety. “I’d hate to disappoint.”

Her eyes lock on yours, a spark of mischief flickering just beneath the surface, as if she’s gauging your reaction, or outright daring you to respond.

Then, as if to twist the knife just a little deeper, she adds a slow, languid wink that sends a sharp jolt straight through you.

You’re left speechless, grasping for a response that never comes. Agatha, of course, doesn’t wait for one.

She shifts her attention back to Nicholas, asking about his latest castle design, her tone light and engaging as though she hasn’t just left you squirming in your seat.

As they talk, you force yourself to focus on their conversation, chiming in occasionally, but your mind keeps wandering. Every so often, your gaze drifts back to her, trying—and failing—to reconcile the poised, commanding Agatha you’ve come to know with the one sitting at this table.

There’s a warmth to her, something relaxed and comfortingly domestic. It’s strange, watching her here, casually slicing into a piece of chicken and humoring Nicholas’ endless stream of questions.

And yet, as foreign as this moment feels, there’s something about it that tugs at you, a quiet sense of belonging you hadn’t anticipated.

As dinner ends, you rise from the table, stacking your empty wineglass atop your plate in an effort to make a smooth exit.

“Thanks again for dinner.” you say, keeping your tone light but sincere. “It was wonderful. I should probably let you two enjoy the rest of your evening—”

“Wait!” Nicholas bursts out, his chair scraping against the floor as he jumps to his feet. “You can’t go! We have to watch a movie!”

You gape at him, eyes wide, like he’s just suggested skydiving without a parachute or eating soup with a fork.

“Uh, a movie?” you repeat, glancing between him and Agatha.

Surely, this is where she steps in to say it’s too late, that it’s time to wind down.

But to your surprise, Agatha simply raises an eyebrow, her expression amused.

“A movie.” she echoes, swirling the last sip of wine in her glass. “Isn’t it a little late for that?”

“You always say that! Come on, mom. It’s Saturday!” Nicholas complains dramatically, his hands on his hips in a way that’s almost comical.

You open your mouth to help, to offer a dismissal Nicholas might accept—“Maybe next time” or “Your mom probably wants to relax.”—but before you can get a word out, Agatha’s gaze shifts to you.

“You did say your evening was wide open. So, what’s it going to be, hon? Care to join us?” she asks, leaning back slightly in her chair.

Each syllable feels like a finger pressing to the one thought you’re trying desperately to bury: that not only do you have nowhere else to be, but if you’re honest with yourself, there’s nowhere you’d rather be.

Her lips curve into a knowing smile, the kind that suggests she’s already read your mind and is simply waiting for you to catch up.

“I—well, I don’t…” you start, your voice faltering as your mind scrambles for a coherent response. “I mean, I don’t want to intrude or—”

“Intrude?” she interrupts, her brows lifting in mock surprise. “On my son’s demands and my… oh-so-thrilling evening of cleaning up after dinner?” She leans forward slightly, her smile softening but never losing its edge. “Come now, you’ll have to try harder than that.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you scramble to find the right words, your tongue suddenly feeling two sizes too big.

“I just thought—you know, maybe you’d rather spend the evening relaxing. Just the two of you. I wouldn’t want to… overstay.” you manage, your voice wavering as your face burns hotter by the second.

“I wouldn’t exactly call the cinematic torture Nicky usually puts me through my ideal way to relax. But if you stay, at least I won’t have to endure it alone.” she muses, the words landing with practiced subtlety, as though she’s tossing the suggestion into the air to see how it falls.

It’s not quite an invitation, not explicitly—but the subtle curve of her lips and the way her eyes insist on finding yours tell a different story, one she keeps ambiguous enough to leave you guessing.

If you choose the professional route—thank her again, grab your things, and leave—would you ever forgive yourself? Could you really walk away now, knowing you’d just turned down the chance to sit in her orbit a little longer?

But staying… staying feels like opening a whole other door. The kind of door that leads to a night even more absurd than this one already feels, where the lines between reality and your own impossible daydreams blur so completely, you’re not sure you’d know the difference.

You’re stuck in the tension of that choice, the possibilities pressing down on you, when Nicholas’ voice explodes through the moment, shattering it entirely.

“I’ll go pick a movie!” he announces, his excitement bubbling over as he bolts toward the living room, a blur of motion and enthusiasm. The spell is broken, and you exhale, blinking as reality floods back in.

You glance back at Agatha, half-expecting her to change her mind now that he’s out of earshot. Instead, she leans back in her chair again, her eyes glinting with that usual quiet amusement.

“There you have it.” she quips lightly, gesturing toward the living room. “Looks like the decision’s been made for you.”

Her words land with a calm finality, and for a moment, you simply stand there, unsure of what to do next. Before your nerves can get the better of you, you decide to grasp at the first thing that feels remotely purposeful.

“I’ll help clear the table.” you offer, your voice quick, almost rushed. “It’s the least I can do.”

You reach for a plate before the words have fully left your mouth, but as you stack the dishes and carry them to the sink, you can feel her gaze trailing you, quiet and intent.

You roll up your sleeves, the simple motion grounding you as you turn on the faucet. The water’s warmth seeps into your skin, and the rhythmic clatter of dishes offers a fragile sort of focus.

For a moment, you dare to think you’ve managed to steady yourself.

But then, the scrape of her chair against the floor echoes through the room.

The steady rhythm you thought you’d found falters as you hear her footsteps closing the distance between you. She moves into the space beside you, her presence altering the air itself.

The faint clink of glasses being placed on the counter pulls your focus for a second, but it’s the feeling of her hand brushing against your waist that makes your body freeze.

With the warmth of her palm burning through the fabric of your sweater, the plate in your hands slips through your grip. You fumble, the sharp sound of porcelain against the sink cutting through the quiet as you catch it just in time.

“Careful, hon.” she murmurs, her voice impossibly close, rich with that maddening calm. But there’s no hint of apology, just the smug confidence of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.

All of a sudden, the water streaming over your hands feels unbearably loud, each droplet amplified against your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the roaring in your ears.

Each of your senses narrows, zeroing in on the spot where her hand rests against you. Her touch isn’t pressing, nor forceful, it’s just there, as if she’s delicately testing the boundaries of the moment.

Your cheeks burn, and you’re sure she can see it, but you can’t bring yourself to look at her, not when every nerve in your body feels like it’s caught fire.

Before the moment stretches into something unbearable, Nicholas’ voice cuts through the stillness.

“I found the movie!” he calls from the living room, his excitement palpable. “Come on, it’s starting!”

Agatha straightens, her hand leaving your waist, and the absence feels almost as intense as the touch itself.

“Duty calls.” she says smoothly, her composure unshaken as she heads toward the living room without looking back.

You exhale shakily, gripping the edge of the sink for balance as you force yourself to calm down. With one last glance at the water, you shut it off and follow her, stubbornly pushing aside the ghost of her touch that refuses to fade from your body.

When you step into the living room, Nicholas is already curled up in one corner of the couch, wrapped in a blanket with the remote clutched triumphantly in his hands. His grin is so wide it’s almost glowing, radiating the pure victory of having secured his movie of choice.

It’s a scene of pure innocence, simple and easy, but your focus falters when your gaze shifts to Agatha.

She pauses at the edge of the couch, leaning down to unfasten her heels with graceful precision. The soft thud as they hit the rug feels somehow amplified in the quiet of the room. A low, contented sigh escapes her lips as she straightens, the sound carrying the unmistakable weight of a long day finally set aside.

Then, she sinks onto the central cushion of the couch, elegantly tucking one leg beneath her, folding into the space with casual confidence. One arm lifts to drape over the backrest, her fingers splayed idly.

You hesitate, your heart stuttering as the realization hits.

You weren’t prepared for this. You’d assumed Nicholas would sit between you, a natural, innocent buffer that would keep you at a safe, comfortable distance. But now, the couch looks impossibly small.

Panic rises even more when you realize you’ve been standing halfway between the kitchen and the couch for far too long, awkwardly frozen in place like prey caught in a snare.

For a fleeting moment, you genuinely consider sitting on the floor. But, as always, Agatha’s timing is impeccable.

Her voice cuts through your inner turmoil like silk, laced with that signature teasing amusement that makes you want to both melt and scream.

“Are you planning to stand there all night?” she asks as her eyes lock onto yours. She tilts her head slightly, patting the cushion beside her. “Come, sit.”

Forcing your legs to cooperate, you move toward the couch, every step slower than the last. By the time you lower yourself onto the cushion, your body feels coiled, as if every muscle is bracing for impact.

You try to sit casually, like you’re perfectly at ease, teetering on the very edge of the cushion as if that extra inch might save you.

But the effort is useless. The space between you is practically nonexistent, laughably small, and you’re acutely aware of every inch separating you.

She makes no effort to adjust her position or move her arm, leaving it draped lazily across the backrest, her fingers resting just shy of your shoulder.

You clasp your hands tightly in your lap, fixing your gaze on the screen with a determination that borders on desperation.

Nicholas, oblivious as ever, starts the movie. The opening scene bursts to life on the screen, colorful and loud, his excitement spilling over as he narrates every detail.

You nod along absently, keeping your eyes fixed ahead. But the truth is, you couldn’t explain a single thing happening in the movie if your life depended on it.

All of your attention is wrapped around Agatha, around her presence and the quiet weight of it. It’s nothing short of consuming, and every movement she makes feels seismic: the subtle shift of her posture, the barely audible rustle of her clothes as she settles deeper into the cushions, the gradual ease of her shoulders as though she’s letting the weight of the day melt away.

You feel like you’re about to lose your mind trying to understand how she can appear so perfectly composed while you sit there, silently coming apart at the seams.

And then, without warning, her knee brushes against yours.

Instinctively, you shift slightly to the side, leaning further into the backrest, but the movement only makes things worse.

The arm that had been resting lazily behind you is now definitely touching your shoulder.

Your breath catches, your body locking up before you can stop it, every nerve screaming at the contact.

Surely, she’ll move away. She has to.

But she doesn’t.

Neither her leg nor her arm budges, as if the contact is completely natural, as if she didn’t even notice. You, on the other hand, feel like you’re drowning in the sensation.

Her proximity completely floods your senses. It feels as if the world has shrunk to the points were your bodies are touching, the faint pressure on your leg and shoulder anchoring you to the spot.

And then, as if to seal your fate, you feel her gaze on you.

You don’t dare look at her, but from the corner of your eye you can see her head turned toward you. Her eyes are fixed on your face, and they might as well be burning holes through your head for how intensely she’s staring.

Everything begins to blur, the room fading as your thoughts swallow you whole. Once again, you find yourself grasp at rationality, trying to explain away her behavior and your own feelings, convincing yourself it’s all in your head.

But the longer you sit there, the harder it is to believe that.

It’s been four months since you started working for her, four months of walking into this house, telling yourself you were foolish for even entertaining the thought that someone like Agatha Harkness could ever see you that way, as anything more than Nicky’s babysitter.

During all this time, you’ve dismissed every fleeting glance, every teasing word, every ambiguous gesture, chalking it all up to her natural charm. You convinced yourself you were imagining things, creating meaning where there was none, deluding yourself into believing you could ever hold her attention.

But tonight? Tonight feels undeniably different. Especially after what she said last night.

The tension has been simmering beneath the surface for this whole time, each moment building on the last, and now there’s no mistaking it: Agatha’s behavior is intentional, deliberate in a way that leaves no room for doubt.

These aren’t the actions of someone indulging in a meaningless game. Sure, Agatha has a very teasing nature, you know that. But she isn’t careless, she doesn’t do unprofessionalism. She wouldn’t risk making you uncomfortable—or worse, crossing a line—without a reason, especially when it involves someone so closely tied to Nicholas.

You wonder if you’ve been blind to something that’s been there all along, oblivious to what’s been right in front of you—if you’ve had an actual chance all this time and simply refused to see it.

Because at this point, no other explanation fits.

Your heart races, the possibility exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure, a mix of longing and fear swelling in your chest.

When the credits finally roll, Nicholas lets out a loud yawn, stretching his arms above his head before slumping back into the couch. His eyelids droop heavily, but there’s a satisfied smile on his face.

“That was the best movie night ever!” he declares with a sleepy grin, his voice softening as exhaustion starts to win.

He turns toward you, pushes off the blanket and practically climbs over Agatha to crawl over and wrap his arms around your shoulders in a hug that’s warm and unexpected.

“Thanks for staying.” he murmurs, his voice muffled against your sweater. “It was really fun doing this with you and Mom.”

Your heart stutters in your chest, and you blink rapidly, taken aback by the tenderness of it all.

Words fail you, any attempt at a response dissolving into nothing as an involuntary smile tugs at your lips. You feel yourself melt into the embrace, your hands settling lightly against his back as you return the hug gently.

Nicholas pulls back, his grin bright despite his sleepy eyes, and he turns toward Agatha, who’s already rising from the couch.

“Mom, can we do this again soon?” he asks, rubbing his eyes as he pushes himself to his feet.

“We’ll see.” Agatha replies smoothly, resting a hand on his back to steady him. “Now come on. Bedtime.”

Just before they step out of the living room to head upstairs, Agatha glances back over her shoulder. Her head tilts ever so slightly, the soft glow of the room catching the sharps curves of her profile. Her eyes find yours, holding them with an intensity that feels almost disarming, and for a moment, it feels like the air stills around her.

“Wait here, won’t you?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper laced with quiet insistence “I’ll be back in a minute.”

You don’t even think, your head nods instinctively, a reflex before your mind can catch up.

As she turns away, you catch a faint glint in her eyes, something unreadable that looks almost like… anticipation?

The quiet sound of their footsteps fades into the background, leaving the room steeped in silence. It’s just you now, alone in the living room, with nothing but the weight of her words and the echo of your own thoughts.

The thing is, the babysitter would have left already.

You’d planned to leave the moment she was done working, when Nicholas no longer needed you and when Agatha was free to reclaim her evening.

But then came dinner, a polite invitation you couldn’t bring yourself to decline. And later, when the plates were cleared and you’d readied yourself to go, the movie became yet another reason to stay.

But now it’s late. Nicholas is heading to bed. There’s no reason for you to be here. And yet… she wants you to. For the third time tonight, you’re faced with a choice, though deep down, you know the decision has already been made.

You’ll wait. Because she asked you to. Because it’s her.

You lean back against the couch, exhaling shakily. Your mind spins, grasping at the threads of the evening, trying to weave them into something coherent.

Agatha descends the stairs a few minutes later, the faint sound of her steps barely registering over the buzz of your thoughts. She doesn’t spare you a glance, doesn’t say a word, moving with singular purpose as she crosses the living room and disappears into the kitchen.

The faint clink of glass and the soft pop of a cork being pulled echo faintly, carrying with them a sense of inevitability that sets your heart racing.

Moments later, she reemerges with the bottle of wine from dinner in one hand and two glasses in the other. Her movements are smooth, practiced, as if this is all part of some unspoken ritual.

She sets the glasses on the coffee table and pours the wine with precision before handing you one and taking the other for herself.

Then, despite the now ample space on the couch, she chooses the same spot as before, her knee brushing against yours once again when she crosses her legs.

“Cheers.” she says lightly, raising her glass in your direction.

“Cheers.” you reply, the word coming out softer than you intended as you lift your glass.

The first sip settles warmly in your chest, cutting through some of the tension of the evening.

For a while, the two of you talk easily. She asks about Nicholas and your morning job, and you gladly share little stories about his antics and your shifts at the café.

Agatha listens intently, her occasional hums and soft chuckles weaving seamlessly into the conversation.

You ask her about her work, though she keeps her answers vague, offering only the occasional quip about paperwork, tedious calls and demanding clients. It’s clear she’s deflecting, but her tone is so effortlessly charming that you don’t press further.

Instead, you find yourself relaxing into the rhythm of the exchange, the wine loosening the edges of your nerves.

By the time the third glass is poured, the atmosphere feels incredibly comfortable, like the two of you have settled into a pocket of time removed from the rest of the world.

You’re leaning back against the couch now, your own legs crossed on the cushion, and the soft hum of casual conversation filling the space between you.

But then, completely out of nowhere, the words spill out of your mouth with an abruptness that shifts the air immediately.

“Do you always drink this much with your babysitters?” you ask, your tone is light, almost playful, but there’s an edge of nervousness beneath it.

Agatha’s response comes slower than expected, but when it does, it lands like a deliberate blow.

“Only the ones worth breaking the rules for.” her voice is low, sultry, and laced with an edge of amusement that makes the room feel impossibly smaller.

Your throat goes completely dry on the spot, and you try to will your brain to keep up, to find something clever to say. A snarky remark, a witty comeback, an equally teasing reply, anything.

You fumble with your glass, taking a sip longer than necessary, the wine coursing through you like liquid fire. Each drop seems to stoke the embers in your chest, unfurling in waves, merging with the simmering frustration that has been tightening its grip on you all night.

Boldness—fueled by the wine, the smoldering tension, and the enigma that is Agatha—surges to the surface. Before you can think, the words slip out.

“Why do you do this?” your voice is sharper than you intended, and it cuts through the air between you like a knife.

Agatha raises an eyebrow, her smirk deepening as she leans back against the couch.

“Do what, exactly?” she asks, feigning innocence, though the glint in her eyes betrays her.

“This.” you gesture vaguely between the two of you, frustration bleeding into your tone. “The teasing, the looks, the… the way you—” you break off, exhaling sharply. “It’s like you enjoy watching me lose my mind.”

She chuckles darkly, the sound almost dangerous, and it sends a shiver down your spine. She sets her glass on the coffee table, her movements unhurried, calculated.

“Maybe I do.” she murmurs, her tone dropping into something quieter, more intimate. Her gaze locks onto yours, and she leans forward slightly, slowly closing the distance between you inch by inch.

Your pulse quickens, every nerve in your body on high alert. She’s close enough now that you can feel the faint warmth of her body.

But she doesn’t stop. She leans in further, her face now just a breath away from yours. Her eyes flick down to your lips for a fleeting moment, and your breath catches.

“You’re not the only one losing their mind tonight, you know.” her voice drops to a whisper, low and raw, and you’re pretty sure your pulse flatlines.

The world around you fades, the only thing grounding you is the way her icy gaze holds you captive. Your heart pounds in your ears, and you think this is it—this is where the line between you finally blurs.

But then your eyes flicker down, catching sight of the glass still clutched in your hand, and reality slams into you like a freight train.

The wine—it’s been warming you, emboldening you, loosening you. And now, with her so close, you can’t shake the fear that it’s not just you under its influence. What if this moment isn’t real? What if it’s the wine, not her, driving the spark in her eyes, the closeness of her breath? The thought twists in your chest, sharp and painful. You don’t want this, her, to be something fleeting, something hazy and tainted by doubt.

You pull back, the movement abrupt and jarring, completely annihilating the moment.

Agatha freezes, her body leaning back instinctively, confusion flickering in her eyes.

“I can’t.” you say quickly, your voice trembling slightly. “Not like this.”

Her brow furrows, and she tilts her head.

“Not like what?” she asks, her tone still smooth but tinged with curiosity, fascination even.

“With… with the wine.” you stammer, struggling to find the right words. “I don’t want to— I mean, I don’t know if—” You let out a shaky exhale, setting your glass down beside hers. “I just… I can’t.”

You rise to your feet, your movements hurried and almost clumsy as you try to put some distance between the two of you.

Agatha doesn’t stop you, but her gaze follows your every move, unreadable and heavy.

“I should go.” you mumble, your frustration bubbling to the surface. Even though you’re not sure if it’s directed at her, at yourself, or at the entire night.

You barely take a couple of steps toward the door when Agatha’s voice calls after you, firm and unyielding.

“You shouldn’t leave.”

Her voice echoes through the room, and even though her words aren’t a real command, they sure feel like one.

You halt mid-step and slowly turn to face her, your chest tightening at the sight. She’s still seated on the couch, her posture casual but her gaze piercing, pinning you in place.

“It’s late.” she says, her tone measured, as if explaining something obvious. “You’ve had wine. The roads are dark. I’d rather not spend the rest of the night worrying about whether or not you made it home safely.”

Her words are practical, almost dismissive, as though the charged moment between you never happened. But there’s something beneath the surface—a subtle current in her voice that makes it impossible to tell if she’s truly unaffected or simply hiding it well.

“I’m fine.” your reply is automatic, defensive. But even as you say it, the shakiness in your voice betrays you.

“You don’t look fine, hon. You look like someone about to storm out into the night just to prove a point. Agatha says, her tone steady, though her expression softens just slightly.

There’s still an edge of steel in her eyes, a quiet challenge buried beneath her words.

“I can handle myself.” you bite out, though the words sound hollow, even to you.

She exhales softly, the faintest flicker of something—annoyance? amusement?—crossing her features.

Then, with a surprising grace for someone that just had three glasses of wine, she rises from the couch and closes the distance between you.

“I don’t doubt that. But tell me this: what exactly are you proving by leaving right now? And to whom?”

Her words hit their mark, and you feel the fight drain out of you. Because she’s right, you’re not leaving because it’s practical. You’re leaving because you’re overwhelmed, unsure, afraid of what staying might mean or lead to.

Agatha’s eyes stay locked on yours as she continues, her voice taking on a tone that’s almost… tender.

“Stay.” she says simply, the single word carrying so much weight it feels like it might crush you. “It’s late. There’s no reason for you to go rushing out into the night when you don’t have to.”

You glance toward the door, then back at her, weighing your options.

The truth is, you are tired—tired of the emotions, of the push and pull of the evening that’s left you feeling completely unraveled. The idea of staying, of letting the night end on a quieter note, is far too tempting to resist.

“Fine.” you finally answer, your own tone colder than you expected.

“Good.” she says, stepping back to give you space. “The guest room is ready. It’s not much, but it’ll do for tonight.”

She turns and starts toward the stairs. You hesitate for a moment, your mind still spinning with the events of the past hours, before following her.

You sigh, exhaustion settling into your bones as you reach the top of the stairs. Right now, none of it matters—not the tension, not the confusion, not the endless spiraling questions that have chased you all night. All you want is to sleep, to let the haze of the wine fade away in the quiet refuge of a bed. Whether it’s your own or the one in Agatha’s guest room, it doesn’t seem to make a difference anymore.

You barely notice as Agatha pauses by a linen closet, pulling out a neatly folded towel and an oversized t-shirt.

“This should do.” she states, handing them to you.

Her tone is neutral, almost too casual, as if nothing about the evening had been remotely unusual. Her gaze doesn’t linger as long as usual though, she doesn’t meet your eyes for more than a second before nodding toward the guest room door.

“That’s yours for the night.” she gestures briefly, indicating the room between the bathroom and Nicholas’ door at the far end of the hall. “Bathroom’s just here.” she continues, pointing to the door next to hers on the opposite end.

“Thanks.” you mutter, your voice barely above a whisper as you grip the towel and shirt tightly.

Agatha hums faintly, stepping back toward her room. For a second, you think she might say more, but instead, she simply glances over her shoulder.

“Goodnight.”, her tone is warm, yet the word feels strangely clipped.

Before you can respond, she slips into her room and disappears in the ensuite bathroom.

You stand there for a few seconds, awkwardly rooted in place. Your own “Goodnight” comes out almost as an afterthought, mumbled into the silence as you step into the guest room and close the door behind you.

The room is elegant and cozy, a neatly made bed dominating the space and a single lamp casting a warm glow over the soft cream walls.

You drop the towel onto the edge of the bed and hold up the shirt, its fabric soft and worn in a way that feels oddly intimate.

You undress and slip it over your head, only to be immediately engulfed by Agatha’s perfume. It clings to the fabric, potent and intoxicating, and for a moment, you allow the scent to wash over you and flood your senses.

Heat coils low in your stomach, and you shake your head quickly, brushing off whatever effect wearing something of hers seems to be having on you.

With a steadying breath, you fold the towel over your arm and step back out into the hall, heading towards the bathroom.

The splash of cold water against your face is grounding, but even as you dry off and prepare to head back to your room, you can’t shake the way her scent fills you nostrils with every minuscule movement.

Stepping into the hallway, you’re greeted by darkness, broken only by a faint sliver of light seeping from beneath your door.

You take a step toward the guest room, but a faint sound slices through the stillness.

It’s almost imperceptible, a noise so soft and muffled that, for a second, you wonder if you imagined it.

You hold your breath as your eyes flick toward the ajar door of Agatha’s room. You think about just brushing it off, receding to the relative safety of the guest room and pretending you heard nothing.

But then you hear it again.

Your feet move before your brain can catch up, carrying you a step closer, as quietly as possible on the wooden floorboards.

And the closer you get, the clearer the sound becomes.

Another low, broken noise escapes, this time accompanied by a faint rustle of fabric.

The realization dawns slowly, burning through you like wildfire. Your stomach twists, heat pooling low in your abdomen as the truth of what you’re hearing sinks in.

You consider retreating. You do. But your legs refuse to move.

Something keeps you rooted in place, drawn forward as though compelled by a force beyond your control.

Your bare feet barely make a sound against the cool wood floor as you edge closer to Agatha’s door, muffled moans growing more vivid with every inch of space you gain. You can hear her breathing now, shallow and uneven, each exhale laced with pleasure that seems to echo in your own chest.

Your knees weaken as you reach the doorframe. And then you hear it.

“Yes… oh fuck, yes.”

Her rough voice rips through you like a physical force. The raw intimacy of it, the unguarded need, sends a sharp jolt straight down your spine. Your lips part on a shaky breath, your thighs pressing together instinctively against the unbearable ache building between them.

Every nerve in your body is on fire, wetness pools between your legs, and you feel a flush creeping up your neck, your skin hypersensitive to even the faintest brush of air.

Another broken moan follows, and it takes every ounce of restraint not to make a sound in return.

You close your eyes for a moment, trying to will yourself back to reality, to sanity. But all you can picture is her—Agatha, in the darkness of her room, her head tilted back, her lips parted as she whispers filthy, desperate things into the still air.

You can’t stop imagining what it would feel like to be the reason for those sounds.

The thought is intoxicating, dangerous, and far too tempting.

But you know you can’t let your mind go there. You know this is the moment to turn around, to leave, to escape before you lose yourself completely.

Pressing your back against the wall beside the doorframe, you focus on steadying your breath, though every nerve in your body feels alive, thrumming with a tension that leaves you trembling. Each sound she makes only tightens the coil in your stomach, the ache quickly approaching unbearable levels.

You take one last, shaky breath as she whispers another low curse that shoots straight through your core. Then, with every ounce of willpower you can muster, you step back, your movements shaky and reluctant.

Each step toward the guest room feels like a battle, every fiber of your being screaming at you to turn back.

You step into the guest room and close the door behind you, leaning against it trying to steady yourself. Your heart still pounds, each beat reverberating through your chest, your entire body tingling in the wake of what you just experienced.

The room feels quiet, mercifully so, the sounds that had haunted you moments ago are now gone, silenced by the thick walls of Agatha’s home. You take a moment to reassure yourself—there’s no way Nicholas could hear anything, not from his room at the other end of the hallway. Agatha knows her house, knows its secrets. Of course, she’d be careful.

With that thought, you push yourself off the door and move toward the bed. You slip under the covers and reach for the lamp on the nightstand, turning it off.

Darkness envelopes you, but it does nothing to quiet the sensations coursing through your body. The ache low in your stomach has only intensified since you left her door.

Your fingers tighten on the edge of the blanket, your breathing uneven as you squeeze your thighs together, desperate for even the smallest bit of relief.

But it’s no use. The ache is too insistent, too consuming. The memory of her moans, her breathy curses, fills your mind. You can still hear them, low and filthy, the rawness of her need reverberating throughout your whole body.

Your hand moves on its own, slipping beneath the fabric of her shirt. Your fingers trail over your stomach, climbing higher until they reach your breast. The moment your palm cups the soft flesh, a sharp jolt of pleasure shoots through you.

You suck in a breath, biting down hard on your lip to muffle the quiet whimper that escapes your throat.

Your thumb brushes over your nipple, circling it slowly until it hardens beneath your touch. The sensation sends a wave of heat straight to your core, your hips shifting restlessly beneath the covers.

Your other hand moves lower, brushing over the waistband of your panties. There’s a moment of hesitation, but it’s brief. The heat pooling between your thighs is unbearable now, and you can’t deny yourself any longer.

Your fingers slip beneath the fabric, sliding over the wetness that greets you. You gasp quietly, the slick evidence of your arousal coating your fingertips.

“Fuck…” you whisper, the word slipping out unbidden, the sound barely audible but laced with desperation.

Your fingers glide over your clit, the swollen bundle of nerves already sensitive, and you bite back another moan. You begin to circle it slowly, the pressure just enough to stoke the fire burning in your stomach.

But you need more. You press your fingers lower, sliding one inside yourself, then another. The stretch is delicious, the rhythm instinctive as your hips buck against your hand.

You curl your fingers, hitting just the right spot, and the pleasure that ripples through you makes your toes curl.

Your hand moves faster now, your palm grinding against your clit with each thrust of your fingers. The wet sounds of your movements would be obscene if they weren’t muffled by the covers, but instead of embarrassment, it only fuels your arousal.

And then, Agatha seizes complete control of your mind. You imagine her fingers instead of yours, the way they’d explore you, claim you. You picture her leaning over you, her voice condescending and commanding as she tells you how good you feel, how she can’t get enough of you.

Your back arches off the bed as your hand moves to your other breast, kneading it roughly. Your nipples are so sensitive now that each pinch, each roll between your fingers, leaves you wetter, the slickness between your thighs growing with each needy, breathless motion, soaking your fingers as you lose yourself completely to the sensation.

You imagine her lips replacing your hand, her tongue flicking over the hardened peak before she bites down, just enough to make you gasp. Your hips jerk involuntarily, the image too vivid, too real.

Her voice fills your mind, rough and low, the way she cursed earlier. But this time, it’s for you.

“That’s it, baby. Just like that. Let go for me.”

You can almost feel her breath against your skin, her weight pressing you into the mattress, her fingers fucking you with a precision that leaves you shaking.

Your fingers thrust deeper, harder, curling just right as your thumb flicks over your clit. The tension in your stomach coils tighter, impossibly tight, until you’re teetering on the edge.

“Agatha…” you whisper, her name tumbling from your lips like a prayer.

The sound of it, the feel of it on your tongue, pushes you over the edge.

The tension snaps, pleasure exploding through you wave after wave, so intense it leaves you trembling.

Your thighs clamp around your hand, your hips grinding against your fingers as the aftershocks ripple through you. Your other hand grips the sheets tightly, your knuckles white as you ride out every last pulse of pleasure.

For a long moment, you lie there, your chest heaving, your body a trembling, oversensitive mess. Slowly, your hand slips away, the wetness on your fingers a reminder of just how badly you want her.

You don’t bother cleaning up, your limbs too heavy to move. Sleep tugs at you, irresistible in the aftermath of your release.

As your eyes drift shut, her name rests on the edges of your consciousness, a soft echo you can’t help but chase.

#agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness x female reader #agatha harkness x you #agatha x reader #agatha x you #agatha x y/n #aaa fanfic #agatha all along fanfic #agatha harkness fanfic

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literaryvein-reblogs · 7 months ago

Text

Writing Notes: The Magic of Storytelling

A Guide to Writing your own YA Fantasy Novel by: Joanna Thomason

Elements of a Story: Setting, Character, Plot

Setting: World-building

3 Basic Kinds of Fantasy World

Begin and end in a fantasy world. Examples: The Eye of the World by Robert Jordan; The Hobbit by J. R. R. Tolkien; Eragon by Christopher Paolini

Start in the real world and move into a fantasy world. Examples: A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle; The Chronicles of Narnia by C. S. Lewis; Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll

Set in the real world but elements of a fantasy world exist within them. Examples: The Lightning Thief by Rick Riordan; Artemis Fowl by Eoin Colfer

Character: Character-building

A character is drawn through the plot by his or her own ambitions, needs, and convictions.

A realistic character has goals and investments as well as character flaws which complicate the attainment of those goals.

Throughout your novel, you must use these elements to give your character incentive to keep going, and a satisfying ending is when the character’s flaws are resolved or improved upon and his or her goal is met.

Your character design should include:

Goals

Strengths - ways your character will naturally succeed

Flaws - ways your character must improve itself or seek aid

Relationships with others

Incentives/motivation

It is also important to consider whether your character will have any supernatural abilities or traits.

Also consider how these will interact with the world you have created for him or her.

How many characters should a story have?

Some novels have dozens of characters, while others stick to just a few.

It's up to you how many you want to keep track of, as it can get confusing if you have too many, but if you can pull it off it can make the story really interesting.

Some common character types to include:

The protagonist/hero (or antihero)

The antagonist/villain

The love interest

The mentor or advisor

The best friend/sidekick

Note: These character types are included in this model, but there are plenty of other characters to consider as well.

Plot: Plot Building

There are various novel structures.

Below is a framework by Lee Roddy.

It sets up the basic outline of a story as well as sub-points which need to be met for the novel to progress.

1. Beginning - sets up the character and introduces the objective:

Situation

Motive

Conflict

Elements

Story Question

Decision

2. Middle - details the character's struggles to reach their objective:

Obstacles + Adversary

Perseverance

Crisis

3. Ending - brings resolution to the plot as a whole:

Crisis, choice

Climax - one final effort

Conclusion: victory

Understanding Plot Structure

This is referred to as the Story Arc or Dramatic Structure

This model of novel structure shows necessary elements of plot development from beginning to end.

It clarifies the purpose of each section of a story and is a basic formula for generating interest in a character’s progress and moving the plot towards its conclusion.

The 6 Classic Story Arcs

Sources: 1 2 ⚜ Writing Notes & References

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drvscarlett · 1 year ago

Text

Let Him Cook Pt 3

Charles Leclerc x MasterChef contestant!reader

Series Part: 1, 2, 3

Taglist: @bookstore-of-dreams @barcelonaloverf1life @ririyulife @minkyungseokie @mehrmonga @sltwins @charlesgirl16 @six-call @spideybv28 @casperlikej

"I honestly can't believe that this is actually happening"you told Charles as you sit down on your couch with your laptop.

The past few days have been a lot of preparation for the three most important dish of your life. You have been replicating and timing yourself to make sure that you are a perfectly well-oiled machine during the competition proper.

Charles is currently in Abu Dhabi for the final race which is a complete bummer. He wanted to be there but work is work. So that's why he spends most of his available time doing a facetime with you. It was pretty helpful since his conversations with you helps soothe your nerve and helps avoid overthinking the whole process.

"You got this mon amour. You know I always believed in you since day 1" Charles grinned.

"I really hope that everything goes well tomorrow"

"It will and I will be watching all the way from Yas Marina to hear that my girlfriend is a MasterChef winner"Charles proudly states "I'm really getting so excited, is this how you feel when you watch me race?"

You laughed "Oh mon ami, you are much more stressful to watch with your high speed corners and those wet race misshaps"

"But doesn't this technically make me your WAG if you win? Don't they have WAG gossip accounts that I could be part in?"

It was moments like this that Charles made everything lighter by focusing on trivial things. It helps a lot with the building pressure that everyone has been placing on your shoulder.

Y/NCooks posted a photo.

Y/NCooks the boyfriend is so supportive. I'm pretty excited for today!

Gordongram goodluck Y/N! Boyfriend reveal when you win?

User1 Gordon is so real for that Y/NCooks thanks Chef! Lets see???

User2 win or lose, you already made it Y/N!

User3 its just so wholesome to see how Y/N keeps the relationship private but never secret. I ship them so much

User4 i don't know if i want to be Y/N or I want to be her boyfriend

User5 goodluck Y/N! Get that trophy!

Final episode.

Former contestants lined up at the balcony with some of your friends and close relatives. It was a very surreal moment because you used to watch this sitting in the comforts of your own home and now you are actually the one being watched.

The moment that the clock starts ticking, you started to work. There was no room for any delays today as you were creating dishes after dishes. You have to use your time wisely so that you can finish the dishes you have in mind.

"Charles, were going out to drink, are you coming?"

"You guys go ahead, I'm going to watch something" The minute that the cars were back in the garage and the ceremony was over, Charles couldn't wait to go back to his hotel room. He was to turn on his TV to watch the live broadcast of the MasterChef Australia.

He was just on time with the last five minutes of the appetizer round, technically he haven't miss much. You were focused in tasting everything and ensuring that all the flavors are there. You plated really well and it shows how much you have grown. Charles is extremely proud of you.

"Aren't you a little worried to be working on the octopus so early on?" the judges wondered. The judges were currently tasting the soup that you have given them.

"I know that its a lot of risk but I have to push for it to show my talent"

The judges find the soup beautifully seasoned but their only slight flaw with the dish is that the octopus is a little bit tough due to the water not boiling hot enough. Its that flaw that sets a 2 point difference with your fellow contestant.

Charles could feel his eyes getting heavier from all the events earlier that day but he really wants to stay awake. He believes that Y/N could do it. The main course was a stronger dish for Y/N which is how she tied the score with her fellow contestant.

The dessert is the make and break for Y/N. Charles knew that its also her greatest opponent as you prefer savory over sweet. However, seeing the way that you are cooking right now that you have massively improved your skills in the sweets department.

It was tense as you run back and forth to the freezer to make sure that the pana cotta is chilled enough while you went back to your work station to mix the pot. Charles almost had a headache after seeing you trip over in the last 20 minutes of the session.

But all in all you pulled it off. The dessert was stunning and exquisite as the judges noticed. It was an elevated traditional pana cotta

"I believe we have made a decision and the scores are very very close with each other" one of the judges concluded.

The guests from the balcony went down to join the homecooks and Charles wishes that he could have been there for you. Instead, he records the moment through his phone. The announcement will be here in any seconds now.

"And the MasterChef Australia winner is....."

MasterChefAU just posted a photo.

Liked by Gordongram, Charles_Leclerc, and 670,000 others

MasterChefAU congratulations to Y/NCooks you are the MasterChef Australia winner!

User1 That was worth the wait, Y/NCooks is now a masterchef winner!

User2 she was so brilliant! what a performance!!!

User3 tell me why is Charles Leclerc is in the likes, isn't it like 4am there in Abu Dhabi?? Didn't you just race sir???

User4 Seems like Charles is a fan of MC Australia User5 Answer the crowd Charles_Leclerc User6 Didn't Arthur and Lorenzo guest in MC Australia, they say they are good friends of Y/N User7 That is some interesting information User6

Y/NCooks posted a photo.

liked by MasterChefAU, Charles_Leclerc, and 308,000 others

Y/NCooks I have a new plate!!!!

It was such a wonderful experience to be a part of this kitchen and to win this prestigious award. Thank you so much for all your support and love. This is such a dream come true!!

User1 im so proud of her

User2 Can't wait what's next for you!

Gordongram Well-deserve! You did amazing!

Y/NCooks this means a lot Chef! Thank you for watching

MasterChefAU Our winner!!!!

Charles_Leclerc 🏆❤️

User3 what even is that? you are putting sebastian vettel to shame with your rizz User4 Charles, she has a boyfriend!!!!!!! User5 Bro really thinks he can bag Y/N when he can't even cook Y/NCooks Thank you :')) Charles_Leclerc liked this comment. User6 SHUT UP, CHARLES IS COOKING SOMETHING User7 Silence for Y/N's bf, Charles is coming after your seat!

#charles leclerc x oc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc fluff #f1 x reader #f1 imagine

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absolutebl · 1 year ago

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Top 10 Great BLs That Are REALLY hard to find (but worth tracking down)

You may want to go hunting anyway!

Seven Days

Seven Days: Monday-Thursday

Seven Days: Friday-Sunday

Japan 2015

Never doubt my ability to recommend this show. One of the best live action yaois ever made, with perfectly structured angst, fantastic characters and acting, and no problematic tropes (rare in Japanese BL). The leads have excellent chemistry although it’s low heat there’s still some really cute mutual kisses.

Cherry Magic AKA 30-sai made Dotei Da to Mahotsukai ni Nareru rashii

Japan 2020

The sweetest fluffiest magical realism BL, packaged as a pinning office romance, very low heat (practically chaste) but the cutest. It’s truly great.

Cherry Magic Thailand

Thai 2024

A soft charming warm hug of a show about crushes and mind reading and self worth, with no-fuss execution from a consummate team and an OG lead pair proving why they remain eternal and deserve to grow up. Look, here’s the thing, Cherry Magic is a great Thai BL in its own right not comparing it to any other iteration. But even when I do compare (and I've seen all the Cherries and read the manga) it still stands. I personally like it slightly better than the Japanese live action, but I think that’s because I just really like Thai BL and I LOVE TayNew. Also all the kissing was both present and better than any other iteration. As it should be from Thailand.

I Feel You Linger in the Air

Thai 2023

IFYLITA is an exquisite BL, from filming techniques to narrative framework (much like Until We Meet Again). Steeped in history and family drama it edges into lakorn (but no as much as To Sir With Love and with way less scenery chewing). This is an elegant and classy BL... from Thailand which normally doesn't even try for classy. The main couple (both as a pair and individuals) were excellent, particularly Bright (Yai) whose eye-work acting style is a personal favorite of mine. Pity about the ending. Oh it wasn’t that sad but it wasn’t good either. This show could easily have earned a 10/10 from me except that it fumbled the… erm… balls in the final quarter. Argh. Whatever.

All about the ecstasy and the agony here.

Restart After Come Back Home AKA Risutato wa tadaima no ato de

Japan 2020

Atmospheric study in rural Japan meets complex family dynamics built on a romance framework of city boy meets country boy, grumpy/sunshine. It’s beautiful and icy sweet. Slow moving in places but ultimately worth the patience, low heat, low angst, and stunning.

Given

Japan 2021

Boy joins band, falls in love with other boy. The singing is terrible, fast forward through that but with the possible exception of the hair styles, this BL could have been made in 2015 and no one would be surprised. As such, it wasn’t ground breaking, but it didn’t disappoint either.

Make a Wish

Thai 2023

A doctor who can see the dead strikes a bargain with a wish-granting irreverent tree angel - naturally they fall in love (from Sammon: Manner of Death & Triage). Stars Fluke Natouch opposite not-Ohm, but who tf cares because Fluke has chemistry with everybody. Once again the Thai afterlife is incredibly bureaucratic but I enjoyed the premise and the unfolding of the story (it’s not predictable but still satisfying and with nice little twist). I like that the doctor is just gay AF - fag hag bestie and all the swagger. The cast is excellent even if the comedic stylings are a bit overblown and tonally off. It had sad parts and did make me cry but is ultimately happy with a great sex scene, good smiley kisses, and all the agency. Definitely recommended.

2 Moons The Ambassador AKA 2 Moons 3

Thai 2022

A Thai pulp that felt like it came out 5 yrs prior, with many of the flaws inherent to that time and studio system, including manufactured angst and convoluted plot, but an ultimately sweet main couple that (as a pairing) feels a bit more modern and satisfying to watch than they started out. This will probably go down in history as one of the few BLs where I genuinely didn’t care about any of the side couples. All that said, I find this show oddly appealing and rewatchable and I have no excuses for that except, I enjoyed it probably more than it deserved. Nostalgia & d**k, it's what's for dinner.

I Want to See Only You AKA Kimi no Koto Dake Mite Itai

Japan 2022

This is a beautiful well acted piece of cinema, about two boys who are opposite personalities and grew up together. Gifted and serious Sakura pines after outgoing eccentric manic pixie dream boy, Yuma. It is very pretty and this is the kind of atmospheric elegantly performed BL that only really comes from Japan (complete with dead fish kisses - what you though Korea invented them? oh no). If you want something stylish, this is it.

Triage

Thai 2022

BL does Groundhog Day featuring a doctor stuck in a time loop who must save a poor little rich boy from death by seducing the stuffing out of him, then PLOT TWIST, poor little rich boy must do the same for the doctor! Unfortunately... stuffing keeps leaking. I thought the plot was engaging if a little redundant and occasionally exhausting. The pairs were all well done, low heat but with decent chemistry and the support characters were likable (or unlikable, as required). If anything, the romance arc detracted and distracted from the main plot, but that doesn't stop this from being a genuinely good show.

HONORABLE MENTION

Great Men Academy

Thai 2019

Bodyswap involving unicorns turning a teenage girl into a boy makes this questionable as a BL (because, ya know, gender). But the fact remains that James is killer in the lead, and I (who do not like bodyswap) loved this damn show. Look, there is actual plot, hotties at boarding school, "bully the one you love" trope, some weird VR shit, very bad CGI, and yes, the boys end up together... whether they boys or not, so to speak.

Some of these shows may appear on a smaller streaming service, like WeTV, or they may be on a legal platform in your territory. I hope it goes without saying you should check there first.

(source)

This list updated Spring 2024, not responsible for cool stuff that went missing (or was added to a platform) after that date.

It's it last in a series the rest of which are:

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anne-bsd-bibliophile · 7 months ago

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Spoilers for Thousand Autumns Volumes 3 and 4!!!

I didn't pay attention to it the first time I read Thousand Autumns, but during my reread it's obvious that Xie Ling and A-Yan knew that Yan Wushi loved Shen Qiao from the start.

Art by @_Konia_; reposted with permission.

It's fairly obvious that Xie Ling is infatuated with Shen Qiao immediately because his gaze never leaves Shen Qiao and Xie Ling trusts him completely:

Yan Wushi only looked at him, his eyes filled entirely with Shen Qiao’s reflection. “I’ll be taking your pulse.” Shen Qiao lifted his wrist, and Yan Wushi didn’t respond to that either, letting Shen Qiao handle him as he wished. But his eyes remained fixed on Shen Qiao—whether Shen Qiao was hunched over or sitting upright, Yan Wushi’s gaze never left him. ...Just as Shen Qiao was furrowing his brows and pondering, Yan Wushi suddenly smiled at him. This smile was different from those faint half smiles from the past, and lacked any sense of sarcasm, ridicule, or unbridled arrogance. It was simply a smile, nothing more, as if it weren’t Shen Qiao in front of him, but a beautiful flower. (vol. 3, pg. 85-6)

A-Yan tells Shen Qiao, "...I understand why my previous self treated you the way he did. He’s a paranoid person at heart, someone who’d never trust anyone else. No matter how good you are, he’d always want to bring out the darkness hidden within you. But he doesn’t know that you are you. There may be hundreds of thousands of Chen Gongs in this world, but there is only one Shen Qiao." (vol. 3, pg. 135)

Yan Wushi notices that, "There was still a hint of remaining warmth within his chest, left there by Xie Ling and A-Yan, from their feelings whenever they thought about Shen Qiao. But at this moment, Yan Wushi forcefully wiped it away..." He doesn't consider the the thoughts and feelings from the other parts of his personality to be his own." (vol. 3, pg. 142)

There's also the scene where Xie Ling tries to kiss Shen Qiao:

...Yan Wushi abruptly seized Shen Qiao’s neck, then he threw himself closer and bit down on his lips! In pain, Shen Qiao snaked his arm around Yan Wushi’s neck and struck hard. The other man fell limply on top of him. It was finally quiet. Shen Qiao let out a sigh of relief. He picked up Yan Wushi’s wrist and felt it, then let out a gasp of surprise. If the man had just been in the throes of qi deviation earlier, then now, only a short time later, his pulse had completely calmed. In contrast, his life force even seemed to be thriving? (vol. 3, pg. 225)

When Yan Wushi is back to his normal personality, he commented on the unskilled kiss: "What, did Xie Ling even forget how to kiss someone after losing most of my memories? He was so impatient he even bit you?" (vol. 3, pg. 232) Yan Wushi knows immediately that Xie Ling has feelings for Shen Qiao, but he doesn't realize his own feelings yet.

Later, Yan Wushi admits to himself that Xie Ling and A-Yan's thoughts where his own as well, and that's what leads to the confession scene:

Yan Wushi smiled but didn’t speak. Before, he’d loathed “Xie Ling’s” influence, thinking that those thoughts weren’t his own. He’d tried to suppress that strange feeling numerous times, and he’d believed that the moment he repaired the flaw in the demonic core, that feeling would vanish with it. He hadn’t expected that Shen Qiao’s smile would reawaken everything. He was unwilling to admit that he, who’d looked down upon everyone in the world, would one day find that a name had wormed its way into his heart. Human hearts were filled with malice. Some people were traitors, turning their backs on all integrity; some were ingrates, repaying kindness with enmity. There were also those who’d abandon their spouses, who were willing to do anything for wealth and glory. Yan Wushi had seen many, and he’d thought nothing of them because he, too, was a selfish, callous human. He only categorized things based on whether they deserved his notice, and to him, there were no actions that fell beyond a line that could not be crossed. However, now Yan Wushi was forced to admit that Shen Qiao was unique and that he couldn’t change him. Though the world was vast, there was still only one Shen Qiao. “My venerable self suddenly thought of something amusing,” he said. “Would you like to listen?” “No,” said Shen Qiao. Yan Wushi turned a deaf ear and started talking anyway. “Once upon a time, there was a man who found a stone in a heap of gold and jewels.” Shen Qiao’s mouth twitched. Didn’t he just say that he didn’t want to listen? “But he couldn’t believe that it was only an ordinary stone. He thought that since it’d been piled together with the mass of treasures in that room, it must also be a treasure. So, he brought it everywhere with him, and even had it examined and polished by many. But every single person, without exception, told him that it was only an ordinary stone, that there was nothing special about it. Guess what happened in the end?” Shen Qiao’s face was both lost and bewildered. “In the end, he finally believed that it was indeed a worthless stone. But in his eyes, compared to the room full of gold and silver treasure, even if it was only a stone, it was still one of a kind—a stone out of a million.” Shen Qiao was silent. Why did this story sound so bizarre? It was indeed unusual to hear such a normal story from such an abnormal person. He couldn’t help but say, “Even thousands of gold pieces cannot purchase happiness. Some people care little for wealth—they only wish to seek out things that other people find worthless. In my opinion, that man already liked that stone more than the other jewels and treasures, but he was trapped by his preconceptions and unwilling to admit it.” Yan Wushi laughed. “That’s true, you’re very correct. Thousands of gold pieces cannot purchase happiness." There seemed to be a deep significance within these words. (vol. 4, pg. 58-60)

#spoiler #thousand autumns spoilers #thousand autumns #qian qiu #yan wushi #xia ling #a-yan #shen qiao #yanshen #confession scene #yan wushi should have listened to xie ling and a-yan #xie ling was in love with shen qiao at first sight but it took him some time and suffering from a qi deviation before he finally kissed him #a-yan admitted easily that shen qiao was unlike anyone else and knew yan wushi wasn't willing to admit it yet

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lomlhotchner · 6 months ago

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❛ ethereal! ❜ … aaron hotchner

warnings: plus size!reader, talks about insecurities, talks abt body image issues and insecurities, but it gets a little suggestive towards the end ;)

a/n: comfort fic for big girls like me <3 i wrote this when i was feeling a little down and i didn’t have the gut to finish it but here we go 🤍 i know everyone is probably tired of a chubby!reader fic where she is insecure but believe me when i say that every fic i write i always have a plus size reader in mind, this is just more specific i hope this doesn’t rub yall the wrong way 🫶

main masterlist!

you are bigger than what society claims how you should be. you always shop in the guys station when you're out because the large sizes in the girls area just didn't make sense. you have more flesh and fat in some areas that sometimes it makes you insecure but other times make you feel like you're pretty.

you do think you’re pretty.

sometimes.

but when you don’t, you just don’t.

to be with someone is to also accept their flaws and problems. and aaron thinks he has a lot of problems. problems that can be seen as a burden for some people.

but not to you.

never to you.

“hey sweetheart.” aaron muttered in a small voice as he wrapped his hands around your hips. head tucking in the crook of your neck. “you look absolutely stunning.” he press kisses at the sides of your neck making you flush.

“thank you, baby.” turning your head to give his lips a soft peck. your eyes moved back to the mirror in front of you, staring at your reflection. the sage green dress didn’t look the same on you as it did on the first time. a frown takes over your face.

aaron picks up on this immediately, “what’s wrong?” his rough hands massaging your chubby hips. his chin resting on your shoulder, as he stared into your eyes through the mirror.

“nothing.” you shook your head, eyes turned downwards, “i just liked the way i looked in this dress last week. now, it’s just— i don’t know. it’s different now.”

a sigh made aaron furrow his eyebrows, “what do you mean? you look gorgeous then, you look gorgeous now.” he insisted, thumbs softly caressing your sides.

you shrugged, you didn’t know how to explain it. “i don’t now, its just weird. i have this thing were if i look at myself for too long then i’ll notice everything that’s wrong with me.” inside of your cheeks bitten in frustration, you don’t like being weak in front of aaron. not when he’s so strong.

aaron’s heart dropped at your words. he turned you around, eyes determined and sharp, “you are the most beautiful, precious, prettiest person i have laid my eyes on.” he started, your mouth opened to reject but one look from aaron has you shutting your mouth, “and you’re so so sexy.” he almost whines, forehead pressing against yours. “i sometimes can’t think straight when i look at you.” the corners of your mouth curved upwards, making aaron melt, “i love everything about you.” a kiss to your nose, “and i know my words won’t probably shut those nasty thoughts in your head i hope i can at least quiet them.”

“aaron-“ your eyes widen as he went on his knees, his slacks straining against his thighs, “you’re gonna be late for work-“

he ignored you, grabbing the back of your thick thighs, scrunching the dress of your fabric up, making way for his lips to attack your skin, “you’re so hot.” a nibble on your thigh made you whimper, “fuck, i love the sounds you make.”

your hands went to tangle in his dark locks, “baby, you don’t have to do this-“

he groaned, breath hot on your skin, “i love it when you call me baby.” his fingers trailed the edge of your panties. squeezing the soft fat there, “you’re fucking ethereal. heaven sent just for me.” he whispered, leaving kisses all around your thighs. “you are everything to me.” he repeated, his brown eyes looking up at you softly, molten irises full of love and desire for you.

for you.

“everything.” he whispered softly, begging— pleading for you to understand.

and maybe these insecurities won’t fully go away, but aaron definitely did help made you feel better. so much better.

reblog for a kiss 💋

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mortallydeepestobservation · 1 month ago

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The holiday pretense -4-

Summary: Namjoon has never been a fan of the holidays. In fact, he could list more things that sucked about ‘The most wonderful time of the year’, than things that brought him joy. Yet, beneath his cynicism, a flicker of hope appeared this year, as the faint scent of homesickness hung in the air. Unfortunately, there’s one tiny little thing that keeps him from calling home- his lack of a girlfriend. But fear not; this holiday season, Namjoon’s smart mouth gets him in a situation where he has no choice but to approach you- his longtime friend and roommate- with an unexpected request. Pairing: Namjoon x f.reader Genre: fake-dating, friends to lovers/roommates to lovers au; crack, smut, fluff. Rating: Explicit. Minors do not interact. Warnings: characters are very clumsy. Blood, mentions of blood and bandages. slight angst. Smut warnings: (finally), kissing, hickeys, marking, non penetrative sex act, pet names. Namjoon is a big boy Word count: Chapter 4- 23k Author's note: guys! it's done! they (almost) did it! This chapter is essentially the reason this story exists. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve never read a pretend-dating or fake-relationship story where the reader feels guilty about lying, or where she to the parents. This was fun. I’m really happy with how it came out tbh. And just for the record, y'all need to thank @callmenoona25 , because I was very willing to blue ball you, but she convinced me otherwise. So yeah. We are just one chapter out from seeing this story to completion!! I almost can’t believe it. happy v-day y'all✨💕 part 1: here, part 2: here , part 3: here , part 4: reading Tag list: @uniquetravelerone @sexytholland @codeinebelle @annyeongbitch @rpwprpwprpwprw @goldietigers294 @amarawayne @oneshallsmile @ktownshizzle @jimineepaboya

Namjoon had his flaws; he was the first to admit it. Although he wouldn’t necessarily say that the meticulous way he liked to organized his closet was one of them.

That wasn’t a flaw—it was a quirk.

And you had your quirks too! Like your collection of pink pots that needed their own cabinet, and your insistence on a very specific way of stacking Tupperware—both perfectly reasonable in your eyes.

And for the most part, these quirks rarely clashed—he didn’t care about cooking or what colour skillet his food was made in, and you rarely had any reason to go through his closet (except to steal his clothes). But every so often, they would. And when they did, they drove you both up the wall. Namjoon had a particularly bad habit of forgetting to check pockets before throwing clothes in the wash. More than a few pair of AirPods had met their untimely demise due to his own forgetfulness. Worse, though, were the tissues. Those tiny paper pieces would disintegrate in the wash, and would compromise the entire load. That was the one that really got to you.

And it wasn’t like he’d do that intentionally; it was simply Namjoon being Namjoon. He’d always start off doing the laundry with the best intentions—carefully separating colours from whites, ensuring delicates got the right temperature. But somewhere in the process, his mind would wander (as it often did) to a work issue or book he’d been reading. By the time he remembered to check the pockets, it was usually too late.

But you weren’t without your own faults. Like your refusal to put the sponge back in its designated holder—a choice that made absolutely no sense to him, because it was right there! And yet, every time, you left it sitting in the sink, soaking wet, slowly dissolving into a slimy mess. Namjoon hated a soggy sponge more than almost anything, and yet you kept deliberately inviting one into your home.

And then there was your compulsive need to clean the kitchen immediately after cooking. To Namjoon, this was the ultimate buzzkill, mostly because he was hungry and he’d always wait for you to finish, so you could eat together.

It wasn’t like you were trying to be difficult—just as Namjoon didn’t intend to obliterate every tissue he left in his pocket. You simply had your own rhythm, your own way of doing things.

The sponge thing, though? That was a hill he couldn’t understand why you choose to die on.

Still, quirks and frustrations aside, you both understood the bigger picture. And though he may never admit it, after years of living together, he almost found it endearing— how these quibbles have become woven into the fabric of your relationship. If a disintegrated tissue or a soggy sponge was the worst thing between you, he’d gladly take it.

He’d still keep you as his roommate, pink cookware fetish and all.

“Joonie, think you can hand me that cup?”

You appeared beside him, barefoot, wearing one of his oversized sweaters that practically swallowed you whole, your eyes glued to your phone as you read something.

Namjoon let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as he grabbed the cup from the drying rack. “You know, for someone so obsessed with doing the dishes right away, you sure leave a lot lying around.”

“That’s your part of the agreement.” You replied smoothly, not even glancing up at first. But then your eyes flickered to meet his, a playful spark in them. “If I wash the dishes, you put away the dishes. Fair’s fair”

He handed you the cup, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Convenient how you always remember that part of the agreement when it benefits you. I’m the one who always ends up doing both—washing and putting away.”

You leaned against him as you filled the cup with water, your body brushing his in that effortless, unconscious way that never failed to send his mind spiralling. “That’s called teamwork, Namjoonie.” You teased, giggling softly as you fluttered those pretty eyes at him.

Namjoon exhaled softly, trying to steady his racing thoughts. It was always like this—the smallest of gestures from you could unravel him completely. You, in his sweater, standing so close that he could smell the faint scent of your shampoo, acting like it was nothing, but to him, it was everything.

His gaze lingered on you, drawn to the way the sweater slipped slightly off your shoulder, the easy confidence in your movements, and the way you made standing this close feel so natural. And in that moment, Namjoon felt the weight of everything he’d been holding back, everything he’d tried to convince himself was enough.

But it wasn’t. It could never be.

He couldn’t keep pretending this was just casual, that it didn’t mean something more. He couldn’t keep pretending he wasn’t in love with you.

“Teamwork, huh?” he said softly, his smile deepening.

Before you could respond, his hands moved, settling on your waist. His touch was gentle but sure, pulling you closer with a quiet confidence that made your breath hitch.

“Namjoon-”

Your voice was barely a whisper, but you didn’t get the chance to finish. He leaned in, closing the space between you, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that was both hesitant and certain—like a question he already knew the answer to.

Warm and unhurried, your lips moved together, his grip on your waist steady, as though he wanted to make sure you didn’t pull away too soon.

The sensation of his lips against yours was electric, sending a wave of heat through him, but it was the overwhelming rush of emotion—the need to hold onto you, to make you feel what he couldn’t put into words—that sent his heart racing.

You were so warm in his grasp, your skin so soft in his hands, he couldn’t help but lose himself in the moment. In you. His thumbs brushed against your sides, tracing lazy, delicate circles as if to memorize the feel of you pressed against him.

Your fingers dig themselves in his t-shirt, clinging to the fabric like it was the only thing keeping you in the surreal haze of the moment.

Namjoon tilted his head, deepening the kiss, his hands sliding up from your waist to rest gently on your lower back, pulling you impossibly close. Every movement was intentional, like he wanted to carve this moment into his memory— the warmth of your skin, the taste of your lips, the way you always fit against him like two pieces of the same puzzle.

When the need for air finally forced you both to break apart, he didn’t pull away entirely. Instead, he stayed close, his forehead resting against yours, your breaths mingling in the charged silence, each exhale louder than the last.

But then, as if the spell had broken, reality—or something like it—came crashing down.

“Fuck.” The word escaped you like a gasp, and you pushed hard against his chest, tearing yourself out of his grasp “God, Namjoon! Why would you do that?”

His brows furrowed, confusion flickering across his face, followed by hurt. He let his hands fall to his sides, taking a half-step back. “Wait-what? I...I thought—Do you not…like me?”

“Like you?” you interrupted, your voice sharp, though it trembled slightly. “My god, Namjoon, no! We’re roommates. Just friends! That’s it. That’s all it’s ever been!”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, Namjoon felt the ground slip out from under him. The warmth of your skin was gone, the illusion shattered, and all that was left was a painful, confusing silence. He stepped back as though your words had physically struck him, his face pale and stricken. “I- I didn’t mean to-”

“You didn’t mean to what?” you interrupted, your voice trembling with fury and something he couldn’t name. “God, I knew moving in with a guy would be a mistake. I should’ve seen this coming. Typical man—constantly horny. God forbid you get drunk or you’ll just grab the nearest woman you see.”

“Drunk and horny—” He stopped short, his jaw tightening as he swallowed hard. “You really think that’s the kind of man I am?”

“I thought you were different!” Tears began slipping from your eyes as you instinctively stepped farther away from him, as though trying to put as much distance as possible between the two of you.

You looked at him like he’d violated something sacred, something irreplaceable. “I thought you were my friend,” you said, your voice trembling, angry tears spilling freely across your cheeks. “How could you do this?”

“I…” He hesitated, dragging a hand through his hair, frustration evident in the sharp exhale that followed. The words lodged in his throat, tangled in the knot of regret tightening in his chest. Why did he let this happen? The weight of his own stupidity pressed down on him, each passing second making it harder to breathe. Why couldn’t he have just kept his distance? Stay in his lane?

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You swallowed, hating the sting behind your eyes, hating that you even cared enough to be this angry. “Yeah, well. You did.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I can’t do this anymore.” The words tumble out before you can stop them, your voice raw, cracking at the edges. “I can’t keep pretending like everything’s fine. Like I’m fine. I hate this—I hate feeling like I’m walking on glass around you.”

Namjoon stiffens, his face carefully neutral, but you see it— that flicker of something. Something vulnerable. Something guilty. “I know I messed up,” he says, voice low. “I know I-”

“You don’t know anything,” you cut him off, your breath uneven. “If you did, you wouldn’t have done it in the first place. You wouldn’t have asked me to lie to your mother.”

Namjoon’s eyes widened, but he said nothing. What was there to say?

“I hate lying to her! You know I’m terrible at lying, Namjoon! And I think lying is immoral! I should’ve known something like this would happen the second you asked me to lie for you!” Your voice wavered, an overwhelming mixture of anger, hurt, and frustration bubbling over. You threw your hands up, as if the motion could somehow shake off the suffocating weight of it all.

“I never should’ve agreed to spend Christmas with you!” you continued, tears slipping unchecked down your cheeks, your voice cracking completely. “I should’ve known this was just... just a convenient excuse for you to try to get in my pants!”

“Wait, what? No! That’s not-” He took a step forward, reaching out, but you recoiled, cutting him off before he could finish.

“I should’ve known better.”

Namjoon’s chest tightened, his breathing shallow as he tried to process the words spilling from your lips. Every syllable was a punch to the gut, each one driving home just how badly he’d miscalculated.

The silence hung heavy between you, broken only by the uneven rise and fall of your breaths.

His lips parted like he wanted to say something, needed to say something, but nothing came out. His gaze dropped to the floor, his jaw tightening.

“I-I can’t stay with you like this.” Your arms wrapped around yourself as if that could shield yourself from the overwhelming emotion threatening to swallow you whole.

“What?” his voice cracked, the single word escaping before he could stop it.

“I can’t live with you knowing you have these feelings for me. It’s too much,” you said, taking another step, as though putting space between you would make it easier to breathe. “I don’t know what to do with it. With you,”

The edges of the room seemed to blur, to darken as he could only focus on your words, on the space between you that seemed to grow with each passing second.

For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. The reality of what you were saying hit him like a cold slap.

He had thought that maybe—just maybe—you felt the same. That there was something there, beneath the surface. But now it was clear that he had misunderstood. That his feelings had come out at the wrong time.

And the last thing he wanted was to make you uncomfortable. To make you feel like this was something you needed to run away from.

“I... I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.” His voice faltered as he stepped toward you, but you pulled away. That hurt more than he expected, but he couldn’t blame you. “I was selfish. I got carried away,” he said quietly, shame creeping into his tone. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“Well, you did,” you shot back, your voice breaking. “You ruined everything. Damn it!” You bit out the words before you could stop them, frustration and hurt thick in your voice.

The sharpness made both of you flinch, but you couldn’t help it.

The rawness of everything—the kiss, the confusion, the way things had been turned upside down—was too much for you to process.

Namjoon stood frozen, his limbs heavy and unresponsive, as if the weight of your pain had rooted him in place. A sinking feeling spread through his chest, the urge to fix this burning beneath his skin. He wanted to make things right. To erase the hurt he’d caused. The weight he forced you to carry by putting you in this position—to lie to his family, to be stuck in a confined space with him, to—

But it was too late.

The damage had been done.

“I never wanted to make you feel this way. I just-” He stopped, unable to explain himself. “I’m sorry.”

The words felt useless. Hollow.

“You don’t get it, do you?” You laughed bitterly, shaking your head as frustration threatened to boil over. “You think you can just act on whatever you feel, without any consideration for me?” Your voice cracked, your face still streaked with the emotions you couldn’t hold back “I’m not some—some game for you to play, Namjoon. You can’t just kiss me and expect things to go back to normal.”

He had no defense.

No way to explain how he’d gotten so caught up in the moment that he’d forgotten everything that had made your relationship comfortable. Safe. Easy.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, the words sounding weak even to his own ears…

His sharp gasp tore through the silence of the night, and Namjoon’s eyes snapped open. His chest heaved as he sat up, drenched in a cold sweat, remnants of the dream still lingering like a throbbing pain in his mind. His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he tried to make sense of where he was, his hands trembling as he ran them through his dishevelled hair.

The room was dark, quiet, save for the soft rustle of the sheets beneath him and your soft breathing at the other end of the bed. His body still felt the residual tension from the nightmare, the sting of your words echoing in his mind.

Namjoon glanced toward your sleeping form, curled up at the edge of the bed. The soft rise and fall of your shoulders should’ve been calming, but instead, it magnified the tightness in his chest. You were so close, yet the weight of everything that’s happened made you feel impossibly far away.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to shake off the feeling, the dread that came with the idea of having ruined everything. The dream had felt so real—your voice, the hurt in your eyes, the way you pulled away, making it clear that the line between friendship and something more was something he’d crossed without meaning to.

“God...” he muttered to himself, running a hand down his face, still trying to calm his racing thoughts. Why did he kiss you on the balcony?

He shifted his weight to the side of the bed, sitting on the edge with his elbows on his knees. He felt a rush of frustration—anger at himself for letting it happen, for letting his feelings get in the way of your friendship.

He could blame the alcohol, sure. That fleeting moment of warmth and lowered inhibitions, the way it made everything feel a little easier, a little less complicated. But deep down, he knew that wasn’t the real reason.

The truth was, he’d been hanging on by a thread, barely clinging onto his composure around you. As if his mind was a battlefield, constantly tormenting him with thoughts of you—your eyes, your laugh, the way you moved. You weren’t just in his thoughts; you’d taken over his dreams too, pulling him into vivid, all-consuming fantasies. Like that dream from last morning—

That unbearable summer heatstroke, the salacious sight of you reading on the couch, wearing just your white tank top and those impossibly skimpy pyjama shorts. The way your legs were casually crossed, the soft glow of the light catching on your skin, making every detail seem more intimate than it should have been. Like the fact that you’ve forgone wearing a bra, a faint sheen of perspiration across your skin from the heat of the day. A few beads of sweat have gathered, one of which trickled down the valley between your breasts just as he walked into the living room.

Your eyes flickered up to meet his, the most adorable of pouts tugging on your bottom lip as you purred, “Namjoonie, I’m so hot.” Before abandoning your book and reaching for the hem of the tank top, slowly peeling it off your body…

He couldn’t shake the image, couldn’t forget the way his body reacted to it—how could he when he woke up with his dick slotted between your ass cheeks?— his mind spiralling into a frenzy of things he’d do to you (starting with licking every single inch of your skin).

He was walking on the knife’s edge. His heart going insane each time you looked at him, with each one of your actions he couldn’t distinguish. Why were you so adamant to drive him insane this week?

Was it punishment for putting you through this? For asking you to lie to his family?

Namjoon dragged his hands through his hair again, gripping it tightly as if the pressure might somehow reset his brain.

The memory of your lips on his neck—the soft teasing warmth, that had set every nerve alight as you marked him—had been haunting him ever since. He hadn’t been able to focus, to think straight, and every glance you spared him seemed to pull him further into the abyss.

He wasn’t supposed to want this, to want you. You were his closest friend, the one person who understood him in ways no one else did. The thought of losing that—of losing you—was enough to make his stomach churn. He’d have to move out. Hell, he’d have to leave the city entirely, because there wasn’t a single corner of Seoul that didn’t remind him of you.

But the kiss. Good god, the kiss.

He exhaled sharply, his head dropping into his hands. He felt ridiculous, pathetic even. He was supposed to be your safe place. Not the guy who couldn’t look at you without his thoughts turning traitorous, who kissed you on impulse and ruined everything.

When he’d whispered, “I really want to kiss you right now,” it wasn’t some calculated confession. It had spilled out like a dam breaking, a thought he’d been suppressing for far too long, finally escaping in the fragile quiet of the moment. It wasn’t bravery. It was recklessness, plain and simple.

And yet, even as he said it, he knew it was wrong. Knew it was selfish. Knew it would change everything. But the weight of holding back for so long had crushed his better judgment. Maybe that’s why his brain latched onto the “drunk and horny” accusation…

He had almost stopped. Almost pulled away when your eyes widened, when your expression shifted between surprise and something he couldn’t quite understand. That tiny moment should’ve been enough to stop him, to make him pull back and apologize. But no—like the fool he was, he’d pressed forward anyway, brushing his lips to yours in a soft, hesitant kiss, trembling with unspoken words. It had quickly unravelled, turning into something deeper, something he’d wanted for far longer than he cared to admit.

Your lips had been warm, soft, and devastatingly familiar. For a fleeting second, he thought he felt you lean into it, but the way you stiffened almost immediately afterward made his heart sink.

He replayed the moment he hesitated in his mind, that split second where he could have done the right thing and pulled away. But he didn’t. He’d kissed you, his hands on your waist, his body leaning into yours as if it were the right thing to do.

When he felt you stiffen, panic had taken over. His brain did what it always did when faced with something unbearable: it tried to smooth things over. He apologized. The words blurted out before you could speak, before you could call him a pervert or recoil in disgust. “I don’t know what I was thinking,” he’d said, his voice trembling with the weight of his shame.

And then you said the words that crushed him even more than silence could have. “Neither did I.”

But now? The distance between you felt like an unscalable chasm, an impossible void filled with every unsaid word and unspoken emotion.

Afterward, your interactions had been painfully formal, reduced to stiff, clipped sentences that lacked all the warmth they’d once held. He could still hear the careful neutrality in your tone when you’d said, “I’ll call an Uber.” The words had felt like a cold, deliberate wall being built between you, each syllable like a brick, laid on mortar.

That tone, that indifference—it cut deeper than any outburst ever could. He would have preferred you screaming at him, lashing out, even telling him to get out of your life. At least then, he could convince himself you cared enough to be angry. But this? The curt detachment? It told him everything he needed to know.

He’d ruined it. Whatever it had been…

He had wanted to say something, to apologize, to explain himself—but he was afraid of making things worse. So, he just nodded, his throat tight as he avoided your gaze, and let the moment slip away.

The ride back had been a haze. The uneasy silence between you so loud it felt suffocating. He’d glanced at you once or twice, hoping to catch a glimpse of emotion on your face, but you’d given him nothing. Your eyes remained fixed on the blur of passing streetlights and houses.

The walk through the house had been no better. The only sound rising between you was the soft shuffle of footsteps as you both went through the motions.

When you finally climbed into bed, it took everything in him not to break the silence. He lay stiffly on his side, staring at the ceiling, his mind looping through every single mistake he’d made. It wasn’t just the kiss—it was everything. Asking you to lie to his family when he knew how much you hated dishonesty. Putting you in this impossible situation, where you had no escape and no easy way to confront him. And God, his embarrassing morning wood—he cringed just thinking about it. He couldn’t imagine how uncomfortable that must have made you.

And then, like the selfish idiot he was, he let his feelings spill over without a single thought to how you’d feel about it. He’d convinced himself there was something there, something mutual. The teasing, the hickeys, the way you’d snuggled against him at Hoseok’s—he’d let his stupid heart twist those moments into meaning more than they did. He wanted to believe that you felt the same, that the line between friends and something more had begun to blur.

But now? Lying there in the condemning silence, every moment he’d misread felt like a glaring, neon sign of his own foolishness.

The bed, once a place where your easy companionship felt natural and comforting, now felt like an insurmountable void between you.

He wanted to roll over, to face you and apologize—really apologize this time. Not with a fumbling, half-baked excuse, but with the raw truth of how much he hated himself for putting you in this position. But he couldn’t. He was paralyzed by the weight of his mistakes, by the fear that even looking at you might push you further away.

So instead, he stared at the ceiling, biting back every word he wanted to say. And in the silence, the ache in his chest grew heavier.

“Goodnight,” he’d finally managed to say, his voice tight and unfamiliar to his own ears. He didn’t mean for it to come out so formal, so detached, but his voice betrayed him.

The faint rustle of the duvet broke the stillness, a soft sound that felt far louder in the oppressive silence of the bedroom. He heard you shift, felt the subtle pull on the blanket as you turned away from him. The tension hung in the air, thick and crushing, like a force pressing down on him.

You curled up at the very edge of the bed, your back resolutely to him, as if the distance already between you wasn’t enough. You made yourself small, retreating further and further until the invisible wall between you felt truly impenetrable.

Namjoon exhaled, running a hand down his face before reaching for his phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up, too bright in the darkness, making him blink against the glare. It was early—too early to be awake, too late to fix anything.

The small sliver of light from his phone cast a fleeting shadow across the room, and his gaze flickered towards your unmoving form. Curled up on your side, the covers pulled high over your shoulders. You hadn’t moved in hours.

His thumb hovered over the screen of his phone, caught between the urge to scroll mindlessly to distract himself and the unbearable need to confront the mess he’d made. But neither option felt like relief, and the light dimmed as the screen timed out, plunging the room back into darkness, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

For the first time in years, he wasn’t sure where he stood with you at all…

Namjoon leaned forward, pressing the hills of his palms against his face. He was at a loss, unable to find the right direction, the correct course of action to bridge the gap he created. But he knew one thing—he couldn’t stay here, couldn’t let his mind run rampant while lying next to you.

So, with one last desperate grasp at sanity, he got up, moving slowly, deliberately, careful not to disturb you. He reached for a hoody draped over the chair, slipped it on, and padded toward the door. The cold morning air outside might do him some good— clear his head and offer him the clarity he couldn’t seem to find in the stagnant darkness of the house.

And the driveway could use some shovelling, he decided absently, even though it was barely past 6 a.m. The absurdity of it didn’t matter.

What mattered was the escape, however temporary.

Namjoon took a deep breath, feeling the crisp air sting his skin as he stepped into the driveway, his boots crunching against the snow. He ran the shovel through the fresh layer, the rhythmic scrape against the pavement doing little to soothe the turmoil in his chest. But at least it gave him something to focus on, a mindless task that allowed him to shut out thoughts clawing at the edges of his mind.

And the music blaring in his earphones added to that sense of a mindless routine, the heavy beats and steady rhythm filling his head as he shovelled, drowning out the restlessness coiling in his heart.

He fully lost himself in the work. But just as he was reaching the end of the driveway, a snowball hit him squarely in the back of the head. He froze, blinking in surprise before turning around to face the source of the sudden assault.

The sun had risen, its soft, pale glow spilling over the horizon and reflecting off the untouched blanket of white snow that covered the garden.

There, standing in the doorway, was his mother. She was wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe, her messy hair sticking out in all directions. Specks of snow clung to her fingers, and she gave him an incredulous look.

Namjoon blinked at her, still stunned by the unexpected hit. The snowball had left a cold, wet spot on the back of his neck, sending a shiver through him as he just stood there, unsure whether to laugh or get frustrated. But seeing his mother’s dishevelled appearance—bedhead in full force, and her robe draped over her shoulders—somehow broke the tension.

“Are you serious?” she asked, hands on her hips. Her voice was a mix of amused and concern, as though she was both scolding him and silently asking why he was outside in the freezing cold.

Namjoon let out a strained laugh, wiping the snow from his neck, before flicking it back in her direction. “I couldn’t sleep.” He tried his best to give her a genuine sheepish grin, but his mom was undeterred.

“So, you decided to shovel snow?” she replied, her eyebrow raised in disbelief.

“Yeah, I guess.” He shrugged, still clutching the shovel in his hands as though it could provide some sort of explanation. “I think I might go for a run too.”

Both her eyebrows shot up at that, giving him that unmistakable mom-look that had a way of making him rethink all his life choices. Namjoon shifted under her gaze, feeling the weight as she studied him with a kind of pointed confusion that made him feel like a teenager caught sneaking in past curfew.

“You’re something else, you know that?” she finally said, crossing her arms against the chill but making no move to retreat back inside. A faint smile tugged at her lips, as if she couldn’t help but be entertained by the sight of her grown-ass son standing in the driveway at the crack of dawn, bundled up and clutching a snow shovel like it was a life raft.

He chuckled softly, a little embarrassed but grateful for the way she managed to disarm the weight of his thoughts without even trying. “Yeah, well...it seemed productive.”

She shook her head, the smile lingering as she turned to go back inside. “Don’t catch a cold,” she called over her shoulder. “And don’t wake up the neighbours with whatever midlife crisis you’ve got going on.”

Namjoon let out a huff of laughter, watching as the door closed behind her. He stood there for a moment longer, the quiet of the early morning settling around him again. The sting of the snowball was long gone, but the brief interaction had lightened something in him, if only slightly.

With a sigh, he pulled his gloves tighter and gave the driveway one last glance before deciding it was good enough. Without another thought, he took off running.

His muscles protested the sudden movement, but he pushed through, settling into a steady rhythm. His breath curled into the crisp morning air, vanishing as quickly as it came. The streets were quiet, untouched by the rush of the day, the only sounds accompanying him the soft crunch of his footsteps and the distant chirp of birds waking with the sun. He welcomed the familiar burn in his legs, the sharp bite of cold air in his lungs—anything to drown out the thoughts he couldn’t shake.

By the time he slowed to a stop, the morning had fully settled in. The sun stretched higher in the sky, casting a golden glow over the snow-dusted streets, turning the quiet neighbourhood into something almost peaceful.

His breath visible in the icy air as his chest rose and fell from the exertion. His muscles ached in the most satisfying way, a reminder of how long it had been since he’d pushed himself this hard— let alone in the biting cold. He glanced down at his soaked shoes and the streaks of snow clinging to his sweatpants, a small smile tugging at his lips despite the fatigue.

He could feel the steady pulse in his legs, the burn in his lungs from the crisp air. Bending over, hands on his knees, he worked on steadying his breathing as the faint sting of the cold nipped at his flushed cheeks. The sharp contrast between the warmth radiating from his body and the chill of the winter morning was invigorating, leaving him feeling alive in a way that only moments like this could.

The steady rhythm of his feet pounding against the snow-covered paths had given his mind some semblance of peace. Not clarity, exactly, but at least it dulled the sharp edges of his thoughts. For a little while, he could focus on the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other, on the rhythm of his body moving, the comforting burn in his muscles.

Namjoon straightened, stretching his arms overhead and twisting slightly to work out the stiffness in his back. His jacket was damp from the effort, and he could feel the chill starting to seep in now that he’d stopped moving. It was time to head back inside.

As he turned towards the house, his steps slowed, the weight of everything creeping back in. The brief distraction was over, and the reality of everything he’d left unresolved loomed once again. Still, he didn’t regret the time spent out here—at least he felt a little more grounded now.

By the time he reached the door, his stomach growled, reminding him that he’d skipped breakfast. Maybe food would be the next distraction. After a hot shower, though.

He shed his winter coat by the door, shaking off the lingering chill, and made his way through the still quiet house. Namjoon pushed the bedroom door open quietly, his steps light as he walked in.

He tugged at the hem of his shirt and hoodie, peeling them off over his head with a relieved sigh. The fabric clung to his skin from the exertion of his run, damp with sweat. He balled them up and tossed them into the laundry basket, running a hand through his messy hair as he exhaled, still catching his breath.

He was halfway to the dresser when the faint rustle of sheets behind him made him pause. His steps slowed, and he glanced over his shoulder, watching just as you stirred.

Your eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, as if searching for the source of the noise. But when they settled on him, they lingered, and the room seemed to pause in that moment.

The sunlight pouring through the window caught his face, and Namjoon squinted, lifting his hand to shield his eyes from the brightness.

His back and shoulders were framed by the warm morning light, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, almost rhythmic. The sheen of sweat that clung to his skin caught in the soft rays, and you found yourself grateful for his momentary blindness, because you couldn’t stop gawking at him.

In that fleeing moment, he thought he caught the faintest sounds—a soft, barely-there gasp—that seemed to come from you.

Namjoon faltered, still hovering near the dresser as he noticed your gaze fixed on him. His heart stuttered in his chest; the weight of your nondescript stare sending a jolt of nervous energy through him. His pulse raced as he struggled to find his composure. “Oh,” he muttered, suddenly feeling self-conscious. He cleared his throat, trying to mask the tension in his voice. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You didn’t respond immediately, your lips parting slightly as though you were at a loss for words. But then you blinked, snapping out of whatever daze had momentarily claimed you, quickly turning away from him.

“It’s fine,” you grumbled.

Namjoon grabbed a clean shirt from the dresser, his movements slower now, his fingers lingering on the fabric as he watched your subtle shift under the blankets. Your response was quiet, but the way you quickly turned away sent a ripple of unease coursing through him. It was subtle, but he couldn’t ignore the way your actions made the weight in his chest feel that much heavier.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asked tentatively, his voice soft.

You didn’t reply immediately, your back still to him as you adjusted the duvet slightly. “Yeah,” you said after a beat, though your tone was flat, leaving him unsure if it was the truth or just an automatic answer.

Namjoon nodded to himself, even though you couldn’t see it, and rubbed the back of his neck. The earlier clarity he’d found outside was already beginning to slip away.

“I’m going to shower,” he murmured, more for something to say than anything else, before stepping toward the bathroom door.

As he left the room, he cast one last glance at your still form, the lump in his throat tightening. ~~~

Stationed at the kitchen counter, your hands moved almost mechanically, the steady rhythm of the knife slicing through fresh vegetables, meats, and herbs filling the space. Mrs. Kim’s calm instructions flowed around you like a gentle stream, her voice clear and measured. Yet, with every absentminded nod you gave, her words seemed to fade further into the background, muffled beneath the weight of your own thoughts.

Namjoon was avoiding you.

That much was clear. The way he had slipped out before you even woke up, his movements quick and his words barely a whisper when you caught him sneaking like some kind of thief in his own room, lingered in your mind like an unfinished sentence. The weird silence that followed all throughout breakfast...

Before you could sink deeper into those thoughts, Mrs. Kim’s voice cut through the haze again. “Add these to the broth, and then stir,” she said, handing you a bowl of neatly diced vegetables.

Her calm authority kept the kitchen in motion, leaving no room for hesitation or reflection. The bustling activity—the clatter of pots, the simmering sounds from the stove, the soft hum of her instructions—forced you to push the turmoil swirling inside you to the sidelines.

She had recruited you first thing in the morning knowing exactly how to keep you busy without you even having to ask for it.

When you stepped into the kitchen, you were almost startled to see your usual cup of coffee waiting on the counter. It was a small, familiar gesture, one that might have warmed your heart on any other day, but now, it felt almost mechanical—like a habit performed without thought—Namjoon’s routine, his efforts to provide comfort, almost like a performance to fill a gap that no longer made sense.

You wondered if it was for your benefit, or his.

But you never got a chance to dwell on it.

The Christmas dinner at the Kim’s house, you learned, was no small feat. Instead, everyone was involved in preparations, making sure every little aspect was perfect. Namjoon and his dad could be heard debating the placement of the dining table in the living room, their voices rising and falling in an easy, familiar rhythm.

Minhi, ever the perfectionist, hovered nearby, offering her unsolicited but animated advice on everything—the placement of napkins, the fold of the tablecloth, the angle of the silverware. Her critique earning a few exasperated groans from Namjoon, which were inevitably followed by indulgent chuckles from their father. The sound carried easily into the kitchen, where you worked alongside Jackson and Mrs. Kim, dutifully preparing dinner.

The air was fragrant with the aroma of roasted vegetables, savoury meats, and the citrusy tang of freshly chopped herbs. Mrs. Kim moved with the grace of a seasoned host, effortlessly orchestrating each task as though it were second nature. Jackson, eager to prove himself useful, chopped scallions with meticulous concentration under her watchful eye—though his attention would often wander to Minhi through the doorway, occasionally even catcalling her which in turn earned a delighted laugh from her and Mrs. Kim.

“Jackson, be a dear and go to the basement with Namjoon to fetch the wine,” Mrs. Kim instructed, her voice steady but decisive. She didn’t look up from the simmering pot, her hands moving expertly between stirring the broth and adding in seasoning.

Jackson nodded, a playful grin already tugging at his lips. He made his way to the living room, announcing their new task but paused by Minhi’s side long enough to deliver a quick pinch to her side, just as she was about to launch into another critique of Namjoon’s napkin-folding technique.

That unexpected pinch caused an exaggerated shriek to escape from Minhi. Her laughter bubbling up and spilling into the room, bright and unrestrained. The kind that invited everyone nearby to join in.

But it didn’t reach you. You were still caught up in your own little world. You remained rooted at the counter, wearing that same look of muted control that was starting to wear you out by now.

A movement in the doorway caught your attention. Namjoon was walking past with Jackson, his broad back disappearing down the hall. His laughter rang out, light and carefree, as if he didn’t have a worry in the world. He was responding to something his dad said, dimples flashing in that familiar way that used to make your heart race.

But you noticed what no one else seemed to see. The stiffness in his shoulders, the faint tension in his jaw. His laughter, though warm, didn’t quite touch his eyes. It was so subtle, so carefully masked, but you knew him too well to miss it.

And that was the real problem, wasn’t it? Knowing him too well. Caring too much. Having feelings for Namjoon was already difficult—but this? This was unbearable.

You quickly turned away.

The knife in your hand trembled slightly as you refocused on the task in front of you, trying to steady your thoughts as much as your movements. The crisp scent of parsley filled the air as you began mincing, each chop echoing against the cutting board.

You told yourself to concentrate. To stay present. But no matter how hard you tried, your mind kept slipping back to him—to that moment.

You could still feel the warmth of his lips against yours. The way it made something bloom in your chest, a sensation so overwhelming it left you lightheaded. You’d clutched at his sweater, your fingers moving on their own, desperate to hold onto something real, something that felt like it belonged to the both of you.

For a fleeting second, it was perfect. Your heart soared, a dizzying rush of hope filling you, so sharp and intoxicating it almost hurt. It was reciprocated. It was mutual.

But then it all came crashing down. Hard.

The memory of his reaction was a jagged edge, replaying on loop in your mind, cutting through the warmth of that moment and leaving nothing but raw ache behind. His hesitation, the way he’d pulled back so quickly, mumbling an apology before you could even process what had happened. It was as though he couldn’t distance himself fast enough, couldn’t stand the weight of what he’d done—or what it might have meant.

Had it been a mistake for him? A fleeting moment of weakness he regretted the second it happened? Because that’s what it felt like. And yet, in the seconds before he’d pulled away, it had felt like something else entirely….

He was tentative, almost shy, as though he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want this. Then he kissed you like he meant it, like he’d been holding back for so long that he couldn’t stop himself.

But, of course, reality had a cruel way of snapping back. And when it did, it came in the form of his stumbling regret…

“I really want to kiss you right now”

The jerk. Asshole. Playboy!

If only any of those words actually described him…

You pressed the blade harder against the parsley, your movements growing more erratic. You hated that you cared so much. Hated that you were dissecting every microsecond of that kiss when he was probably fine. He was just being considerate and offering you the space you needed.

Namjoon was laughing with his family, fetching wine, stealing cookies when his mother wasn’t looking, acting like nothing had happened—like you hadn’t happened.

But then again, there was that stiffness in his shoulders, the slight tension in his voice that you couldn’t ignore. It was as if he was trying to act normal, trying to match the energy of the room, but there was something holding him back.

Or maybe you were just imagining it… Maybe you were projecting your own confusion onto him, searching for cracks that didn’t exist because you wanted—needed—to believe that he felt it too. That the kiss wasn’t just a fleeting mistake.

The tightness in your chest refused to ease, no matter how much you told yourself to let it go. Namjoon was Namjoon—kind, selfless, and maddeningly perfect. And you? You were just someone he kissed and immediately regretted.

A sharp sting snapped you out of your thoughts. You gasped, jerking your hand back as a thick line of red bloomed on your fingertip. The knife clattered against the counter, drawing Mrs. Kim’s attention.

“Oh, sweetheart! Are you alright?” She asked, her voice laced with concern as she moved toward you.

“Yeah, nicked myself.” you said quickly, wrapping your other hand around the cut to stop the bleeding. The sudden rush of embarrassment at your clumsiness burned hotter than the sting of the cut itself.

“Let me see,” she insisted, reaching for your hand, but before she could, Namjoon’s voice came from the doorway, startling you.

You hadn’t even noticed him return to the kitchen, but there he was, bottles of wine in his hand, his gaze snapping to you the moment he stepped inside.

“What happened?”

“It’s nothing!” The words came too fast, too sharp—too defensive. You pulled your hand back just as he stepped closer.

He barely hesitated, already setting the bottles down on the cutting board, reaching for you without a second thought.

But the thought of his touch made your chest constrict, panic rising like a tide, swallowing all the air between you. “I’ve got it!”

The space between you felt charged, too fragile, too dangerous. You couldn’t let him touch you. Not now. Not when your emotions were so precariously balanced on the edge of reason.

“Let me see,” he insisted, softer this time, but unyielding

You shook your head, stepping back from him, only to bump against the counter, keeping your hands close to your chest.

The panic bubbling under your skin left no room for restraint, no space for softness. It all came out, raw and unfiltered, as you practically cried—

“I said I’ve got it, Namjoon!”

His hands dropped to his side, his brows knitting together in silent concern. But he didn’t say anything, didn’t argue—and somehow, that made it all worse.

The silence that followed wrapped around you like a vice, all of it pressing down until your chest felt like it might actually collapse, your breath impossibly shallow.

Then it hit you—you’d raised your voice at him. The weight of it settled in you, heavy and foreboding, like thundercloud ready to break over you.

Namjoon’s gaze lingered, steady and searching, as though he was waiting for something—an explanation, a sign that you were okay, anything to bridge the distance suddenly between you. But you couldn’t give him either. You couldn’t even meet his eyes.

You sighed, stealing a glance at Mrs. Kim’s concerned expression before forcing your emotions down. You had to fix this—fast. Before things spiraled even further. Before your cover completely fell apart.

“Just-” you began, forcing yourself to look at Namjoon, “Let’s go upstairs so I can wash this properly.”

Namjoon hesitated for half a second before nodding. Without a word, he gathered the bottles from the counter and set them aside, his movements slower now—more deliberate, like he was afraid of setting you off again.

Mrs. Kim’s concerned gaze flickered between the two of you, her lips pressing together as if debating whether to intervene. But then she sighed, offering a small, hesitant smile. “Alright, sweetheart, just let Namjoon take care of you, okay? And be careful with that hand.”

You forced a nod, ignoring the way your throat felt too tight, the way your stomach twisted in protest as you turned toward the stairs.

Namjoon followed without a word.

When you reached your room, you stepped inside first, making a beeline for the small bathroom attached to it. You could hear Namjoon close the door behind him.

God damn it all.

The air stung the exposed wound, sharp and unforgiving, once you unwrapped your hand from around it, staining the sink with red.

It was deeper than you’d thought—maybe not enough for stitches, but definitely not a scrape you could just ignore.

Blood still trickled steadily from the it, pulsing in rhythm with your racing heartbeat, like a painful reminder of your very severed composure

You bit your lip as you fumbled with the faucet, your uninjured hand trembling slightly, until it slipped. The sting of it accidentally hitting the open wound drew a sharp hiss from your lips, tears springing to your eyes—not just from the pain, but from the frustration of everything piling on top of you all at once. Damn him.

“Fuck. Ouch”

Namjoon was there in an instant, turning the faucet on for you.

“Are you okay?” His voice was softer now, careful, but the concern was still there, threading through the syllables like a quiet insistence.

You exhaled sharply, forcing your shoulders to stay squared even as your hands shook. “Yeah,” you muttered, pushing your hand under the jet of water. “Fine.”

“You’re not.”

His certainty grated against your raw nerves. You clenched your jaw, blinking away the sting in your eyes as you finally turned to face him. He was close. Closer than you’d realized. His gaze flickered down to your hand, the steady trickle of blood dark against your skin, and something in his expression shifted—tightened.

He brushed past you in that quiet, unassuming way that always threw you off balance. He reached up, opening the cabinet above the sink, pulling out the small white box with the familiar red cross on top.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, reaching for it, but before your fingers could graze the plastic, Namjoon pulled it back, holding it just out of your reach.

“Namjoon,” you warned.

His lips twitched, but there was no real amusement in it—just something unbearably patient, unbearably Namjoon.

“Let me,” he said simply.

You wanted to argue. You wanted to grab the kit from his hands and insist you could do it yourself, that you didn’t need him to fuss over you. But your hand was still bleeding, still trembling slightly, and the weight of everything pressing down on you made it feel like just one more battle you didn’t have the energy to fight.

Namjoon didn’t move, didn’t push. He simply waited, holding the med kit like an unspoken offer. His patience was maddening, his presence steady in a way that made your resistance feel flimsy.

With a sigh, you finally relented, dropping your gaze. “Fine.”

His lips pressed together like he was holding back a smile—not of victory, but of relief. He gestured for you to sit on the closed toilet lid as he crouched in front of you, setting the kit down between you.

“This might sting,” he murmured, taking your hand in his.

You braced yourself, but the first touch still made you flinch, a sharp inhale slipping past your lips. His grip on your wrist tightened just slightly—not enough to restrain, just enough to steady.

Blood still welled at the edges of the cut, glistening under the harsh bathroom light. You forced yourself to look away, focusing instead on the way Namjoon moved—careful, deliberate, as if he understood that this was more than just about the physical injury in front of him.

“Sorry,” he said softly when he dabbed antiseptic onto the cut, his voice softer than you expected, filled with regret.

His fingers brushed against your palm as he worked, his warmth seeping into your skin, and for a second, it felt like he was holding more of you than just your hand. The realization unsettled you.

But it wasn’t just about the cut. It was about everything you’ve been trying to ignore.

The sting made you flinch, but you didn’t pull away this time. His gaze flickered to yours for a moment, and you saw the quiet storm in his eyes—the concern, the worry, the frustration. You couldn’t look away, though you wanted to.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice barely audible as he reached into the kit. “I didn’t mean to make things harder for you.” His fingers brushed against yours again as he retrieved the bandages, before moving to the underside, his thumb gently rubbing your knuckles.

You swallowed hard, “You don’t have to apologize,” you said, the words shivering under the weight of emotions you didn’t know how to voice—like just how much that kiss has shattered that fragile balance you’d worked so hard to maintain. How his reaction afterwards hurt you in ways you weren’t sure you could fully understand, not yet at least.

How his apology now only made it that much harder to keep your guard up now.

The words felt like they were tearing out of you, raw and jagged, and you couldn’t quite grasp them fully as they left your lips. But as they floated between you, a terse silence settled, still thick with the unsaid.

You could feel his gaze on you, his presence so near that his breath brushed against your skin—a subtle, charged whisper of warmth. It filled every corner of the room, like a quiet storm.

“I still feel like I do,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, you weren’t sure if the tension between you was a chasm or a bridge. You didn’t know what to say. How could you, when his confession stirred up a hundred conflicting emotions? The relief mixed with the dread, the hope tainted by the doubt. You wanted to reach for him, to make it all clearer, but the uncertainty in his gaze reminded you how fragile everything between you was right now.

“I...” You started, but the words caught, the vulnerability of the moment threatening to consume you whole.

He squeezed your hand gently, as if sensing the battle inside you, and then he lowered his voice. “I’m not asking for anything from you right now, I just-” He stopped himself, his thumb brushing over your skin as if to steady both of you, as if saying more than words could right now.

You stayed silent, biting at the inside of your cheek as you fought to keep your tears from spilling over.

But his voice, soft yet tinged with doubt, pulled you back to him.

“I want to make sure we’re okay. I care a lot about you. And I can’t stand the idea of you hating me because of a mistake.”

The weight of his words settled deep in your chest, pressing against everything you were trying so hard to hold together.

Hating him?

If only it were that simple. If only you could have been angry enough to make this easier.

But it wasn’t anger twisting your insides—it was something softer and far more complicated, more fragile. The kind of thing that didn’t fit neatly into words, that made your heart ache in ways you weren’t sure how to soothe. Because no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t forget the way he looked at you before he kissed you. And you couldn’t ignore the way he looked at you now, like he was waiting for something he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask for.

You exhaled slowly, dropping your gaze to where his fingers still held yours. You could feel the tension—gentle, but firm, like he was afraid of pushing too hard, but even more afraid of letting go.

So he did think it was just a mistake…

You swallowed thickly, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I don’t hate you, Namjoon.”

His grip tightened, just for a second, like those words alone had loosened something in him. But the relief in his expression was brief, quickly replaced by uncertainty.

“I just…” You swallowed; the words felt like cotton in your throat. “It’s not you. It’s just—everything. A bunch of things piling up all at once, and I-”

Your voice faltered, frustration prickling at the edges of your control. You didn’t know how to explain it, how to make him understand the chaos in your head when you barely understood it yourself.

“I’m sorry I raised my voice at you.”

“It’s okay. I’m a big boy.”

A short, breathy laugh escaped you before you could stop it—small, barely there, but real. And Namjoon caught it, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wanted to smile but didn’t dare.

The awkwardness between you didn’t break, not fully, but it shifted, softened just enough to let you breathe like yourself around him.

You exhaled slowly, shaking your head. “I don’t know why I’m like this right now.”

Namjoon tilted his head, watching you carefully. “Like what?”

You made a vague, frustrated gesture with your injured hand, immediately regretting it when the sharp sting of the cut shot through your palm.

Namjoon moved before you could react, reaching for you instinctively, just enough to steady you.

“Like this,” you murmured, finally answering. “Like everything is just… too much.”

“Maybe because it is.”

Your throat tightened. You weren’t sure what you’d been expecting him to say, but it wasn’t that—not something so simple, so understanding.

And damn him, because that was somehow worse.

You cleared your throat, forcing a smirk you didn’t quite feel. “You always this wise?”

Namjoon huffed, shaking his head. “No. I just know you.”

That undid you more than anything else.

Because you knew he meant it.

“I shouldn’t have asked you to come along with me this week. I know how uncomfortable this whole thing must have been for you.” His gaze locked with yours, and there was something raw and sincere in his eyes that made your heart skip. You found yourself wondering exactly what discomfort he meant—the list of things that had made you uneasy was long. But after a moment of hesitation, you went with the one you knew was safest to say out loud.

“I hate lying to your mom.”

“I know.” Namjoon let out a soft chuckle, but there was something strained beneath it, something that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “She’s going to be heartbroken when I tell her we broke up.”

You huffed, shaking your head. “She adores you.”

“She adores you,” he corrected, his gaze steady on yours.

Your stomach twisted, your heart doing something complicated in your chest. This was the problem—this was always the problem. The way Namjoon said things, the way he looked at you, the way he made you feel like you weren’t just someone he was pretending with. Like you were something more.

But you weren’t.

You inhaled sharply, trying to shake the feeling off. “She’s going to be devastated,” you said, forcing lightness into your voice. “You’ll be the villain in her eyes.”

Namjoon nodded solemnly. “I’ll take the fall.”

It was so easy, this back and forth. So easy to pretend none of this mattered, that your heart wasn’t lodged in your throat, that his hand still holding yours wasn’t making it harder to think straight. The moment stretched, as he focused on the injury again, carefully bandaging it. The silence wasn’t quite comfortable, but it wasn’t as overwhelming now either. It was a delicate balance, the same one you’d been maintaining all week, the same one you always found yourselves teetering on the edge of.

Namjoon was still watching you, still waiting, but for what, you weren’t sure.

For you to crack a joke? For you to take this moment and push it into something lighter, something easy?

That was what you always did.

So, you did it again.

“You better break the news gently,” you said, arching a brow. “She might actually disown you.”

Namjoon exhaled a small laugh, shaking his head. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

“Oh, really?”

“She sends me links to apartments near her house, like, once a month. I think she was trying to slowly break me down to the idea of an arranged marriage.”

You grinned despite yourself. “That’s impressive.”

“She’s relentless.”

You chuckled, imagining Namjoon’s mom with that kind of mission, plotting with all the subtlety of a military strategist.

“I’ll help you chose the engagement rings.”

Namjoon snorted, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement. “I think that might be the last thing I need right now.” He sighed dramatically, though you could tell it was more out of affection than frustration. “At this point, I’m just waiting for her to start dropping hints about grandkids.” He cut himself off, realizing the direction the conversation was heading, and awkwardly cleared his throat.

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the sink. “Grandkids, huh? So, you’ve thought about it.”

Namjoon froze, his hands still hovering near your wound like he wasn’t sure whether to keep bandaging or retreat. His gaze flickered back to yours, and for a second, there was a flicker of something—maybe vulnerability? —something you didn’t expect to see.

“Of course, I thought about it.”

You tilted your head slightly, his words just hanging there in the small space between you.

“Yeah? What does ‘thinking about it’ look like for you?”

“Two kids. Maybe three if my wife’s up for it.”

You felt a strange tightness in your chest at his words, a soft ache that you quickly pushed aside. “Two kids? That sounds pretty... traditional,” you said, trying to keep your voice light.

Namjoon’s smile was faint, like he was walking a line between sharing and holding back. “Yeah, I guess so. I always figured, you know, the usual—boy and a girl, maybe a dog.” He chuckled quietly, but there was something a little distant in his tone now, like the vision he was describing didn’t quite line up with where he was standing at that moment.

You studied him for a moment, watching the way his gaze flickered away from yours, focusing on anything but you as he started rummaging through the first aid kit. It was like he had just shared a piece of his future with you, but it didn’t fit with the here and now. And that left a strange knot in your stomach.

“Sounds nice,” you murmured, not sure how to follow that up. Your heart was doing its complicated thing again—twisting, pulling. But you couldn’t let it show. Not now. Not when it just started to feel like maybe there is still a chance to fix this mess between you.

Namjoon cleared his throat and finished securing the bandage, his touch almost absent now, his mind clearly elsewhere. “Yeah, maybe. But… you know, it’s hard to imagine all that when things are, uh, a little uncertain right now.”

You nodded, though you weren’t sure exactly what he meant by it. The uncertainty could apply to a lot of things—his life, his future, your relationship. But for some reason, it stung a little when it felt like he was referencing you as part of that uncertainty.

“I think I’d like a cat.”

Namjoon’s brow lifted, clearly amused by the abrupt shift “A cat?”

“Yeah, two kids and a cat.” You hesitated, then added, “And the husband, of course.”

Namjoon’s lips curved upward into a full, genuine smile, a flicker of light breaking through the tension. “Two kids, a cat, and a husband?” His voice was teasing, but there was something light there too.

You shrugged, trying to match his tone, even though the ache in your chest remained. “It’s a solid plan,” you said, attempting to sound casual. “Maybe a dog too. If the kids beg enough.”

He laughed, the sound warm and familiar, and you felt a bit of that old comfort returning. Strange, though—the way your heart still fluttered when he smiled, despite everything.

“I think I could get on board with that.”

His hands dropped on either side of you, like he wasn’t quite ready to let the conversation end.

The warmth of his words lingered, but so did that quiet, nagging unease. He was playing along, keeping things light.

“We might need a bigger apartment tho…”

His words hung in the air between you, lighthearted just on the surface. You knew Namjoon well enough to recognize when he was joking and when he was saying something without really saying it.

And this?

This felt like a little bit of both.

You swallowed, forcing a smile. “Oh? So now we need a bigger apartment?”

Namjoon blinked, as if realizing what he’d just said. A flicker of something—panic? amusement? —crossed his face, but he recovered quickly, offering you an easy grin. “Well, yeah. Two kids, a cat, and a dog? You’re gonna need space.”

You huffed out a laugh, shaking your head. “I’m gonna need space?”

He smirked, tilting his head in that way he always did when he was trying to play something off. “I mean… unless you think the husband would want to live there too.”

Your heart did that stupid twisting thing again, a tangled mess of what ifs and almosts. Because the way he said it, so effortlessly, like it was something that could just… be—it made you wonder.

For a split second, you let yourself picture it. A bigger apartment. A cat curled up on the couch. Laughter filling the rooms. Maybe even Namjoon, barefoot in the kitchen, making coffee before the kids woke up…

And just as quickly, you pushed the thought away. You weren’t sure your relationship will ever be the same after this week, let alone if you could afford to imagine a future that might never exist.

So, you did what you always did. You deflected.

You forced a smirk, arching a brow at him. “You make it sound like I’m actually considering you as an option.”

Namjoon placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. “Wow. Brutal.”

You shrugged. “I just think whoever my future husband is… he’s gonna need to be okay with the cat being the favourite.”

Namjoon chuckled, shaking his head. “Noted. Cat comes first. Husband, second.”

You grinned. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

The conversation should have ended there. Easy. Playful. Like always.

But Namjoon hesitated, his hands lingering on either side of you for just a second too long before he pulled away.

And then, softly, almost like he didn’t mean to say it at all—

“Maybe he wouldn’t mind being second.”

Your breath caught. But before you could say anything, before you could even begin to process what he meant—he was already standing, already moving away, leaving you alone with the ache in your chest and the same unanswered question hanging between you.

“I’m gonna try and explain to my mom what that little scene in the kitchen meant before she gets any wild ideas,” he said, running a hand through his hair. His tone was light, but you caught the hesitation in his steps, the way he lingered just a moment longer than necessary.

You forced a laugh, hoping it sounded normal. “Good luck with that.”

Namjoon turned back to look at you, something unreadable in his expression. “Yeah… I think I’ll need it.”

And then he was gone, leaving you alone in the quiet bathroom, the weight of his words still pressing down on you.

Maybe he wouldn’t mind being second.

Your fingers brushed absently over the fresh bandage on your hand, but all you could feel was the ghost of his touch, the warmth he’d left behind.

What the hell were you supposed to do with that?

~~~

As the evening wore on, the air between you and Namjoon slowly settled into something quiet, something less fragile. That burden that had pressed so heavily against your ribs all morning didn’t fully disappear, but it did loosen its grip just enough to let you breathe and get back into your role.

The tension that had once felt suffocating now ebbed at the edges, softened by the warmth of the flickering Christmas lights and the steady hum of familiar voices carrying over across the table.

The room glowed with the soft shimmer of Christmas lights, their golden hues reflecting off polished countertops and the delicate ornaments hanging from the tree. The scent of cinnamon and citrus curled through the air, mixing with the faint, nostalgic melody of holiday music drifting from the speakers.

There was something undeniably nostalgic about it all—the rhythmic motions of setting the table, the occasional bursts of laughter from across the room, the way the season wrapped itself around you like a well-worn comfortable blanket.

The ache in your chest remained, lingering just beneath the surface, but it no longer felt so all-consuming.

By the time dinner was served, the table was a stunning display of Minhi’s careful arrangements— a vibrant spread of tender, savoury meats, perfectly seasoned vegetables, and bowls of rich, colourful side dishes. The warm aroma filled the room, creating an inviting atmosphere, drawing everyone closer together.

Despite everything, you felt yourself settling into the moment, lulled by the quiet clink of silverware and the soft murmur of conversation. There was a warmth here, a sense of belonging woven into the shared meal, and you let yourself lean into it.

Every so often, your gaze drifted to Namjoon, seated beside you. The space between you still felt… uncertain. But it wasn’t as heavy now. He didn’t speak to you much, yet there was something different in the way he simply existed next to you—steady, present, like a tide softly pulling you in.

What surprised you most were the quiet gestures he offered without hesitation. The way he refilled your wine glass before you even noticed it was low. How he made sure your plate never emptied. The absentminded way he adjusted your chair when you shifted, as if it were second nature.

Set against the warmth of his family, these small, unspoken acts were unexpectedly grounding. A quiet reminder that, despite everything, he still wanted you to be comfortable. He still wanted you here. Maybe by the time you got home, things could even return to some version of normal.

You weren’t sure yet, but the idea no longer felt so impossible. It felt like something within reach.

Christmas, with all its quiet reassurances and unspoken meanings, had given you both a moment to breathe. To let it go, even if just for tonight.

After dessert, the night began to wind down. The table was cleared, dishes stacked neatly by the sink, but no one seemed eager to leave the cosy warmth that settled over the house. The tree glowed with soft fairy lights, the fireplace murmured quietly in the background, and the air was still rich with the sugary scent of baked goods.

Jackson, ever the romantic, had presented Minhi an utterly atrocious but hilariously heartfelt gift— A pair of bobbleheads styled to look like them, complete with exaggerated features and tiny versions of their favourite outfits.

Hers had her signature hairstyle and an exaggerated wink, while his sported his usual grin and an outfit that looked suspiciously like the one he was wearing.

“Now we can nod in agreement even when we’re bickering!” he declared, earning a genuine laughter from Mr. and Mrs. Kim.

Minhi gasped dramatically, burying her face in her hands. “Oh my god, Jackson,” she groaned, though the laughter shaking her shoulders betrayed her amusement. “Where do you even find these things?”

“I have my sources,” Jackson replied smugly, arms crossed as he stood proudly by his choice. “Only the best for you, babe,” he added, with a mock bow.

“Every year, it’s something new,” Namjoon muttered under his breath, shaking his head with a quiet laugh.

Reaching for his mug, his fingers brushed yours. It wasn’t intentional—just a small, almost unnoticed touch—but it sent a gentle ripple through you regardless.

Your eyes lifted to his, and he caught your gaze. Leaning in just slightly, his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Last year, he got her personalised socks with his face on them.”

Your laugh came soft and unexpected, spilling out before you could stop it. “Because he likes being stepped on?” you whispered back, your eyes sparkling with humour.

Namjoon smirked, his expression playful, “How’d you know?”

The shared moment felt light and easy, a pocket of warmth that made you laugh genuinely for the first time all evening. It wasn’t forced or hesitant but natural, like slipping back into an old rhythm.

Namjoon’s eyes lingered on you for a beat longer, his smile softening into something quieter, almost fond.

“I got you something too.” He said, his voice low enough not to carry over the lively chatter around the room.

“You did?”

He nodded, glancing toward the small pile of gifts near the Christmas tree. “It’s nothing huge. Just something I thought you’d like. I can give it to you now if-”

“Wait,” you interrupted quickly, “You already know I got you the book, but let me grab it for you—I’ll be right back” A soft smile tugged at your lips as you hurried off to your room.

Stepping into the quiet space, you let out a small breath, your heart fluttering in a way that felt a little too telling. You rummaged through your suitcase, retrieving the carefully wrapped gift and adjusting the red bow atop the green paper until it was just right.

Taking a moment to steady yourself, you ran a hand through your hair before heading back to the living room. The second you returned, clutching the gift close to your chest, Namjoon’s gaze immediately found yours. His expression was calm, but there was a quiet anticipation in his eyes.

“Got it,” you said softly, holding it out toward him.

His lips quirked into a small smile as he reached for it. In return, he handed you his own gift, wrapped in simple brown paper and tied with a pink silken ribbon.

“Now it’s a proper exchange,” he said, his tone light but carrying something more than just casual words.

Glancing down at the gift in your hands, you chuckled when you noticed the little marker doodle next to your name—a quick, playful sketch of a Christmas tree, leaning awkwardly to the side under the weight of a star that looked too big for it.

“Did you do this?” you asked, looking up at him, a playful smile forming on your lips.

Namjoon shrugged, a spark of mischief lighting up his eyes. “Maybe.”

His casual teasing made you laugh softly as you carefully untied the ribbon, your fingers grazing the silky fabric as you peeled back the wrapping paper.

And then—you stopped.

The same book you’d gotten him was staring right back at you.

You blinked; your eyes locked on the familiar cover. The exact same book—the one you’d chosen with such care and anticipation—was now in your hands, wrapped just as carefully as you’d wrapped his.

Slowly, you lifted your gaze to Namjoon, your mouth slightly agape.

“When we stopped at the bookstore and you told me you got it for me, I almost lost it.” He admitted with a chuckle, easily peeling back the paper from his own copy. “I’ve been trying to hide this in the apartment since it came out.”

He smiled, but as his eyes dropped to cover of the book, something shifted “But the thing is, I got yours signed-”

He paused when he lifted the cover and saw the delicate signature on the first page, resting neatly next to his name. His fingers hovered over the autograph, a mix of surprise and disbelief flickering across his face. He looked up at you, his expression softening as the realization settled in.

“Wait, this is ridiculous.” He whispered, half laughing, half stunned.

You nodded slowly, a smile tugging at your lips despite the strange twist in your chest. “I thought it’d be a nice touch— God, I spent hours just waiting to get it signed.”

“Same here,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Guess we both have good taste.”

“You’re telling me,” You huffed, still amused. “We could’ve at least gone together, saved ourselves some trouble.”

“Did you two just get each other the exact same thing?” Minhi’s voice cracked with disbelief—clearly astonished—reminding you both that, yes, there were people around watching.

You and Namjoon exchanged a glance, both still holding identical copies of book in your hands. The absurdity of it all made it impossible not to laugh.

“God you’re disgusting.” Jackson chimed in—like he wasn’t the one who’d bought his girlfriend bobbleheads.

Namjoon chuckled, shrugging nonchalantly, clearly relishing in the banter. “Yeah. We did.”

From across the room, Mrs. Kim, who had been quietly observing, leaned forward, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Well, it looks like you two are perfectly matched,” she teased. “Maybe next time you’ll coordinate your outfits as well.”

Mr. Kim, sitting beside her, chuckled and sent a playful wink your way. “Or maybe matching pyjamas?” he suggested, prompting a round of laughter from the group.

Namjoon tilted his head, considering it. “Now that I think about it... matching pajamas could be a vibe,” he mused, throwing you a teasing glance. “We could totally pull it off.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, biting back a laugh. “You’re pushing it.”

Mrs. Kim grinned, clearly enjoying the lighthearted moment. “This is what makes these dinners so special,” she said warmly, leaning into her husband. “Seeing all of you so comfortable with each other.”

Mr. Kim nodded, his lips curving into a fond smile. “It’s these little moments that really count.” His gaze softened as he looked at his wife.

Your eyes met Namjoon’s for a brief moment, like there was an unspoken understanding between you.

Despite everything that had unfolded this week, something inside you resolved. Maybe things didn’t need to be perfect right now. And with time, perhaps you’d find you way back to something resembling normal—whatever that was. For now, this was enough.

“Matching pyjamas it is, then,” you said, breaking the silence.

Namjoon chuckled; his smile genuine.

“Deal.”

As the evening continued, the conversations flowed effortlessly. The soft hum of festive music filled the room, mingling with the quiet laughter of those around you. The glow of candles on the mantle cast dancing shadows across the walls, wrapping the space in a homey warmth.

And for the first time in a while, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, things between you weren’t as uncertain as they seemed.

~~~

“Mrs. Kim, do you have any dishwashing gloves?” you asked, your hands reaching into a drawer. You didn’t want to risk getting your bandages wet right after Namjoon changed them.

With most of the family retreating to their rooms, you lingered behind, offering to help Mrs. Kim tidy the kitchen. It was a quiet, unspoken way of showing your gratitude for her warmth and hospitality, a small gesture to give back after everything she’d done. Besides, it gave you a chance to clear your mind in the soothing rhythm of cleaning plates and wiping counters.

A form of therapy—you told yourself—just you, the soft hum of the kitchen, and the slow settling of your thoughts.

There was a quiet sense of contentment washing over you, as if the whirlwind of the past few days was finally starting to wane. The trip was nearing its end, and despite the chaos, the awkwardness, and the emotional ups and downs, you’d managed to weather it all. Somehow, with some-god’s grace, you made it through, and that was enough to leave a faint, unexpected warmth in your chest.

“Oh dear, don’t bother with the dishes.” Mrs. Kim said softly, glancing at you over the fridge door where she carefully stacked the leftovers. Her tone gentle, almost pleading, as if she wanted to spare you the trouble. “We’ll take care of them tomorrow.”

You smiled, shaking your head lightly. “I can’t, sorry. It’ll bother me if I don’t.” A light chuckle slipped from your lips as you rummaged through the drawer, triumphantly pulling out a pair of green latex gloves. You pulled them on with a snap, feeling a little silly.

Mrs. Kim smiled at your insistence, moved by the gesture. “You’re so thoughtful,” she said sweetly. “But really, you don’t have to.”

With a soft smile, you picked up a dish from the counter and ran it under the warm water. “Honestly, I don’t mind,” you said, glancing at her. “It’s nice to have something simple to do right now.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

The sound of running water filled the space between you, while Mrs. Kim moved around the kitchen, cleaning and organizing the days messes.

The evening had settled into a comforting cadence—the soft clink of dishes, the low hum of the refrigerator, and the occasional crackle of the fire still glowing faintly in the next room. Everything felt simple, peaceful.

For a while, the two of you worked in silence, the comfortable kind that spoke volumes without the need for filler words.

After a while, Mrs. Kim paused, setting the dish towel down as she looked at you, her expression thoughtful. “You know,” she said with a soft smile, “I’ve been meaning to sit down and chat with you all week, but Namjoon seemed determined to keep you all to himself.”

You froze mid-rinse, caught off-guard by the shift in her tone. lancing up, you caught the warmth in her eyes, and just like that, the familiar knot in your stomach came back full force. Your grip on the plate reflexively tightened, the ceramic cool against your gloved palm, as you forced yourself to smile politely

“I’m really glad you were able to spend the holidays with us,” she continued, unaware of the shift in your composure. “You make my son so very happy.”

The words hit you like an arrow to the chest, guilt rising right where it struck.

The worst thing was that Namjoon wasn’t there to protect you from yourself. It was just his mother. Her gentle warmth, and the mounting weight of your guilt. The truth of your relationship, —or the lack of—loomed large in your mind, suffocating in its quiet dishonesty.

“You know, I knew from the moment I met you that you two would make a good pair.”

Your body stiffened, her words hanging in the air like an unspoken threat. Despite the warmth in her gaze, kind and sincere, it only deepened the tension coiling in your chest. The sounds of the kitchen, the faint hum of music still coming from the living room—everything else faded, drowned out by the relentless echo of her words in your mind.

A lump formed in your throat, and your grip on the plate tightened as your hands began to shake. The walls seemed to shrink around you, the space too small to hold the enormity of the lie hanging between you.

Her voice, so earnest and trusting, repeated in your mind, each syllable weighted with an affection you didn’t feel worthy of. For a moment, you parted your lips, desperate to respond— to explain, to confess—but the words wouldn’t come. What could you possibly say? That everything she believed about you and her son was a carefully constructed illusion? That this trip had pushed your flimsy connection to its breaking point? That you and Namjoon hadn’t even kissed before this—and when you finally had, it only tangled things further, making you ache for something real, something freely given? But that he didn’t feel the same?

The truth felt like a tsunami too massive and chaotic to contain, too devastating to release. It was like standing on the edge of a cliff, teetering between holding back the wave and allowing it to crash down, obliterating everything in its path.

And all you could do was hold on to the plate in your hands, as if it could somehow keep you afloat through it all.

“I think it’s in the way you two-”

But the strain of the day—the strain of everything—became too much to withstand. The fragile hold you’d kept on your emotions shattered, splintering off like glass under pressure. The raw ache you’d buried deep inside surged to the surface, breaking through the thin veneer of composure you’d clung to so desperately as you tried to listen to her.

You blinked quickly, a futile effort to stop as tears began to pool in your eyes. But once a single drop escaped, sliding hot and unchecked down your cheek, another followed, and another, until the flood was unstoppable.

Your trembling lips pressed tightly together to stifle the sobs threatening to spill out, but your shoulders shook, and the quiet tremors of your body betrayed you. The stillness of the kitchen amplified the sound of your shallow, uneven breaths, the weight of everything pressing down all at once.

Mrs. Kim turned sharply at the sound, her expression shifting to concern in an instant, her hands stilling as she looked at you.

“Oh, sweetheart,” She murmured, stepping closer, her voice filled with a motherly warmth that broke you even further. “What’s wrong?” Her cold hands rested gently on your arms, rubbing them affectionately.

And in that moment, you realized there was no turning back.

Mrs. Kim’s voice was tender, laced with genuine worry that only made your heart hurt more. Her hands on your arms felt steadying, but they were also a stark reminder of the fact that you were breaking down. You tried to speak, to form any explanation, but all that escaped was a shaky breath. The silence between you stretched, and you knew you couldn’t hide behind it much longer.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words trembling as they left your lips. You weren’t even sure what you were apologizing for yet—everything, perhaps, or maybe just for breaking down in front of her. “I didn’t mean to... ruin this moment.”

Mrs. Kim frowned, her brow creasing with concern, but her voice was as gentle as ever. “Ruin it? Sweetheart, no. What’s this all about?” She gave your arms a reassuring squeeze. “You can talk to me.”

Her kindness was unbearable, and for a moment, you debated whether you could hold back the truth just a little longer. But you knew deep down that this wasn’t something you could keep running from. Not here, not with her looking at you like that, so full of empathy.

“I...” You hesitated, your voice cracking. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Mrs. Kim stepped back slightly, her hands still hovering near yours as if to reassure you she was listening. “Go on,” she urged gently.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry and tight. “Namjoon and I... we-” The words were so heavy; it felt like they might crush you if you said them out loud. “We’re not... what you think.”

Her expression didn’t falter, but there was a brief flicker of confusion in her eyes. She waited, patient but curious, as you tried to gather your courage.

“What do you mean?” she urged softly once you faltered.

“We’re not... a couple,” you admitted finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

The truth was out, raw and exposed, and you braced yourself for her reaction. “This whole thing—it was never real. We just... pretended.”

For the first time, Mrs. Kim’s expression shifted—her eyes widened slightly, but her hands tighten around your arms. She stared at you for a moment, processing your confession, before she took a small step back.

“You pretended?” She repeated, her voice quiet but heavy with meaning on your guilt-ridden mind. “Why would you do that?”

You looked down, unable to hold her gaze any longer. “It wasn’t supposed to go this far,” you said, your voice breaking. “It started as... as a way to avoid questions. To keep things simple. But then everything spiralled, and now-” You stopped, feeling the tears threaten to spill again. “Now, I don’t know how to fix it.”

Mrs. Kim was silent for a long moment, her gaze thoughtful but unreadable. When she finally spoke, her tone was soft, though there was an edge of disappointment there that made your chest ache. “So, this... this whole time, it was all just for show?”

You nodded.

She exhaled slowly, pressing her lips together before stepping forward again. “I wish you’d told me sooner,” she said, her voice quieter now, but still kind. “I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but... I can see how much this is weighing on you.”

You looked up at her, surprised by her understanding. “You’re not... mad?”

“Oh, my sweetheart, you are way worse at lying than you think you are.” She squeezed your arms again, this time rubbing her thumbs across your skin as if to bring some feeling back into them.

She smiled faintly, shaking her head. “I’ve had a few suspicions,” Mrs. Kim admitted. “A mother knows, even when her son thinks he’s being clever. But I didn’t push because I thought... well, I thought maybe you two just needed time to figure it out.”

Her words landed softly, but they still carried weight, making your breath hitch. You felt an odd mix of relief and embarrassment—relief that she wasn’t completely blindsided, and embarrassment that you haven’t been as convincing as you’d thought.

“You knew?” you asked, your voice still weak from crying.

Her chuckle was lightly, a sound that was warm but reluctant. “I had my concerns. But I could also see the effort you were making, and I thought maybe it wasn’t my place to pry.”

Her hold lingered on your arms, steady and reassuring. “What I didn’t know,” she continued, her tone softening even further, “was how much it was eating you up inside. Sweetheart, this isn’t healthy—for either of you.”

You bit your lip, her understanding cutting through the storm of emotions inside you. “I’m so sorry,” you whispered, blinking a few tears away. “I didn’t want to deceive anyone. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

Mrs. Kim reached up, brushing a stray tear from your cheek with a fondness that made you want to break down again. “I know that,” she said firmly. “And I believe you. But this is not just about me.”

You look up at her, a flicker of confusion crossing your face as you tried to process her words

Mrs. Kim’s hand rested gently on your cheeks for a moment, her touch offering a soothing presence. “It’s not just about me,” she repeated, her voice calm but filled with an unexpected tenderness. “It’s about you. And Namjoon.”

Her words hanging between you like a burden, and your heart tighten once more. “Me and Namjoon?” you echoed, unsure if she truly meant what you thought she meant.

Mrs. Kim nodded, her eyes locking onto yours with quiet understanding. “Yes, you and my oblivious son.”

You swallowed hard, your heart racing as the implication in her words finally settled into place. Maybe, it was the relief of saying everything out loud that washed over you, breaking through the layers of doubt you’ve been carrying.

It was that relief, perhaps, that loosened the tight grip you’d kept on your emotions for so long.

“But I don’t know if he feels the same,” you admitted, your voice trembling, defences faltering as the words came out. It didn’t even matter that, in saying them, you were all but confessing your own feelings for him. “What if he doesn’t feel that way about me? What if I ruin everything we have?” You glanced away, ashamed of the vulnerability that laced every word, but unable to stop the thoughts from spilling over.

Mrs. Kim’s expression softened further. Her eyes brimming with compassion “Trust me, sweetheart.”

You shook your head, your thoughts a tangled mess of fear and doubt.

She smiled gently, her hand still resting on your cheeks. “You’re not imagining it. Trust me. I’ve seen this before—this shyness, this obliviousness to feelings. It’s from his father. That man was just as clueless when it came to my feelings for him.”

You blinked, caught off guard by her sudden pivot. “Really?” you asked, a faint laugh slipping through despite the swirl of emotions inside you.

“Oh, absolutely,” she said, rolling of her eyes playfully. “I had to practically spell it out for him before he realized how I felt. But once he did...” Her smile softened, nostalgia flickering in her gaze. “Once he did, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind—or mine.”

You bit your lip, the warmth of her story sparking a flicker of hope inside you, but the lingering concerns still clouded your thoughts. “But what if Namjoon’s not like that?” you murmured, your gaze falling to the floor. “I’m scared to say anything and risk ruining the friendship we have.”

Mrs. Kim tilted her head slightly, her expression growing more thoughtful. “Y/N,” she said gently, “Do you know what I noticed about you the first time we met?”

You hesitated, unsure of what she was about to say. “What?” you asked quietly

“I saw the way you looked at him,” she said simply. “It wasn’t just friendship. It was something deeper. Something you probably didn’t even realized yourself yet. And that whole time, he was looking at you the same way. He’s not just your friend. He’s your person.”

Her words hit like a wave, striking a chord in you that you haven’t been ready to confront. Your breath caught, your heart pounding. “You really think so?” you whispered, your voice trembling with equal parts hope and fear.

Mrs. Kim nodded with certainty, her eyes kind and unwavering. “I do. And I’m not the only one who sees it.” She paused, as if choosing her words carefully. “I remember Namjoon’s ex—she was a lovely girl, but things always felt… easy to look past. But with you? The way he watches you, listens to you—like he’s waiting for something only you can give him. That’s different. That’s something real.”

Tears stung at the corners of your eyes, but this time they weren’t just from uncertainty. A flicker of hope mingled with the raw emotion coursing through you.

“What if I’m wrong?” Your words were soft, almost drowned by the silence around you.

Mrs. Kim’s hand rested gently on your arm, a quiet reassurance. “You won’t know unless you talk to him,” she said, her tone gentle but resolute. “I won’t tell you it’s easy—putting your heart on the line never is. But if you let fear make the choice for you, you might walk away from something really special. And I don’t think he wants that. I don’t think you do either.” She paused, her eyes searching yours, her voice soft but certain— “He loves you.”

Her words settled over you like a warm embrace. It was still terrifying, the thought of baring your soul to Namjoon, but Mrs. Kim’s unwavering confidence— in you, in him—felt like a light guiding you through the uncertainty.

“Go talk to him,” she urged softly, reaching up to cup your cheeks in a gentle squeeze. “Trust me, sweetheart. You’ll be glad you did.”

“I-I will. When-”

“No! Go now!” she insisted with a gentle but determined push, her eyes sparkling.

With resolve that felt both fragile and real, you nodded, inhaling deeply as if to steady the maelstrom inside you. As you peeled off your gloves, a sniffle escaped before you could stop it. You wiped at your eyes, letting out a shaky laugh—half exasperation, half-relief.

Mrs. Kim’s hand gave your arm one final, reassuring squeeze, her warmth lingering even as you turned away.

And then, before doubt could creep back in, you hurried upstairs to the bedroom.

The door slammed behind you and the echo resounded in the quiet stillness of the room. Namjoon’s head snapped up from the book in his hands, his wide eyes startled by your sudden arrival.

He was sitting cross-legged on the bed, the warm golden light from the lamp next to him casting soft shadows across his face. He had that look of fuzzy contentment he always wore when he was reading—a serene expression you wanted to lock away and hold tight to protect forever. But right now, your own emotions were too unruly to appreciate it fully.

“Do you love me?”

The words burst out of you before you had the chance to reel them back in, your voice shaky and raw as adrenaline still coursed through you. You were a whirlwind—your heart thundered in your chest as you stood there, tears prickling at the edges of your eyes, the weight of the conversation you’d just had pressing heavily on your shoulders. You didn’t even try to give him context first. You didn’t prepare either of you for the leap you were about to take. Instead, you jumped.

Namjoon blinked at you, his lips parting, eyes flitting across your face as he tried to process the question. For a long moment, he looked utterly confused, but then, as if the air between you shifted, something soft and vulnerable lit up in his face. His book tumbled from his hands, forgotten entirely, as he straightened up.

“What…?” he began, tentative and breathless, but you didn’t give him a chance to run, to overthink, to temper his feelings behind those gentle walls he so often built. You had to know. There could be no half-truths now.

“Do you love me?” you repeated, your voice louder this time, more forceful, as every fibre of your being felt like it was burning alive, unravelling at the seams with desperation for an answer. For clarity. For him.

His lips quivered, caught somewhere between anxiety and trust, his gaze searching yours before his answer came in a breathless whisper that shattered you on the spot.

“Yes. Of course, I love you.” The intensity you saw there—the vulnerability, the unmistakable fear —it completely broke the barrier.

Before he could say another word, you surged forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t soft or hesitant—it was desperate, unrestrained, a collision of all the emotions you’d kept bottled up for too long. You slotted your lips against his, connecting in a way that felt as necessary as breathing. The world tilted. Your hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, clinging to him as if he were the only thing keeping you from unravelling.

Namjoon froze for half a second; you could practically feel the surprise radiate from him. But then, like a lightning strike, his arms were around you, pulling you closer. Close enough that no space for doubt could exist between you. He kissed you back with a fervour that sent a tidal wave of warmth from your head to your toes. His lips moved against yours as though he’d unlocked a secret of his own emotions, pouring them all out into this single moment.

This confession without words.

Finally, when your lungs screamed for air, you pulled back just slightly, your foreheads resting together, breaths mingling. You could feel his chest rising and falling rapidly against yours.

“What’s gotten into you?” he whispered, his voice so quiet, as if to speak too loudly might shatter the fragile bubble wrapping itself around you both. His thumb brushed along your cheekbone in the gentlest of touches, wiping away the tears that had managed to escape.

You drew in a trembling breath, your lips grazing his as you whispered, “I… I told your mother everything.”

He froze solid, just like that, and the warmth in his expression flickered with confusion. “What?” he asked, his voice just as soft but now edged with trepidation.

“I told her,” You repeated, your voice steadier this time, though your heart was racing. You pressed another kiss to his lips, unable to fully pull away. “I told her we were pretending. That we’re not really together. How you—how you asked me to lie to her and everyone else.” Your fingers remained clutched in his shirt; your mouth lingering on his, unwilling to part for more than a few seconds at a time.

Namjoon stilled for a fraction of a second, processing your words between the kisses you couldn’t seem to stop. Then his grip on you tightened, as if afraid this was a dream he would wake up from any minute. The hesitation in his posture melted, replaced by something stronger, fiercer—something that matched the irregular rhythm of your own heart.

“Hold on,” he whispered against your mouth, his voice breathless and uneven, “I can’t think straight when you kiss me.”

The vulnerability in that small confession sent a thrill through you, and you couldn’t help the big, silly grin that broke across your face.

“Why’d you tell her?” he asked, his voice softer now, his forehead resting against yours.

You let out a shaky laugh, your eyes dropping to his swollen lips, already wanting to kiss him again. “I didn’t mean to,” you admitted, the words spilling out quickly. “She was so nice to me, and with everything that’s happened—I just couldn’t hold it in. I started crying, and it all came out.”

Namjoon exhaled deeply and, with obvious difficulty, pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. His gaze softened, the concern there unmistakable. “What did she say? Is that why you’re crying?”

A watery sniffle escaped you as you tried to explain. “She said you’re oblivious,” Each syllable ghosted over his lips, the space between you nearly nonexistent. You wanted to kiss him again. “And that you get it from your dad.”

His lips quirked into a faint smile, but you didn’t stop. “She said she already knew,” you murmured, your voice quieter now, your chest tightening as your fingers traced the warm skin of his neck. “And…” You hesitated, your eyes searching his. “She said you love me.”

You were so close, his breath mingled with yours, the space between you barely more than a whisper.

Namjoon stilled, his breath catching. For a moment, his expression was unreadable, but then something like awe swept over his face, softening every feature. His eyes searched yours, looking for doubt, for hesitation—anything that might suggest you didn’t mean it. But when he found nothing but truth staring back at him, he let out a shaky exhale, his lips parting as though he was about to speak.

He didn’t. Instead, his hands cupped your face, and his lips met yours again, but this time the kiss was slower, deeper, and achingly tender. Gone was the urgency, replaced by something raw and honest. This kiss wasn’t about desperation or pretending—it was about him showing you, with everything he had, exactly how he felt.

This was Namjoon, completely unguarded. And as his lips moved against yours, as his hands cradled you like you were the most precious thing in the world, you felt like it.

His breath fanned across your skin as he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still holding your face like he wasn’t ready to let go. His thumbs brushed along your cheekbones, slow and reverent, as if memorizing every inch of you.

Neither of you spoke right away. The silence between you wasn’t empty— it was filled with the weight of the past few days, the tangled emotions, the hesitation and longing, all melted into the space between your breaths.

Namjoon swallowed hard.

“I thought I ruined everything when I kissed you.” His voice was raw, unsteady, his hands moving with quiet desperation—grazing your jaw, your neck, brushing your hair away from your face like he needed to see all of you.

You exhaled sharply a mix of exasperation and relief. “I was so sure you regretted it,” you admitted, your fingers restless as they traced along his skin, unable to stop moving, needing to feel him. “God, Namjoon, how could you just shut down like that?”

He swallowed, his gaze flickering with something vulnerable, something hesitant. “I thought you hated me.” The words came quiet but heavy. “I didn’t know how to handle it. I convinced myself that I pushed you away—that I ruined any chance I had of being with you for real.”

Your breath hitched at the vulnerability that poured out of him. His dark eyes shimmered in the soft golden light of the room; the weight of his emotions etched across his perfect, devastating face.

“Namjoon…” His name quivered on your tongue as the tears came back to your eyes. But it wasn’t sadness that overwhelmed you—it was relief. Relief that the unspoken feelings that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long had finally found a voice. Relief that you weren’t alone in this freefall of emotions.

Namjoon’s hands still cradled your face, his thumbs brushing circles along your cheekbones like he could soothe all the hurt away. He leaned forward, pressing his lips to your forehead in an act so tender that it sent another wave of tears spilling down your cheeks.

“I regret…” He hesitated, his hands angled your face carefully, “I regret not telling you sooner. Not being brave enough to—God, Y/N, I’ve loved you since forever, but I was always so scared. Scared that you’d pull away, that-”

But you never heard the end of it, because your lips were on his again, stopping him mid-sentence, sealing all those remaining words between you. Namjoon’s hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, desperate, as if he couldn’t get enough of you, as if he was trying to make up for all the lost time. The intensity of it all sent a spark through your chest, and when your breath caught, he deepened the kiss, his tongue moving against yours, the world outside completely fading away.

Each movement, each touch was a promise—of feelings so long buried, that suddenly burst to the surface. Everything melted away in that kiss. It was everything and nothing at once, a moment that felt like it could stretch on forever.

Each touch, every breath shared between kisses, sent shivers racing up and down your spine. His lips trailed away from yours for only a moment, long enough to press kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, always returning to your mouth again like you were magnetic. You lost yourself in him completely, in the way his thumb was curling just beneath the collar of your shirt, in the way he tilted his head for a deeper angle and the soft sound he made in the back of his throat when you pulled his lip between your teeth.

His touch, his scent, the way his hands moved with purpose yet a tenderness that was overwhelming—every sensation was overwhelming in the best way possible.

The kiss deepened once more, as if the air itself couldn’t fill the space between you, and all the words you’d both kept locked away for so long were exchanged in every press of your lips.

Namjoon’s hands moved to over your shoulders, pulling you impossibly closer, and before you could realize, he turned you two around—your back pressing against the soft mattress of the bed. The sudden movement took you by surprise, but you didn’t protest. If anything, the new proximity only made your pulse quicken, the heat between you both intensifying as he leaned over you, his body hovering just above yours. His breath came in soft, uneven gasps, each one warm against your skin, as if the space between you both was no longer enough. His hands, once resting at your shoulders, now explored lower, tracing the curve of your waist before settling at the small of your back, drawing you closer with a gentle yet undeniable urgency, his hips slotting against yours.

You closed your eyes for a moment, letting yourself sink into the sensation of his hands on you, the warmth of his touch setting your skin ablaze. His fingers traced the curve of your waist, slipping beneath your sweater and gradually pushing it higher, sending a shiver down your spine. Instinctively, you arched into him—craving more, needing more.

Namjoon’s lips brushed against your forehead, his voice barely a whisper as he said your name.

“Hmm?” you murmured.

A beat of silence. Then—

“Say it back.”

His voice was low, a mix of vulnerability and quiet demand, a plea you just couldn’t ignore.

A soft smile tugged at your lips, and your heart swelled with certainty. You reached up, cupping his face gently, your voice steady as you said,

“I love you, Namjoon. I love you too.”

Namjoon’s gaze never left yours, his eyes searching yours with a mixture of desire and tenderness. His lips parted slightly as though to speak, but instead, he closed the distance between you two, kissing you again. His kiss was the perfect answer.

Your fingers knotted in his hair, pulling him closer, and you returned his kisses with equal fervour. A feverish dance, tongues entwined in a desperate attempt to satiate the hunger that gnawed at your very souls.

You ran your hands up the sides of his body, feeling the muscle beneath his shirt, memorizing the contours of him as if you could pull all of him into you. Namjoon groaned softly at the sensation, his hands tightening their hold on you as he deepened the kiss, his tongue tangling yours in a caress that left you breathless.

His lips trailed down to your jaw, pressing over the marks already blooming on your neck, each press searing, sending sparks of need racing through your veins.

He nipped and sucked at your sensitive skin, leaving a few new hickeys as he made his way down to your collarbone. You gasped, your fingernails digging into his shoulders as you arched your back, pressing yourself closer to him. The heat between you was palpable, a living, breathing thing that threatened to consume you both.

As if sensing your need, Namjoon leaned back down, capturing your mouth back in a heated kiss. His lips moving against yours, coaxing you open, and you wilfully let him in. You always let him. His tongue slid against yours, stroking, tasting, and you whimpered, clutching onto him.

He swallowed the sound, one hand sliding down your thigh, hooking behind your knee. He dragged your leg over his hip, pressing your core right against his straining erection, and you gasped, breaking the kiss.

“God, I want you,” he groaned, rocking against you, his hands stroking up your sides to cup your breasts. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with desire. “I’ve imagined this a thousand times, but nothing compares to the real thing.”

“I want you too,” you confessed. “God, so much” Your breath hitched as his lips found the curve of your throat, his teeth grazing lightly before soothing the spot with a slow kiss. Heat coiled in your stomach, your fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer, as if you could fuse yourself to him completely. “I need you, Namjoon.”

But just as his hands moved to the button of your jeans, your senses caught up with you. You suddenly became acutely aware of everything—the fact that this was real, no more unrequited feelings, no more hiding. But just as glaring was the truth that his mother was down the hall. The realization hit you like a cold wave, shaking you, and a wave of panic surged through your chest.

“But baby, there is no way I’m fucking you at your parents’ house,” you said, your voice a soft reprimand, edged with your own personal frustration.

Namjoon groaned, his head falling to your shoulder as he breathed in your scent. “You’re killing me,” he murmured.

You chuckled, the sound warm and breathless, threading your fingers through his hair as he groaned against your shoulder. “I’m saving you from potential lifelong humiliation,” you teased, nudging his cheek with your nose.

Namjoon exhaled heavily, his lips grazing your collarbone one last time before he pulled back, flopping onto his back beside you with a frustrated sigh. “You’re right,” he admitted begrudgingly, rubbing a hand down his face. “But damn it woman … you make it really hard to think rationally.”

You turned on your side, propping yourself up on one elbow as you gazed down at him, taking in the way his chest rose and fell, the way his lips were still kiss-swollen and impossibly tempting, the way his eyes—dark and filled with something deeper than just lust—stayed locked on you.

A slow smile curled at your lips as you leaned down, pressing a soft, teasing kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I promise, when the time is right…” Your fingers traced slow, deliberate patterns on his chest, just beneath the fabric of his shirt. “I won’t make you wait a second longer.”

Namjoon groaned again, rolling over to bury his face in the crook of your neck as you giggled. “You’re really going to make me suffer, aren’t you?” he muttered against your skin, kissing it softly after.

You grinned, letting your fingers comb gently through the hair at the nape of his neck. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“Just let me hold you a little longer.”

Namjoon’s voice was a low, almost pleading whisper as he adjusted, shifting until he was holding you tighter, his arms enveloping you in a warmth that made everything else fade away. That made all the waiting and suffering feel like it was worth it.

That made you start to question your own rule—because you’ve just told this man there would be no sex tonight and yet there wasn’t a single trace of frustration or regret on his face. Just quiet devotion, steady and sure, like holding you was enough.

His hand splayed across your back, pressing you firmly against him. You melted into his embrace, resting your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. It was a comfort, a steady rhythm that calmed the fervour between you. His fingers lightly traced circles on your back, soothing you with every movement.

A small smile tugged at your lips as your fingers idly traced patterns over his skin. “Are you always this romantic?” you murmured, your voice laced with amusement.

Namjoon chuckled, his chest vibrating against yours “I’ve had years to practice patience with you,” he said, his tone filled with fondness, before he took on that familiar teasing expression. “And when we get home,” he leaned in close to your ear, his breath tickling your skin as he whispered, “I’m fucking you against every single flat surface we find.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, your heart racing at the challenge in his tone. His expression was playful yet intense, that familiar mischievous spark lighting up his features, making those dimples seem like anything but innocent.

“You better watch yourself, Mr. Kim,” you said, your lips curling into a teasing smile. “I’ve been known to bite back.”

Namjoon’s grin widened as his hands sliding down your hips, fingers pressing into your skin before giving them a firm squeeze. In one fluid motion, he pulled you up slightly, adjusting your position—just enough for you to feel the hard imprint of his cock against you.

“I’m counting on it,” he murmured, his lips brushing against yours in a brief but heated kiss.

“Namjoon…”

His name left your lips in a breathy whisper, and Namjoon’s grip on you tightened ever so slightly, his fingers pressing into your hips like he was grounding himself—or maybe like he was trying to keep himself from losing all control.

“Yeah?” he prompted, his voice lower now, rougher, his lips hovering just over yours.

You swallowed, your heart hammering against your ribs as you looked up at him, taking in the way his pupils had blown wide, the way his chest moved with each heavy breath, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed, like he was trying to steady himself—like he was barely holding on. You had always known Namjoon was dangerous in a hundred different ways, but this? The way he looked at you.

This was something else entirely.

A smirk tugged at the corners of your lips as you slid your hands up his chest, resting them over his racing heartbeat. “I think you might be a little obsessed with me,” you teased, arching a brow.

Namjoon exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head as he let out a low chuckle. “You’re just now figuring that out?” he mused, his thumb stroking absentminded circles against your skin. Then, his expression shifted, something softer blooming beneath the heat in his gaze. “You have no idea.”

Your chest ached at the sincerity in his tone, at the weight of his words, and suddenly, the teasing faded from your mind entirely. You reached up, cupping his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing over the sharp lines of his jaw as you murmured, “Tell me,” the words barely audible, even to your own ears. “Tell me what you want.”

Namjoon’s eyes darkened, his pupils blown so wide that for a moment, they hid the hazel entirely.

“I want to feel every inch of you” he murmured, his voice rough. “I want to taste you, touch you, tease you. I want feel you trembling in my hands.” You shivered, despite the warmth of his embrace, a small gasp escaping your lips at his words.

His smile was immediate—wicked and knowing—as his hand slid under your shirt, fingers tracing your spine with deliberate slowness, sending sparks dancing beneath your skin.

“You want that, don’t you?” His voice was nothing more than a low, sinful whisper that completely ruined your panties.

“Want me to take you apart, baby girl?”

The words settled deep in your core, a slow burn spreading through your veins, igniting something primal. Your fingers curled against his jaw, your breath hitching as his hand continued its slow, torturous exploration beneath your shirt, carefully tracing the outline of your bra.

“Say it,” he teased, his lips brushing against yours, teasing but never quite closing the distance. “I need to hear you say it.”

“Namjoon…” you breathed, but he was quick to assure you.

“I’ll behave. Don’t you worry.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears, heat pooling low in your stomach as you swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper. “I want it.”

His responding groan was deep, guttural, vibrating through your entire body as his grip on you tightened. In one smooth motion, he rolled, pinning you beneath him, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his thigh sliding between yours.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin as his lips trailed down your jaw, past the sensitive spot below your ear, down the column of your throat. “Now let me make you feel good.”

“Namjoon!” you tried, but you heard him hush you before his tongue flicked over your pulse point, his teeth scraping lightly before he sucked, drawing a soft whimper from your lips. His hand slid higher, pushing your shirt up, exposing more of your skin to the cool air as his lips followed the path his fingers had blazed.

“Namjoon-” His name was half a gasp, half a plea, your hands flying to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt as if it was the only thing anchoring you.

“Hold that thought,” he murmured, suddenly pulling back. The warmth of his body vanished as he sat up, pushing himself off the bed.

You blinked up at him, dazed and breathless. For a second, you thought he was walking away, and your protest was already forming—until you saw him stride toward the door.

A smirk tugged at your lips as you propped yourself up on your elbows.

Then you heard it. The soft click of the door’s lock sliding into place.

“Really?”

He smirked, sliding a knee back onto the mattress, his hands gripping your ankles and slowly dragging you toward him. “I’m not taking any chances,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement and something deeper.

The heat in his gaze was enough to make your breath hitch, but you couldn’t resist pushing him just a little more. “And here I thought you had some self-control”

Namjoon’s hands slid up your legs, his fingers kneading into your thighs as he leaned in close, his breath hot against your lips. “Baby,” he rasped, tilting his head slightly. “I locked that door because I have self-control. Otherwise, you’d already be a mess underneath me.”

“Joonie,” you groan, the bright red blush burning your face as you cover your face with your arms.

Namjoon chuckled softly at the sight of you hiding behind your arms, his hands gently pulling them away to reveal the rosy flush spreading across your cheeks. He leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear as his breath stirred the hairs on your neck.

“Tell me, how set are you on that rule of yours?” His voice was low, a teasing growl that sent a hot shiver down your spine.

You swallowed, trying to ignore the rapid beat of your heart. His proximity was intoxicating, and despite the rules you’d set, the temptation to surrender to him was almost overwhelming.

You met his gaze, eyes filled with a mix of defiance and desire. “I… I meant it,” you murmured, your voice a little shaky despite your attempt at sounding firm. “I’m not fucking you tonight.”

Namjoon’s lips quirked into a smile, though it was anything but innocent. “I know that.” His fingers danced along your skin, barely touching, just enough to make you ache for more. “But I can touch you right?” he whispered, his lips brushing your ear again.

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you were unsure of what to say, before:

“We have to be quiet.”

Namjoon’s smile grew, but there was a sharpness to it now, a hint of challenge. He leaned in closer, his lips hovering just above yours, “Easy.”

His hand moved lower, fingertips skimming over your waist, leaving goosebumps in their wake, his touch light yet electrifying. The contrast between his playful demeanour and the raw desire in his eyes made your pulse race.

You bit your lip, trying to hold onto your resolve, but the temptation of his touch, his proximity, was slowly unravelling you. “You’re making this harder,” you managed, though it was more of a breathless confession than a statement of resistance.

Namjoon’s eyes flicked up to yours, his fingers pressing into your skin just enough to send heat pooling in your belly. “I haven’t even started yet,” he murmured, his breath hot against your lips. “But I’ll make sure you’re quiet.”

You shivered at his words, your body reacting before your mind could catch up. His proximity, the heat of his breath on your skin, and the way his hands were moving lower, this time unbuttoning your jeans, had you teetering on the edge.

“Namjoon...” you whispered, voice shaky, but his fingers moved to the zipper, steady and sure, making it impossible to think clearly.

“Shh…” he hushed you softly. “I’ve got you.”

The simple reassurance sent a rush of heat through your chest, your heart pounding in your ears.

With practiced ease, his fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of your abdomen. You let out a gasp, your eyes fluttering closed as you savored the sensation. Namjoon’s hands moved lower, cupping your ass through the fabric of your pants. He squeezed gently, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You have such a nice ass,” he murmured, his voice low and husky.

A quick giggle escapes your lips, your eyes meeting his. “You’re not so bad yourself,” you replied, your voice just as low and breathless. He grinned, his fingers moving to the hem of your pants. With slow, deliberate movements, he began to slide them down your legs, revealing the thin fabric of your lacy underwear underneath.

You felt a rush of embarrassment at the sight of your arousal seeping through the fabric, but Namjoon didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he seemed to be enjoying it. His fingers deliberately pushing your thighs apart once your jeans were discarded off somewhere behind him, taking his time to admire you.

“Did I ever tell you you’re beautiful?” You tried to respond, but it came out as a gasp as his fingers slid higher, teasing the lacy edge of your panties. He didn’t push them down, just tracing the material, letting you feel the heat of his touch through the thin fabric. Your fingers curled into the sheets, trying to anchor yourself in the sensation, but your body was reacting on its own, pushing further against him

His fingers moved, testing, teasing, until you’re squirming under him. “Namjoon,” you whine, your hands fisting in the sheets.

But he just smirks, “So impatient,” he teases, his hands sliding further up, brushing over your wet core through the fabric, his fingers catching over your clit and making you gasp breathlessly.

“I’ve barely started and you’re already desperate for me.” His words send a pulse of heat through you and you bite your lip hard, fighting back a moan. He chuckles, his fingers pushing against your entrance as if he wasn’t testing your patience already.

“Shh, baby,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough with desire, mock-hushing you before pushing your panties aside, his fingers sliding through the slick heat gathering there. “Fuck. You’re so wet for me already,” the hot exhale of his breath making you clench around nothing.

He dragged his fingertips through your wetness, teasing your entrance with a feather-light touch that had you writhing beneath him again.

“Please...” Your fingers scrabbled uselessly at his shoulders, torn between pushing him away and dragging him closer. “Namjoon, my love...”

He silenced your plea with a searing kiss, tongue delving past your lips as he finally breached you with one long finger. Your moan swallowed by his mouth, hips lifting to take him deeper. The stretch was exquisite, pleasure spiking through you at the curl of his finger, quickly finding that spot inside that made you see stars.

Namjoon swallowed each and every needy sound spilling from your lips, his mouth devouring yours with a hunger that left you dizzy. He pushed another finger in, fucking you slowly, maddeningly, the wet squelch of your arousal obscene and too loud in the quiet room, mixing perfectly with your muffled moans.

You were lost to sensation, a writhing mess beneath his ministrations. Your hands scrabbled for purchase on his shoulders, his hair, any resolve you could find. He held you down with his weight, drinking down every whimper and gasp his fingers drew from you. His rhythm perfect, each push making you feel lightheaded, the pads of his fingers brushing against that spongey spot, making your keen in pleasure.

Your nails raked down his back at the same moment his thumb found your clit, and you sob into his mouth, orgasm cresting hard and fast, the most delightful buzz settling at the base of your spine. Namjoon smothered your cries, taking everything, you gave him, fingers never ceasing their relentless rhythm. His thumb was a steady pressure on your clit, drawing out your climax until you were boneless and shiver beneath him, your whole body convulsing.

Only then did he pull back, lips red and slick with saliva, a knowing smirk playing over them as he took in your dazed, sated expression. “I knew you’d be a good girl for me,” he purred, fingers still toying with your over-sensitive flesh, drawing out a weak whimper from you

“Nam- A-Ahm...” you groan, thighs snapping shut around his hand, trapping it in place. His amused chuckle vibrated against your skin.

As your breathing slowly evened out, he pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. “Think you can let go of my hand now?”

You were a flushed, trembling mess, your eyes still hazy as you gave a small, stubborn shake of your head. “Mmm… no.”

Namjoon huffed a quiet laugh, his free hand brushing your hair back from your face. “And why not?”

“You’ll tease me again.”

His grin was all mischief. “Smart girl.”

Namjoon’s grin didn’t waver as he shifted slightly, his trapped hand flexing against your thigh. “And yet,” he mused, voice low and knowing, “you’re still holding me there. Almost like… you want me to keep teasing you.”

You pouted, pressing your legs together even tighter, as if that would stop him, just a second before you forced yourself to let go. “Give me 5 minutes.”

“Isn’t that the guy’s line?”

You groaned, turning your face into the pillow to hide your growing smile. “Shut up,” you mumbled, your voice muffled but still laced with lingering pleasure.

Namjoon chuckled, clearly pleased with himself, and you could feel the warmth of his gaze lingering on you. He shifted effortlessly, hover over you, his free hand smoothing over your thigh in slow, absentminded strokes, a quiet reminder he wasn’t done with you. Or maybe, just maybe, he was as desperate as you were. Despite the tension building between you both, he still focused entirely on you—your needs—even though you hadn’t given him any release yet. It was as if his sole concern was your pleasure.

Still, he wore a look that told you he would willingly let you ruin him, and then thank you afterwards.

You peek your head up, meeting his heated gaze through hooded eyes, a mischievous glint in your expression. A teasing smile tugs at your kiss-bruised lips. “Take your shirt off,” you purr, voice low and sultry.

Namjoon’s smirk deepens at the unexpectedly bold request, and the look in his eyes suggests he’s more than willing to comply. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear, “Bossy.” His voice was thick with amusement, but there was no hesitation in his movements.

He sat back, lifting his arms to pull the fabric over his head with smooth, practiced ease. The moment his shirt hit the floor, you couldn’t help but take in the way the muscles in his chest and arms shifted as he moved. The sight of him, bare and exposed in front of you, sent a wave of heat coursing through your body, pooling between your thighs.

You swallowed, your breath catching at the intensity of his gaze as he leaned back over you, his hands now skimming over your body, tracing the outline of your form. “Better?” he asked, his voice low, each word thick with a mix of flirtatious edge and raw, aching need.

You bit your lip, feeling the pulse of your desire as you nod slowly. “Much better.” Your hands tentatively explore the newly exposed skin of his chest, mapping the hard planes and dips of muscle. A surge of gratitude washes over you as you realize the band-aid Namjoon had chosen for your cut now allows you to glide your fingertips over his heated skin without restraint.

Namjoon watches you through half-lidded eyes, his lips parting on a soft exhale as your fingertips brush over a sensitive spot. He catches your wrist, pressing a kiss to your palm. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he murmurs, voice rough with want.

“I haven’t even started yet.” You tease, trailing your fingers down his chest to his stomach, following the defined V of his muscles down to the waistband of his sweatpants, where your fingers hook in the elastic. Namjoon’s sharp inhale was more than enough encouragement. You trace the waistband of his pajama pants, feeling him shift under your touch, before dipping your hand beneath the fabric to wrap your fingers around his length. Suddenly feeling even more grateful that it wasn’t your dominant hand that had been injured today.

“Fuck,” he hisses, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

Fuck is right. Damn it. You were totally on track—he was massive.

He was hot, silk over flame, and so very big in your hand. You stroked him base to tip, more to size him up, but instead marveling at the way he stirred against your palm.

Namjoon groaned, head falling back against the pillow, hips canting forward. “Oh baby”

You shivered at the guttural sound, circling your hand around him, almost getting your fingers to meet.

His cock twitched in your hold, a drop of precum welling at the head. You thumb the slit, smearing his precum down his length, before pulling your hand up to spit on it.

“God, you’ll kill me.”

You met his gaze through your lashes, quickly returning to your task, pumping him with slow, teasing strokes. Your free hand came up to cup his heavy balls, rolling them in your palm.

He cursed under his breath, hips rocking into your grip.

Namjoon’s hands fisted in the sheets on either side of you, breathy groans spilling from his lips as he softly guided your ministrations, showing you how he liked to be touched. Namjoon’s eyes stay locked on yours, even as they glaze over with pleasure. One of his hands finds your hip, gripping tightly as he guides your movements. “Don’t stop,” he pleads, voice strangled. “I’m close.”

You doubled your efforts, twisting your wrist on the upstroke, giving his length a squeeze, before running your thumb over his head, teasing the slit.

Namjoon is practically panting now, his face etched with strain as he chases his release.

“Come on,” you whisper, your other hand joining the first, one hand around the base, the other cupping his heavy balls. “Let go. I want to feel you.” He barely has a chance to register your words before he’s coming with a low groan, his head burying in your neck and biting hard against your shoulder to try and keep quiet, which in turn makes you gasp. Still, you stroke him through it, milking every last drop until he’s a boneless, sated mess, his full weight crushing you. “Fuck, babe,” he praises breathlessly, shooting you a lazy, satisfied smile. “You’re amazing.” He tugs you up, capturing your lips in a languid kiss. You melt into him, your hand still wrapped around his spent cock, enjoying the little aftershocks that continue to make him twitch.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you murmur against his lips, feeling your heart swell.

Because despite the pleasure, the heat, this—this moment right here, of feeling utterly connected—that’s what you craved.

Namjoon pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes soft. “I love you,” he admits quietly, like it’s just a simple fact. Like you both haven’t been fighting it for year.

You know your eyes are shining, but you don’t care. “I love you too.” And then he’s kissing you again, and you let him sweep you up in the feeling, in the moment. because right now, right here, tangled in his arms and the sheets of his childhood bedroom is exactly where you’re meant to be.

After a few lazy minutes, Namjoon shifts, prompting you to release him. You bring your fingers to your mouth, languidly licking them clean as a low moan escapes you, savouring the salty essence of him that explodes across your tongue.

“Fuck. Love, don’t do that. You’ll get me hard again.” He chuckles breathlessly, dropping light kisses across your face. “As much as I want to go for round two, I think we both could use a shower first”

Namjoon slides out of bed, extending his hand toward you with a playful grin. “Come with me? I’ll even wash your back.”

You raise an eyebrow, looking at him sceptically. “That shower is tiny, and in case you didn’t know, you’re huge.”

Namjoon laughs, clearly unfazed by your complaints. “I’ll make it work,” he says with a wink, his grin widening. He gave your hand a gentle tug, urging you to follow. “Besides, I’m pretty good at fitting into tight spaces.”

You roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at the corner of your lips. “You’re impossible.”

He smirks, pulling you up gently by the hand. “Come on, let me prove you wrong. Besides, I think we both could use a little water to cool down.” His voice softens, a hint of seriousness underlying the playful tone.

You give in, following him with a small sigh, knowing very well that that you willingly played right into his plan.

#namjoon x reader #namjoon x you #bts smut #namjoon imagine #namjoon scenarios #namjoon smut #bts x fem!reader #the holiday pretense

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