#something something about how they always choose each other | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

shaiyasstuff · 3 days ago

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3:07 a.m. | xavier

synopsis : The call always came at 3:07, not 3:00, not 3:15.

content : bestfriends!au, angst(obviously), non-related to the game events, non-cannon, just purely xavier x reader but in our world :)

writer’s note : okay so this is inspired by a real life experience, so there isn’t much to say here :/ probably why i don’t main xavier in the game but we don’t need to dwell on that

It always started the same way.

You would be done with your day, come back shower and lay in bed. Waiting.

You didn’t need to expect it, didn’t even need to ask.

It would always come, at exactly 3:07 a.m.

Almost never early, never late.

Ring.

And there it is.

The low vibration of your phone against your nightstand, and the soft glow of your screen cutting through the darkness of your room was telling enough.

He had called.

You’d reach for it, mindlessly swiping right to answer. It had become routine at this point, an unspoken one, but a routine no less.

Your fingers know the weight of this moment better than your mind does. And when you answer, he doesn’t say hello.

He never does.

Instead. “I can’t sleep,” you would hear him murmur over the phone.

Neither can you, but you don’t tell him that.

You don’t tell him that you were always waiting, whether on purpose or subconsciously, even you weren’t sure anymore.

“What’s on your mind this time?” Was always your reply, soft, calming.

Sometimes he talks about nothing—half-baked thoughts, the dream he just woke up from, the sound of rain against his window.

Other times, he asks questions he’d never dare voice in daylight.

“Do you think people can just belong to each other?”

“What if I told you I almost kissed you that night?”

“Would you miss me, if I disappeared?”

You would laugh, but you never answered him. And he never asked, or expected you to.

You both just fall into the same routine, neither willing to push further in fear of something unravelling.

Then silence. But it wasn’t quiet, it was loud with millions of unspoken words.

This is your ritual.

Sacred in its smallness.

Just you, him, and the liminal quiet of 3:07 a.m.—a time that belongs to no one else.

You never ask why he calls at that hour.

You never ask why he calls you.

And you never ask what this is, even though you want to.

Because some fragile part of you knows, if you give it a name, you might lose it. Perhaps, he knew it too.

So you stay quiet.

And he keeps calling.

And the nights keep passing like this—gentle and aching and almost enough.

The call stretches on in soft sighs and rustling sheets.

You can hear him shifting, maybe lying on his side now. Maybe curled around a pillow the way he used to curl around the conversations—like they were the only real thing left in his world.

He doesn’t know this, but you’ve memorized the cadence of his breaths.

The soft hitch when he’s about to say something vulnerable.

The exhale when he chooses not to.

“You still there?” he asks, even though he knows you are.

“Always,” you say.

It’s not just an answer. It’s a promise.

One you’ve been making without words, over and over again.

Every time you pick up.

Every time you let him in.

He hums softly, like the sound of your voice is enough to anchor him.

Like you are.

You wonder if he can hear the way your heart tightens when he does that—if he can feel, through the thread of connection between your voices, how much of you he holds in those seconds.

“I saw a fox tonight,” he says out of nowhere. “It ran right across the road, like it didn’t care if it got hit.”

There’s a pause, a silence that tastes like something else.

“I thought about stopping. I didn’t.”

You smile, as if he could see you. “You never stop.”

“Maybe I should.”

You don’t say what you’re thinking.

That maybe he already has.

That maybe this is his version of stopping—these calls, these pieces of himself he gives you when the rest of the world is asleep.

He changes the subject before you can answer, asks you about your day like it matters, like he’s collecting the ordinary parts of your life to keep for himself.

You talk until your voice starts to blur.

Until your eyelids flutter and your words slow into half-dreams.

And then, as always, he says, “Go to sleep. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

He never says goodbye.

Just a quiet click. A vanishing voice.

You lie there, eyes tracing the shape of the ceiling in the dark, phone still warm in your hand.

The world outside is still asleep. You try to follow.

But sleep never comes easy after him.

—•

It begins like it always does.

3:07 a.m.

The vibration hums through your nightstand like a ghost tapping its fingers. You don’t even flinch anymore. Your hand finds the phone.

Your voice doesn’t need warming up.

But tonight, he sounds tired.

Not the sleepy kind. The somewhere else kind.

He says your name like he forgot he had permission to.

“Hey,” you breathe.

“Hey,” he echoes, but it lands wrong. Softer. Distant.

You sit up a little in bed, trying to shake off the weight in the air. “Rough night?”

A beat. Then—“No. Just… long.”

You wait for him to say more. He doesn’t.

You’re used to silences with him, but this one presses against your ribs. You shift the phone to your other ear.

“Wanna talk about it?”

He exhales. It’s not quite a sigh. “Not really.”

You nod, though he can’t see it. “Okay.”

There’s the faint sound of a faucet dripping on his end. A distant car. Maybe even a siren. But not him.

Not in the way you’re used to.

You wonder where he is.

Not physically. Emotionally.

He’s in that place he goes sometimes—behind his walls, just out of reach, and you don’t have the map to follow him there.

“Tell me something nice,” he says after a long silence. “Anything.”

You try.

You tell him about a dog you saw with its head out the window, tongue flapping like it didn’t care who was watching.

You tell him about a cloud shaped like a heart that broke apart before you could take a picture.

You tell him about a song you heard that reminded you of him, though you don’t say that part out loud.

He hums, and this time, it doesn’t anchor you.

It leaves you floating.

“Do you think,” he starts, then stops.

“What?”

Another breath. Another almost.

“Do you think we’ll still talk like this… in a year?”

You laugh. It’s the wrong reaction, but you don’t know what else to do. “You’re the one who calls. I just pick up.”

But he doesn’t laugh with you.

He just says, “Yeah. I guess you do.”

And then, quietly—“I hope you sleep well tonight.”

That’s new. He’s never said that before.

“Are you not calling tomorrow?”

He hesitates. Long enough for you to feel it.

“I don’t know.”

The call ends before you can ask anything else.

And that night, for the first time, you fall asleep with your phone pressed to your chest, instead of the pillow beside you.

Like you’re holding on to something you already know you would lose.

The following night you wake up before the call.

3:01 a.m.

You don’t know why.

Maybe your body knows something your mind hasn’t caught up to yet.

Maybe your chest already aches from the absence it hasn’t met.

You lie there, staring at the ceiling, the minutes ticking forward like a countdown you never asked for.

3:03.

You glance at your phone. It’s still.

Silent.

You tell yourself it’s fine. He’s probably just late.

He’s been late before.

Not often. But still.

You wait.

3:07 a.m.

Nothing.

No buzz.

No glow.

No voice murmuring your name like it’s a secret.

You blink at the time, as if it might change if you look at it long enough.

As if you’re dreaming, and you just haven’t pinched yourself awake yet.

You check your signal.

It’s fine.

You check your battery.

Full.

You check your messages.

Empty.

Still, you wait.

3:12.

3:18.

3:24.

By 3:30, your phone is still clenched in your hand, your knuckles aching, but you refuse to put it down.

Not yet.

Not like this.

You don’t call him.

Because that’s not the way this works.

He calls. You answer.

That’s the rule. That’s the rhythm.

That’s the sacred, fragile thing you’ve built.

You don’t chase.

You’ve never had to.

But tonight, the silence is louder than anything he’s ever said to you. It fills the room. It presses against your skin.

It winds around your throat and settles there.

By 4:01, you set the phone on your chest and lie back down.

You don’t cry. You don’t let yourself.

You just stare at the dark until your eyes burn, and you whisper his name once, like it might summon him.

It doesn’t.

You close your eyes, and wait.

But it would never come, you knew it.

—•

Day One

You check your phone every hour.

Even though you know better.

Even though it wasn’t a promise.

He never said forever.

He never said I’ll keep calling.

But he never had to.

Some things don’t need to be said to be true.

Until they aren’t.

You scroll through your old call logs. His name is there.

The pattern. A history of 3:07s that meant something.

Meant everything.

You find comfort in their symmetry, the little blue check marks that look like loyalty.

You tell yourself he must’ve been tired. Or busy. Or just fell asleep.

Maybe tonight.

You keep the volume on, just in case.

Day Two

You don’t sleep.

You lie in bed, eyes dry and wide, watching your phone like it’s a lifeline.

Like if you stare hard enough, you can will it into ringing.

3:07 a.m. comes and goes.

No vibration.

No voice.

No him.

You keep holding your breath.

All the way until 3:15.

Then 3:22.

Then 3:41.

Then it’s 4 a.m., and your chest hurts from how long you’ve been hoping.

You put the phone under your pillow.

Not because you’re done waiting.

Because the screen feels too cold against your fingers.

Day Five

You almost text him.

You type it out—hey—and then backspace it.

You try again—everything okay?—but it feels too raw, too real, too much like begging.

You stare at the blinking cursor for ten full minutes.

Then you close the app.

But you don’t delete the draft.

Not yet.

Day Eleven

You change your alarm. You stop looking at the clock at night.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter anymore.

You lie to yourself a lot these days.

But your body still wakes up on its own.

3:07 a.m. sharp.

Your eyes open like clockwork, and your hand reaches for the phone before your mind can catch up.

It’s not there.

It never is.

Week Three

You laugh with a friend and feel it crack in your ribs.

You make a playlist and skip every song that reminds you of late night conversations.

You open his name in your contacts, stare at it, and close it again.

You tell yourself you’re fine.

You even say it out loud once.

But your voice doesn’t sound like yours anymore.

Month Two

You stop checking.

You stop waking up.

You stop listening for something that isn’t coming back.

But you still dream of him sometimes.

And in the dream, it’s always the same.

A phone ringing.

You answer.

And then you wake up before he says anything.

By month four, you start sleeping through the night. Not always.

But sometimes.

The first time it happens, you wake with a start and check the time in a panic. 6:41 a.m.

You missed it. And for a moment, your heart clenches—like you’ve broken something sacred by not waking at 3:07.

Then you remember. There’s nothing to miss.

You lie back down and it’s the first time in months you fall asleep again without the weight of waiting.

Soon, month six rolls around.

You rearrange your room.

Not for him. For you.

The bed moves by the window. You get new sheets. A softer lamp. You delete your old playlists. You keep one song, though—the one that always made you think of him. Not because you want to, but because you can’t make yourself let go of everything.

You start writing again.

Reading again.

Living again, in bits and pieces.

You don’t tell anyone about the way you used to whisper into the phone in the dark, or how you held your breath between his silences, hoping they’d mean something.

It becomes a memory you keep tucked behind your ribs, like a book you never finished.

Someone new asks for your number in month eight.

You gave it.

You smile when you do it. Not because you’re ready. But because it doesn’t feel like betrayal anymore. Just possibility.

He doesn’t call. You don’t think about it as much.

Except when the night feels too quiet. Or when your phone buzzes and you hope, just for a second, that it’s him.

But the ache isn’t sharp anymore.

It’s dull.

Manageable.

Almost gentle.

Soon, you’d lost count how long it’s been.

You forget his voice.

You realize this in the middle of brushing your teeth. It hits you like a quiet truth—you can remember the words he said, the things you felt, but not the exact shape of his voice.

Not the softness. Not the timbre.

Just the echo of him.

You stare at yourself in the mirror, toothbrush in hand, and try to summon it back.

You can’t.

And somehow, that hurts more than the silence ever did.

Now, almost a year later.

You stopped waking at 3:07.

You don’t remember the last time you did.

Your body has moved on.

Even if your heart is still learning how.

And on the rare night he crosses your mind, it doesn’t hollow you out anymore. It just lingers. Like a song you don’t skip, but don’t put on repeat either.

You survived it.

You’re still surviving it.

—•

It’s late.

But not that late.

You’re up reading something you won’t remember in the morning, bathed in the golden quiet of a lamp you’ve grown fond of. The air hums with a calm you’ve earned. You don’t look at the time anymore.

Not the way you used to.

Your phone is face down on the nightstand.

It doesn’t live in your hand anymore.

You’ve let go of that version of yourself—the one who used to hold it like it meant something.

So when it buzzes, your first instinct isn’t panic. It’s confusion.

You glance at it casually.

And freeze.

3:07 a.m.

Your stomach drops.

You blink once, twice, as if your eyes are playing tricks on you.

But no—it’s real.

His name is on the screen. Glowing like it never left.

Like time never passed.

Your heart stutters.

You don’t pick up.

You just stare.

It keeps ringing. Four times. Five.

You almost let it go to voicemail.

Almost.

But something in you—the part that still remembers the sound of his breath, the way he used to say your name when the world felt too heavy—that part reaches for the phone.

You answer.

Silence.

And then. “Hey.”

You close your eyes.

It’s him.

The voice you forgot.

The voice you mourned.

But now it’s real. Now it’s here.

You don’t say anything. Can’t.

He swallows on the other end, and the line crackles with something like regret.

“I didn’t think you’d answer.”

You still don’t speak. Your mouth is dry. Your chest too full of things you swore you buried.

“I just…” He pauses. “I’m getting married.”

You let out a breath, but it doesn’t sound like one. It sounds like grief cracking open all over again.

“I wanted to tell you myself,” he adds, like it matters. Like it changes anything.

You press your lips together. You taste a year’s worth of silence on your tongue.

“Why now?” you whisper.

“I don’t know.” His voice is soft. “I kept thinking about you. About how I never said goodbye.”

Your eyes burn.

“I would’ve answered,” you say, and it comes out too quiet, too late.

“I know.”

And then—“I’m sorry.”

There’s a pause. Long. Heavy.

You picture him in the dark, phone pressed to his cheek like always, saying things he should’ve said a year ago.

But it’s not a year ago anymore.

It’s now.

And you’ve changed.

“I’m happy for you,” you lie. Or maybe you’re not lying. Maybe you’re just trying to mean it.

He breathes in like he might say something else.

But he doesn’t.

Just a simple, “Goodnight.”

And then, the call ends.

No click. Just absence.

You stare at your phone.

3:13 a.m.

The silence feels different this time.

Not a wound. Not a ritual.

Just… an ending.

—•

You don’t remember saying yes.

Not really.

Somewhere between the call and the invitation, your mouth formed the word like muscle memory.

As if a part of you still wanted to be near him, even if every part of you knew it would hurt.

You almost backed out.

Twice.

Once while buying the dress.

Once in the car, parked just outside the venue, hands gripping the wheel like it could anchor you.

But you’re here now.

And it’s beautiful.

Of course it is.

The kind of beautiful that feels designed to make you ache. Everything is soft and warm and gold-lit, like a dream you’re not supposed to be in. Laughter spills across white tablecloths. Music drifts like smoke. Everyone is dressed in joy.

You keep your hands folded. Keep your face neutral. Keep your heart quiet.

You don’t look for him.

Not at first.

But your eyes find him anyway.

There he is.

In a black suit. Smiling in that effortless way, the way he used to sound at 3:07 when he’d call and say your name like it mattered.

He looks happy.

And it cuts, clean and deep.

He hasn’t seen you yet. You hope he won’t. You don’t want to be a shadow on this day.

But then—he turns.

And his eyes find yours.

Just for a second.

Just long enough for something to flicker there. Recognition. Regret. Or maybe just memory.

He doesn’t look away.

Neither do you.

And then the music swells.

Everyone stands.

She walks in.

She’s stunning. Glowing.

Effortless in a way that makes you feel like a child again, holding something breakable you were never meant to touch.

He turns to face her, and that’s when he looks away.

That’s when your breath catches.

That’s when you realize you’ve been holding something inside you for years, and now it’s slipping through your fingers.

You don’t cry.

You promised yourself you wouldn’t.

You just stand there, watching the man who used to call you in the middle of the night take someone else’s hand.

And you smile.

Not because you’re happy.

But because you’re still here.

Because you made it.

Because loving someone doesn’t always mean staying.

Sometimes it means showing up for their happiness, even when it costs you your own.

And when the vows are said, and the cheers erupt, and the kiss happens like a punctuation mark at the end of an old sentence.

You let it go.

Quietly. Completely.

You don’t stay for the reception.

You slip out before anyone can stop you. Before he can find you. Before you forget how to be okay again.

Outside, the sun is setting. The air smells like lavender and something new.

You don’t look back.

You don’t need to.

Because now, you wouldn’t wait for 3:07 a.m.

#lads #lads x reader #lads xavier #love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #lnds xavier #l&ds xavier #xavier love and deepspace #xavier x reader #xavier x you #xavier x mc #xavier angst #lnds x reader #lnds #lnds drabble

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biancadoes1 · 2 days ago

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I haven't seen the yungblood pics you guys are talking about and I know a lot of us are getting tired of this. Everything. Or maybe it was me kinda expecting A's repeated appearances but also it made me realized something.

If there is one thing Luke is really consistent with his appearances with A is that, he cannot act like an actual boyfriend in love with his girlfriend, and he cannot act like he is genuinely enjoying her company. And we cannot see Luke's smiling whenever he is making physical contanct with A.

And the consistent Luke's off body language.

I'm so glad I have a relative who studies Kinesics and I showed her Luke's all public appearances with A. And she pointed out really interesting things.

● If there is a repeated physical signs of discomfort or like a monotonous facial expression, something massively is WRONG behind the scenes. (She was talking about how off putting Luke's facial expression is. And I haven't told her about them being alleged couple.)

● I know a lot of people misinterpret body language, but if you want to know how comfortable someone is with other people, just see how much of distance their body is with others. If the distance between is like, not even a tiny insect or an air can separate them, not even a single gap, that's when you can tell the level of comfort two people have. (I showed my relative the vid of Luke and A at the water in Italy and she was gagged by how much of that screams stress all over.)

● Look how his body is always, like always facing away from her. That's a clear sign of someone being forced to keep somebody who is he not comfortable with. (She's talking about the BOSS event here)

● The nervous energy he was exhibiting in all events(that I showed my relative) is not normal when he is with her company.

And then I told her they are apparently a couple and this is her response.

My relative also said, "You don't need to be an expert to know if someone is genuinely feeling discomfort at the company of someone they don't want to be around. Say, I can tell from the things you showed me, it seems like the guy(Luke) was really trying his best to keep that uneasiness under wraps whenever he was with her. And it starting to show, because his body is start to fidget whenever it can now. And the forced posture, and the distance is loud. He is leaning his body away from her, through pics or vids you can see it. Even while they are walking despite the attempt to conceal it via physical contact. He may be holding her hand but the distance between their interlock hands and his body is so visible. Whoever is this people may be, people needs to realize that his facial expression is like a cry for help. And I'm not even kidding. That vid of them sitting in a table? The silence and the reduced participation with each other? That's a clear sign of a forced. That alone should tell you that something is incredibly wrong, despite you telling me they are couple. In my truest opinion, they are not."

I tried to asked somebody to know if we are just being delusional or not. And I'm glad to know at least I am not the only one seeing that consistent uneasiness with Luke's face whenever he is with Antonia.

Let me know your thoughts B. Thanks!

First off, I love posts like this with opinions from outsiders. It's refreshing and helpful to get a temp check for what most of us (on this blog at least) are currently thinking.

I agree with all of this, too. This is what most of us have picked up on and why we're all tired af right now 🤣

But it's nice to see it from the perspective of someone who studies this because it shows how damn noticeable it is.

It's VERY easy to glance at pics of them and believe them to be a couple. That's fine if that's the case and all people choose to do. However, when you take the time to look back at all these appearances just this year alone? It really doesn't speak to two people in a relationship at all. Add in everything since June 2024 and it paints a really different picture than what the current surface level view provides.

Thank you so much for sharing anon ♥️

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frickingnerd · 2 days ago

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dating bakugou, kirishima, denki & sero

pairing: katsuki bakugou x eijirou kirishima x gn!reader x denki kaminari x hanta sero

tags: polyamorous relationship, wholesome fluff, competitive!bakugou, jealous boyfriends, friends to lovers

bakugou, kirishima, kaminari and sero were your friends before they were your boyfriends! all four of them had a huge crush on you, which was obvious to everyone but you!

there was always that worry that once one of them would confess to you and you'd choose your favorite, the group would crumble and friendships would end.

but ultimately, there was no need to choose one of them! all four boys were more than content to share you, as long as it was with each other!

all four guys have quite the jealous side, at least when it comes to other men! if anyone dares to flirt with you or look at you the wrong way, your four boyfriends are ready to scare them away!

but they're fine seeing you with each other! perhaps it's because they know each other so well and know that they'll always treat you right! plus, there are no secrets in the relationship, so if anything happens between you and one of the boys, everyone will know it!

there's a bit of a competition when it comes to your firsts! it's impossible to have your first kiss with four boys at the same time, so you do have to decide who you want to give your firsts to!

especially bakugou wants to keep all of those firsts to himself! he wants to be the one you reach those milestones with and this competitiveness and clingy behaviour does cause some trouble at the start of your relationship!

while you rarely argue with the boys, it's not uncommon for them to argue with each other! if something causes trouble, they need to talk about it, no matter how uncomfortable it might be!

kirishima is always the voice of reason! while bakugou is often so hot headed that he turns a normal conversation into a full blown argument, kirishima is the one to save the situation and mediate!

kaminari and sero fulfill a more fun role in the relationship! those two are the affectionate flirts, who'll boost your confidence with how eagerly they flirt with you and praise you!

they are also the clingiest! kirishima loves to be affectionate with you, but also gives you all the space you need, while bakugou is only clingy when he knows he has you all alone!

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sylus-doll · 2 days ago

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Synopsis: Sometimes, when spending time with him, you feel like he owes you something. You decide to tell him about it one day.

Warnings: References to Sylus's Myth.

Author's note: Was gonna post this earlier but I got sick and my period hit me real bad LOL. Comments and reblogs are appreciated, enjoy! <3

You loved spending time with Sylus. It's the most fun you'll have, no matter how ridiculous your ideas may be. He always finds a way to make it work. With him, the word “limits” has erased itself from your dictionary. Instead, you ask yourself just how far Sylus is willing to go for your sake. But the answer is simple, really. His resources and time seem to be unending when you are the focal point of the picture. Ask for the moon, and he will bring back the stars along with it.

Even if the two of you aren't going out, choosing to stay in and bask in each other's company. These domestically intimate moments are just as— if not more— precious. Just like now. You've dragged Sylus into his bathroom, an assortment of skincare products you wanted to try already sitting on the sink countertop. Grabbing a tub of facial mask, you twist open the lid, scooping some of it with two fingers.

“Bend down. And close your eyes.” Your words come out more demanding than you wanted it to.

“My... So bossy, sweetie. No magic words to sweeten the deal?” But Sylus doesn't even try to act like he's reluctant to do so.

Spreading the clay mask on his face, you take the time to admire his features. Tracing your fingers along his strong eyebrows, down the bump of his nose, over his prominent cupid's bow lips. For someone not blessed by the gods, he sure looks like one. Sylus is the kind of beauty that makes artists weep. One that you cannot capture within a still painting, a muse no one has the skill to recreate. So devastatingly beautiful, it aches.

“Are you applying a mask, or sculpting my face, kitten?” The deep timber of Sylus's voice breaks you out of your trance.

Looking away, you place a finger on his lips.

“Shush. It's a clay mask, you'll crack it.”

He hates when you do that. Looking away from him, avoiding his eyes— pulling away from him. Sylus doesn't understand where he went wrong. You were perfectly fine up until recently. The growing distance of your bond claws at him. Did he do something? He wants to know, needs you to tell him how he can mend whatever damage he made. He could not live shunned in your silence or knowing he hurt you in some way.

How tempting it is to give in. To want to surrender and melt in your lover's embrace. Yet still, you look away. It's something you have felt since the two of you first met, back when Sylus still gazed at you with disdain. You never understood it. Why you were consumed by the need to devour him. Something that, for some inexplicable reason, you knew bone-deep that this desire is something only he can fulfill.

Two fingers; pointer and thumb, take your chin. Sylus tilts your face toward him. An emotion you could not decipher simmering in his brilliant, scarlet eyes. His brows furrow, lips opening and closing again. He wants to ask you— the questions on the tip of his tongue ready to spill out. But he doesn't know if that will scare you away more. So he hesitates, wondering if understanding your recent behaviour is out of his reach.

“...Sy? Can I tell you something?” You ask, a little unsure. You aren't stupid, the tension is clear. You know he wants answers. And you won't let him live in doubt of your relationship.

Sylus's eyes widen a fraction. Only for a split second before masking with his usual suaveness. You want to talk, that's good.

“Of course, sweetie. What is it?”

Reaching out, you cradle the right side of his face, thumb just below his right eye. You don't miss the way he shudders, gaze following your touch. His lips tremble when you begin to stroke your thumb on his cheek. Such a sensitive man, always so attuned to your touch. Like your warmth is a hearth, like your hands are a shelter from the cold. One of his hands cup your own, making you linger on his face.

“Lately... When I look at your right eye, it feels like I want it. It's scary. I don't want to hurt you. But something in me gnaws desperately to take from you like it belongs to me.” There. The full, honest truth.

Sylus is stunned. He expected anything else. A problem with him, something to change— about himself or otherwise. Perhaps even you wanting to leave him. But no. Sweet, lovely you. What you were so worried about is a centuries-old desire of yours. A desire for him that you couldn't understand. Albeit, you don't know that, yet it still brings him relief. It seems you are the same soul he fell in love with ages ago, even if you will never remember it.

He leans closer, palms now cradling your face. “Have I not taught you to be greedy with me? If you simply wanted more of me, just say that.”

Although Sylus yearns to tell you what this truly means, he understands that you wouldn't believe him. And that's okay. He will wait however long he needs to until you come to terms with yourself or remember your past. Rest assured that you will never be alone in your journey. Sylus will help you clear the path, guide you along the way even if it may be deceitful of him. He just wants his beloved to come back home.

“Don't you understand that all I am is yours? There is nothing you could do to hurt me if I allowed it in the first place. Take whatever you want from me— take me. I am nothing if not yours to love, entirely, my beloved.”

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cerisereids · 2 days ago

Text

𝗜’𝗹𝗹 𝗕𝗲 𝗪𝗮𝘁𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗬𝗼𝘂 (𝗘𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗕𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗵 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗧𝗮𝗸𝗲)- 𝗦.𝗥.

Pairing- Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader

W/C- 6.5k (crazy shit)

Summary- You and Spencer have never gotten along. Yet, you can’t seem to ever take your eyes off each other.

Contains- 18+ MDNI, not super smutty but there is a sex scene (not super detailed) canon typical violence, enemies to lovers, Spencer losing all brain cells over a pretty girl, bitchy!Spencer, reader and Spencer are held captive by unsub, dramatic love confessions, kissing, some icky misogyny directed at reader from unsub but it's quite brief, guns, unsub death, honestly this reads a lot like a regular cm episode but with Spencer being down bad, this low-key turned into smut when I didn't plan on it but c'est la vie

A/N: I can’t find the OP of the divider but it is not mine!! This is a little proofread but not a lot of proofread, I am also thinking about making a part 2 w some actual smutty smut so lmk if you guys like this!

An itch of irritation crawls up your spine, a deep ache settling in your skull as you sit in the BAU conference room. You massage your temples as a rapid, grating voice nestles its way into your ears.

“The fact that this unsub feels comfortable targeted a densely populated area such as D.C. tells us he’s either impulsive or incredibly bold,” he remarks, arms crossed, a pensive look on his face as he studies the map in front of him.

Despite your annoyance, you keep your eyes trained on the profiler as he rattles on. Your eyes narrow just slightly, You’re seated directly across the table from him, and you watch the way he gets lost in the information, almost like it’s in control of him as he frantically circles different locations on the map. Spencer Reid speaks with his entire body, he always has, ever since you started at the BAU one year prior.

“Maybe it’s a comfort zone,” he stands back, leaning his weight on one leg. Your eyes drift down his lanky frame for the briefest moment, lingering on his popped hip. They furiously snap back up to his face once he starts speaking again, cheeks heating up.

“The lines of longitude and latitude at each murder sight are equivalent to the central area of the city,” he mumbles.

“Okay, so we need to know what’s there. Something clearly happened to our unsub that has made him choose these locations,” you cross your arms over your chest, “you really think our unsub measured all of the crime scenes on a map? That shows an incredible amount of organization that I don’t think he has.”

Your tone is a bit defensive, skeptical of his work. To you, profiling is a subjective art. Your best profiling comes from understanding emotions, trauma. Spencer works completely different.

While you do have to recognize his intelligence, the strict logic in which he operates in this job is not something you entirely agree with. He spouts rapid fire facts nearly robotically, like he’s reading straight from a textbook. It drives you batty.

You’re not typically someone who’s thrown off by a different approach. Normally, you accept and encourage a fresh set of eyes while you work. If it wasn’t for what Spencer said your first week…

Plus, you had an early acceptance to Harvard before you decided to go to the academy. His intelligence doesn’t impress you that much.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I do. He’s very clearly organized, it fits the profile,” he states, his irritated gaze pointed directly at you.

You stare back brazenly, in a silent competition with the man across from you.

“I’m really just unsure how that helps us right now when central D.C. is so big. How are we going to narrow down his tie to the city?” His eyes narrow to slits at your question.

“She’s got a point,” Hotch succinctly breaks through the tension, and you’re reminded that you’re in a room with the entire team. “Give the information you have to Garcia, have her narrow it down. Afterwards, I want you and Prentiss on victimology in the bullpen,” he says.

You puff your chest slightly, sliding out from your chair to get closer to the evidence board. You feel his eyes burning a hole into your back before he huffs an irritated sigh, exiting the conference room with a harsh slam of the door. You keep your gaze on him through the window as he walks to Penelope’s.

Spencer grumbles under his breath the whole way down to Penelope. Head down, brows furrowed, he barges in there with the map. Without so much as a hello, he posts it on her wall.

“Well, hello to you too, Doctor!” She chastises him as he keeps his gaze on the map, like she’s not even there.

He knows it’s mean, that she deserves more respect than that, his brain is just unable to process anything other than her. She makes him want to explode.

“Sorry,” he grumbles, continuing his previous work on the map.

“Spence, you gotta stop letting her get under your skin like that,” he hears the pity in her voice, which only makes his blood boil hotter.

“Nobody’s under my skin, I’m trying to solve the case,” he’s speaking too quickly, like that’s even possible for him.

“Yeah, okay,” she mumbles sarcastically. She begins picking up what he’s doing on the map, entering coordinates in her computer as he works.

“She just-” his pen clatters to her desk, a knowing smile growing on Penelope’s face as she types. He ignores it. “She has to question everything I do! If she doesn’t trust me, why are we on the same team together. You know?” He huffs a heavy breath.

Penelope turns to him, “Spencer, she trusts you. Hotch wouldn’t have either of you on the team if she didn’t. Just because she has a different approach doesn’t mean she’s undermining you.”

He rolls his eyes, he knows she’s just trying to help. The irritation crawling under his sweater, seeping into his skin, is suffocating. He tugs on his collar so he can breathe.

“Then why does everything she say feel like an attack?” He asks, scratching the back of his head.

“Have you ever thought that maybe you want to impress her?” Penelope asks, and it knocks the wind out of him. “I mean, she’s like, the only person in the world who isn’t totally blown away by your incredible mind. Probably because she’s so smart herself,” she remarks under her breath. He rolls his eyes at that. “Regardless, you want her to agree with you, right? You might just want to impress her.”

Spencer’s face heats up as she raises her brow at him. His gaze immediately drops to his shoes, fidgeting awkwardly before turning back to his map.

“We need to get back to work,” he mutters.

To Spencer’s dismay, she stands in his exact line of sight as he’s with Emily, working on victimology. He stands at her desk, and he really should be listening to what Emily is saying. Instead, he has a laser focus on her.

She’s leaning over the conference room table, her back to the window. There’s a slight arch in her back as she pops her hip out. The silky fabric of her black pencil skirt clings to her and Spencer almost forgets why he’s so mad at her all the time.

Emily follows his line of sight and he rolls his eyes, as if she’s the one being ridiculous. The deepest parts of him know it’s not fair, but he’s never done well with his feelings on display. He feels vulnerable, like a raw nerve.

He feels exposed at the low chuckle escaping Emily’s lips. His gaze shoots towards the case file, now in an iron grip in his hands, clearing the awkwardness that has crept up his throat.

“I’m not sure who either of you think you’re fooling,” she nonchalantly mumbles under her breath, viewing her own copy of the case file.

“I’m sorry?” He snaps, his eyes squeezing shut in a long blink, as if he’s trying to unsee her.

“Y’know, if you just talked to her, really got to the bottom of your disagreements, maybe you’d see that you two are a lot more alike than you think,” she raises her brow at him, and it feels as if his heart’s been slashed open, bleeding on display for everyone to see. He always feels this way when someone shines a light on his vulnerability, his natural instinct to run from it. If it’s not there, then he can’t get hurt.

“I’m just trying to catch a killer,” he squeaks, his high pitched voice giving him away almost immediately. Emily playfully rolls her eyes and chuckles once more. His heart rate picks up, cheeks heating to an alarming degree.

The door of the conference opens, then. As if the universe is playing a cruel, practical joke on him, the click of her heels get closer and closer, until her perfume has invaded his senses.

“So, we figured out that our unsub was recently released from a mental institution in the greater D.C. area. Garcia is working on which one, but is there anything in the victimology that points toward abandonment issues? Particularly from a motherly figure?” She rattles off, the sound of her voice like a knife to the chest. It’s sharp, infiltrating every piece of him, stripping him of his defenses even further.

He stares at her, unabashedly. His eyes trail from her pink button up, sleekly tucked into that godforsaken skirt. He studies her as if it’s the first time he’s seen her, memorizing the ways her curves ebb and flow around the fabric.

His heart picks up when she looks back, but he doesn’t look away. Their eye contact is tense, as always. There’s a fire in her eyes that’s always there when they’re in the middle of a case. Her passion burns through, heating him all over.

“I think our unsub is too organized for him to be abandoned,” he replies, “typically when we see people traumatized by abandonment are reckless, but he’s taken the time to clean up after himself, even starting the dishwasher and laundry machine in his victims’ homes.”

“You still think he’s organized?” she asks right back, not missing a beat.

“He loaded the dishwasher and the laundry machine, that’s not organized to you?” His skin crawls as he answers, the usual thrill of her challenge thrumming through him.

“But if you look at these pictures…” she trails, grabbing crime scene photos of the laundry and open dishwasher from her file, “this is not the doing of an organized person. The plates are mixed with cups, there’s bowls where the silverware would be. It’s very evident he just shoved everything in there. Same thing with the laundry, we have socks with jeans. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe it’s a mix of both,” Emily suggests, “a sort of compensating? He was abandoned by his mother so now he’s completing what could be seen as motherly duties.”

“I could definitely see that,” the voice to his right mutters, and he watches as she chews the tip of her pen in concentration.

“We don’t normally see that in male serial killers…” he trails off, trying his best to appear nonchalant as he flips through the case file. The one he’s already memorized front to back.

“There’s a first time for everything,” she says, the slight uptick in her tone barely there, but he catches it. He always does, a telltale sign that he’s gotten under her skin. He seems to live there these days.

He takes her in again, the glint of irritation in her eyes. A hand on her hip, the other resting on a chair near Emily’s desk. Her stance is closed off, shutting him out. Even still, he sees the way her eyes drift toward his direction. Her gaze is facing the floor, but he can tell his shoes are in her line of sight, and a strange surge of pride rushes through his chest. He can’t repress the need for her to notice him, in any capacity.

You feel his eyes the second they hit you. It’s like a sixth sense, knowing exactly when he finds you. It’s become natural, almost instinctual, for his eyes to be on you. You’re no better, though, mirroring him as you watch each other.

He’s thin, sinking into his button up, a pair of slacks hanging low on his hips. You catch the way it pulls taut where it meets his belted waist, the slightest bit of skin peeking through at his hip.

Your heart races at the sight, even more so when your eyes snap back up to his, and you know he caught you. Your body heats all over, every bit of you on fire as his gaze pierces you. The heat spreads internally, acid bubbling in your stomach. It feels as if he sees right through you, looking into the deepest parts.

You shake your head, shedding the feeling of him like a snake. “What have you guys found?” You ask, doing your best to focus on the victimology.

“We think he’s finding these women from their social media accounts. He’s targeting women who post emotionally. The last few posts from each victim were about some hardship or another. Maybe there was a woman in his life who made her emotions his burden,” Emily suggests, and you cut your gaze to her, shaking Spencer out of your system.

Then, you hear it. It’s small. Under his breath. It infuriates you.

“Wonder what that’s like.”

Something inside you snaps, like a rubber band that’s been pulled too tight. It ricochets off your heart, piercing your stomach until you lose control over your response.

“I’m sorry, what is your problem?” It takes all the energy you have left to not absolutely screech. Your snappy tone still calls the attention of the people around you. You feel eyes on the two of you as you pierce him with a cruel gaze. You no longer have the capacity to care.

“My problem?” He retorts, knowing full well what she is talking about.

“You have been at odds with me this entire case. Actually, since I joined the bureau,” You scoff, your insides boiling over. All the frustration of bickering with Spencer for the past three years has finally come to a head. “If you don’t trust me if you don’t like what I have to say, then you need to be a man and do something about it,” the words drip off your tongue like acid.

“Like what?” He bites back, squaring his shoulders toward you, “take it to Hotch? You and I both know where that would get us. Why is it just on me? Because you’re never wrong, right? Our BAU princess is always correct-”

“Enough.”

Hotch’s stern tone cuts through the sarcasm falling from Spencer, and the two of you straighten up in record time.

“The rest of the team is going into the field to finish this case. You two are on paperwork duty until we get back. That’s an order,” he turns to collect the rest of the team, you and Spencer mirroring each other’s shock as you watch them go.

You deflate. The smack of your file hitting Emily’s desk is the only audible sound as you grab a box, hauling it to the conference room. Spencer follows suit, and the two of you begin to work in tense, angry silence.

You study him as he works, long, deft fingers moving in a rapid speed that nearly hypnotizes you. You catch his brown eyes, softer now, still focused as they flit through the endless pile of papers. You massage your heart, as if it’d ease the ever growing ache there.

“Do you remember this case?” Spencer asks softly, and you can’t recall a time he’s spoken to you in such a tone. It makes your heart flutter in a way that scares you, the giddiness warming your skin. You roll your shoulders, hoping it’d release the tension built up in your neck.

You lean a bit towards Spencer, glancing at the file that reads, ‘Plymouth Family.’ You can’t help the smile that spreads your lips, your cheeks bunching up around your eyes.

“Family of four, two girls, all kidnapped, all recovered safely,” you recite softly. You touch the pictures of the young girls, your eyes glassing over. “Four and six…” you whisper shakily, “they were just babies.”

You remember the way they clung to you when you found them in the shed they were kept in. They were dirty, smelly, and shaking. Their arms and legs were wrapped tight around you as you carried them to the medic. You sat with them the whole time the team looked for their parents. You were there when they woke up in the hospital.

“You were amazing on this case,” Spencer says. You feel the warm skin of his arm against yours, and you realize how close you’ve gotten. “You were empathetic, smart…” he trails off, eyes lifting to your face.

Your eyes dart up to meet his. “Thank you,” you mutter softly, your eyes scanning the length of his face.

“You’re welcome,” he replies in the same tone.

“Spencer,” you start, and he knows what you’re going to say before you go any further. His breath hitches, and you continue anyway.

“How did we get here?” You ask, shaking your head incredulously, “We’re two of the smartest minds on the team and we’re stuck here on paperwork duty.”

“I would argue it’s our inability to work together without high levels of conflict,” he responds, sarcasm lacing his tone.

“Yeah, well, you made that bed, now we both have to lie in it, I guess,” you mutter under your breath.

“I’m sorry, how is that so?” He asks.

“Are you serious?” You respond, your blood starting to race through your veins. His brows raise, prompting you to continue. “Do you not remember one of our first conversations after I joined the bureau?”

His brows furrow in confusion. You keep going.

“We were in St. Louis. We were working on the case with that Jack the Ripper copycat. I was so focused on analyzing the unsub’s background, digging into everything I could. You told me that if I value emotion over logic I’m going to get tunnel vision. That I wouldn’t last long if I let myself stray from the facts.” The words still sting, all these years later. You avoid looking at him, turning your back to him so he can’t look at you either.

“We’ve been like this for three years because I told you that you value emotion over logic? I thought that was a known fact,” he states plainly, as he always does when he thinks something is obvious.

“We’ve been like this for three years because you were someone I looked up to. When I was scouted for the unit by Gideon, a big reason why I agreed to join was because I’d get to work with you. The great Dr. Spencer Reid. I read about you, when I was at Harvard. I was amazed. A little jealous, too, but amazed all the same. When you said that, it-it was belittling. Like you didn’t believe in my ability to do the job. I spent everyday since trying to prove you wrong,” you rattle off in one long breath.

Spencer is still as a statue, watching you intently. His eyes are blown wide, his mouth slightly parted.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters lowly. “I’ve always used logic. It’s gotten me where I am. You came in here with a completely different approach, and it worked. Really well. It threw me off, it intimidated me…” he trails off, his cheeks tinting red as his chin drops to his chest.

“Intimidated? By me?” You saunter closer to him, a wicked grin on your face. You plop down on the chair across from him, knees barely knocking.

Spencer’s heart beats faster as she leans closer to him, her knees now slotted between his. The contact makes him dizzy.

The beep of his cell phone jolts him away from her. Spencer fumbles with his phone for a minute, before opening it with a shaky, “Yes, Penelope?”

You can hear her screech over the phone. “You and Miss BAU Princess need to turn on the news. Now.”

His cheeks heat at the nickname. He chokes on his own breath, exhaling sharply before grabbing the remote to the big screen in the conference room.

What he sees makes his stomach drop.

Multiple black SUVs, driving at top speed on the tail of a dirty, beat up grey sedan.

At first, in the pent up anticipation of the moment, he hardly registered her grabbing his hand. Once he did, the feeling of her branded his skin. A white hot sensation that spreads to the tips of his toes all the way to the top of his head. He wraps his fingers around hers and squeezes.

He takes a glance at her, and he wishes he hadn’t. His heart aches at the look of sheer panic on her face. Her furrowed brows, glassy eyes, and parted lips squeeze at his heart from all sides. He pulls her into him, allowing her to take refuge in his chest.

It’s not long after that he hears it, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. It’s the creak of the door. The click of a loaded gun. She must feel his rigidity, because she lifts her head up to look him in the eye.

“What?” She questions, lifting her head from his chest. She feels it too, he can tell. The lingering sense that something’s not right.

“Someone’s here,” he mutters, “stay here,” he moves to arm himself. It’s muscle memory at this point, his body moving of his own accord.

He feels the scoff she emanates deep within him. A small smile forces its way on his lips at the sound.

“Yeah right,” she replies. He feels her behind him, her own gun peeking through his peripheral.

He’s flooded with adrenaline, his blood thrumming in his veins. He moves slowly, tactical steps as he opens the conference room door. He’s met with a sharp pain cracking down on his head, rendering him unconscious.

Your hands are bound behind your back, legs tied together. Your wrists and ankles chafe raw at your resistance. You bite down on the tape plastered over your mouth, desperate to claw your way out. Your heart races, adrenaline pumping through your veins as you try and maneuver through the conference room without being seen.

After Spencer was knocked unconscious, he was dragged out of the conference room. You’re not sure where he is, and the thought renders you dizzy. You attempt to peek out of the window, the bullpen now completely cleared, save for the agents that were caught in the crossfire.

You flinch at the sound of loud, hard footsteps nearing the door. Scrambling back into place, you avoid eye contact as the strange man drags an unconscious Spencer toward you. He props him up next to you, his chin hitting his chest.

Your eyes glass over as you take in the bruise coloring his right eye a deep blue. The split on his pouting, bloody lip is crusting over.

A pair of cold fingers dip under your chin, forcing your head up to look this man in the eye. His hard stare burns into you, but before he can do anything, his phone begins ringing.

“Saved by the bell…” a gruff voice spits out, letting go of your face with a shove.

Your eyes squeeze shut, bracing for contact on the wall behind you. The blow stings for a moment, but you’re able to shake it off when Spencer starts to stir next to you. Your breath hitches as he grumbles, his eyes barely opening.

“Spencer,” you whisper, “what is going on?”

“It looks like a team,” he considers, maneuvering his body to sit up further.

"Where were you?" you hissed back, worry lacing every feature of your face.

"Hotch's office," he grumbles, "I kept...I kept drifting in and out of consciousness. But I spoke to him. He's fixated on the two of us, but he wanted a lot of information about you."

He adjusts, cracking his neck from where it rests against the wall. "Hotch is going to have to hire carpet cleaners when they get back," sarcasm laces his tone, and you can't help but roll your eyes.

"You just got beat within an inch of your life, and you're making jokes?" you scoff affectionately.

"How could you tell?" his voice shifts then, seriousness lacing his tone suddenly.

"How could I tell that you got hit?" you repeat, eyes scanning over his face and body. "You're bruised in multiple spots, a bloody lip, a black eye forming..."

"You're always looking at me. You think I've never noticed?" he mutters, and it steals the breath from your lungs.

"You're always looking at me!" you hiss, no choice but to deflect.

"I know."

It's the last thing that's said before the door opens again. You sit straight up, your back pressed against the wall as the man shuffles in. You immediately clock the gun in his hand, pointed directly at Spencer.

He stalks over to you, gun still pointed in Spencer's direction. His dry, cracked finger hooks under your chin, pulling your head up to face his.

"Do you want to know what he told me in there?" his head jerks back, gesturing towards Hotch's office. He stands up, moving towards Spencer again. "Wanna know what your pathetic, disgusting, deplorable coworker told me when you weren't here?" Each insult is matched with swift kicks to Spencer's stomach and chest. He groans, rolling on his back now as he tries not to succumb to the pain.

Your eyes don't leave him. You're not sure you could pull your gaze away if you tried. You don't have much of a choice, though, as the man yanks your head back to look at him.

"He told me..." the gun comes up under your chin now, holding your head in place once again, "that he has a little crush on you. Isn't that just pitiful?" he laughs sarcastically, shaking his head.

You study the man, recalling all the knowledge you gained about him over the course of this case. He's insecure, probably impotent. He hunts women because he could never get them any other way.

"Guys like us..." he yanks Spencer to sit up by his collar, "we don't get girls like that." He's nearly spitting in Spencer's face, and you know he's slowly dying inside.

"Spencer..." you breathe out, "is it true?" You do your best to appear completely turned off, though you know you never could be. Your brows furrow in disgust as your lips curl downward.

"See, look at her," he's got Spencer's hair in an iron grip, forcing you two to look at each other. "She's disgusted, she doesn't want you. How could you be so stupid?"

"I just got caught up in it," the words spill out of Spencer's mouth, "we spend so much time together, and you're so pretty, so witty, so smart. I just couldn't help but fall in love with you."

Those words knock the air right out of your chest. A crush is one thing, but in love? You shiver, his words unzipping down your spine.

"You see that?" he growls, yanking Spencer's hair even harder, "she doesn't want you."

"He's right," Spencer flinches at your words, and you continue despite the hurt in your heart, "I don't want you, Spencer. Because I want you."

You turn your gaze to the unsub, staring him straight in the eye.

"I just can't resist you. The way you've dominated us..." you breathe out a huffy laugh, "it's undoubtedly one of the most attractive things I have ever seen. Way more attractive than anything he has ever done," you nod towards Spencer as seduction laces each word, though it tastes like poison on your tongue.

You see Spencer in your peripheral. You can barely make out the look in his eye, but you swear you see the faintest tint of insecurity lacing his gaze. The fear that maybe you mean it. Your heart clutches at the thought, and you note to do something about that later.

He lets Spencer go, his attention is now fully on you. He saunters closer, a hand reaching for your tied up ankle. His hands feel like sandpaper on your skin, gritty and unwanted.

"You really think so?" he whispers, his grip now shifting to your bicep. "Then prove it. Come with me."

He yanks you up, helping you move with your tied up limbs. You glance at Spencer briefly before you're led out of the conference room into the bullpen.

It's not long before a gunshot rings out, and you prepare for the blow. You fall to the floor, though, suddenly unsupported by the man propping you up. You turn from your spot on the ground to find Spencer wielding his gun from the conference room, miraculously unbound.

"I had him!" you scoff, rolling your eyes as Spencer undoes your hands and ankles.

"He told me what he wanted you for when he had me in Hotch's office. Believe me, I did you a favor," his brows furrow in what looks like frustration, possessiveness, as he continues to free you from your bounds.

A shiver runs through you again, shaking the disgust at the thought. You let it pass, though, he's dead. He can't hurt you anymore. Once you're free, you fall back into his chest, letting him hold you from behind. Tears slip through your closed eyes as all of the emotions of the past two hours course through every part of your body.

Spencer tightens his hold around you, soothingly rubbing his large palms up and down. Your hand reaches up to the back of his scalp, gently massaging the spot where the man had pulled.

"Are you okay?" you whisper, your faces inches from each other.

"Better now," he replies.

"Me too," you smile.

Before you can manage anything else, Spencer's mouth is on yours. It's a small kiss at first, tentative, unsure. It deepens when you turn to face him, Spencer now resting on his knees. He opens his mouth further as the kiss envelops you both. He's desperate, as if he's trying to swallow you whole. The kiss is all consuming, the corners of your brain turning fuzzy as you let yourself fall further into his arms.

"Anyone wanna tell me why you two are making out next to our dead unsub?" you and Spencer break apart at the intruding voice, like two teenagers caught in bed.

It's just Derek, thankfully. A playful, supportive brow is cocked in Spencer's direction as the poor guy next to you flushes a shade of red you didn't think existed.

"I'm not against it," he says, moving to help you off the floor, "just maybe find a better setting next time."

Your face is on fire, probably just as bad as Spencer's. You see him move out of the corner of your eye, and you grab his hand. You run your thumb over the chafing on his wrist, your heart clutching when he hisses at the sensation.

"Hey, Spence?" you mumble, exhaling a shaky breath as your eyes lock on his red wrist.

"Yeah?" he mutters back, matching your intensity.

"How did you get out of those knots? I tried the whole time he had you, they wouldn't budge." You look up at him now, his big eyes tightening at the edges as a small smile spreads across his lips.

"It was a classic prusik knot. I just had to reverse it and I was out," he states like it's the simplest thing in the world.

"Right. Of course you did," you smile, no teasing in your words, just true affection. Maybe a little bit of shock as well. His mind always has amazed you, even when you were too proud to say it.

You give his hand a squeeze before separating to be checked out by the medics. The rest of your team engulfs the two of you with worried looks and comforting words. As always, you find Spencer in the chaos. As always, he's already looking at you by the time your eyes find him.

Spencer sits on the edge of his couch, a bag of frozen peas resting on his black eye. It never gets easier, the fear and adrenaline of being taken by a psychopath. No matter how hard he tries, he still has to fight that feeling at the end of each day. The feeling that, no matter how hard he tries, how good of a profiler he is, it'll never take away the visceral fear of having your life in someone else's hands.

A knock on his door snaps him out of his spiral, and he silently thanks whoever is here at 8:47 p.m. on a Tuesday. He swings open the door to find the last person he expected to see. Her. She's here, to see him, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. Her hair is up, not an ounce of makeup on her face. She's perfect.

"I couldn't sleep," she whispers, and he's now registering the sleep mask that must've never left her forehead the whole way here. As his eyes trail down the rest of her frame, he takes into account the stuffed animal nestled in her right elbow, the fuzzy slippers on her feet.

"Me either," he responds, unable to help the smallest uptick of his lips at the sight of her. She looks so soft, and he has to fight the urge to reach out and grab her. He would never let go.

"Can I come in?" she asks, her eyes wide, and he's not religious, but God. How is he supposed to say no?

He nods simply, moving his body out of the way so she can enter his apartment. She looks around, taking in the intricate rug, the bookshelves lined from floor to ceiling. A bolt of self consciousness strikes him. The fear of her not liking what she sees runs through him for the briefest moment. The fear is gone, though, when she turns to him with a huge smile on her face.

"It's just as I assumed it would be."

He smiles at that, his tummy turning over her imagining what his apartment looks like, over her thinking about him that much in general.

"Are you oka-" He begins his question, but she barrels right through him.

"Did you mean what you said earlier?" It bursts out of her, as though she couldn't control it. He knows exactly what she means, and she knows he knows. He plays dumb anyway.

"Which part?" he croaks. She rolls her eyes, though there's no malice in it.

"When you said you were in love with me. Did you mean it?" Her honesty burns right through him, exposing all of him to her without even trying.

"Yes," he whispers, "I just thought you never liked me. I thought it'd be easier to pretend I didn't like you too."

She smiles, a bit self-deprecating, a lot of adoration. "We need to get better at talking to each other," she remarks. She saunters closer to him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

Her touch makes him feel like he's on fire, his blood thrumming through his veins right to his heart. It feels like it's burning to a crisp, yet he never wants her to let go.

"I love you, too, Spencer. I think I have since before I even knew you. I was so hurt when you made that comment all those months ago. I was more naive then, took things too personally. I thought that maybe if I just repressed the feelings, they would go away," she says, and his heart grows three sizes at the confession. "Of course I didn't mean what I said, either, I hope you know that."

He nods, feeling even more on display. How could she tell he took that to heart?

"Why do you think I always look at you?" she continues, "I couldn't ever take my eyes off you, even if I was paid to. You're too beautiful."

He blushes something fierce at that. Beautiful is a new one. He's been called a lot of things, nerdy, annoying, genius. But never beautiful. It burns him hotter, a white flash of light spreading through his entire body.

"You're beautiful," he replies, his arms finally coming up to pull her closer, his forehead resting against hers.

"You really think so?" she teases, a cheeky smile spreading her lips.

He nods, "Prettiest woman I've ever seen," it's a whisper, and it's true. No one has ever taken the wind from his sails the way she does.

"Can you kiss me again?" she breathes against his lips, desperation punching through each word.

He grabs her then, his hands coming up to cradle the back of her head as they desperately chase each other's lips. She plants short, staccato kisses all over him. She starts with his lips, kissing him once, twice, three times. She moves to his face, then, trailing her lips and tongue along his jaw, biting lightly behind his ear.

He feels her smile at the noise he emits, a whiny breath of air that would leave him embarrassed with anyone else. With her, though, with the way she's worshiping him, it doesn't even cross his mind.

He pulls her head back as she reaches his cheeks, feeling sorry for making her do all the work. He smashes his lips back into hers, lifting her legs so he can move her to his bed.

She cuddles into the soft mattress the second she's there, her eyes piercing his. He watches the way her gaze rakes down his body, a boost of confidence pumping him up. He takes his shirt off, a swift movement that surprises the both of you.

"Is this okay?" he whispers as he crawls on top of her, settling his long legs between her spread ones.

She nods sweetly, "Of course."

His heart stutters at that. Of course. Those words have the power to knock him off his feet. Her hands drift up to his hips, lightly squeezing the tiny bit of excess body fat there. He kisses her cheek. She rakes her hands up and down his back, nails scratching ever so slightly. He shivers.

It's not long until they're completely tangled in each other, breathy moans escaping her lips as he moves in and out of her. He wants to drink up every noise she makes, every low groan and high pitched whine that escapes her the most enticing elixir.

When they're finished, he's in a state of content and peace that he had never previously imagined possible. Peace and tranquility floats through the room as they take turns glancing at each other. Every time their eyes lock, they burst out giggling like children.

She's glued to him, whining high and long whenever he tries to move. She'd nearly strangled him with her grip when he went to get her a towel. She only relented when he- very thoughtfully, he might add- educated her on the risks of UTIs after sex.

They're laying in a light, airy silence now. One that drowns out the horrors of the day. He recounts the events of the past year, everything from meeting her to where they are now. His mind plays it over like a VCR tape stuck on rewind. He's desperate to find any evidence of her feelings before today, his mind whirring nonstop.

When she shifts in his arms, though, her heavy breathing indicating a deep sleep, it suddenly doesn't matter. He's here now, with the prettiest woman he's ever seen. He's so grateful he never took his eyes off of her.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid criminal minds #doctor spencer reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fan fiction #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #spencer reid blurbs #spencer reid blurb #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid hurt/comfort #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid one shot

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coolseabird · 3 days ago

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Random Musings on Gale and His Relationship With Mystra

I find Gale's relationship with Mystra to be one of the most fascinating parts of his story. It’s a dynamic that can be viewed in many different ways, depending on how you approach it and I think that’s part of what makes it so compelling. While some might see it literally, I’d like to explore it through a more allegorical perspective, though I want to be clear: this is just one way to interpret their relationship, and other viewpoints are just as valuable. This isn't even the only way that I personally interpret them haha. (I just have to be nuanced, it's a compulsion truly.)

In literature and mythology, take Greek mythology, for instance, relationships between gods and mortals can often carry deeper, symbolic meanings. The gods aren’t always just powerful beings they can represent larger forces like nature, fate, or human desires. This approach, called allegorical interpretation, is something I find really enjoyable! It adds layers to a story.

Consider the famous story of Paris’s judgment of the goddesses. The goddess Eris, seeking to sow discord, throws a golden apple inscribed “for the fairest” into a wedding attended by Athena, Hera, and Aphrodite. They decide to have the mortal Paris judge who deserves the apple most out of the three of them and is thus the fairest.

Each goddess offers Paris a gift in exchange for the title. Athena offers great tactical ability, Hera promises leadership over vast kingdoms, and Aphrodite tempts him with the love of Helen, the most beautiful woman in the world (who happens to already be married). Paris chooses Aphrodite, gains Helen as a lover and this leads to the Trojan War. Beyond the literal reading, this story can be seen as desire (Aphrodite) overcoming both wisdom (Athena) and marriage (Hera). Paris's fatal flaw is his lust for Helen. The story can also be interpreted as Paris losing due to declining to accept both of the other offers. He fails strategically in the ensuing war and also causes the collapse of his own kingdom.

Mystra, as the living incarnation of the Weave, can be interpreted similarly. She isn’t merely Gale's ex-lover. She is magic itself, the force that gives Gale his entire identity. Their relationship transcends romance; it’s more like that of a man consumed by his craft to an unhealthy degree. Like a mathematician to mathematics, or a physicist to physics, he's in love with something that can't love him back.

His attempt to give Mystra a gift she's never received before, something truly incredible, is due to his belief that transcending all limits to somehow earn Mystra’s (and thus, magic’s and his life's work's) recognition is both possible and necessary. It was 100% done with the best intentions but tragically any all-consuming passion carries the risk of blowing up in your face. (Just look at Alfred Nobel, pun intended) And, due to the aforementioned "blow up", his emotional low and his measurable low in his abilities correspond quite directly

There is a cut dialogue from early access about how much of his power he lost after this:

You see, this fire – there was a time that I could make it come alive. That it would take the shape of a dragon and roar in delight. There was a time I could silence a Beholder with a word, and lift a tower from its foundations with a flourish. There was a time I was all but one with the Weave. But no more – a mere shadow of the wizard I used to be. Why? Because I’ve lost.

A key theme in their relationship (in my opinion) is not just Mystra’s rejection but what her rejection represents: The collapse of Gale’s identity as a powerful magic user. (An identity he's built his life around and sacrificed for ever since he was a child)

Without this, he starts self destructing. He has to make do with consuming scraps of magic rather than the all encompassing sort he used to receive from Mystra's presence.

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While Mystra’s treatment of Gale is undeniably harmful, I think it’s important to recognize that she is not cruel in a personal, calculated way. She is so out of touch with normal people that she’s more akin to a force of nature. As an arbiter of natural laws, she wants to control him/kill him because he represented a destabilizing influence, not out of any targeted animosity. (Which is arguably worse than outright hate depending on your point of view)

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Now for a bit of a change in topic I wanted to go over his different endings:

His "good" ending comes from the realization that magic, or any external force, cannot be the source of true self-worth. The deeper theme here, beyond just getting over an ex-relationship, is that Gale must learn to build relationships with people and and find a healthy balance between his work and personal life, rather than devoting himself wholly to impersonal things at the cost of his well-being. He has to learn that he is "Galenough," as @ekansbot once put it. Ultimately, his growth in this regard is best shown with his choice to embrace his ordinary, human last name "Dekarios", rather than defining himself solely as the archmage "of Waterdeep."

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More evidence about the meaning of names to him, earlier during the conversation with Mystra in the tabernacle, she will either call him "Gale Dekarios" if she's displeased to remind him of his humanity, or"Gale of Waterdeep" when pleased to inflate his ego with a title. This shows how revolutionary it is for him to willingly forego having a title at all in this ending as it had been something he sought in the past.

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Alternatively, and more fun for my tragedy-loving psyche, he can totally succumb to his flaws and lose himself. In this case the orb's desires fully supplant him as a person. He becomes a power hungry god, doomed to perpetuate the same callousness Mystra showed to him. His grand dreams of bettering the world fades, and his only goals shift to slowly gathering more power and followers and eventually challenging the rest of the gods. He entirely gives up on being a "person" he's the god of ambition now, and you can see it in the way he speaks how much he has mentally separated himself from the mortal world. He has fully given up on having a life outside of his obsessions. It’s quite dark. (Though not quite as dark as my absolute favorite, the Absolute ending, where you use thousands of mind controlled innocents to become Kratos.)

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Something that's extra sad for you. If the player character chooses to break up with him after becoming a god he says "so I'm still not enough for you" Aghh it's horrible. His insecurities only get worse as a god.

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Or... he could kill himself. Literally destroying his darker hungers (the orb) for an altruistic purpose, but he also, obviously, destroys himself in the process. Very sad indeed.

Now, here’s something I find fascinating:

If Gale chooses not to use the crown, nor to surrender it to Mystra, but instead lets it remain in the water, the orb stays within him but rather than being a catastrophe it actually becomes harmless and inert.

Why does this happen? Gale speculates that it's because he has found contentment due to the player character's romance with him.

Clip sourced from this video: https://youtu.be/gikRKEIpvQs

This reveals something crucial: the orb, from the very beginning, was tied to his own emotions. It was basically an extension of him all along. He was inadvertently the one driving the orb’s power. It was his own despair and obsession that were indirectly killing him the entire time! It's very tragic but also supremely interesting!

It is this somewhat gut wrenching realization, though, that makes this the best "good" ending. He doesn't have to apologize to Mystra to get a happy ending out of pity. Instead, it is his own emotional catharsis that resolves the problem of the orb internally, rather than it being fixed through external means. It also has a sort of Jungian quality to it that I really like. With the idea of integrating and accepting all parts of oneself (allowing the orb to remain, but becoming settled and integrated), rather than trying to shed them being a theme I think fits his character well. Additionally, he keeps the orb scar, which looks pretty neat. :)

#bg3 #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #mystra #character analysis #i like the endings where he gets worse the best but that's just because i'm sick and twisted😔#his absolute ending is just really good ty larian for the evil update #hope you enjoyed my screenshots as well #when people do real world au's of gale and mystra the general way most go about it is to have her be a boss or something along those lines #this is cool!#but what i personally would do if i wanted it to align with this interpretation more #is to have her be a disembodied research project or general obsession that consumes his life #this is a bit rambly my apologies #i've already been editing it for so long i'm just going to release it into the world to be free

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jeonscatalyst · 2 days ago

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Sometimes, I sit and think about the fact that all fetus Jimin ever wanted was to go on trips with Jungkook, hand in hand…and years later, Jungkook made it happen entirely on his own.

Do you realize what it means for someone to understand how much something matters to you and then take it upon themselves to make it happen, just to see you smile? The little context we had about their 2017 trip to Tokyo years ago was already sweet, but learning years later that, at that particular moment, they…especially Jimin…were going through a difficult time makes it even more profound. And the person Jungkook chose to escape with wasn’t just anyone….it was Jimin. He must have known that the trip was exactly what they both, but particularly Jimin, needed at the time. According to Jimin, Jungkook planned everything, bought the tickets, and took them to Tokyo. Nothing could ever compare.

This feels especially significant to me because so often, I see people assign deep meaning to friends or even acquaintances going on leisure trips…simply to have fun or pass the time, without any real emotional weight. And while I believe to each their own, nothing will ever come close to the thought of these two, at their most vulnerable, choosing to be with each other in a moment of hardship…when all you crave is the presence of the person who feels like home. They could have been with anyone else, yet they sought comfort in each other.

And the beauty of it all is magnified when you remember that this was something Jimin had always wanted…..going on a trip with Jungkook. Despite Namjoon and Hobi mentioning that Jungkook wasn’t particularly fond of outdoor activities at the time, he willingly traveled to Tokyo with Jimin, walked alongside him for hours until their feet ached (one of the memories Jungkook cherishes most from that trip), and even spent an entire day at Disneyland with him taking the most beautiful and unadulterated photos and videos of him in all his glory.

That, my darlings, is the purest form of love. And I will always cherish the fact that Jimin and Jungkook have consistently found comfort in each other…..not just in moments of joy, but even in moments of struggle. That, to me is GOALS!

#jikook #jimin #jungkook #gcf in tokyo #Jikook trips

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neeeooon · 15 hours ago

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I was wondering if u could write what it'd be like to make a joint playlist with nagi, reo, yukimiya, shidou, karasu, ness, and kurona. Ty

this is such a creative idea!!! love it TYSM FOR THE REQ <3

when you make a joint playlist together

bf bllk x gn!reader. some (shidou’s) are slightly suggestive

nagi seishiro

-> though he listens to the playlist more than you, most of the songs were added by you. he’ll have maybe two contributions every ten songs, but you don’t mind

-> you shared your on repeat playlist with him, and though it’s not one you created together, he’ll listen to it all the time. your music taste is yours, and he’ll grab onto anything that reminds him of you

mikage reo

-> you two have so much fun making playlists together! you share a spotify account, so most of your playlists are joint

-> you love finding new music and have several playlists because of it. “y/n, listen to this song i found! i’m not sure if it should go in the ‘hanging out the window at 120 mph’ playlist or the ‘tangerine cloud vibes’ one. what do you think?” “oh, definitely tangerine cloud vibes.” “i was leaning that way, too!”

yukimiya kenyu

-> his music taste is so nostalgic, but also so him?? it’s hard to explain, but you can look at any joint playlist you have together and easily point out every song added by yukimiya

-> honestly, his taste is better than yours. can listen to sweet romance songs from the 50s, then add a frank ocean song, and for some reason the two slow together perfectly. it amazes you

-> “babe… how?” “how what?” “how are you so musically gifted? where do you even find all these artists?” “oh, i don’t know. around?” “we live in the same house, quit gatekeeping.” “😅”

shidou ryusei

-> there’s a clear split between your music and shidou’s. he doesn’t even listen to the songs he adds often, he just likes seeing your reaction to them

-> “og one direction, destiny’s child, baby bieber, and sir mix-a-lot. one of these is not like the rest.” “agreed. bieber’s looking a lil suspicious if you ask me, y/n.” “😐”

karasu tabito

-> he takes his job very seriously. will think about it for literal days before adding a song to the playlist. he knows he’s succeeded when you send him a funny or cute emoji

-> you genuinely do not understand why karasu gets so stressed over your playlist, so anytime he adds a song, you reward him with a random emoji

-> sometimes you forget or don’t realize he’s added anything, and when you do, the song is already gone?? you figure he changed his mind. miscommunication at its finest <3

alexis ness

-> you love making playlists for him, since ness’s taste in music is very centralized. if you can get him to want to listen to something new, you consider it a win

-> when you make a playlist together, you keep your picks tame and choose songs most similar to the ones he added

-> you’ll always light up when you catch him listening to or liking a song you added. “okay, so this one’s a keeper.” “i like the beat… it’s nice.” “i will find you every single song with a beat like this, mark my words!”

kurona ranze

-> not organized at all. the point of the playlist was to add songs that remind you of each other, but kurona will add any song that pops into or won’t leave his head

-> “babe, how do i remind you of the ketchup song?” his response is to start singing at you in portuguese. “i—how—what?”

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hannibalbabygirlifier · 2 days ago

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Okay I don’t know how coherently I can express this but there’s a theme I keep noticing in Hannibal as really quite central but I never see anyone talk about it.

There’s something fascinating going on in regards to free will vs fate and nature. It’s a constantly repeating pattern-characters will desperately try to control the world around them and time and time again it is proved futile. Hannibal smashes his teacups to try and put them back together but they won’t. All his schemes and machinations are nothing in the face of the greater machinations of fate that never intended it to be put back together.

Bella, attempting to have control over whether she lives or dies, ultimately having the decision made for her in the flip of a coin. Jack, desperately trying to keep her alive, ultimately being the one to take life from her. The universe does not let her choose when to die or Jack choose to keep her alive.

Will, desperately trying to control his nature and choose who he is and what he wants ultimately being unable to repress or run from his real desires. No matter how many families he makes for himself, roles he tries to play, physical walls he puts between them, none of it is comparable to the pull of the universe, keeping them in each others orbit.

Abigail, saved from death, just to die the same way on a kitchen floor, because fate will not be cheated and she was always meant to die that way, just living on borrowed time.

Chiyoh, spending a lifetime trying to make a conscious choice not to kill her charge, only to be forced into it in self defence anyways.

Hannibal, desperately trying to sever himself from the vulnerability and love he feels, only after everything to accept that he is vulnerable and he is irrevocably changed and there isn’t anything he can do to control it. Hannibal’s comments on how we don’t control forgiveness or with whom we fall in love. “Love. Either he pays you a visit or he doesn’t”.

There’s something so fitting to all of that, that ultimately will doesn’t choose to run away with him in a conscious easy guaranteed way or try to kill him in a way that assures he dies. Instead, there is acceptance that there is to be no fighting the strings of fate. A leap of faith-if they live, so be it, there is no more fighting it, they are conjoined. If they die, so be it, then that is what is meant to be. The two most rigidly repressed control freak characters- will for his repression of nature and passion, hannibal for his repression of weakness and the vulnerability of his life and heart in someone else’s hands, accept the total loss of control and the futility of trying to have it. “If everything that can happens, happens, then you can never really do the wrong thing. You’re just doing what you’re supposed to do.”

#hannibal #hannibal lecter #will graham #abigail hobbs #Jack Crawford #chiyoh #is this anything #it’s just. it’s making me craaaaazy

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sweetvoidstuff · 3 days ago

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Bound by Fate, Chosen by Love I Part 3

Jungkook x Reader I Werwolf x Witch I Fated Mates I Slow Burn I Strangers to Lovers I Supernatural Romance I Protective Jungkook

Summary : A witch bound by duty. A werewolf bound by instinct. When fate intertwines their paths, they must decide if love is worth defying expectations. Hunters threaten their people, forcing them to fight side by side. As tensions rise, so does the pull between them—soft moments turning into something far more intense. A quiet invitation, a lingering touch, a whispered question that changes everything. In the end, choice matters more than destiny. But with danger still lurking, will they have the chance to choose each other?

Word Count: 42K

Masterlist

A/N: Well, I wanted to post this as one, but Tumblr won’t let me… so I’ll be posting Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3 back to back. Sorry about that! Hope you still enjoy it!

Part 1 / Part 2

He had kept his promise.

And despite everything—the battle raging on, the exhaustion creeping in, the danger still ahead—your heart felt light.

Because he was here.

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Smoke still clung to the air. The scent of blood—both human and wolf—was thick, an inescapable reminder of what had been lost today.

The battlefield was no longer a battlefield. It was a graveyard.

One hundred fourteen dead hunters. Including women and children.

Fifteen wolves.

Nine witches from your coven.

On top of that, twenty-eight wounded, some worse than others.

A victory, if one counted by numbers.

A loss, if one counted by names.

Jungkook had barely been standing by the end of it. His leg throbbed with every step, his fur matted with blood—his own, others'. It had been a mess. But none of it had prepared him for what came after.

For you.

For the way you had looked at him, exhaustion written in every inch of your body as you simply sighed, whispering, "Sorry," before stepping out of your spell—

And dropping like the dead.

His heart had nearly stopped.

He had barely caught you before you hit the ground, his mind blank with panic, with fear, with rage—

Jimin and Yoongi had pried you from him.

Dragged him away, forcing him to let go as they carried you to a healer.

He had been a wreck since then.

Jungkook healed fast—faster than humans, faster than witches. His limp was still there, a sharp reminder of how close he had come to not making it back to you. But even with the wound, even with the pain, he was fine.

But you.

You hadn’t woken up.

The magic had taken too much.

Yoongi had tried to explain it, had told him again and again that this was normal. That the spell had been ancient, powerful, and the price had been you. That you would wake, but only when your body had recovered, when the magic had fully run its course.

But Jungkook had never been good at waiting.

He had been a bitch since then.

Especially to Yoongi and Taehyung.

He had snapped at them, growled at them, demanded they do something.

But they couldn’t.

This wasn’t something they could fix.

And deep down, Jungkook hated that.

He had never felt helpless before. He had always been able to fight, to claw his way out of a bad situation. But now—now he was stuck, trapped in this place of uncertainty, with nothing to do but wait.

And the only thing that made it bearable was being close to you.

The first night, he had fought it, pacing outside your door like a restless animal.

By the second, he had given up.

Now, he was always with you.

The pack had taken notice.

They didn’t know you were his mate—not officially. The words had never been spoken, the claim never made. But they weren’t blind.

They had seen how Jungkook had treated the witch from the valley.

They had seen him fight like a beast possessed, tearing through hunters with a ferocity that spoke of something far more personal than duty.

And now, they saw him here.

Unmoving.

Unyielding.

Sitting by your bedside, listening to the soft sound of your breathing, watching the faint rise and fall of your chest.

Jungkook knew he was neglecting his duties.

He felt it with every second that passed—every time a scout came to report on the state of the village, every time someone lingered at the door as if debating whether to knock.

And yet, he did not move.

He sat by your bedside, fingers tracing idle patterns against the back of your hand. The steady rhythm of your pulse beneath his fingertips was the only thing keeping him grounded. His leg still ached. His wounds had closed, but the deep gash in his thigh forced him to move slower, forced him to feel human in a way he hated. But even that didn’t matter.

Not when you were still unconscious.

Not when you hadn’t woken up.

So when the door finally swung open, and Namjoon stepped inside, Jungkook didn’t even flinch.

“Jungkook.”

Namjoon’s voice was firm. A leader’s voice.

Jungkook didn’t answer.

Namjoon sighed, stepping further in, arms crossed over his chest.

“You’re my second,” he said simply. “I need you.”

Jungkook exhaled slowly, eyes never leaving you.

“I’m not leaving her.”

Namjoon’s jaw tensed. “You don’t have to leave her. But you do have responsibilities.”

Jungkook finally looked up, his gaze sharp. “And I will do everything I can—from right here.”

Namjoon scoffed. “You can’t run the village from a bedside, Jungkook. I need you out there.”

Jungkook shook his head. “No.”

Namjoon’s eyes flashed. “Jungkook—”

“She’s my mate.”

The words came out low. Final.

And for the first time since Namjoon entered, Jungkook turned, fully facing him.

“I will not leave my mate like this,” he said, voice steady.

Namjoon’s frustration evaporated in an instant. His expression changed, eyes flicking to you before settling back on Jungkook.

Namjoon exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Then, after a long pause, he nodded.

“Fine,” he muttered.

Jungkook raised a brow.

Namjoon sighed again. “I’ll shift responsibilities around. I’ll make it work.”

Jungkook’s shoulders loosened.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Namjoon gave him a long look before stepping closer, gaze softening as he glanced at you.

“She’ll wake up,” he said quietly. “She’s strong.”

Jungkook nodded.

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Jungkook wasn’t expecting anyone when the knock came.

He had been sitting by your side, fingers loosely curled around your wrist, feeling the steady beat of your pulse—his only real assurance that you were still here, still alive.

He didn’t move at first. He didn’t want to.

But the knock came again, heavier this time.

With a grunt, he stood, his leg aching as he made his way to the door.

He froze when he saw who it was.

An elder wolf stood before him, thick-haired and scarred, his posture stiff with something close to shame.

It was the old guard—the one who had been by your side during the battle, the one who had sworn to protect you.

Slowly, the wolf bowed.

Jungkook stiffened.

A bow like this—it wasn’t just an apology. It was a submission.

A deep, wordless admission of guilt.

And Jungkook, for all his anger, all his frustration, hated it.

“I am sorry,” the wolf murmured, his voice rough with age. “I swore to protect her. And yet she lies here.”

Jungkook swallowed.

“It wasn’t your fault.” His voice was hoarse.

The old wolf lifted his head. His brown eyes were steady. “I should have done more.!

“It was not something you could control.” Jungkook’s breath caught in his throat.

And just like that, something clicked.

Now he understood.

Understood why you had needed him to trust you, why you had fought him so hard on it.

Because he had thought he understood strength—he had thought he was strong.

But you had stood at the center of a war, commanding the very earth beneath you, knowing full well what it would do to you.

What it would force you to give.

And worst of all, that it would force you to stand by and watch.

Because while Jungkook had been fighting—had been ripping throats out with his teeth, had been bleeding and clawing to keep his people safe—

You had been forced to stay put.

Had been forced to watch, bound by the spell you had cast.

And still, you had done it.

Still, you had made that choice.

Because the battle was out of your control.

Jungkook had spent so long trying to control you. Trying to keep you safe, trying to force you to listen to him.

But you were not something to be controlled.

And the thought of ever forcing you to bend to him, to this bond, to anything—

Jungkook never wanted that.

His chest ached.

Because you had chosen him.

Trusted him.

Not because of the mate bond.

Not because of fate.

But because you had wanted to.

Because you had wanted him.

Jungkook exhaled shakily, his fingers brushing over your hand.

He would trust you.

Like you had trusted him.

He had to.

But he never wanted to see you like this again.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The first thing you felt was warmth.

It seeped into your bones, comforting and steady, like sunlight on bare skin. But there was an ache, too—a deep, pulling exhaustion that made your limbs feel like lead. Your fingers twitched against the sheets, an almost imperceptible movement, but it was enough.

A sharp inhale.

A rustle of fabric.

Then—

"You're awake!"

The voice was startled, breathless with excitement, and you barely managed to pry your eyes open before a figure leaned over you, his round face split into an expression of shock and joy. Jin.

"It’s been five days, five entire days—" He practically choked on the words, hands flailing slightly before one finally settled over his heart like he was trying to calm himself. His eyes were wide, darting over your face, scanning for any sign of discomfort. "Oh, thank god, I thought—no, never mind, that doesn't matter now. You're awake."

You blinked sluggishly, feeling the dryness in your throat. Jin scrambled for a glass of water before you could even attempt to move, lifting it carefully to your lips. You drank, slow and steady, while he continued to ramble in that way he always did when emotions ran too high.

"Jungkook is going to kill me," he announced suddenly, more to himself than to you. His hand twitched like he wanted to bolt straight out the door. "He’s going to kill me. You wake up now—when we finally convinced him to leave for a damn shower? He’s spent every minute at your bedside! Do you know how hard it was to get him out of this room? Do you? Jimin and I had to physically drag him out!”

You let out a weak chuckle, breathless but amused despite the heaviness in your limbs. Jin’s enthusiasm was contagious, even if you could barely keep up with his frantic pace.

“He will end me if I don’t go get him, but he will also end me if I leave you alone—” Jin fidgeted, torn between bolting for the door and staying rooted to your bedside.

“Jin,” you rasped, voice hoarse but carrying enough weight to make him pause. He looked at you expectantly, still visibly vibrating with energy.

“An update,” you said simply, shifting slightly against the pillows. Your body protested the movement, soreness rippling through you, but you pushed through it. “How many did we lose?”

Jin’s expression shifted immediately. The excitement in his eyes dimmed, replaced with something heavier. He hesitated, but you gave him a look—one that said don’t coddle me.

With a sigh, he relented.

“On our side… twenty six,” he murmured, voice lower now. “Nine from your coven. seventeen from the pack.”

You swallowed hard, grief settling in your chest. Nine lives. Nine people who had fought for their people, their family. Nine souls who had stood on the battlefield knowing they might not return.

Jin continued, softer now. “The elders of your coven and Namjoon have been in constant talks. There was… tension, at first. Some of the wolves were angry. Some of your witches were afraid. But we fought together—we won together—so…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I think they’re trying to build something now. A truce, maybe. Something more permanent.”

That was more than you had hoped for.

“And… Yoongi? Taehyung?”

Jin nodded. “They’re still here. They weren’t going to leave until you woke up. They’ve been checking in, making sure Jungkook didn’t…” He trailed off, his lips twitching. “Lose his mind, I guess.”

A soft breath escaped you. You weren’t sure if it was relief or something else.

Now that the most important things had been said, your eyes finally flickered around the room, taking in your surroundings properly for the first time. The space was familiar—it a room at the pack house, but something had changed.

It looked… lived in.

There was a chair pushed close to your bedside, blankets draped over it haphazardly. A half-eaten meal sat on a side table, abandoned mid-bite. Scrolls, reports, and letters were scattered nearby, signs of someone working from this room.

Signs of Jungkook.

The realization settled heavily in your chest. You had never meant to burden him with your spell. He had already carried the weight of his people on his shoulders, already fought and bled to protect them. But even so—he had stayed.

He had stayed even when you couldn’t ask him to.

Before you could dwell on it further, the door creaked open.

Jungkook stepped inside, his damp hair curling slightly from the water, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He had changed into clean clothes, but his exhaustion was evident in the stiffness of his posture, the tension in his shoulders.

“Thanks, Jin. You can go now,” he murmured, voice distracted, like he had spoken purely out of habit.

Jin didn’t move.

Jungkook still hadn’t looked at you.

Jin’s gaze flickered between you both before he sighed, shaking his head. “Yeah, sure. I’ll just—” He gestured vaguely toward the door. “Leave you two to it.”

With that, he slipped out, shutting the door behind him.

Jungkook exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair as he stepped further into the room. His brows were furrowed, his mouth set in a firm line—clearly bracing himself for another long, silent vigil at your side.

And then, finally, his gaze landed on you.

His breath stilled.

You saw the exact moment the realization struck.

Jungkook froze.

His entire body tensed, his pupils dilating slightly as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. His lips parted, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths, and for a long, aching moment, he just stared.

Like he was afraid that if he blinked, you would disappear.

Then, without warning, he moved.

In an instant, he was at your side, sinking onto the bed so quickly that the mattress dipped beneath his weight. His hand came up, hovering near your face like he wanted to touch you but didn’t quite dare.

“You’re…” His voice cracked, rough with emotion. He swallowed hard, his jaw clenching. “You’re awake.”

You smiled, weak but real. “I am.”

Jungkook’s eyes flickered over you, taking in every detail. The flush of life in your cheeks. The awareness in your gaze. The way your fingers twitched slightly against the sheets.

He exhaled sharply, closing his eyes for a brief moment—just long enough for the weight of relief to crash over him.

Then, before you could say anything else, his hand did move.

Gently, carefully, he cupped the side of your face, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheekbone. His touch was warm, grounding.

His other hand found yours, fingers curling tightly around your own.

“I thought I lost you,” he admitted, voice raw. “I thought—” He cut himself off, shaking his head as if he couldn’t even bring himself to say it.

You squeezed his hand.

“I’m here,” you murmured.

Jungkook let out a shaky breath, his grip tightening just slightly.

And for the first time in days, the weight in his chest began to lift.

Jungkook held your hand as if letting go would send you back into the darkness you had just woken from. His thumb traced absentminded circles over your skin, grounding both of you in the moment. He hadn’t spoken again since his first, raw admission, just sat there, drinking in the sight of you.

You let the silence stretch for a beat longer before nudging him with your fingers.

“I assume you didn’t just sit here for five days straight,” you said, raising a brow. “So, what did you do while I was out?”

Jungkook let out a quiet scoff, but his fingers twitched against yours.

“What didn’t I do?” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “I argued with Namjoon. Twice. I argued with your elders more times than I can count. I threatened to punch Taehyung. Then I argued with Namjoon again.”

You smirked faintly. “You must’ve been busy.”

“Oh, I was,” Jungkook said, voice dry. “In between all that, I sat here. A lot.” His gaze flickered over you, softer now. “I watched over you.”

Your smile faltered, something flickering in your expression. Your heart ached for him—because you knew exactly what that meant. He had barely left this room, had barely slept, had waited, agonized, through every second of your spell-induced slumber.

And that made you frown.

“Jungkook,” you said, your voice suddenly firmer. “Did Yoongi not tell you this would happen? That I’d wake up eventually?”

Jungkook’s lips pressed into a thin line, like he already knew where this was going.

“He did,” he admitted. “But it didn’t change anything.”

You exhaled sharply, guilt twisting in your chest. “I’m sorry.”

Jungkook shook his head. “Don’t be.”

“But—”

“No,” he interrupted, giving your hand a small squeeze. His voice was steady, sure. “I understand now.”

You looked at him, searching his face. “Understand what?”

Jungkook swallowed, glancing down at your entwined hands before meeting your eyes again.

“Why you wanted to choose me,” he said, voice quieter now. “Instead of letting the mate bond choose for us.”

Your breath caught.

“I get it,” Jungkook continued. “You wanted us to be real. You wanted it to be something we decided.” His grip tightened slightly. “I trust you. I trusted you then, too—I just didn’t understand it yet.”

Your chest ached at the weight of his words.

But before the moment could become too heavy, Jungkook huffed, leaning back slightly.

“But,” he added, feigning exasperation, “you really need to stop dropping like the dead in front of me.”

A startled laugh escaped you. “I’ll… do my best?”

“Not convincing enough,” Jungkook muttered, though there was a teasing glint in his eyes now. “Next time, just tell me if you’re about to collapse. Give a guy some warning.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yes, Jungkook, I’ll make sure to schedule my magical exhaustion at your convenience.”

“Thank you,” he said solemnly.

You snorted, but the warmth in his gaze made your chest feel lighter.

Another moment passed, comfortable now.

Then, you sighed. “I should probably freshen up.” You pulled at the fabric of your tunic, feeling the way it clung uncomfortably to your skin. “I feel like the dead.”

Jungkook chuckled. “You smell like the dead.”

You shot him a look, and he grinned, raising his hands in surrender. “Kidding. Mostly.”

“Mm-hm,” you muttered, shifting slightly to move. But the moment you tried to push yourself upright, a sharp wave of dizziness washed over you. Your body was still sluggish, weakened from days of rest, and your limbs felt far too heavy.

Jungkook noticed instantly.

“Whoa, whoa—” He was already moving, steadying you before you could sway too much. “Take it slow.”

You sighed in frustration, but you didn’t resist when he helped ease you into a sitting position. The warmth of his hands against your arms was steadying.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his tone softer now.

Carefully, he helped you to your feet. The room swayed slightly, but Jungkook’s grip was strong, his presence unwavering. He guided you toward the small adjoining washroom, his movements unhurried but firm.

“Think you can manage from here?” he asked once you reached the door.

You nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Jungkook gave you a once-over, reluctant to let go, but finally stepped back. “Alright. I’ll be right outside.”

With that, he turned and exited the room, leaving you to freshen up.

The moment you were alone, you took a deep breath. Seeing yourself in the mirror was a shock—pale skin, sunken cheeks, dark circles under your eyes. Your body felt weak, but the warm water helped ease some of the lingering tension.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

When you finally emerged, feeling considerably more human, you found Jungkook pacing the room.

His arms were crossed over his chest, his brows furrowed slightly in thought. His restless energy was evident—he was walking back and forth, his movements controlled but constant, like he was burning through some unseen tension.

You leaned against the doorframe, watching him for a moment before clearing your throat.

Jungkook stopped mid-step, turning to look at you.

His expression softened immediately.

“Better?” he asked.

“Much,” you admitted. “Though I think I’ll need actual food before I start feeling normal again.”

Jungkook smirked. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Jungkook didn’t move right away after suggesting food. Instead, he studied you carefully, his dark eyes sweeping over your face with the same intensity he had used when first realizing you were awake. His thumb absentmindedly grazed the back of your hand, grounding himself just as much as you.

“…Are you sure you’re up for a walk?” he finally asked, his voice measured. “You still look a little unsteady.”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, but you appreciated his concern. The truth was, your body still felt weaker than usual—like a limb that had fallen asleep and was only now regaining feeling. But you were awake, standing, and you weren’t about to sit in bed any longer if you could help it.

“I think I’ll survive,” you replied, lips quirking up. “I promise to lean on you dramatically if I feel faint.”

Jungkook exhaled through his nose, shaking his head, but you could see the way his lips twitched, fighting a smirk. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Then, with a final once-over, he finally nodded. “Alright. Let’s go.”

He didn’t let go of your hand as you walked.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The common room of the pack house was warm, filled with the scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and spices that made your stomach grumble softly in anticipation. The fire crackled in the stone hearth, casting flickering shadows across the walls, and a handful of wolves lounged in the space, some chatting in hushed tones while others simply enjoyed their meals.

As you and Jungkook stepped further inside, a ripple of quiet acknowledgment passed through the room. Several wolves, some mid-conversation, turned their heads toward the two of you, their gazes steady and observant. One by one, they gave small, respectful nods—not just to Jungkook, but to you as well.

You blinked, slightly taken aback by the silent show of deference. It wasn’t just an acknowledgment of your presence. It was something more—a recognition of your bond with Jungkook, however fragile or uncertain it had been before.

Jungkook, unfazed, led you toward an empty table near the center of the room, pulling out a chair for you with ease.

“Sit,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You arched a brow as you lowered yourself into the seat. “Ordering me around now?”

Jungkook gave you an amused look. “Yes.”

You snorted, but you obeyed, adjusting yourself comfortably.

Jungkook hesitated for only a second before moving toward the long wooden table where food was laid out. As he gathered a well-balanced plate for you, carefully selecting portions with deliberate precision, you couldn’t help but notice how the other wolves subtly shifted in his presence—not out of fear, but out of respect.

When he returned, he placed the plate in front of you with quiet satisfaction, then pulled out the chair beside you and sat down.

“Eat,” he instructed.

You smirked, picking up your spoon. “Yes, Alpha.”

Jungkook narrowed his eyes. “I’m not the Alpha.”

You tilted your head, chewing thoughtfully. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Jungkook huffed, running a hand through his dark hair. “I’m second-in-command. Namjoon’s the Alpha.”

“Right, but you’re really bossy.”

Jungkook shot you an unimpressed look. “You just woke up from an exhausting magical coma, and I watched over you the entire time. Forgive me if I want to make sure you’re actually eating.”

You smirked at his dry tone but didn’t argue. You had to admit—it was nice, the way he cared.

Jungkook leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes focused solely on you as you lifted your spoon. You had never seen anyone watch someone eat so intently before.

“You know,” you muttered, chewing. “You could at least pretend to eat something too, instead of staring at me like a hawk.”

Jungkook’s lips quirked, but he didn’t respond.

The meal was warm and comforting, and after a few bites, you found yourself doing something without even thinking—something that felt instinctive. You scooped up a small portion of food onto your spoon and extended it toward Jungkook.

“Here,” you said.

Jungkook went completely still.

His eyes widened slightly, and for the first time in a long while, you saw him genuinely caught off guard.

“…What?” he asked, voice quiet, almost hesitant.

You frowned slightly. “What? Is it rude? Am I breaking some kind of pack rule?”

Jungkook exhaled sharply, shaking his head, but his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“No,” he said. “It’s just… you don’t remember, do you?”

Your brow furrowed. “Remember what?”

Jungkook’s fingers curled against his thigh, his gaze dropping briefly before meeting yours again.

“The last time you did this.” His voice was softer now, almost reverent.

You blinked.

Jungkook let out a short, quiet laugh, though it didn’t hold any amusement—more like disbelief. “Offering food like this… it’s a mate thing. A small, intimate thing.” He glanced at the spoon you still held out to him. “Remember?”

Your chest tightened.

You hadn’t even realized.

Suddenly, what had seemed like a simple, natural gesture felt much heavier. More meaningful.

Jungkook let out a slow breath, his expression unreadable.

“…I didn’t realize how much I missed it.”

Your grip on the spoon tightened slightly before you nudged it toward him again. “Eat.”

Jungkook hesitated. Then, slowly, he leaned forward and let you feed him the small bite of food.

Jungkook swallowed, closing his eyes for a brief moment, as if grounding himself. Then he exhaled, opening them again.

“I really missed you,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart clenched.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to wake up.”

Jungkook shook his head. “It’s fine. I understand now.” His lips curled up slightly, a ghost of a smile. “But you really have to stop dropping like the dead in front of me. It’s becoming a habit, and I don’t like it.”

You let out a soft laugh, nudging him with your knee under the table. “No promises.”

Jungkook rolled his eyes but looked fond.

As you finished your meal, he remained by your side, closer than before. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel like there was anything between you—no doubt, no uncertainty.

Just warmth. Just him.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

After you had eaten your fill, Jungkook didn’t hesitate to guide you out of the common room. The moment you stepped into the cool evening air, he was already steering you back now to his home.

“Alright,” he said, voice edged with finality. “Back to bed.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could, the unmistakable sound of footsteps echoed through the air.

And then—

“Finally!”

Jungkook stiffened beside you, his fingers flexing where they still held onto yours.

You turned just in time to see Taehyung striding toward you with all the excitement of a man who had just been let off a leash.

Behind him, Yoongi followed at a more measured pace, but even he looked relieved to see you standing. Jin trailed after them, looking torn between exasperation and amusement.

Jungkook groaned. “Jin, I thought you were keeping them away.”

“I was,” Jin sighed. “But you can only stall wild animals for so long.”

Taehyung reached you first, his grin nothing short of devilish.

“Well, well,” he drawled, his sharp eyes flicking between you and Jungkook’s still-clasped hands. “Look who’s awake. His princess has finally returned.”

Jungkook glared.

You, on the other hand, raised a brow. “His?”

“Oh, don’t let him fool you,” Taehyung continued, clearly relishing the moment. “He’s been an absolute wreck. Practically growled at anyone who got too close to your room. It was adorable.”

Jungkook made a sound like he was considering murder. “Taehyung.”

Taehyung only grinned wider. “I mean, really. I never thought I’d see the day—”

Before he could finish, Jungkook let go of your hand just long enough to grab the back of Taehyung’s collar, yanking him backward with ease.

Taehyung yelped, laughing as he staggered.

“You especially need to shut up,” Jungkook grumbled, eyes dark with warning.

You chuckled, watching the exchange with no small amount of amusement.

Yoongi, who had been standing to the side, finally spoke. “Good to see you awake,” he said simply, his gaze steady.

You dipped your head. “Good to be awake.”

“Good,” Jin added, looking equally satisfied. “Because now I don’t have to deal with him acting like a lovesick puppy anymore.” He jerked his chin toward Jungkook.

Jungkook groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Shaking your head fondly, you turned your attention back to Taehyung.

“What about Jimin and Namjoon?” you asked, watching as Taehyung perked up at the shift in conversation.

Taehyung, ever the opportunist, used your question to slip away from Jungkook’s grasp, swiftly moving behind you as if you were his personal shield.

“Oh, excellent question,” he said, placing both hands on your shoulders in a show of camaraderie. “Now, if someone weren’t so busy brooding, maybe he’d have filled you in sooner.”

Jungkook let out a slow, deep sigh through his nose, his patience hanging by a thread.

But you? You let Taehyung hide. You even leaned into it slightly, tilting your head up at him expectantly. “So?”

Taehyung beamed, victorious. “Jimin is with your grandmother at Namjoon’s place,” he explained. “They’re discussing business—y’know, important things. The whole aftermath of the attack, how your coven and the pack might work together moving forward, how we don’t end up tearing each other apart the next time someone so much as breathes wrong—diplomatic stuff. Your grandmother is sharp, by the way. She and Namjoon are probably negotiating the hell out of each other.”

You exhaled, processing this. “And Jimin?”

Taehyung shrugged. “Keeping the peace, making sure they don’t start a war over tea or something.”

You blinked. “That’s… good, actually.”

Taehyung hummed. “Yeah. But don’t worry about it yet. There’ll be plenty of time for you to get involved later. Namjoon, Jimin, and your grandmother already know you’re awake, so they’ll be around soon enough.”

You nodded, processing the information. It was comforting to know that things hadn’t completely fallen apart in your absence, that those you trusted had taken charge where needed.

Still, before you could say anything else, a very exasperated Jungkook, however, was done with this conversation.

“You had your fun,” he said, eyes locked onto Taehyung, voice edged with warning. “Give her back.”

Taehyung gasped dramatically. “Give her back? She’s not a stolen possession, Jungkook.”

Jungkook’s eye twitched.

“Then stop hiding behind her,” he deadpanned.

Taehyung hummed, considering it. Then, with a sigh, he finally released you—but not before leaning down to whisper, “He’s obsessed with you, by the way.”

You smirked.

Jungkook, suspicious, narrowed his eyes. “What did you just say?”

“Nothing,” Taehyung ever the menace, simply sang, stepping back.

Then, as if his sole purpose in life was to torment Jungkook further, he winked at you and added, “Don’t let him boss you around too much, princess.”

You snorted.

Jungkook did not find it nearly as amusing.

Without another word, he promptly turned on his heel and started steering you back toward your room, his firm grip on your wrist ensuring no more distractions.

As you finally left the others behind, you sighed contentedly, the cool night air brushing against your skin. The warmth from inside the pack house had been cozy, but out here, the quiet was almost soothing. The stars stretched endlessly above you, a deep, scattered sea of light against the black sky. You could hear the distant sounds of the forest—the rustling leaves, the occasional hoot of an owl.

Jungkook, however, had only one thing on his mind.

“We are going home. You’re going straight to bed,” he said, tone leaving no room for argument.

You hummed, barely paying attention as you walked beside him.

You stumbled slightly, catching yourself before Jungkook could notice—except he did notice.

Fatigue, deep and bone-weary, suddenly weighed down your limbs.

Your steps faltered.

“You okay?” he asked immediately, slowing his pace.

You sighed, rubbing your forehead. “Yeah, just… tired.”

Jungkook stopped walking entirely and turned to face you, expression shifting into something you did not trust.

Without hesitation, Jungkook stopped walking entirely. He studied you carefully, his brows furrowing, and then—without a word—he kneeled before you, his broad back facing you expectantly.

It took you a second to process what was happening.

“…What are you doing?” you asked warily.

“Get on.”

You blinked. “What?”

Jungkook didn’t turn to look at you, just patted his shoulder. “You’re exhausted. I’m not risking you collapsing on me again. So, piggyback ride. Let’s go.”

You scowled, incredulous. “Absolutely not.”

Jungkook finally twisted his head slightly, leveling you with an unimpressed stare. “It’s this or I can carry you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You are not carrying me princess-style through the whole damn village, Jungkook.”

Jungkook just shrugged, entirely unbothered. “I will if you keep arguing.”

“Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.”

You groaned, rubbing your face in frustration. The last thing you wanted was to be carried around like some helpless damsel, but you also knew Jungkook well enough to understand that he would follow through on his threat.

Reluctantly, you sighed. “Fine.”

With some effort (and mild grumbling on your part), you climbed onto Jungkook’s back, looping your arms loosely around his shoulders. The moment you were secure, he adjusted his grip beneath your legs and rose smoothly to his full height, carrying you as if you weighed nothing.

You stiffened slightly at the effortless motion.

“…Comfortable?” he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

You huffed, but your arms tightened around his shoulders instinctively. “Just walk.”

He chuckled but obeyed, setting off at a steady pace back toward his home.

Despite your initial embarrassment, you had to admit—there was something comforting about the way Jungkook carried you. His warmth seeped through the fabric of your clothes, and his steady breaths beneath you were oddly soothing.

Before long, your exhaustion got the better of you, and you rested your cheek against his shoulder, your grip around him relaxing slightly.

Jungkook’s voice was softer when he spoke next.

“You scared me, you know.”

You blinked sleepily. “Mmm?”

“When you didn’t wake up for days,” he murmured. “I knew it was because of the spell, and I knew you’d be okay, but still…” He exhaled slowly. “It wasn’t easy.”

You frowned slightly, guilt creeping into your chest again. “I’m sorry.”

Jungkook shook his head. “You don’t have to be. Just…” He shifted his grip slightly, his hold on you tightening for a brief second. “Give me a warning next time.”

You chuckled softly. “I’ll try.”

Jungkook scoffed. “Not reassuring.”

Despite yourself, you smiled.

By the time he reached his home, sleep was tugging at the edges of your consciousness.

Jungkook carefully set you down, keeping a steadying hand on your waist as you found your balance.

“Bed,” he ordered quietly.

This time, you didn’t argue.

You climbed under the covers, exhaustion fully settling over you now that you were warm and comfortable.

Jungkook lingered for a moment, watching you.

Then, just as he turned to leave, you murmured, “Stay?”

Jungkook froze at your quiet request, his breath hitching in his throat.

Your voice had been barely more than a murmur, the weight of sleep already tugging you under, but it was enough.

Enough to stop him mid-step.

Enough to set something alight in his chest.

His fingers curled at his sides as he stood there, unmoving, staring at the slow, steady rise and fall of your breathing.

Stay.

It had been so long since he last held you. Since he’d felt your warmth, your presence this close, without the weight of injury or unconsciousness keeping you apart.

He wasn’t sure he deserved it.

But gods, he wasn’t strong enough to walk away.

Not when you were finally here, in front of him, asking him to stay.

Slowly—almost hesitantly—he stepped toward the bed. The room was dim, the only light spilling in from the slivered moon outside, casting soft shadows across your face. You were already half-lost to sleep, your body relaxed against the blankets, your breathing even.

Carefully, Jungkook reached for the edge of the covers, peeling them back just enough to slip in beside you. He moved with the kind of cautious grace one would use to approach a wounded animal, not wanting to startle you, not wanting to shatter whatever fragile peace had settled over this moment.

The bed dipped beneath his weight as he laid down next to you, keeping a respectful distance at first.

But then—

You shifted.

Instinctively, your body turned toward his, seeking out warmth even in sleep. Your face tucked closer to his shoulder, your fingers twitching against the sheets as if reaching for something—for him.

Jungkook swallowed thickly.

A slow, deep ache settled in his chest, one he had been carrying for far too long.

Without thinking, he reached out—tentatively at first—until his arm brushed against yours.

You sighed softly at the contact, melting against him as if this was where you belonged.

And maybe—maybe it was.

Jungkook’s restraint crumbled.

He exhaled shakily and let his arm drape across your waist, pulling you close, finally allowing himself to hold you the way he had been longing to. His fingers ghosted over your back, not pressing, not demanding—just there.

He buried his face into your hair, inhaling deeply, grounding himself in the scent of you, the familiarity, the warmth. His heart was hammering, but his body felt at ease for the first time in weeks.

For a while, he just held you, listening to the steady rhythm of your breathing.

And then, after what felt like forever, you stirred again.

Half-asleep, you turned your face slightly, your nose brushing against his collarbone.

Jungkook tensed.

But all you did was sigh, voice soft, drowsy, and content.

“…Warm.”

Something in his chest tightened painfully.

He closed his eyes.

And, for the first time in a long, long time—

Jungkook let himself rest.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The morning sun cast long golden beams across the room, slipping through the cracks in the curtains, painting warm patterns on the sheets. The light had barely shifted the cool tones of the lingering night, but you were awake.

Lying still, you listened to the quiet, to the steady rhythm of Jungkook��s breathing, to the occasional rustle of fabric as he shifted slightly in his sleep. He was draped over you like he was afraid you’d disappear, his arm a solid, comforting weight across your waist, his face nestled against your shoulder.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, there was peace.

But that peace was fragile.

Your eyes traced the contours of Jungkook’s face, softened in sleep, absent of the tension that usually pulled at his brows. He looked younger like this—unguarded, almost vulnerable. You took in the way his lashes fanned over his cheeks, the way his lips parted slightly with each quiet breath.

It was dangerous, you realized. How easy it would be to fall into this, to pretend like nothing outside of this room mattered.

But it did matter.

You had come here with a purpose. He had asked for your help, and you had given it. You had fought alongside him, alongside his pack, against the hunters who had threatened both of your people. You had done what was needed.

Now…

Now it was time to go home.

The thought sat heavy in your chest, pressing down with an unbearable weight.

Because you could go. You could walk away.

Unlike Jungkook, you weren’t bound by the mate bond the same way he was. You could live without him—painfully, maybe, but still, you could.

But looking at him now…

Did you want to?

Your fingers twitched where they rested on the blanket, itching to reach out, to smooth a stray strand of hair away from his forehead.

You wanted to stay.

God, you wanted to stay with him.

But it wasn’t just about what you wanted.

You had responsibilities. A life. A coven that had followed your lead in battle, and people who still needed you. You couldn't just abandon them to chase after something as uncertain as love.

And then there was him.

Jungkook wasn’t just any wolf—he was second-in-command. He had a pack to protect, a home he had fought for. Could he leave all of that behind? Would he?

Your heart clenched.

What were you supposed to do?

You let out a slow, quiet breath, willing the ache in your chest to ease.

You didn’t want to think about any of it. Not right now. Not when the warmth of Jungkook’s embrace was so steady, so right.

But you knew it wouldn’t go away.

The questions, the uncertainty, the impossible decisions that lay ahead—they wouldn’t just disappear because you wished them away.

Still, just for a little while longer, you let yourself sink into the moment.

Just a little longer.

But then—

A quiet sound, a soft inhale against your skin.

Jungkook stirred.

You felt it before you saw it—the slow tensing of his muscles, the way his breathing changed as he drifted toward wakefulness. His fingers flexed slightly against your waist, as if subconsciously confirming that you were still there.

Then, finally, his eyes fluttered open.

Sleep still clung to him, his gaze hazy and unfocused at first, but the moment he saw you awake—watching him—he stilled.

For a long moment, he just looked at you.

Then, groggily, voice rough from sleep, he murmured, “You’re thinking too hard.”

You blinked, startled by the unexpected observation. “What?”

Jungkook shifted, his arm tightening slightly around you as if to keep you from slipping away. “You’ve got that look,” he said, his voice still thick with sleep. “Like you’re trying to figure out how to solve a problem no one’s even asked you to solve yet.”

You hesitated.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

Jungkook’s gaze searched yours, something unreadable flickering in the dark depths of his eyes.

“You’re thinking about leaving,” he finally said.

It wasn’t a question.

You exhaled, glancing away. “I have to.”

His jaw tensed.

“I have a coven to go back to,” you continued. “People who rely on me. Just like you have people who rely on you.”

Jungkook didn’t respond immediately.

Instead, he let his hand drift, his fingertips brushing over your side absently, as if grounding himself in the feel of you.

Then, finally, he murmured, “I know.”

You turned your gaze back to him, watching as something conflicted passed through his expression.

“I get it,” he said. “Really, I do.”

And you believed him.

But that didn’t make it any easier.

A beat of silence stretched between you, heavy and loaded.

Then, because you had to ask, because you needed to know, you whispered, “What about you?”

Jungkook’s brows furrowed slightly. “What about me?”

“You’re bound to me,” you said, your voice quiet. “By the mate bond. But I’m not bound to you. Not like that.”

Jungkook’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he said nothing.

You swallowed. “If I left, could you live without me?”

His breath hitched, just slightly.

For a long moment, he didn’t answer.

Then—

“No.”

It was barely more than a whisper.

A confession.

A truth laid bare.

Your chest tightened painfully.

Jungkook shifted then, moving just enough to press his forehead against yours. His eyes fluttered shut, his breath ghosting over your lips as he whispered, “I don’t know how to let you go.”

The honesty in his voice, the raw vulnerability—it made your heart ache.

Because you didn’t know how to let him go either.

“…Then we’ll figure it out,” you murmured.

Jungkook’s eyes opened, dark and searching.

For a moment, he just looked at you, as if trying to decipher every unspoken thought lingering between you.

Then, finally—slowly—his lips curved into the smallest of smiles.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “We will.”

And just like that, the tension between you eased.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The meeting was already in full swing by the time you and Jungkook arrived.

Your grandmother sat at the head of the long wooden table, her sharp gaze cutting through the room like a blade. Across from her, Namjoon matched her intensity, his expression calm but unreadable, his presence commanding.

Beside Namjoon, Jimin offered a small nod when he saw you, his usual lighthearted demeanor muted in the face of such serious discussions. The air in the room was thick with purpose, the weight of generations of conflict and possibility hanging between the two sides like a thread waiting to be pulled.

You had expected talks of peace, of tentative alliances, but the sheer depth of what had already been discussed stunned you.

“We are already considering opening trading routes for Yoongi and Taehyung,” Namjoon was saying, his fingers steepled in thought. “There are valuable resources in both territories that could benefit from a proper system. Wolf packs have strong ties to hunting and leather work, and the witches in your coven are skilled in medicines and enchantments—things we could trade fairly.”

Your grandmother nodded, her expression approving. “It will take time, likely decades, to fully establish trust and integration between our people. But for the first time, we are not just discussing if it can happen. We are discussing how.”

Decades.

You swallowed. You had spent years preparing for this kind of work—building bridges, finding compromises—but to hear them already mapping out a future where witches and wolves were more than wary allies, where they were trading partners, maybe even friends... It was almost overwhelming.

Jungkook’s hand was warm against your lower back, steadying. He felt it too—the sheer magnitude of what was happening.

Steeling yourself, you took a breath and stepped forward.

“I have ideas,” you said, carefully measuring your words. “If we’re going to make this work, we need to think about the next few years, not just the next few decades. We should—”

But your grandmother didn’t let you finish.

“You will go back to the coven as the new leader,” she interrupted, her voice final. “I will stay here with the wolves, alongside the members of our coven who are willing to remain. We will be the foundation for the future relationship between our people.”

The words landed like a physical blow.

What?

You blinked, barely comprehending what she had just said. “I—”

She continued, leaving no room for argument. “As of this moment, you are the head of the coven. Effective immediately.”

The weight of her statement settled over you like a mantle of iron.

Your training had always pointed to this moment��one day, you would lead. You had known it would happen, but not yet. Not now. Not like this.

Your throat felt tight.

You had fought, bled, and nearly died for both the coven and the wolves, but the reality of leadership was different. It meant responsibility. It meant you couldn’t just leave for days at a time to visit Jungkook whenever you pleased.

It meant you couldn’t stay with him.

The realization nearly broke you.

Jungkook’s body went rigid beside you, his grip tightening slightly as he understood the same thing you did.

But before either of you could speak, Namjoon leaned forward, his deep voice breaking the stunned silence.

“Jungkook will go with you.”

Your head snapped to Namjoon.

Namjoon’s dark eyes were steady as he elaborated, as if he had planned this all along.

“The witches are leaving their last leader here to build trust and establish relations,” he said. “It’s only right that the wolves have a representative within the main coven as well. Jungkook will act as that figure. He will oversee the connections between the wolves who remain here and the ones who leave with you.”

Your mind reeled.

Jungkook was coming with you?

The weight that had settled in your chest moments ago cracked, and something entirely different bloomed in its place.

Hope.

Not only that—but wolves would follow. There would be families, warriors, others who wanted to help build this connection.

This could work.

This was real.

You felt your breath catch, your vision suddenly blurring.

You could stay with him.

For the first time since realizing you didn’t want to leave him, you saw a future where you didn’t have to choose. Where you could lead and be with Jungkook.

Jungkook was silent beside you, but you could feel the tension in him. The way his chest rose and fell a little faster, the way his hand on your back trembled just slightly.

And then—

“You planned this,” Jungkook accused, his voice rough with emotion.

His sharp eyes darted between Namjoon and your grandmother, as if searching for confirmation.

And to his absolute frustration, they smiled.

Your grandmother’s lips curled just slightly, proud and knowing. Namjoon’s smirk was subtler, but just as smug.

Jungkook exhaled sharply, shaking his head in disbelief. “Unbelievable.”

A small, breathless laugh escaped you, still teetering on the edge of overwhelming relief.

Without thinking, without hesitation, you surged forward and jumped into Jungkook’s arms. He caught you easily, his reflexes sharp even in his shock, his arms locking around you like he never planned to let go.

“We can stay together!” you exclaimed, breathless, overwhelmed, relieved.

Jungkook froze for a second, his grip tightening like he needed to make sure this was real. Then, slowly, carefully, he buried his face into your neck, his breath hot and unsteady against your skin.

“And you want that?” he whispered, voice raw.

You nodded viciously into his neck.

He didn’t say anything else—he didn’t have to. His hold on you, the way he clung to you like you were the only thing grounding him, said enough.

Namjoon—who had been watching the exchange with a knowing look—tilted his head slightly and asked, “Unless, of course, you don’t want to go together?”

You barely had time to process the words before Jungkook scoffed, a sharp, incredulous sound. His grip on you tightened, fingers curling into your waist as if someone might try to pull you away.

“Not want to?” Jungkook echoed, his voice dropping into something low and dangerous. “Are you joking?”

Namjoon’s lips twitched, but he didn’t say anything. Your grandmother, on the other hand, lifted a brow as if awaiting your answer as well.

They were giving you a choice.

You knew you had one.

But your heart had already decided.

There had never been a choice.

You turned to Jungkook, truly seeing him.

“I want to,” you said softly, but with certainty. “I want to stay with my mate.”

Jungkook’s exhale was almost shaky, like he had been holding his breath. His forehead dropped against yours briefly, his relief tangible.

Then, without looking away from you, he turned his head slightly toward Namjoon and deadpanned, “Ask me that again, and I’ll break your nose.”

Namjoon only smirked. “That’s the answer I was looking for.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The moment your group crossed the borders of your coven, the shift in energy was immediate. The witches who had traveled with you—those who had not chosen to stay with your grandmother—let out quiet sighs of relief, their shoulders easing as if the very air here soothed them. The wolves, however, remained on edge, their eyes flickering around as they stepped into unfamiliar territory.

Jimin wasted no time. He turned to the witches and began issuing quiet instructions, ushering them forward with a mixture of authority and warmth.

"Alright, everyone, you know the drill," he said briskly. "Make sure the newcomers have everything they need. They’ll be staying in the common rooms until we can get new huts built, so help them settle in and make them feel at home."

The witches moved with practiced ease, some of them already reaching for the wolves, offering guidance, showing them where to go. The wolves hesitated at first but followed, some visibly relaxing as they realized they were being treated not just as outsiders, but as part of the coven.

Amidst the movement, you noticed Jungkook standing a little apart, his head slightly tilted as he took in the sights of your home. His sharp eyes flitted over the various huts, the herb gardens, the small glowing lanterns that dotted the village, each one burning with soft magic.

Then, without a word, he turned and began following the other wolves toward the common rooms.

You blinked, confused.

“Jungkook?”

He stopped in his tracks and looked back at you, just as confused.

“Where are you going?” you asked.

His brow furrowed slightly. “With the others?” It sounded almost like a question. “I thought we’d all stay together in the common rooms until the new huts are built.”

Your lips parted in understanding, and suddenly you felt uncharacteristically shy. You shifted on your feet, glancing away before clearing your throat.

“Well… you can do that,” you admitted. “But since I stayed with you when I first came to your village, I… wouldn’t mind if you stayed with me.”

It was barely a whisper by the time you finished speaking.

Jungkook stared at you.

And then—slowly, hesitantly—he nodded, something warm flickering behind his eyes.

“Alright,” he said quietly.

You turned away to hide your flustered expression and began leading him through the village, feeling Jungkook’s presence right at your back. The familiarity of home settled around you as you passed through the narrow pathways, the scent of fresh herbs and earth filling your lungs.

Then, finally, you arrived.

Your hut wasn’t particularly large, though it was slightly bigger than some of the others, given your role within the coven. You pushed open the door and stepped inside, letting Jungkook follow behind you.

The space was instantly you.

Bundles of dried herbs hung from the ceiling, filling the air with their soft, natural fragrance. Shelves lined the walls, crowded with ancient scripts, handwritten journals, small vials of potions, and jars of ingredients. A thick, knitted blanket was thrown haphazardly over the couch by the window, the soft glow of the late afternoon sun spilling over it, overlooking your small herb garden outside.

It was warm. Lived in. Home.

You suddenly felt self-conscious.

Quickly, you reached for some of the books scattered over your worktable, to tidy the space.

“Sorry, it’s messy, I—”

“I love it.”

Jungkook’s voice stopped you in your tracks.

You turned to look at him.

He was standing just inside the doorway, taking it all in. His dark eyes roamed over the space, lingering on the shelves, the dried herbs, the open books. You watched as his shoulders eased, his fingers flexing slightly at his sides like he could feel how much of you lived here.

“It smells like you,” he murmured. “And the tea you always made for me.”

Your heart squeezed at the confession.

You cleared your throat again, shifting awkwardly before gesturing toward the small sleeping area off to the side. “There’s only one bed,” you pointed out, cheeks warming. “But, um… I can make something for me on the couch if—”

Jungkook raised a brow.

“No.”

You blinked.

He smirked slightly. “You think I’d sleep anywhere other than next to my mate, after you invited me?”

Your heart skipped a beat.

It was still strange— hearing him say it so easily, so assuredly, as if claiming you was second nature.

Instead of responding, you turned toward the kitchen, reaching for the kettle. “Tea?” you asked, needing something—anything—to ground yourself.

But before you could take another step, Jungkook moved.

A heavy thud echoed through the small space as he dropped his bag at the door. And then—before you could even turn fully—his hands were on you.

Large, warm palms framed your face, his fingers threading gently into your hair while his thumbs brushed featherlight strokes along your jaw. His touch was firm but careful, reverent in a way that sent a shiver down your spine.

Your breath caught.

Jungkook’s dark eyes searched yours, something raw burning behind them, something unspoken but felt. His gaze dipped to your lips, and your heart pounded.

Then, without another moment’s hesitation, he kissed you.

It was soft at first. A quiet press of lips, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring the moment—like he wanted to taste what it meant to be here with you, in your home, in your world. His fingers cradled your face gently, his thumb brushing against your cheekbone in soothing circles.

But then—

A quiet, needy sigh slipped from you, and it was like a switch flipped inside him.

The next kiss was nothing like the first.

Jungkook tilted his head, deepening the kiss, his hands moving to grip your neck, his thumbs pressing just beneath your jaw as if he needed to hold you, to anchor you to him. His lips parted against yours, his tongue sweeping in, tasting, claiming, stealing the very breath from your lungs.

Heat flared through you, curling in your stomach, pooling low and deep. Your fingers found his shirt, gripping it tightly as his body pressed flush against yours, his warmth searing through the thin fabric of your clothing.

Jungkook groaned softly into your mouth, the sound reverberating through your chest, down your spine, making your fingers tighten against his shirt.

Your knees wobbled.

You might have fallen—if not for him.

Jungkook’s grip on you tightened, his arms shifting lower to steady you. Without breaking the kiss, he pushed forward, walking you backward with sure steps until the backs of your thighs hit something solid—the edge of your kitchen counter. A startled gasp left you, but he was already gripping your waist, already lifting you effortlessly, setting you down onto the smooth surface.

A heartbeat later, he stepped between your legs, crowding into you, claiming the space between your thighs like it was his by right.

His lips never left yours.

If anything, the kiss only deepened—hotter, messier, more desperate. His tongue brushed against yours, coaxing a whimper from your throat as his fingers dug into your waist, holding you there, against him, chest to chest, heat to heat.

You clung to him, breathless, your fingers threading into his dark hair, pulling him closer.

Jungkook growled lowly, the sound vibrating against your lips as he pressed himself even further into you, as if trying to erase any remaining space between your bodies. His hands slid up your sides, warm and firm, as if memorizing every inch of you all over again.

It was overwhelming. The way he kissed you—possessively, like he had waited lifetimes for this. Like he would never let you go.

Jungkook’s hands roamed greedily, sliding up your waist, over your ribs, thumbs grazing the curve of your stomach before retracing their path. He gripped at you like he was mapping every inch of you, like he had been starving for this—for you.

His hands found the dip of your spine, pressing you flush against him, making sure you felt every inch of his warmth. Then they slid higher, over your shoulders, tracing the line of your throat, thumbs ghosting over your jaw.

He pulled back just enough, his breath warm against your lips. “Is this okay?” he asked, his voice rough, offering you an out, a sliver of space.

But you didn’t take it.

Instead, with a soft whimper, you fisted the fabric of his shirt and pulled him closer, your lips parting against his in silent invitation.

His breath stuttered, a tremor running through his frame as your words spilled against his lips—

“Use your words.”

Jungkook exhaled sharply, his hold tightening. “Yes, m-mate.”

The effect was instantaneous.

Jungkook stilled. Completely.

His breathing went harsh in the quiet of the room. His fingers twitched where they held you, his entire frame going rigid. And then—

A growl rumbled through his chest, deep and raw, vibrating against your skin. His grip turned bruising, his lips crashing back onto yours, all hesitation gone.

His lips trailed from your mouth, over your jaw, down the column of your throat, and you gasped at the sensation, at the heat pooling low in your belly.

His teeth grazed your skin, “You—” he rasped between kisses, his voice breaking apart with need, “—cannot say things like that and expect me to stop.”

You shivered, fingers tightening in his hair, your pulse hammering as you met his gaze.

Boldly, breathlessly, you flicked your tongue over your lips and looked up at him—his gaze dark, pupils blown wide with hunger—and, shyly, you asked,

“Then… if not mate than maybe—” you whispered, trailing a hand down his chest.

His breath hitched.

“Lover?”

Jungkook sucked in a sharp breath, his grip flexing against your waist. But it wasn’t the word itself that unraveled him—it was that you had finally called him. A name, a claim, a truth.

And that was all he needed.

Then his lips left yours, trailing lower, brushing against your jaw, down the sensitive skin of your throat. His breath was hot, teasing, as he whispered against your skin,

“Say it again.”

Your breath hitched.

He pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss against the side of your neck, his voice a rasp—demanding, pleading.

“Call me your mate again.”

Your fingers tightened in his hair, your pulse thrumming beneath his lips. And in the quiet, breathlessly, you murmured,

“Yes, mate.”

Jungkook let out a low, wrecked groan before his mouth was on yours again.

His mouth devouring yours in a way that left no room for uncertainty. His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you closer, the heat between you nearly unbearable.

Your body responded instinctively, your legs wrapping around his hips, holding him tight. He let out a sharp exhale at the feeling, his arms caging you in, his entire body pressing against yours like he wanted to become part of you.

His voice, when he spoke, was raw.

“Bed. Now.”

His hands slid down, strong and sure, gripping your thighs. You felt every shift of his muscles as he lifted you, carrying you effortlessly, like you weighed nothing, like you belonged in his arms.

He didn’t just carry you—he possessed you.

With each step toward the bed, his lips ghosted along your skin, the heat of his breath sending shivers down your spine.

Jungkook eased you down onto the mattress, the sheets cool against your heated skin. The bed dipped beneath his weight as he settled over you, his arms bracing on either side of your head. His dark eyes locked onto yours, intense, unwavering.

One of his hands moved, fingers trailing up your arm, slow and reverent. He brushed your hair away, tucking it behind your ear before cupping your cheek, his thumb sweeping over your skin in a slow caress.

“Look at you,” he murmured, almost to himself. His voice was thick with something deeper than just desire.

A shiver ran through you as your hands found his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palms, matching your own.

“Jungkook—”

He silenced you with a kiss, softer this time—deep and slow, like he wanted to savor every second. Like he never wanted this moment to end.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, gripping the fabric as warmth spread through your veins like fire.

His hands roamed your body, tracing every curve like he wanted to commit you to memory. He gripped you, pulled you closer, as if he could sink into you completely.

And you let him.

You wanted all of him.

Your hands slipped under his shirt, your fingers splaying across his bare skin, feeling the muscles flex beneath your touch.

Jungkook sucked in a sharp breath at the contact, then pulled back just enough to look at you.

His pupils were blown wide, his lips swollen from kissing you, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath.

And then—he smirked.

Slow. Dangerous. Utterly devastating.

“I hope you know,” he murmured, his voice husky, his fingers skimming down your thigh, pressing closer, “you’re never getting rid of me now.”

A breathless laugh bubbled from you, your hands coming up to cup his face, your thumb dragging across his cheek.

“Good,” you whispered. “I don’t want to.”

Something flickered in his expression—something softer, something deeper.

And then he surged forward again, capturing your lips in another breathtaking kiss.

And you let him.

Because he was yours.

Your mate.

Your lover.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The End

Masterlist

#bts jungkook #jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook bts #jeon jungguk #jeon jungkook #bts #bts imagines #bts stories #bts oneshot #jimin #yoongi #taehyung

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idk1382 · 1 day ago

Text

Insatiable - Caleb

TW for this chapter: mentions of child experimentation, child death (for MC and OC), suicide mention (OC)

WC: 4.8K

Masterlist

Caleb was the second one to meet you.

Caleb was also the first one to hate you.

No, you’re not leaving him so just stay by his side and he’ll spend the rest of his life making it up to you.

When your parents first introduced you and your brother, he didn’t know what to think. His dislike actually occurred during your first meeting, when your eyes met. Later, he’d rationalise this due to how close you were with her but in reality he loathed every time you’d look at him like you knew him.

Who did you think you were? What gave you the right?

You were pretty, yes but there was something else. Almost like you were something new in this world, something that had never existed before. He supposes that’s why you caught attention everywhere you went, from your classmates, to his friends and to his frustration, hers.

Before you came into their life, she had only needed him. He knew it was selfish of him but after everything they had gone through, seeing her die over and over again, he truly believed that only he could understand her, take care of her and that she only needed him. But no matter how coldly he looked at you or how harsh his words were, you never got mad. Instead you would give him an understanding smile while you looked at him with pity which only made him more mad.

Pity? He didn’t need pity, especially from you.

So, then what was it? What was the catalyst that made him change his mind?

Well if we wanted to be more technical than it was the first time you met each other but his stubborn self would never admit this. No, this idiot finally acknowledged his feelings when you took care of him.

Caleb hated a lot of things. It’s only natural to go through life and develop distaste for certain things. Having to watch the one he loved die over and over again and not being able to do a thing was when he realised he detested being helpless. Which is why when he felt the dryness in his throat, the tears beginning to form in his eyes and the stuffiness in his nose…well he pretended to be perfectly fine.

See, Caleb was an actor. A very good one. He’s been fooling the people in his life his entire life. After all, they think he’s okay since he’s popular in school, girls like him, he plays basketball and gets good grades. Nevermind that he still wakes up in the middle of the night from nightmares or the sheer exhaustion he feels at certain times.

Caleb was an actor. So good in fact that no one around him knows how to tell when he’s not okay. He’s fooled everyone. Well, except one that is.

You.

2 days into his cold and all he really wants to do is get in his bed and never wake up again. But she had wanted to go out for ice cream and who was he to deny her anything. They’d picked you up from the steps of your house because of course they did. She never went anywhere without you. The three of you fell into the same formation as always with her in the middle and you both by her side. The walk to the small area of numerous shops was only 20 minutes but those 20 minutes went by quickly with her around. She was like the sun, bright with a smile on her face as she talked with a smile on her face choosing to skip rather than walk with them. Her current obsession was owls. To summarise what she’d said, she learnt about them in class, the focus on the Blakiston Fish Owl, native to Linkon and very endangered. That’s why they’d caught her attention, he could only watch and smile, content to just listen to her.

“...that’s why owls have such good hearing…” He didn’t know why his attention drifted to you. If she was the sun then you were the moon. While she was loud and loved to talk, you were quiet with a few words escaping your mouth. While she represented the sun’s rays - warm and safe, you had the moon’s embrace - gentle and calm. You were by her side, smiling softly and occasionally quipping in with your own questions about the animal. Her hand was in yours, swinging it around as she talked. Even he could admit that the two of you meshed well. He felt like an intruder.

The dress you were wearing complemented you well, fitting against your body well, your hair had grown to the point you could tie it up letting him see the earrings he’d helped her pick out for you. Studs painted to look like a soccer ball. He’d gone to one of your matches (he was dragged there against his will) and he had even clapped a little when your team won (he’d rather drink bleach than admit he was hooked on the way you’d moved across the field). On your wrist was of course the matching bracelet you had. Forcing himself to look away, he put his attention back to her.

The local grocery was named Aura’s Mart. The story behind the name was one of tragedy. The owner, a nice man named Felix named it after his deceased daughter, Aura. For all the advances society had accomplished in technology and medicine, she couldn’t be saved from the sudden aneurysm that struck. Felix’s wife followed a couple months later by her own hands. That’s why it had become an unspoken rule around the neighbourhood to only go to Aura’s Mart.

Caleb never understood if the people genuinely didn’t realise or just pretended not to see the dead look in Felix’s eyes - now a husk of what he once was. All this only served as a reminder of him to never lose her, to never become like Felix.

Shame he’d never realised that he could lose you too, huh?

As they entered the shop, he tried not to grimace at the dead smile Felix gave them instead putting his focus on all the merchandise while the two of you went down to where the ice cream was. His eyes came across a brand of chips he knew you liked because they were spicy, he also saw the chocolate you preferred because they had a creaminess to them you had yet to find elsewhere. He knew a lot of things about you, he knew that despite you not being a fan of strawberries, you’d pick strawberry ice cream because it was the only thing you liked them in. He knew you loved rainy days, that you loved staring at the night sky and so much more. He didn’t have a choice as he had a habit of committing everything she would say to memory and you were her favourite topic.

The two of you walked right back to him, eyes trained on the bag in his hands. “What did you buy?” she asked in an excited tone, snatching the bag from him before he could even answer. “Hey, is this how you treat me after I buy you all your favourite snacks?” He grabbed onto her cheek but not pulling it too hard. She swatted his hands away, “Ugh get off!”

She opened the bag and memorised the insides. “Oh, he even got your faves,” she told you. You looked at him in surprise. Why were you shocked? Did you think so low of him that you couldn’t even imagine him doing such a thing? But then the guilt settled into his stomach, he only had himself to blame for you thinking such things however before he could drown in his thoughts, you leaned your arm forward to hand him something. It was an extra ice cream cone he didn’t notice. “I remember you saying how much you liked this,” was all you said before you handed it over, strawberry ice cream in your other hand.

And even though his throat was killing him, Caleb ate the ice cream.

Day 4 of his sickness and he finally got his wish. Short puffs of breath escaped him as he laid bundled up in his bed. The thick covers provided him respite despite the heat he felt throughout his entire body. She was out the whole day on a class trip and the old lady was away as well meaning he could let the act go and just relax. He thought he heard knocking on the front door before his eyes closed and sleep overtook.

When he woke up again he was disorientated not noticing immediately the cold cloth on his forehead until he reached up to rake his fingers through his hair. Taking the cloth off as confusion filled him. Shit she must have come home then, she saw him in this state. A quick glance at the clock on his nightstand read 11:00AM. Three hours. That’s all the sleep he got. The medicine, cough syrup and glass of water on his nightstand were a new addition. There’s no way it was her who was home, it’s way too early, he thought. Must be gran.

He answered the knock on his door and you walked in. An option he never considered. “Good you’re up. I was beginning to get worried,” was all you said before walking over to his curtains opening them with the windows. The sudden light hurt his eyes, “What are you-Nevermind why are you here?” he questioned while covering his eyes with hand. “And close those, too bright.”

“No.”

“No?” He resembled a blowfish with the way his mouth hung open at your audacity.

“I said no.” Arms crossed in front of you as you took a stance.

“Who do you think you are?” The sneer on his face should’ve broken your resolve. Should’ve.

“Someone who noticed that you were being an idiot! I mean who pretends to be okay when they’re sick! You’re surrounded by people who care for you and here you are actively spitting in their faces. What if it wasn’t me who discovered you like this but her? How do you think she would’ve felt realising you were sick all this time and not only did she not notice but that you went out of your way to make it so?”

Caleb could only stare at the anger on your face in awe. He’d never seen you angry before, he’d never heard you yell before. In fact he thought you were incapable of these things. He never understood your admirers before but as he looked at the scowl on your face, the venom in your eyes, your jaw tight with your fists clenched, he found you so beautiful.

“Well?” you asked, eyes narrowing on him.

“I think that’s the most I’ve heard you speak.” Your right eye twitched. He smiled.

With a huff, you stormed out of his room while he sat there processing everything that had occurred.

After a couple of minutes trying to will his body to get up, he went downstairs and for the second time in one day, shocked by the domestic sight before him. There you were in the kitchen, standing before the stove which had a large pot on it, stirring the soup you were cooking. He could smell it in the air, delicious.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” his voice was soft as he stared at your back. He’d learnt to cook so he could feed her everything she desired.

“My dad taught me.” You didn’t even turn around to answer. This was the first thing he learnt about you on his own.

He found himself taking slow steps towards you until he stopped close enough to touch. His eyes trained on how your shoulders tensed a little before relaxing. He was right behind you, fighting the urge to trace his fingers down your neck and feel your skin. Did you feel the tension too?

He lowered his head right next to yours reaching out to hold onto the counter on either side of you, caging you in. “You never answered my question, you know? Why are you here?” words spoken right into your ear. “Why do you care if I’m sick?”

You sighed before turning your head not at all affected by how close your face was to his. Your eyes were focused right on his and the scowl had returned. “Don’t look too deep into it, Caleb.” His breath hitched as his eyes blew wide open, he can’t remember you ever saying his name and like a starving dog who’d been thrown a bone he wanted more. Say it again and again. Never stop saying it. Unaware of the turmoil inside him you continued, “I’d do this for anyone. You’re sick I can’t just leave you alone no matter how much you hate me.”

As Caleb remained frozen, you turned off the stove and pushed his hand away to clear space. He obediently moved away. You walked to the cupboard where they stored the bowls, moving around as you got spoons and whatever else was necessary, feeling his heavy stare following you. You decided to ignore him, pouring soup into the bowl before setting it on the table. Even when you reached out to grab the sleeve of the jumper he was wearing, he said nothing as you guided him towards the table and sat him down on the chair. “Eat,” you said and so he did.

“I have to go work so I’m leaving but make sure to rest, okay?” you told him and all he could do was nod. He remembered something about you taking a casual job at the library, it suited you, he thought. He watched as you turned to leave and yet he wanted to beg for you to stay but insecurity stopped him. Why would you stay for him?

“Ah, I completely forgot to say this,” you turned back around to face him again, determination all over your face. “If you continue to pretend like you’re fine around her then that’s all she’ll ever see you as. Let her see you at your worst, show her the different sides to you, let her into your flaws so she can experience your complexity. Then she’ll see you for what you are, a person like the rest of us. I know being seen as the strong and reliable Caleb is what’s easier for you but you’ll always be stuck here watching as she gets further and further away from you.” You walked away without giving him a chance to respond.

Caleb’s beginning to think you like leaving him speechless.

He’d learnt two things that day. One, he didn’t hate being helpless as much as he thought, not if it meant you would take care of him. And, two that he liked seeing emotions on your face. How would you look sad? Disgusted? Exhilarated? How would you look underneath him as he had his way with you, what sort of noises would you make, would you plead or beg?

Everyone noticed the change between the two of you. Suddenly, he was coming up to talk to you at school when you were by yourself (He still remembers the bewildered look on your face as you looked around trying to find her, thinking it was her he was talking to. He left you speechless that day), he was present at any of your matches he could go to, cheering your name along with her, picking you up and spinning you around when your team would win, how he had to have a hand on you at all times, the way his face would flush whenever your attention was on him and his constant teasing of you. The man would never let you have a moment of peace when he was around. Most importantly, they all noticed the way he looked at you. Purple eyes hazy with want as he looked at you like a man would at water he’d gone an entire day without.

She was pipsqueak and you had become Shortcake. He found it hilarious to tease you about your height when you easily towered over most women and as a bonus it never failed to get you to give that look of annoyance as your lips curled and your fists would attack him.

He made you regret ever taking care of him as it had become a common occurrence for him to seek you out for the smallest things.

"Shortcake help me!" He'd scream barging into your room.

"What? What is it this time?' Would be your dry response.

Wounded by your lack of care, he'd pout. "Look I got stabbed." He'd tell you dead serious while showing the miniscule paper cut on his finger.

And despite the frustration that would build up in you, he always left your room with whatever wound cleaned and bandaged.

Maybe he might have felt a little bad had you put up a fight against any of it. When he would lay his head on your lap, you’d look at him in annoyance before faltering at the vulnerable look in his eyes, threading your fingers through his hair giving him a gentle message which lulled him to sleep.

When he would wake up from a nightmare, he’d sneak into your room where oftentimes she would be present watching your sleeping form as her eyes moved to his. The first time it happened he was halfway through your window until his eyes came across the two of you, her smug smile against his sheepish expression at getting caught, she made a show of her fingers tracing the features on your face. An act of dominance, don’t forget who wanted her first. But she still relented and let him in. The next day when you woke up to the both of them on either side of you, crushing you completely in their hold…well you kicked them both off the bed in shock. Both of them sat on their knees looking up at you. Before you could even begin to question anything, the two rascals flashed their puppy eyes but not just any puppy eyes, no they used the ones that resembled a wounded puppy, their ultimate weapon and your ultimate weakness.

Sighing as you rubbed the area between your eyebrows, already feeling the migraine coming your way. “I’m not mad, okay? Next time just ask,” you had said, shrieking when two pairs of arms tackled you back on the bed and the two crushing you once again. You could only gaze at the ceiling above you as one face nuzzled into the back of your neck and one into your chest, what has my life come too?

You just let them take whatever they wanted.

Things got worse for Caleb as puberty smashed into him. Well some things were good, he grew even more (unfortunately for you), his voice got deeper. The problem was how aware he became of your body. Or more accurately how a certain body part became hyper aware of you. You smiled at him. Hard. You put your hair up. Hard. You kept it down. Hard. You - Hard.

He tried to distance himself from you. You didn’t deserve to be reduced to this but that plan quickly went out the window:

“Do you hate me again?” It was the first time he’d seen you cry. It took everything to not rip out his own heart and give it to you as proof of his devotion. However a sick part of him was relieved to see the tears, for all the affection he showed towards you none had been reciprocated. He had tried not to let it get to him but he never knew if he mattered to you. As an apology he let you do his nails not before she had kicked his ass for making you cry.

As time went on, his body learnt to calm down around you, to clarify the desire never went away he just developed control. But of course you’d test him from time to time and the worst(best) part was that it was all unintentional from you.

It had been a hot day, made worse by the fact that he decided to play basketball. All he wanted to do was go home and take a shower. When he gets home, he hears music coming from her room, letting him know the bathroom was free. Poor, tired and sweaty Caleb had no idea what was awaiting him. Dumping his bag in his room and picking clothes to change into, he headed to the shower, still kind of pure. Upon opening the door, he’s greeted by an angelic view of ass. Specifically your ass. Ass that was (unfortunately) covered by a white towel, as you were bent over the tub, unplugging the blocker. His eyes trailed down to your naked legs, water dripping down on them. All poor, tired and sweaty and not so pure Caleb could do was swallow the lump in his throat.

The sound of the door opening had alerted you and as you perked up and turned to face him, he let out a small groan. You were going to kill little Caleb and maybe big Caleb too. The towel hadn’t been as big as you’d like, covering only the lower half of your boobs and it didn’t fit around you perfectly, letting him take a peek at your stomach as well as your upper thigh. Your wet hair was still down as you couldn’t find a second towel. “Caleb?” he didn’t even hear you call out to him, his heavy gaze followed the bead of water that was currently running down your neck into the valley between your breasts. Silently, he stepped into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind him. “Caleb…?” you tried again, head tilted in confusion. Had this been a normal interaction he would’ve cooed at your cuteness.

“Why are you here?” his voice was thick and calm in a scary way as he stepped even close towards you, half-lidded eyes with a stare right at your chest. “Oh,” you looked away, face flustered from embarrassment. “I slipped in mud so I had to clean up.” Slipping in mud had ruined your nonchalant reputation thankfully no one other than her had been around to see it but the embarrassment still stung. “Why are you here and not in your own house?” he tried again, this time gaze on you. He was close to losing control or perhaps he already did. “She told me to and I figured why not? I already keep clothes here. Sorry for not locking the door, I completely forgot.” You waved him off.

Your non-caring attitude was really starting to piss him off. You stood practically naked in front of him and he was struggling to not let it get to him and yet you were fine? Moving too fast for you to comprehend, he’s suddenly in front of you, your jaw in his hand and despite the tick in his jaw or his furrowed brows, he holds you like you’re made of glass. “Caleb? What a-” you’re cut off by his lips slamming into yours. The kiss is clumsy, hurried but it's harsh and passionate. He’s never kissed anyone before but he doesn’t care as his tongue explores you, he wants to consume you. You’re frozen until you’re not. When he feels your lips move against his, returning his love, he nearly melts. He hates when the need to breathe comes up, reluctantly removing his lips from yours, both his hands still cradling your face. The both of you are breathing heavy but your lips are wet from his assault and when your eyes filled with haziness meet his, it takes everything to not dive in again.

But then reality crashes into you, your eyes snap in horror and you push him away. He can do nothing as you storm out the room and he’s left standing there. Realisation dawns on him that he might have ruined it all. You ignored him after that, no matter how hard he tried to seek you out, you never gave in. Life without you is torture. When she asks him what’s going on he doesn't respond. You find him one day after a long shift at word, sitting on the steps to your house. His graduation is a couple of months away and there’s no way he’s leaving without fixing this. He knows you’re about to tell him to leave with the look in your eyes but something stops you, probably the desperation on his face. The words in your mouth don’t come out causing you to look away in contemplation, with a sigh you sit down next to him. “What is it?” you ask.

“I’m sorry,” is all he can say. Which is so fucking stupid of him since he’s been practising this big speech in front of his mirror for days but now before you he’s reduced into this. “I miss you,” is the second thing out of his mouth. “I shouldn’t have done that,” is the third. But I don’t regret it, should’ve been the fourth if he hadn’t been such a coward.

“You can’t do that again, Caleb. I refuse to be a stand in for her.” Your eyes are rock hard as you stare into his. His heart shatters into pieces - but it’s okay if it’s you doing it. He can’t believe you think so low of yourself, do you not see yourself? Why would you think it wasn’t you he was in love with? It’s you that never leaves his mind, you that makes his heart race, you that make everything better, it’s you that he imagines coming home, you that he wants a family with. It’s you he wants, it's been you since the moment you met. He never thought his love for her would come back to bite him because after you’d seen his devotion to her, how was he supposed to prove this to you. You would never believe him. And with these past couple of months of seeing you around but not being able to touch you have taught him anything is that he needs you in his life, no matter what role you play.

So, instead he promises you to never cross that line again and he treats you like you’re only a friend to him.

Graduation comes around. You give him the beautiful bouquet and you accept him into your life by gifting him that bracelet. Then you went ahead and died. You had a habit of leaving him.

When it all happened, he felt nothing. Even as she cried, not a single tear escaped him. He felt disgusted in himself, you had disappeared, you were taken so why was he not feeling anything?

He found that he could no longer look at the moon, he hated rainy days, he hated the colour of your hair and your eyes and he hated seeing them anywhere. Relief was all he felt as he packed his life away when his break had come to an end, going away to uni was his reprieve. Everything here reminded him of you.

University had been the escape he needed, his life filled with tests and notes, too busy to think of you. It’s not until one night when he wakes up from a nightmare and gets up to find you, only to be confused by his dorm layout. This wasn’t his room…the tears don’t stop. No matter how hard he tries they won’t stop. It all falls onto him at once until he’s collapsed onto the floor, knees tucked into his chest as he grieves. He’s different after you, a bit more hardened. He thinks it would’ve been worse had it not been for her and your brother. His feelings toward her had changed, he’d taken your advice and he let her in. Their friendship had strengthened as a result and their shared feelings of you had never been an issue.

“I would’ve shared her with you,” she had said one day, visiting him at uni. They were laying outside on the grass just staring up at the sky in silence.

“I would’ve liked that,” he replied. It was true.

They never discussed you again.

His relationship with your brother was tricky, they’d been closer when they were younger but grew apart as he found other people. Your brother was different than what he’s used to but it didn’t mean he didn’t care for him. He tried his best to be present at your brother’s appointments, he tried his best to care for him the way you had. Your brother was the most precious thing to you. It’s okay he’s not jealous (liar). She takes care of him better, he likes to pretend it’s because he’s never around but deep down he knows the truth. He looks too much like you and it hurts.

Five years later, you’ve been declared legally dead. He wants nothing but to follow you.

A/N: I completely forget I gave reader a brother while writing this chapter, in my defence its 2am and I've been so busy that I just wanted to get the chapter out. Anyways next chapter will be the start of the story and everything will be in your Pov. As I am writing for reader and not an OC I just want clarify that I'm trying my best to keep reader as general as possible. I might mess up but it's impossible to write a reader that everyone can relate to or see themselves in so feel free to see her as an OC. Also fun fact the owl that I mentioned is native to China (Japan and other countries as well) and since Linkon is practically China, I just included that. Also the owl will play an important part later.

#love and deepspace #x reader #yandere #loveanddeepspace #lads #lads sylus #lads caleb #lads rafayel #lads zayne #love and deep space #lads fanfic #sylus x reader #zayne x reader #caleb x reader #xavier x reader #rafayel x reader #mc x reader #yandere x reader #yandere character

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