After having a wet dream, he encounters the very person it was about.
-----Gekko-----
The morning light fell through the gap in the curtains, casting a pale stripe across the floor. He sat on the edge of the bed, already deep in a heated debate with his wingmen.
"Listen, guys, I swear I didn't mean for it to happen. It just… it just sort of happened, okay?" Gekko's voice was still rough with sleep as he addressed the creatures perched on the headboard. "I don't normally think about stuff like this. I swear."
His face burned as he gestured vaguely, then gave up entirely, burying his face in his palms. The tips of his ears, visible through the gaps between his fingers, were crimson. He let out a defeated sigh. The dream's details surfaced again—too vivid to be just a dream, the heat and sensation so real it made him feel like he was on fire.
It had started as a mission.
A rare mission, just the two of you. Solo. The infiltration had gone perfectly, and he'd turned to you with a grin and a wink. "Nice work." Wingman nuzzled against your ankle, leaving a cool trace on your skin, and you'd flashed him a light, easy smile in return.
He'd thought it would be smooth sailing—until he caught a glimpse of an enemy in the distance.
"Watch out!" he called out, voice low, reaching for you and pulling you aside. Your shoulder collided with his chest, carrying the warmth of your body. "We're made. Run!" He grabbed your hand and sprinted down the corridor, your palm pressed against his, fingers laced together, a thin sheen of sweat forming at the points where your skin met. More enemies appeared around the corner, footsteps converging from all directions. Quick as a flash, he pulled you into a nearby storage locker and shut the door.
Darkness swallowed you whole.
But the space felt less like a locker and more like a pocket of the dream, a world built just for the two of you—wooden panels against his back, your breathing sounding in his ears.
Footsteps closed in from outside. He reached up and pressed his hand over your mouth, stifling the sound of your breathing. His palm brushed against your lips—soft, cool, a current of something electric shooting through his nerves. His ears burned. When the footsteps finally faded, swallowed by the distant corridor, he pulled his hand away, a lingering trace of your warm breath on his skin.
"Damn. Lock's jammed. We might have to wait for Dizzy and the others to find us."
Silence stretched between you, thick in the dark, broken only by the sound of breathing. Then you spoke, your voice quiet.
"Gekko… don't you think it's getting a little cramped in here?"
The space felt like it was shrinking, the wooden panels pressing in from all sides. The two of you were forced closer together. He lifted his right arm, bracing it behind your head, knuckles against the wood, but his left hand hung awkwardly in the air, not sure where to go. Sensing his hesitation, you murmured, "It's okay. You can get closer."
He froze, grateful for the darkness that hid his face. "Sorry," he mumbled, pressing his left palm flat against the wall, careful not to let it brush your waist, fingertips pressing into the wood.
But the dream didn't want to let him off easy.
The panel pushed another inch closer.
His arms came around you fully, wrapping you against his chest. Too close. Close enough to smell the laundry detergent on your collar, close enough to feel the faint vibration of your heartbeat through his own ribs. He could feel the softness of you, impossible to ignore, pressed against him through the thin fabric of his shirt. In his head, he was apologizing frantically.
And then, naturally, you looked up. In the dark, you rose on your toes—he realized what you were doing a moment too late. Your lips found his, soft and accurate, settling against his mouth.
Warm, damp breath intertwined. His heart seemed to swell with the feeling, too full to hold. His mind went blank for a second, his pupils dilating in the darkness. He was frozen, too stunned to even breathe.
But only for three seconds.
Then he closed his eyes, lifted his hand, and threaded his fingers through your hair.
—How the hell was he supposed to face you now?
After waking, Gekko sat there, staring miserably at you from across the room. He still remembered the lingering sensation on his lips. Wingman trotted over to you, chattering excitedly, little paws slapping against the floor. "Wingman, get back here!" he called out, panicked, even though he knew you couldn't understand a word the creature said. The shame came flooding back, hot and unbearable, crawling up his neck and setting his ears ablaze. You just smiled at him as Wingman trotted back to his side.
Almost without thinking, he stepped forward and looked at you. "You wanna play some games tonight?" His voice was a little tight; he tried to sound natural. His fingers clenched and unclenched at his side.
"Your room?" you answered without missing a beat, like you'd been waiting for it, a hint of a smile in your eyes.
"Yeah. My room." He managed a stiff smile, the corners of his mouth not quite cooperating. The pressure that had just started to dissipate rushed back in—maybe he should start preparing for that moment.
---
-----Yoru-----
He jolted awake in bed, a deep, lingering heat still burning in his chest, refusing to fade. The sheets were twisted into crumpled lines beneath his grip, his back damp with a sheen of sweat.
Kuso… Yoru sat cross-legged on the bed, running a hand through his tangled hair with irritated fingers, still trembling slightly. He stared bleakly at the rumpled sheets, and in the instant his mind went blank, the chaos of the dream came flooding back, like a tide washing over his consciousness.
In the dream, the corners of your eyes were flushed with red—must have been his doing. A watery haze clouded your gaze, but he could still see his own reflection clearly in your pupils. Your voice was nothing like its usual sharp, prickly self; it was soft, waterlogged, carrying a suppressed sob. Your lips were slightly swollen, and your cool fingertips were pressed against his Adam's apple. He couldn't help but swallow, his throat bobbing beneath your touch—a silent surrender.
"Ryo—you're so mean," your voice drifted, feather-light, yet it landed like a stone against his heart, setting it pounding. His breath caught—more like a pout than a reproach. He reached up, caught your wrist, and pinned it to the pillow beside your head, looking down at you. The pillow dented under the pressure, their faces close enough to count each other's lashes. A sudden impulse surged through him—to bury his face in the crook of your neck—and he followed it, letting his warm breath fall against your skin. He let out a half-sigh, muffled: "Yeah. Mean."
What the hell? Why am I going over it in such detail? Yoru cursed himself silently, his ears burning. What's wrong with me? I'm not some sixteen-year-old kid getting wet dreams. And the person I dream about is you—the one I can't stand.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shake thehake the dream away.
---
Everyone could tell something was off with Yoru today. He was more on edge than usual, more agitated, and there was a pointed edge to the way he antagonized you. He'd always had a way of getting under your skin, but today was different. His pace quickened when he passed by you. His gaze deliberately avoided yours.
It all boiled over during the mission.
"Yoru, don't push that fast," Sage's command crackled over comms. He ignored it, racking his weapon with a sharp metallic click. "Give me five," he drawled, a note of irritation in his voice that even he couldn't quite explain.
Five minutes? Maybe less. He teleported right next to you, a burst of pale blue light blooming in the air. He smelled of gunpowder and sweat, his collar damp with exertion. "Too easy." His tone dripped with contempt, a butterfly knife twirling idly in his fingers as he arched an eyebrow at you.
He'd just wanted to see how you'd react after he'd so cleanly completed the objective—maybe hoping for something, maybe nothing. But to you, it looked like a taunt. The question you were about to ask—about whether he was hurt—died in your throat. Your fingers curled at your side. You let out a cold laugh. "Killing it, huh?"
He blinked, clearly caught off guard. The butterfly knife stalled for a fraction of a second. He didn't fire back a retort, as he usually would; he just gave you a look, something complicated in his eyes, and muttered, "Idiot," before turning and walking away.
---
-----Iso-----
He didn't usually sleep well. Most nights were shallow, dreamless. The digital clock by his bed glowed a dim blue in the dark. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the old saying—you dream of what you dwell on. Either way, he dreamed of you.
Not a normal dream. The kind that crossed a line—a line that shouldn't be crossed between friends.
It started innocently enough. Steam rose from a hotpot, the broth bubbling under fluorescent lights. You were sitting across from him, sucking in air through your teeth, your lips red and glistening, complaining about why he hadn't ordered a split pot. He'd smiled and slid the plum juice over to you, the glass beaded with condensation that melted under his fingertips.
Your eyes were bright, fixed on the bubbling spicy broth. He picked up a piece of meat with his chopsticks and set it gently on the edge of your bowl. "Li Zhaoyu, you eat too," you said. The restaurant was noisy—clatter of dishes, chatter from the next table—but your voice cut through, clear as if you were speaking directly into his ear.
"Yeah. I know," he murmured, lips curving.
"Your face is so red," you said.
He almost felt relieved—hotpot was an excuse for anything. "It's spicy. Yours is red too." He looked up, meeting your eyes.
But in that instant, the dream shifted without warning.
The noise drained away, the hotpot's warmth flickered out into a dim, ambiguous haze. The scene melted into flickering neon and strobes, upside-down and fragmented, reassembled into something else entirely. The lights went out, and when they came back, everything had changed. Your face was still flushed, but it was a feverish red, unnatural. And his own body's reactions, the urges rising in him—none of it was normal.
The hand that held his weapon the steadiest was now tracing the soft, warm skin of your thigh, his fingertip feeling the faint tremors beneath. Your thighs pressed together gently, cradling his head, and his voice dropped to a low murmur, coaxing you to relax, slow and deliberate. Every lap of his tongue, every lingering stroke, drew out a sharp, stifled whimper from your lips that he savored.
…That's enough.
Cold water spilled through his fingers, pulling him back to reality. He splashed it on his face, trying to quell the heat, droplets rolling off his chin onto the marble counter. He gripped the sink's edge and stared at his reflection in the mirror. Disgusting, he thought. Because in the gray area between dream and waking, he'd imagined this—wanted this.
Reality didn't give him a moment to breathe.
"Iso, want to get hotpot tonight?" You were there—you, the real you—your expression casual, natural.
The music pounding in his earbuds made his pulse thrum. He hesitated for half a beat before answering, forcing a light tone: "…Sure."
He ordered a split pot this time. The spicy side still boiled furiously. But you still wanted to try the spicy broth, and when you did, you choked on it, coughing as you pressed a hand to your scorched throat, tears welling at the corners of your eyes. His chopsticks froze mid-air, hovering over the pot. His gaze flicked to the red flush on your cheeks, to the tears caught in your lashes, and his grip on the chopsticks tightened unconsciously, knuckles whitening.
"Slow down." His voice came out rough, strained. He pushed the plum juice toward you, the base of the glass making a dull, heavy sound against the table. He glanced at you again, quick—then pushed back his chair. "I need to hit the restroom." The chair scraped against the floor with a short, harsh squeak.
Fuck, can you guys exchange contact info with me and have a good chat with me about Valorant x Reader... I'm so lonely, I'm dying of loneliness qwq Please, I'm begging you.