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❛ 𝓃𝑒𝑒𝒹𝓎 ❜ 𝓈.𝑜𝑜𝑔𝒶𝓂𝒾 𝓍 𝑔𝓃! 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

— subaru oogami x gn! reader

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: geo x gn ! reader · aroace rep (from yours truly) · established relationship?? · smut! · implied afab ! reader · first time · teasing and biting · in vino veritas · slow burn tension · mutual unraveling · messy intimacy · sensual/emotional tension · size kink · praise kink · reflective aftercare · possessive undertones · inspired by needy by ariana grande · a gift for @mint0hhh ꨄ︎

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: you never expected him like this—unraveled, unguarded, nothing like the broody, untouchable geo you knew. tonight, at his late birthday party, that control falters. what starts small spirals into questions you’re not ready to ask, feelings you can’t name.

and in the quiet that follows, you realize: whatever this is, it leaves you aching, restless, unbearably... needy.

𝓌𝒸: 19k

Before diving in, a little context: I spent about three weeks drafting, researching, revising, and overthinking this fic to make sure it represents Geo’s aro-ace identity as accurately and respectfully as possible.

I even revisited old fanfics and Tumblr notes… and lowkey hated most of my past takes. Some were fun, sure, but a lot didn’t align with my current understanding of him, attraction, or the character’s essence.

This story might bend canon a little, but it’s the version I think captures Geo: deep, complex, and nuanced. I’ve taken feedback from the aroace / queer community, even learned for myself to make it enjoyable while honoring Fantasia’s creation—as you may or may not know, I adore Geo quite a bit! maybe a little too much...

And a little extra: this one’s a gift to @mint0hhh, who actually me inspired this fic—hope you enjoy, dear!

It feels good to be needy.

Like, reallyyy, achingly good.

Most people spend their whole lives pretending it doesn’t exist—patching up the cracks, brushing off the hunger, performing independence like it’s the only way to survive. But you? You’ve learned that letting yourself want, letting yourself reach, even just a little, doesn’t make you weak.

It makes you human. It makes you feel.

Actually, you just did not notice him as needy.

Yes, him—Geo. Subaru Oogami.

Neediness just does not come naturally to him, you understand? He's the poster child for self-restraint, this granite wall of coolness upon which the very concept of leaning on someone makes him laugh. You swear, you always figured he'd rather immolate himself than admit he desired something—or, worse, someone.

So imagine your face when you woke up before morning light amidst the silence of your own bedroom, light sneaking between the blinds in thin beams, and finding him there.

You press the half of your face against the pillow tenderly, your eyes held steady against your will. At first, it's cautious—like if you stare for too long, he'll notice and wake up—but eventually it acquiesces, unwinds, and settles into a form you cannot recognize.

Reverent, maybe. Curious, very definitely.

Honestly, you really need to get up.

That was the idea.

Get up, wash your face, brush your teeth, and start the day like a normal, respectable human being. Respectable being the keyword, because right now, you were decidedly not respectable.

You were just in his hoodie, the first part of you felt no shame at all, zero regrets. That dark, bluish-purple thing totally swallowed you up—sleeves way too long, collar hanging low, and it smelled so much like him that it was basically stealing his identity.

The other part of you wants nothing but to crawl into the wall and disappear, 'cause getting him up seems like rousing a bear. And not just any bear—a large, grumpy, looking-for-trouble bear with these teal-green eyes that would turn you into a popsicle. Seriously, you'd rather risk a tumble than be the one to rouse him up.

So you don’t.

You remain there, observing him.

Half of you must be smiling—his hair's all over the place.

Starting with his mis-shaped bowl cut, the usual neat and tidy? Yeah, it's completely gone haywire now, with matted strands dangling every which way around his forehead. And even his low pony had a change of heart last night, this red ribbon just came loose, and his hair is all over the pillow—seriously messy but sort of relatable, right?

It does feel weird and completely right simultaneously.

He really was something to look at.

Long and lean, stretched across your sheets like a sketch come to life, all straight lines and muted shadows. Not bulky, but toned in that understated way that speaks of balance and restraint—strength honed, not flaunted.

His pale skin caught the dim morning light, shifting from cool gray to faint ivory with every shallow rise and fall of his chest. It made him look less like a soldier and more like a figure carved out of stillness, the kind of image you’d see in a museum and stop for no reason other than the fact that it felt important.

Your eyes traveled against your wishes.

The slope of broad shoulders tucked beneath the sheets. The quiet definition at his collarbone, a stark little detail softened by sleep. Every angle of him—sharp jaw, proud nose, high cheekbones—felt oddly muted, edges blurred under the early light, as if the world itself had decided to handle him more gently while he rested.

You'd be amazed by his pouty lips, as well. They were parted slightly, much softer than you ever registered when he was conscious, and the color stood out against the pale skin. That little bit of silver shine from his septum ring flashed as the light caught it, a small disruption amidst an otherwise peaceful tableau.

Then came one soft, almost imperceptible snore.

Not loud nor clumsy, but… dignified, you see? It was a voice as completely Geo as it almost made you giggle. Of course, he'd find a way to maintain his cool even when he was passed out. So characteristic of him.

…Except, well. Last night begs to differ.

Truthfully? If someone had told you beforehand your Geo would come out this way, you'd have. Totally. Laughed. Right. In. Their. Face. You've seen him shoot down questions with a single glance, construct walls so tall you'd need binoculars just to glimpse the top, and keep you on your toes until your brain would be all like, oh, you don't know, you think it might just explode. He was the one who stood his ground, not once requiring someone, least of all you.

And yet. The truth is embarrassingly, irrefutably simple:

Geo was overly needy yesterday.

Not in a loud or obvious way, he wouldn’t dare. But in those subtle, devastating ways that left you blinking like maybe you’d fallen into some alternate reality. Which yanks you backward, like a hook pulling a fish out of water, into the memory that started it all.

Crowe’s birthday party.

Not some giant blowout with rented speakers rattling the walls, it was rather a late celebration due to exams earlier in the month—which is true btw...

So, you and the others planned something smaller, something that felt right for him. A surprise get-together at your place, pieced together with the usual crew’s help: a lopsided celestial cake from the grocery store, streamers half-heartedly taped across the ceiling, balloons that looked more sad than festive.

But when everyone crowded in and the off-key happy birthday chorus filled the room, Crowe’s smile made the imperfections worth it. After the candles were blown out, the party slid into only what college students could master.

Drinking time!

Whoever claimed whatever surface was free—couches, floor cushions, the rug—voices tangling together in half-shouted stories and badly timed laughter. The coffee table was buried under chip bags, half-devoured pizza slices, glass cups filled with sake that Geo himself provided, clinking in uneven toasts, and music thudded softly from someone’s phone speaker.

And that was the thing—you hadn’t planned to drink.

Not really. You weren’t drunk-drunk. Tipsy, possibly. Buzzed enough to feel light, loose in your bones, like the world couldn’t hold you down for once. No essays, no looming deadlines, no exams, no professors haunting your inbox like ghosts—just a rare reprieve paired with free alcohol.

You let yourself sink into it, cup after cup—you lost count, until the edges of the room softened and the buzz in your chest started to feel suspiciously like freedom. Yours, thrown with a grin. Words that should’ve cut turned pliant with liquor.

It had started harmless enough—or at least, that’s what you told yourself at the time. The group, for starters, Brittany, self-appointed chaos coordinator, unveiled a drinking board game she’d apparently stolen from a middle school sleepover with Jess. Rules were argued in between Brittany and Deryl, while laughter collided from Crowe and Jess, listening to the mock accusations of cheating before the first die even hit the table.

It was background noise to you.

Because you weren’t listening. You weren’t even pretending to listen.

You had a mission.

And that mission was simple: See Geo needy.

Geo, who’d spent the entire night like a statue among mortals, scoffing at refills, dodging questions, sitting straight-backed like the god of composure himself. Geo, who never cracked, never stumbled, never even let the party tug him into the mess with the rest of you.

You wanted to break that.

Not in a cruel way—more like a science experiment. A little nudge. A test. What would he look like, stripped of the walls and control, if only for one night? You wanted to know. No, you needed to know.

Your grin curled sharply, private, as you kept your eyes on him. Geo sat cross-legged near the coffee table, lamplight cutting across his face like some moody Renaissance painting.

Brittany had shoved the cards at him earlier with a, “Here, you do it, you’re precise,” and, of course, he’d agreed—because God forbid he actually socialize like a normal human.

So there he was, shuffling like the fate of the free world depended on those corners lining up perfectly. Stack. Restack. Stack again. Ridiculous. Typical Geo—if his hands were busy, it meant no one could rope him into talking. And then if a normal pair of eyes would say:

He's not in talking mood.

Yet, in your odd eyes, most people get him wrong. They only saw the height, the pale skin, the teal-green eyes sharp enough to cut glass, and thought: terrifying. Cold. Don’t mess with him.

You’d already decided that was crap.

Geo wasn’t cold. He was just… allergic to basic social skills! Like a fortress with really obvious weak spots. And pressing those weak spots? Yeah, that had kind of become your new hobby.

You leaned in a little, stretching out one finger. Poke.

His shoulder twitched. He didn’t look up.

So you poked again. “Hey. Hey, Geo~.” Poke. Poke.

Nothing. Well—not nothing. His lips pressed together just a little tighter, jaw set, shuffling with extra concentration like the deck had personally offended him. You caught the quickest flick of his eyes your way before he dropped them again.

Oh, fun. That was as good as a tell.

You went for it, leaning closer until your shoulder brushed his, voice sing-song: “Heeey, Geo~.” Poke. Poke. Poke.

He let out a sigh. Not the normal kind—one of those long, through-the-nose sighs that basically translated to “you’re a menace to society, and I hate that I can’t prove it in court.” Classic Geo. Dismissive, controlled, and still refusing to actually tell you to knock it off.

Which was kind of the weird problem.

Because he never did.

And that was exactly why you’d spent the last few months testing the limits—tugging at his armor, blackmailing him with the dumbest threats ‘tell me what’s in that notebook or I’m telling everyone you can’t cook rice’, asking for favors that weren’t favors, poking and prodding just to see how much he’d take before snapping.

You nudged his arm with your elbow, leaning into him just enough to make it obvious. “Busy?” you asked, all wide-eyed innocence.

His eyes flicked your way—annoyed, but quiet about it, which only made you grin harder. “You could say that,” he muttered, still staring down at the deck of cards like they’d done something to personally offend him.

“And yet,” you pointed out, grin stretching, “here I am. Still sitting here. Still annoying you. Which means, technically, you’re not that busy.”

That earned you a look. Sharp. Scalpel-precise. His teal-green eyes cut to yours like they were about to pin you to the table. But under the blade’s edge, there was something else. Not irritation. Not really.

…More like hesitation.

Naturally, you pushed further. You jabbed a finger into his shoulder. Just a poke. Just enough to see if you could break him. He didn’t move, just set the game pieces down with this painfully slow precision, jaw tight like he was holding back an entire speech he’d sworn he wouldn’t give you.

“You know,” you teased, tilting your head like you were genuinely pondering it, “for a guy who supposedly hates talking, you’re not doing much to make me leave.”

“Maybe I don’t think it’ll work,” he said flatly.

That broke you. A laugh tumbled out—loud, sharp, sake-sweet—earning a glance from the group before they went back to arguing about whether downing a double shot on a dare counted as one turn or two.

You leaned in, chin in your hand, staring at him like he was your favorite unsolved riddle. His posture was fortress-stiff, but there was a looseness there too, a sliver of something unspoken hanging between you. And you swore you caught it—the faintest slip.

A look of softness, aimed right at you.

Naturally, you ignored it.

Just smiled back like you hadn’t noticed a thing.

It wasn’t long before Britney clapped her hands, sharp enough to slice through the chatter. She plopped herself down cross-legged on the rug like some unholy mix of camp counselor and cult leader, her grin promising nothing good. “Alright, listen up, freaks. Ground rules of Freak or Dare!”

Her voice carried enough authority that even the side conversations fizzled out. She waited a beat, letting the silence stretch, then added with theatrical bite, “We voted, majority rules. Which means even you two—” her finger swung between you and Geo, eyes glittering with mischief, “—are locked in. No sulking in the corner, no excuses, no silent treatment.”

Geo gave her the blankest look humanly possible. If his face said anything at all, it was ‘why must I suffer for your sins?’ You leaned into his arm, raising a brow like, ‘welp, too late. We’re in this together, partner.’

Britney flicked her hair back with a practiced little toss, milking her role as ringmaster. “The rules are simple,” she said, pacing her words like she was unveiling sacred scripture. “Each turn, you pull a card. Some are safe. Most are… not. The card tells you your fate.” Her hand swooped dramatically toward the center pile. “And if you refuse your fate, then you—” she drew out the pause, snatching up the sleek glass bottle of sake Geo had brought and holding it aloft like a trophy, “—drink.”

A ripple of laughter and groans spread through the group. The kind of mix that only ever made Britney smile wider.

She leaned forward, eyes glinting. “Oh, and it’s not just dares. Some cards are…” She tapped her chin as if searching for the right word, then grinned wickedly. “Spicy. Confessional. Freaky. Hence—‘Freak or Dare.’ You’ll know when you pull one. And if you chicken out, bottoms up.” She wiggled the bottle for emphasis.

Crowe groaned into his hands. “Why do I already feel like I’m gonna regret this?”

“Because you are,” Britney said sweetly. “Now hush. Birthday boy goes first. Tradition.”

He glared at her like she’d sentenced him to the gallows, but still reached into the pile. His fingers hovered for a suspiciously long moment, as though he could sense the worst cards lurking, then finally plucked one free. He unfolded it like he was defusing a bomb, eyes flicking over the words once, twice.

And then he froze.

“What’s it say?” Britney leaned in, eyes glittering.

“…What’s your actual body count?” Crowe read, deadpan.

The room went silent. Every single person sat up straighter, heads swiveling toward him like meerkats.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, grinning.

Crowe, of course, turned crimson. “That’s… kind of embarrassing…” He scratched his neck, clearly searching for divine intervention. Britney waved a hand. “Shot or spill, birthday boy.”

Without another word, Crowe snatched the sake and tossed it back like a man fleeing a crime scene.

The room erupted.

“NO WAY!” Deryl practically fell over laughing. “That bad, huh?”

Crowe only grimaced, coughing into his sleeve, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. You caught Geo’s faint smirk out of the corner of your eye—the barest crack in his mask.

Next up was Britney, naturally. She drew her card with flourish and gasped. “Oh. Oh, this is cruel.”

“What is it?” you pressed.

She grinned wickedly. “Call your ex and ask if they’d like to try again.”

The whole room howled. Even Geo’s jaw ticked, like he was trying not to react. Britney, of course, didn’t even hesitate. She pulled out her phone, dialed, and on speaker:

“Hello?” a groggy voice answered.

“Heyyy,” Britney cooed, sugar-sweet. “Quick question. Wanna get back together?”

The line went silent. Then: click.

The room absolutely lost it. Britney only smirked and shrugged. “Guess that’s a no.”

Then it was Deryl’s turn. He pulled his card, squinted, then started laughing nervously. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“What’s it say?” Crowe asked, still pink from his earlier dodge.

Deryl held it up. “Do a full interpretive dance reenactment of your most recent hookup.”

The explosion of laughter was immediate. “Do it!” Britney shrieked. “No backing out.”

“Nope, I’m drinking,” Deryl declared, already reaching for the bottle.

“Coward!”

But Britney snatched the bottle first, holding it hostage. “Nope. Rules are rules. Dance, puppet.”

Deryl, bless his drunk little soul, stood up like a man headed for execution, then launched into what could only be described as… performance art.

One second he was spinning in slow circles like a tragic football player ballerina, the next he was throwing himself onto the carpet like he’d been shot in the heart by Cupid himself. Arms flailed, legs kicked, hips swayed in ways that were both deeply concerning and wildly entertaining.

By the end of it, everyone was crying with laughter. Jess nearly fell over, Brittany had mascara smudges from wiping her eyes, and even Crowe was wheezing into his drink.

And Geo—Geo—had a hand over his mouth, looking away, shoulders shaking, his teal-green eyes sparkling like he was two seconds from absolutely losing it. He didn’t laugh out loud because God forbid, howeve you caught it.

You couldn’t stop staring.

Because Geo wasn’t just tolerating everyone existence tonight—he was actually having fun. With you leaning against him, no less. No sharp comebacks, no icy stares. Just a little warmth where your arm brushed his.

Suspicious. Very suspicious.

This was the same guy who normally gave you grief for breathing too close to him, and now he was… soft? Almost human?

You leaned a little heavier into him just to test it. And instead of shoving you off, he muttered something under his breath. Something annoyingly careful, like, “You’ll fall if you keep leaning like that.”

You whipped your head toward him, grinning like a shark. “Geo. Did you just—care?”

His lips pressed flat instantly, his whole face shutting down like a laptop screen. “No.”

“Oh my God, you did.” You poked his arm, delighted. “You’re so bad at hiding it. I think I just witnessed history.”

“Draw your card,” he muttered, as if that would erase the moment.

Which, fine—you did. Alcohol had already loosened you up, your grin coming too easily as you plucked a card from the stack. You glanced at it, blinked, then promptly choked on air.

“‘Play/Tease the person closest to you.’” What...?

Your eyes slid sideways, locking on the one person sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with you. Your eyes flicked down to the card again, as if maybe you’d misread it, or maybe the ink would rearrange itself into something less life-ruining like ‘take a sip’ or ‘do a handstand.’ But no, the words stayed exactly the same. And of course, the universe—with its twisted sense of humor—had set you up.

Pefect.

“Holy shit,” you muttered, blinking. He didn’t dissolve, just sat there, unfairly real and unbothered.

Crowe, naturally, caught the look on your face and leaned in with that trademark worry that meant trouble. “We could always skip it,” he suggested. And then—because reality clearly wanted to watch you suffer—Geo himself spoke.

“I’m chill with it.”

You whipped your head toward him so fast it should’ve given you whiplash. Expecting, at the very least, hesitation. Maybe a small grimace. Hell, even a bunch of curses that revealed he was just as doomed as you. But no. Geo sat there like a marble statue, posture perfect, face unreadable, tone even. Like, this was the most casual request in the world.

Brittany nearly bounced out of her chair, clapping like she’d just witnessed a miracle. “Finally! He’s enjoying himself. Okay, minute on the timer—go!”

Enjoying himself? No, you doubted it.

Sure, he looked steady. He always did. But you knew better—his stillness wasn’t serenity; it was armor. And beneath it?

Oh, he had to be definitely moved.

So yeah—pride on the line, you took the card. No way were you folding first, even if every brain cell was screaming bad idea, bad idea, abort mission. A minute on the clock. Easy, right? Totally fine.

Except… you had no clue what the hell to do with him.

Your mind blanked. Full-on static. Until strategy kicked in: don’t overthink it. Just push where it hurts—quiet, simple, unexpected.

So you grabbed his hand.

Large, pale, colder-than-it-should-be hand. It sat stiff in yours, like he wasn’t sure if you were about to shake it or break it. You rubbed your thumb over his knuckles, casual, like you’d been waiting for an excuse. “Damn,” you murmured, leaning closer, “your hand’s freezing.”

Geo froze with it—blinked once, twice, like his brain lagged behind the moment.

Then you tipped it further. Brought his hand up to your cheek, holding it there like it belonged. Your eyes fluttered shut, letting out the softest little hum. “Mmm… cold. But feels kinda nice.”

That right there? That short-circuited him.

You felt him stiffen, his body going rigid before it betrayed him—shoulders sinking a hair, his breath catching sharp. His fingers twitched against your skin, like he wasn’t sure whether to pull away or lean in harder. Those teal-green eyes of his? Wide, flickering with something raw he probably hated you for noticing.

And then—you went for the kill.

You turned his hand over, slow as hell, and brushed your lips against his palm. Just a whisper of a kiss, feather-light. Barely there, but enough to drag a sound out of him—a sharp inhale, small, strangled, unguarded.

For one second, Geo wasn’t the fortress. He wasn’t the guy who kept everyone at arm’s length. He was just… rattled. Want bleeding through the cracks, like he couldn’t hold it back even if he wanted to. And you? You caught it. Every twitch, every breath, every second of that mask slipping.

Another Perfect.

Your smirk was already curling smug—mission accomplished. You’d done the dare, rattled the un-rattleable Geo, left him twitching like he’d been caught out.

Timer’s ticking down, game over, right?

Except… apparently not.

Because just as you were about to pull away, Geo moved. His thumb brushed against your lip, and your whole body betrayed you. Heat shot through you so fast it felt unfair, like your nerves hadn’t signed off on this. His fingers tilted your chin up, holding you in place just long enough for your pulse to trip over itself.

And those eyes—God.

He looked wrecked. Not calm, not bored, not untouchable, but raw. Jagged. Exposed. The kind of expression he’d probably kill you for pointing out in daylight. Your chest clenched hard, like he’d just handed you a secret you weren’t supposed to know. Worse?

You wanted more. More of his touch.

He never touches you like that, only occasionally putting his hands on your shoulders, and there were a few times that he threw you over his shoulder due to one of your playful incidents.

Which all were harmless.

NOT the feeling of the faint tremor in his thumb as it grazed your skin—like a plea, like he was asking without asking—had you on the edge of leaning in.

And then… he let go. Just like that.

You blinked, still reeling, your skin buzzing where his hand had been. Thoughts scrambled, heat lingering, like your body was a beat behind on everything that just happened.

But the group? Oh, they noticed.

Jess’s mouth had dropped open, Brittany was biting her fist to keep from squealing, Deryl... drunk, passed out on the couch and Crowe looked like he’d just witnessed the most entertaining plot twist of the decade.

And you? You wanted to strangle him.

Not because of the contact—no, that was the problem.

Because he knew. He knew he’d flipped it back on you, rattled you right in front of everyone, leaving your smug little plan in ruins. He’d handed you a taste of your own medicine and then had the audacity to pull away like nothing happened.

Your jaw tightened as you turned to Brittany, shoving your annoyance down with the fakest, brightest smile you could muster. “Timer’s up, right?” you chirped, trying to ignore the fact that your pulse was still hammering. “So quick question,” you blurted, voice sharper than you meant, “can the person being teased just quit? Because, like… I just got emotional whiplash here, and that feels… like a violation.”

Brittany blinked, then grinned like she’d been waiting for chaos to drop right in her lap. “Oooh, I like that. New rule: if you mess up the person dare, you drink.”

You crossed your arms, feeling smug, but inside, a mix of irritation and amusement was swirling. “Perfect. Glad we’re all on the same page.”

Geo looked like he’d just been declared war on. Brows furrowed, jaw clenched, his whole expression screamed no way. The kind of look that said he’d rather eat glass than agree to a rule like this.

“Well, you have to drink, those are the rules,” Crowe chimed in, smug as ever, watching him closely.

Geo’s lips pressed into a thin line, “What? Hell no,” his silence sharper than any outburst. Brittany was practically buzzing in her seat, Jess was wringing her hands, and Deryl—still face-planted into the couch cushion—was useless to the moment.

Geo’s decision came as one low exhale, a sound heavy with irritation. His eyes flicked toward you, slow and assessing. He didn’t say a word. Just grabbed the bottle, poured himself a shot with precise movements, and downed it in one go.

But the scowl he shot at the table afterward burned hotter than the alcohol ever could.

And you? You shivered.

Not from the room’s chill, not from the sake—it was him. That reluctant defiance, the way even in refusal; you bit back a grin, heat sparking under your ribs. If Geo thought taking the shot ended it, he was wrong.

Oh, no. This was just the start.

Later on, the game carried on like a train you couldn’t stop.

At some point, Jess—sweet, worried Jess—got tired of trying to keep Deryl upright and simply draped a blanket over him where he was starfished across the couch. “He’s out cold,” she announced, patting his head like a cat. “We’ll just… pretend he’s participating in spirit.”

“Participating in spirit,” Brittany repeated with a cackle, already pulling out her phone to snap a picture.

Then came her dare, and the whole circle gasped when the card told her to ‘kiss the person you trust most.’ Jess groaned, muttered something about peer pressure, and yet when Brittany leaned in with a mischievous grin, she didn’t stop her.

Their quick kiss sent the group into howling applause and catcalls, which only made Jess hide her face in her hands while Brittany smirked like she’d just won an Olympic medal.

Next up, Crowe drew a card that said to share ‘the name of the last person he thought about in bed.’ He just stared at the card, then at everyone else, and took a shot without a word. No hesitation at all.

Then it was Geo’s turn. His card read: “Whisper your biggest secret into someone’s ear.” He froze, looked at the card, then at Crowe. Crowe looked back. Without saying anything, they both grabbed shots and downed them together.

Their synchronized refusal was so dramatic that everyone lost it. You couldn’t stop laughing, clutching your stomach, while Brittany called them “tragically emotionally repressed twins.”

Later into the late night, it eventually wound down with goodbyes—half-slurred promises, coat shuffling, and Jess trying and failing to get Deryl’s limp arm into a jacket sleeve while Brittany added unhelpful commentary. “I swear he’s not usually like this,” she giggled, even as Deryl’s head bobbed dangerously close to the shoe rack.

Jess gave up and just pushed him toward the door like a shopping cart. “Lightweight,” she muttered, though she almost tripped under his dead weight.

Crowe swooped in like a self-appointed gentleman, sliding under Deryl’s dead weight and lifting him up easily. Deryl hung over his shoulder like a duffel bag, arms swaying with every step. “I got him,” Crowe announced, puffing out his chest a bit, with that smug grin plastered on his face.

The grin alone screamed trouble. Crowe’s kind of trouble.

And sure enough, he hung around at the door just long enough to give you a look—then Geo—before turning back, like only someone with too much time on their hands would. “Actually…” he drawled, stretching the word out like taffy, “I’ve got a better idea.”

Crowe shifted Deryl higher on his shoulder, leaned toward the group, and dropped it: “Geo, you should stick around and help clean up.”

You overheard nearby, hand freezing mid-swipe, sponge dripping suds onto the counter. Suspicion twisted tight in your chest.

Geo bristled. His face betrayed him before his voice did—heat climbing his neck, blooming red across his ears and cheekbones like his own skin was betraying him. “I’m sure it’s fine…” he muttered, low and flat, but the usual sharpness in his tone was missing.

Crowe’s brows shot up, mock-offended. “Oh, really? Too good to pick up a few chip bags? Damn, Geo. Didn’t know you were allergic to effort.”

Geo’s head snapped toward him, slow and cutting, teal-green eyes narrowing like a blade. “If cleaning’s that important, then everyone should stay.”

Crowe tilted his head, lips twitching, then leaned in close enough that his words dripped amusement. “Or… you can stay. You know, in case the host gets lonely.”

That vein near Geo’s temple flexed, his jaw tight enough you thought it might crack. The blush on his skin deepened—not that he’d ever admit why.

Crowe’s grin split wide, gentle and dangerous. “Relax, not like it's gonna kill you,” he tossed out, hands raised in mock surrender. But before turning, he slipped a folded napkin into Geo’s hoodie pocket, patting his chest twice like he’d just locked in a secret.

“Up to you, champ.”

Geo froze, looking down at his pocket like it had just betrayed him too. His ears went even redder, but he brushed it off with the weakest glare you’d ever seen him give. “...Idiot,” he muttered, straightening like nothing happened.

Crowe, Brittany, and Jess shuffled out—Deryl still slung over Crowe’s shoulder like dead weight—leaving only the faint click of the door behind.

Silence.

Geo rolled up his sleeves, every movement stiff, too exact, like he could muscle his embarrassment away. He didn’t look at you once as he started scooping chip bags into a trash bag, but the faint red still clung to his skin, traitorous as ever.

Finally, he muttered, gravel-low, steady, almost like it was a punishment just to admit it:

“I’ll stay to help you.”

You flicked him a glance, mid-cleaning, before dropping your eyes back to the table you were wiping. “…Okay. Do whatever you want that’s helpful.”

It came out clipped, curt, almost dismissive. Easier than admitting the truth—easier than acknowledging that Crowe had played you both like pieces on a board. But you didn’t fight it. Not really.

Because if this was the start of something, even something messy, you weren’t about to waste it. So you worked. Quiet. Focused. No poking him in the ribs this time, no sly quips to get under his skin, no prying questions to make him fold just enough to give you a glimpse of who he really was.

And to Geo?

That silence was worse than anything.

He stole glances between stacking plates and wiping crumbs, waiting for you to pull one of your usual stunts. But you didn’t. Your movements were careful, precise—rinsing glasses, pressing down too hard on the rag as you scrubbed at a counter that was already clean. He could see the way your shoulders tightened with every swipe, the way your jaw set like you were biting back words you didn’t want to say.

What happened to the pestering? To the blackmail and teasing, the ridiculous little pushes that somehow made it easier for him to breathe around you?

You weren’t supposed to go quiet. Not with him.

His hand gripped the sponge too tightly, scrubbing at a pan that hadn’t even been used. The silence pressed in on him, heavier than the mess. By the time the last dish was stacked in the rack, the tension sat under his ribs like a stone.

All that was left was the coffee table.

The “Freak or Dare” cards were scattered all over the rug, forgotten. You bent down to pick them up, stacking the bent edges into a messy pile before tossing them on the table. The lamplight hummed softly above, catching in your hair as you leaned over.

The half-full sake bottle was still chilling at the edge of the table, looking lonely among the mess. You sighed, sharp through your nose, and grabbed it. The liquid sloshed around as you tilted it, pouring a small glass. One tilt, one swallow—it burned all the way down.

By the time you plopped onto the couch, shoulders drooping, Geo had drifted into the doorway. He hung around for just a second before crossing the room and sitting down next to you with that brooding vibe he always had.

His eyes flicked once—at your hand lowering the glass, at the quick way your thumb wiped the rim—and froze. Something about how casual it was, the way you tipped your head back and swallowed without a second thought, made his jaw tighten.

“Everyone’s gone,” he muttered finally, his voice sharper than he meant. “You don’t need to keep drinking.”

You let out a soft, humorless snort, eyes on the glass instead of him. “I earned this. Everyone bailed, left me to clean up my own place. Except you—but let’s be real, you’d have left too if Crowe hadn’t guilt-tripped you.”

The hit landed.

You could feel it in the silence that followed, the way his posture stiffened just enough to give him away. But you didn’t look, didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, you tipped the bottle again, ignoring him like he wasn’t even there.

That was what finally made him move.

In one smooth motion, Geo snatched the glass right out of your hand. He didn’t say anything. He just raised it, tilted his head back, and downed the shot in one go. The faint clink of glass against wood when he set it back down was louder than it should have been, breaking the quiet.

Your head snapped toward him. “Hey—”

But he was already pouring again.

His movements were precise, too careful—like someone trying too hard not to stumble. Two glasses this time. One slid across the table toward you, the other he kept in his own grip, his fingers curled tight around it. His eyes didn’t meet yours, “If you’re drinking,” he said, all serious and stubborn, “then so am I.”

You plopped onto the couch with a sigh, your glass still sitting there, while Geo followed a beat later, sitting down next to you with that stiff composure he wore like armor. The bottle was just there between you two, like a silent challenge.

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “You don’t have to keep up with me, you know. I can handle it. You—“ your eyes darted to his face, and the words got stuck. His pale skin gave him away, with blotches and a flush climbing up his cheeks and ears.

The sight made you smirk. “…can’t.”

He got all defensive, shoulders squaring up like that would hide the pink getting worse. You bit back a laugh, puffing out your cheek as you tilted your head, your look too gentle to be teasing but playful all the same. “Really?” you teased, holding up your glass as proof. “You’re gonna keep up with me?”

He didn’t say anything—just lifted his shot with shaky determination, fingers trembling a bit around the glass. That was answer enough.

You let out a half-laugh, half-sigh, and moved closer. Your knees pressed into the cushion, lifting you just above him, close enough that he had to tilt his chin up to meet your eyes. He looked kind of ridiculous like that—stubborn, flushed, eyes darting between your mouth and the rim of his glass.

“Here,” you said softly, reaching out. One hand steadied his chin, while the other took the shot you’d grabbed from him. “I’ll help you.”

His breath caught, but he didn’t argue. With a little nudge, his lips parted right away—too fast, too eager—and just seeing that sent a weird heat to your chest. You tilted the glass slowly, careful not to spill, watching his throat work as he swallowed.

A drop slipped from the corner of his mouth. Without thinking, you caught it, your thumb brushing against his jawline. His skin was warm, flushed, and for a second, your breath caught along with his.

When you looked down, he was already staring up at you.

Not with his usual sharpness, but something more chaotic—his teal-green eyes were soft and glassy, locked onto you like he couldn’t look anywhere else. It was the kind of look that made your stomach do flips, made you feel off-balance, like you’d stumbled into a place you didn’t belong.

Your throat went dry. Your hand lingered a bit too long on his skin before you pulled back, trying to cover it up with a snort. “God, you’re a mess,” you said casually, though the words were a bit shaky, almost fond despite yourself.

But his gaze didn’t move.

Geo sat there like a sulking cat that just got sprayed with water—jaw clenched, ears pink, eyes narrowed into that stubborn glare. “I’m fine, I don’t need help taking a shot,” he mumbled, still not pushing you away.

Underneath it all, something else was stirring. Part of you wanted to tease him out of that mood; another part wanted to shove him and see if he’d curse. Before you could, he broke the silence, his voice rougher than usual, blunt like he’d been holding something in for too long.

“...Why do you always poke me?”

It landed with a small, silly thud.

Your brows did that thing they do when your brain switches between amusement and actually having to answer. That was it? The whole reason for his mood was a question about your thumb?

You blinked. Twice. Your mind went through the tiny history of it—the light jabs at his ribs, your dramatic pokes to his arm when he got too serious, the way you’d jab his shoulder to lighten his monologues.

You let out a short laugh, the sound soft and almost apologetic. “Because,” you said, shrugging with an easy, offhand air you didn’t feel, “poking you makes you less unbearable. It’s… socially wise.” Then, because you couldn’t resist, you jabbed a finger at your own cheek like a silly, theatrical demonstration. “Technique is very important.”

He watched you do it, his face cooling in the dim light, but nothing like relief—more like someone trying to figure out a puzzle without instructions. The flush on his face flickered; the stubborn set of his mouth didn’t change. He lifted a hand and, with the same clumsy earnestness that had you raising an eyebrow, jabbed your arm back.

“Ow!” You yelped, as dramatic as ever, rubbing the spot. “Assassination attempt, Geo. Want to bruise me into friendship or what?”

“You’re such a liar, it didn’t work; you’re still unbearable,” he said sharply, a bit annoyed.

You almost lost it then—laughter scraping up your ribs so hard it hurt. Sake had finally loosened whatever leash he kept on himself. That, and the way he’d been taking punishment shots like he was trying to erase something. His pride had cracked into something shakier and, right now, pitiful.

Ahh… He wasn’t usually like this.

He refused to dare, shrugged off tension, and kept to himself like armor. However, tonight he’d been drinking like a man with a point to prove—maybe to you, maybe to himself—and the effect scraped the edges off him. Soft pink in his cheeks, jaw slackening just enough to show worry instead of bravado.

When he fumbled the bottle again, you stood. “That’s enough, Geo.” Your voice came out firmer than you intended. You reached, tugged the sake out of his hands, and this time he didn’t even fight you—just let it go like he’d been waiting for you to take it.

“Seriously,” you muttered, setting it aside. “You’re going to hate yourself in the morning. Someone has to take care of you before you drown yourself in this.”

The irony made you want to laugh—you, pacing like a babysitter, fussing over the same man who acted allergic to concern. But Geo’s eyes tracked you the whole time, sharp even through the haze, and something about the way he looked at you made your skin buzz. It was like he’d decided, without saying, that you were the one person allowed to fuss over him.

You crouched down, wiping crumbs off the floor just to keep your hands occupied, avoiding his intense gaze. It felt risky. Way too warm. He broke the silence with a softer tone:

“So… why’d you stop?”

You looked up at him. “Stop what?”

“Poking me. Before, you kept messing with me. Then, while we were cleaning up, you just—” He hesitated, his words awkward, almost slurred. “Are you… mad at me?”

That caught you off guard.

Since when does Geo care if anyone’s mad at him? Usually, he just brushed things off, cold and clipped, slamming the door before you could even step through. But now? He was looking at you like it mattered.

Like you mattered.

You tilted your head, studying him. His act was completely shattered, and the vulnerability underneath—soft, unguarded, needy—hit you harder than it should have. Your throat tightened, but you forced yourself to breathe steadily. “Relax,” you said, softer than you intended. “I’m not mad at you. Not at all.”

Geo didn’t soften. If anything, his gaze burned even hotter, locked onto you with an intensity that stripped away every mask you tried to wear.

“Geo…” you breathed out, trying not to laugh, trying not to want whatever it was he was dangling between you. Your hand lifted before you could second-guess it, brushing along his cheek. Warm. Too warm. He flinched, not away, just sharp eyes flashing like you’d touched a bruise.

“That—” his voice cracked, rasping like gravel. “That’s… letting you know it’s rude. Touching me wherever you want. Stop.”

Your brow arched. “Seriously? That’s your excuse? Because a minute ago, you were asking why I stopped touching you. What do you even want from me, Geo?”

His mouth opened, closed. Nothing came out but a frustrated breath.

“Exactly,” you muttered, shaking your head. “Geo, that’s—yeah, that’s drunk talk. You’re drunk.”

And because you couldn’t resist, you leaned in and started poking his face. His cheek. His jaw. The stubborn line of his nose. Light little jabs, annoying and affectionate all at once. “See? Touching you. Again. Oh no, what a crime.”

He growled—actually growled—turning his head away. “Stop.”

You poked harder.

“I said stop—”

“Make me,” you shot back, grinning now.

His response came too fast, too forceful, the syllables tangling like his tongue was chasing them out: “I’m totally—totally, absolutely not drunk at all.” The words were a mess, spilling out ragged, and his face burned redder than the sake bottle label. “Like… at all.” He shoved his hand out between you like a wall, palm facing you.

You just stared at him for a few seconds. Then, slowly, you poked him right in the center of his hand. The noise he made wasn’t dignified. A low, startled moan escaped before he could swallow it. His eyes went wide, horrified. You froze. Then smirked, leaning closer. “Oh my. That tickles, doesn’t it?”

Poke. Another sound, bitten off, caught in his throat.

“You’re sensitive to touch,” you murmured, delighted, relentless as you jabbed his palm again. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Stop—” His fingers closed fast, clamping around your hand in a vice grip. His glare was molten, ears flaming.

Your laugh broke sharply, almost too loud for how close he was, and you smothered it behind your palm. The grin still broke through, though—you couldn’t hide it from him, not really.

“You’re right,” you said, voice muffled into your hand. Then you let it fall, slowly, carefully, every inch of movement drawn out. Your tone dropped softer, slyer, like it was meant to press right under his skin.

“And I can do whatever I want to you… if I really want to.”

Geo sucked in a breath so sharp you swore it hurt him. His whole body jolted like you’d laid a hand over his bare nerves, a shiver snapping through his spine. He turned his face away, but not before you caught the crack in his expression—the kind of weakness he would’ve buried if he wasn’t drunk.

“…Why me?”

That stilled you. Just for a heartbeat.

Because his voice wasn’t the usual brooding edge—it was smaller, thinner. Like the question wasn’t meant to escape him at all. Your gaze flicked down—his flushed skin, the way he was still clinging to your hand like it was the last solid thing in the room. Trembling restraint wrapped tight around him, and you could feel the pull between you stretch taut.

“Why you?” you echoed, leaning in until your breath brushed his cheek. Your voice curled gentler now, but certain, steady in a way you knew would trap him. “Because you’re attentive. Possessive. Trustworthy. Independent. Everything you pretend not to be, but are. So why would I ever let you run away?”

Your free hand lifted, slow, unhurried. Fingers traced the high line of his cheekbone, featherlight at first, the way you might test the edge of glass for cracks. He went still beneath your touch, jaw tight, though his skin burned hot under your fingertips.

You dragged your knuckles across his cheek, down to the corner of his jaw, savoring the twitch that rippled through him. Then, with two fingers, you tilted his chin toward you—forcing his eyes to catch yours, wide and too dark, pupils swallowed whole.

“I’ll keep you,” you murmured, every word humming low between you. “And no one would know. if you ever want attention—” Your thumb brushed against his mouth, the barest graze over the curve of his lower lip, feeling how soft it was, how unsteady his breath caught against it.

“—you’ll have to address me first.”

The silence between you stretched, taut as a bowstring. Geo didn’t move, didn’t breathe—just stared at you, lips parted where your thumb had lingered. His eyes darkened, the flush high on his cheeks now burning into something else entirely.

You meant for it to be a game, a simple mission.

A cruel little tease to see him squirm, to test the cracks in that armor he always wore. But then he narrowed his gaze, a flicker of raw possession threading through it as he asked, low and direct:

“Is that what you really want from me?”

The question, low and careful, sent a jolt straight through you. Your heart lurched against your ribs. For a dizzying second, “What…” your mind short-circuited, torn between a nervous laugh and the undeniable pull to close the distance between you. Instead, your breath hitched, trapped in your throat.

Shit. Nope.

This was no longer a joke.

Not the game. Not the dare. Not even the harmless “poke-the-stoic-guy” hobby you’d been entertaining yourself with all night. Geo wasn’t tipsy anymore—he was gone. And what spilled out of him was… way more than you were prepared for.

You made the mistake of standing, pushing abruptly to your feet, the need for space suddenly critical. "Alright, that's our cue. Water. Now. Let's sober you up before you say something you—" his hand shot out—fast, sure, cutting through the haze of alcohol like it wasn’t even there. His fingers clamped around your wrist, not rough but certain.

You stumbled straight into him, chest colliding with his in a messy thud that knocked the air out of your lungs. Heat. So much needines. His hoodie smelled like clean cotton, his heart beat solid and heavy against your own jittery rhythm, and—God—you couldn’t move.

“Geo—” you whispered, half-warning, half-plea, but his arm locked around your waist, pinning you there like you belonged. He dipped his head, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he spoke, his voice a muffled, trembling vibration against your skin. “…don’t run away from me.”

And your brain? Fried. Completely fried.

You tried to lean back, to search his face for the truth, but his arm around you held firm. “Whatever do you mean?” you asked, your voice barely audible. His grip on your wrist shifted, his thumb stroking the delicate skin there before he lifted your hand. He pressed your palm against the hard, sharp line of his jaw.

“Stay still” he rasped, voice breaking in all the wrong places. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, desperate, reverent. “Just for me, please.”

…What the actual fuck.

Your body lit up like he’d flicked a switch you didn’t even know existed. Every nerve screamed danger, but every breath begged closer. He guided your hand down—slow, torturous—until your fingertips skimmed his throat, his pulse hammering so fast it made your own stumble to catch up.

And then he did it. He pulled you fully into his lap.

Your knees hit the cushions, your body folding into his without warning, his chest broad and unyielding beneath your palm as he dragged it beneath the collar of his hoodie. Skin. Heat. His chest rising hard and uneven under your touch, like every shaky breath was a confession he couldn’t voice.

You froze. Absolutely froze.

Breath snagging in your throat, head buzzing with sake and adrenaline, every nerve lighting up like you’d just been plugged into a socket. His eyes—God, his eyes—were locked on you. Giving dark, glassy, and far too much.

And it scared the hell out of you.

Again, this wasn’t the untouchable, controlled Geo you were used to. This was him stripped down to raw need, clinging like you were the only thing keeping him steady. It was messy, reckless, desperate—and yeah, some twisted part of you liked it. Loved it, even. The attention, the vulnerability, the fact that Mr. Unshakable himself was suddenly undone by you.

But you also hated it. Hated that it was happening like this—when he was drunk, slurring the edges of who he really was. Because how the hell could you trust it? Was this real? Or would he sober up tomorrow, slam all those walls back into place, and act like you’d made it all up?

Your chest squeezed, the urge to cave nearly unbearable.

Then sanity snapped you back.

You tore your hand from his, prying his stubborn fingers off one by one, your own hands trembling harder than you wanted to admit. “Not now, Geo,” you snapped, voice sharp to hide the wobble in it. “You’re drunk. You don’t even know what you’re saying.” Cool air kissed your skin the second you pulled free—relief and punishment all at once. Space.

You need to get away.

To have his eyes tracked you, unblinking, tracking , your every movement, Something too close to want. Too close to real. And God help you, that look almost shattered your resolve.

Then it happened—like hella fast.

You felt a sudden pull, causing your breath hitched as his arms shot out, looping around yours with startling strength. Even drunk, his grip was iron, dragging you back before you could protest. Your body pitched forward, colliding with his chest in a tangle of limbs. In a blink, you were sinking into his lap once more, heat and solid muscle forcing you to straddle him, knees pressing awkwardly into the couch.

You barely had time to gasp before he moved again. His weight shifted, his momentum carrying both of you back into the cushions. Your spine sinking into the couch as his body pressed down, caging you in. His arm braced against yours, his grip unforgiving, pinning you in place with a certainty that said more than any words ever could.

He wasn’t letting you slip away. Not this time.

The heat of him consumed every inch of space between you—solid. His gaze searing into the side of your face, so close it made your pulse jump. His voice cut through the quiet, rough and ragged, yet sharpened by something raw, almost desperate. “What?” He asked, “You weren’t just talking about using me. Keeping me. You meant those words, did you not?”

You didn’t answer him, froze, heart hammering hard in your chest, staring up at him.

“I can’t go home like this,” he blurted, words tumbling out faster than he could reel them in. “My father… he’d—he’d throw his usual bullshit at me.” The corner of his mouth twitched, a hint of anger and something heavier, bitterness threading his words.

“I can’t run. So I have no choice but to stay with you, all I have to do is address you, right?” His hand tightened on your wrist, dragging it higher against his chest, anchoring himself like he needed you to keep grounded. “—you can… you can do whatever you want with me.”

Your inhale hit sharp, uneven. WHAT.

You scrambled for something, anything. ANYTHING “Uhh, I don’t want you anymore,” you blurted, brittle and fast, deflection your only lifeline. “Now, please let me go.”

His frown deepened, eyes narrowing like he was searching your very thoughts. “Aren’t you curious?” he pressed, voice low, intimate, carrying a mix of hurt and raw want. “Aren’t you curious how I think… how I’ve always thought of you?”

Your eyes softened, though not out of pity—more out of instinct.

Curiosity had always been your thing. It wasn’t some performance or excuse; you genuinely loved peeling people open, finding what made them tick, watching the little tells in their speech.

You’d joined the group later than everyone else, which meant you came in as the observer by default. The others welcomed you with open arms, spilling their stories, quirks, and histories like it was nothing.

Everyone except Geo.

With him, it was like running into a wall. A polite, aloof, maddening wall that gave away nothing. The scraps you had didn’t even come from him—mostly whatever Crowe let slip in passing, or Deryl’s half-joking remarks.

That wasn’t enough for you.

So you turned it into a project, a mission. After class, between study breaks, lying awake at night—you’d sketch mental blueprints of him, reassemble moments, test theories like you were working on a puzzle with most of the pieces missing. You were even willing to drop everything if it meant learning one small, true thing about him.

But no matter how much effort you poured in, he never opened up.

Not until now. So you remained still, quiet, watching as he shifted closer, the heat of his body pressing against yours in a way that left no room for pretending.

“You must think I’m just some cold, rich idiot,” he muttered, voice tight, raw with the weight of every carefully bottled-up thing he’d never said. “Yeah, my home… it’s…” He faltered, jaw tightening, eyes flicking away for the briefest second before snapping back to you.

“Filthy rich. Expensive walls, expensive air, everyone polished to perfection. But none of it means shit when my dad’s waiting to tear me apart every time I walk in. That man… he doesn’t raise kids. He raises trophies. Soldiers. Me? I’ve been trained to survive. Never let anyone see me break. And for what? To… exist under a microscope?” His thumb brushed your skin, almost unconsciously, betraying a touch of need he would never admit aloud.

You froze, caught in the raw pull of his words. Each one hit harder than the last, and the heat in your chest twisted into something tight and strange. His hands had been on yours moments ago, tense and demanding, but now—slowly, almost hesitantly—he let go.

Then he shifted, face lowering, and before you could even react, he was resting against you, face pressed to your inner part of your neck, again, arms curling back around you like he couldn’t bear the distance.

His cheek pressed to the soft line of your collarbone, and you could feel the warmth of his skin through the hoodie. His hair tickled your shoulder, damp with a faint trace of sweat and the faint alcohol scent still clinging to him, making your pulse skip.

“You…” he murmured, muffled against you, the weight of the word making you pause.

“You act so damn fearless,” he went on, voice rough, words brushing your skin and vibrating through your chest. “Laughing too loud, grabbing life like you’re trying to strangle it, never shutting up about what you want. Like nothing scares you. Like the world’s a joke and you’re the only one laughing at the punchline.”

You blinked, caught off guard. Was that… sarcasm? Maybe.

But there was no humor in his tone, not this time.

He shifted, forehead pressing in closer, and his voice softened into something sharp enough to cut. “You drive me crazy with it. Always poking, always pushing. You don’t stop. Even when I glare at you, even when I tell you to back off… you keep coming. But I see it. I see the part you hide. That piece of you that’s just… gone. Dead inside. Like you’re burning yourself alive just to keep moving forward.”

That was… a lot.

More than you expected, more than you were ready to deal with at night when your brain was already fried. The words hit harder than you wanted them to, digging under your skin in ways you didn’t ask for. You looked away, jaw tightening, annoyed at yourself for even letting him see that much.

Comfort was never really your thing—you weren’t good at giving it, and you weren’t good at taking it either.

And the fact that he of all people noticed?

That made your chest feel tight, almost claustrophobic.

So you sat there, stuck in that stretch of awkward silence, wishing the air would stop pressing down on you. You shoved at it the only way you knew how—by twisting the tension into something half-playful. A grin forced its way onto your face, shaky around the edges, “Ah,” you said, voice dripping with mischief you didn’t quite feel, leaning forward so your shoulder brushed his arm. “So all that broody, untouchable energy…” You poked him lightly, trying to make it a joke, trying to smother the sting of being seen.

“Turns out you’re a needy one.”

You poked him, half-joking, testing the waters, trying to pull him back toward laughter. But the sound that broke from him wasn’t laughter. It was sharp, ugly—like a knife dressed as humor.

It startled you with how bitter it was.

“You don’t get it,” he muttered, voice low, eyes hidden in shadow as if even the dark might judge him. “I can’t be needy. I’m not supposed to be. Not for anyone—not even for you. I’m not built that way. Doesn’t matter if I want comfort—doesn’t make sense for me to… need it.”

You felt it before you saw it—one hot, stupid tear hitting your collarbone. You froze, breath catching. Then another. Then the smear across his cheek, betraying him.

He hadn’t meant to cry. But he did.

“I’ve never wanted this, not the way people usually mean. I’m not… wired for it. But right now I just— I don’t want to be alone.”He didn’t notice at first either—just kept his face buried against you, shoulders tight as wire, whole body tense like he was holding himself together by force. Then the weight of it broke and he realized, and you realized, and the room got smaller.

He pulled you closer without thinking, like you were an anchor. “You’re the only one I want to keep.” Quiet. Plain. “I want to keep you all to myself.” He squeezed, not possessive in the flashy way people mean, but, more like in the small, fierce way someone grabs the last life-raft.

“You’re the only person I’m needy for.”

You could feel the way his whole body breathed you in—slow, deep inhales, like your scent was better than air. He smelled like sake and something cleaner; he smelled like the hoodie you stole and the skin under it. His cheek was wet against your neck, eyes heavy, exhausted. He wasn’t performing. He wasn’t trying to be poetic.

He was just... being real.

“I can get obsessive,” he said, low. No flourish. No excuses. “Possessive. I think about every look, every stupid thing you do. I replay it until I can’t breathe.” He laughed once—short, bitter. “It’s your fault, really…”

You managed a crooked look at him.

He still sounded like an asshole sometimes, even when he was falling apart, but there was no hiding the truth now. “I don’t know how it went this far,” he admitted. “I’m terrified I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone and I’ll have missed you.” He pressed his face harder to your chest and shivered. “You make me want things I shouldn’t. I can’t help it. I can’t let you go.”

Your fingers slid into his hair without thinking, combing through the messy strands, nails grazing his scalp just enough to make him melt. Your thumb traced small circles at the base of his skull—steady, grounding.

Honestly?

It was the only thing that felt right.

What else could you even do with him curled up against you like this?

He smelled faintly like sake under clean soap, wrapped in the warmth of that hoodie, and every time he inhaled, it felt like he was breathing you in just to keep from falling apart.

You sat there, just watching him breathe, counting the tiny lifts of his shoulders, and before you knew it, you were saying the thing you knew he needed to hear.

“It’s okay to be needy, Subaru.”

You said his name quietly, like testing it for weight.

He went still—too still. You could feel it in his body, the way his muscles tensed under your hand. He was waiting for the punchline, for the playful sarcasm you always laced into moments like this. But it didn’t come. Instead, you cupped his cheek, thumb dragging over the wet track already carved there. He flinched, only for a heartbeat, then leaned into your palm like he’d been starving for it.

“Listen,” you murmured, voice heavier now, as much to yourself as to him. “Need doesn’t make you weak. It just makes you real.”

You hesitated, feeling the words pile up in your throat.

This wasn’t just about him anymore. It was about you too.

“…And you’re right about me.” Your eyes softened. “I’ve spent years acting like pain was just another thing to swallow. I wasn’t raised soft either. I raised myself. Kept my head down, stayed sharp, because in my family? Being appreciated wasn’t a thing. Being understood wasn’t a thing. I had to figure it all out alone—how to stand up, how to keep walking when nobody’s clapping for you.”

You exhaled, shaky but determined. “I thought I didn’t need friends. No one ever got my head—not one bit. So I only showed half of myself. Outside, I'm endlessly curious, playful. Inside, I'm untouchable, cold, and distant. I filled the silence with knowledge. Studied everything, everyone. If I couldn’t be understood, then at least I’d understand others.”

You laughed under your breath, soft and bitter. “It made me blunt. I got obsessed with details—people’s features, the way they moved, how their faces changed when they talked. I’d ask questions no one else would ask. Invasive. Off-putting. It was my way of pulling the world apart just to see what was inside.”

Your fingers threaded deeper into his hair, tugging just enough to keep him there, to keep yourself steady. “Then college happened. Crowe happened. He wouldn’t stop bothering me, wouldn’t stop trying to be my friend, even when I kept shutting him down. And eventually… I said yes. And it saved me.”

Your voice dropped softer. “Him, and the rest of you—his friends, this whole chaotic mess—it gave me something I didn’t know I was missing.” You let your thumb brush his jawline, grounding yourself as much as him. “You made me realize I don’t have to apologize for wanting things. For needing people.”

You swallowed, the last part almost a whisper. “For needing… you.”

He clung tighter, fists bunching into your sleeve like if he let go, you’d disappear. He stayed pressed to you, face buried, shoulders stiff with the weight he always carried, but you didn’t move.

You didn’t let him.

You thought maybe he was thinking—plotting, spiraling, whatever—but sitting there in silence was starting to drive you nuts.

You gentley jabbed him with your elbow. “Hey. Say something,” you muttered, little impatient.

No reply. Not even smart remark.

Geo shifted smooth and careful, and before you even processed it, you weren’t sitting anymore—you were flat on your back, the couch cushions dipping under both your weight and his. Your head bounced once against the pillow before his hand slid under, cradling it like he hadn’t just thrown you down there like it was nothing.

And then—oh, hell.

The hoodie came off in one sharp tug, tossed aside without a glance. What was left knocked the breath straight out of you. The white compression shirt clung to him like a second skin, outlining every line—broad shoulders, the tight taper of his waist, the kind of chest and arms you only see in gym ads.

You’d known he was strong, but this?

You had not signed up for this shit.

Your brain stuttered, caught between holy shit and oh no. The shirt pulled up a fraction at the hem as he moved, flashing a strip of pale skin, the sharp line of muscle curving into his hips. Your breath snagged, useless.

You forgot how to think.

Geo didn’t even twitch under your stare. If anything, he leaned closer, steady, those teal-green eyes locking you in place like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. Heat radiated off him, chest brushing yours, every inhale pressing the solid weight of him deeper into your space.

Then his hand found your thigh—firm, certain—and dragged down in one slow, casual sweep that set your nerves on fire. He lifted your leg higher, hooking it over his arm like it was just his now, no room for argument.

Your spine arched against him without permission, your pulse hammering so hard you could hear it in your ears. His breath washed hot over your face, uneven, too close, too real. Instinct—or maybe madness—had your hand rising, fingers brushing his mouth, tracing the curve of his lower lip.

His lips parted under the touch, soft and warm against your skin, and the little stutter in his breathing nearly broke you.

But then it hit your brain quickly.

You can’t let him do this,

Your chest clenched, and you snapped out of it, “Geo, stop—” The words tore out of you sharp and thin, more desperate than you meant them to sound. Panic tangled with something else—heat, want, fear—and it caught in your throat.

“Say Subaru, like before,” he remained.

You looked at him, dumbfounded, “…And?” You sighed, “Look, you’re drunk,” you shot back, too quick, too defensive. “You’ll regret this. I—You can’t—” The words stumbled over themselves, threatening to betray the truth buried in your chest. You bit them down before they escaped.

“I can’t let you do something you’ll hate in the morning.”

For a second, he went completely still, and you braced for him to just take what he wanted—because he’s Geo, and he’s stubborn like that.

But he didn’t.

Instead, his whole chest heaved against you, his breath coming out in this ragged, almost painful sound. He squeezed his eyes shut, and damn it, were his lashes wet? When his voice finally broke the silence, it was raw. Rough. It scraped right over your skin and settled deep in your stomach.

“Okay, I’m a little drunk, yeah. But I’m not… I’m not lost.” His thumb started moving on your wrist, this slow, deliberate circle that felt like a prayer. Like he was memorizing the feel of your pulse because he needed it to steady his own.

“I know exactly what I’m asking for.” His body was a heavy, delicious weight pinning you to the couch, but his hands… his hands were so careful. It was that contrast that absolutely wrecked you. “Because if you let me start,” he whispered, his voice thinning out, strained with wanting. The words tumbled out, honest and desperate. “Shit, if I start… I don’t think I can stop. I just need to feel you. All of you.”

Then he dipped his head, “Just for tonight. Please.” his lips brushing your jaw as he spoke, his breath hot and unsteady.

“Let me be needy for you.”

That single word—needy—hung in the air between you, so quiet it was almost swallowed by the pounding of your own heart. Your stomach did a full flip. His hand on your thigh wasn’t clumsy; it was trembling. A fine, constant shake that betrayed how hard he was clinging to his control.

How much he wanted this. How much he needed you.

Even if it’s just for one night.

His eyes locked onto yours, soft and frantic. He was begging you without saying another word, silently pleading for you to just… let him. To let him fall apart with you. "Just let me feel you, I want to be close to you,” he begged, his voice cracking. "Your hands, your skin... just... please, please. Tell me I can. I need to hear you say it."

“Subaru.” His name fell from your lips, soft and sure.

Your voice, the sound of it hit him like a physical blow. His whole body shuddered against you, his breath catching like he’d forgotten how to inhale unless you gave him permission.

Because this wasn’t him asking to have you.

This was him asking not to be alone.

And suddenly—back into the current morning. Your eyes snapped open, a little lost, dazed even.

Wait… you’re not pinned anymore?

No couch under you now, no hot breath at your throat?

You’re still sitting in bed, spine against the headboard, staring out into the kind of silence that feels louder than any noise. Pale light bleeding through the blinds. The room smells faintly of sake, of sweat, of him. The sheets around you are wrecked, messy in a way that doesn’t let

And him.

The needy bastard himself.

Geo—Subaru—still sleeping beside you, lying on his side, shoulders broad even in rest, his arm loose in a sprawl that somehow still claims the space. The blanket rides low across his frame, his hair mussed into chaos, lashes brushing skin you’d never thought you’d be close enough to memorize.

He looks maddeningly peaceful. His shoulders rise and fall slow, steady, like none of it happened. Like he didn’t tear himself open in your arms. Like you didn’t feel his chest shake against yours, wet with tears you never thought he’d let anyone see. Damn.

Your hands curl tight in the sheets. Disbelief settles first, thick and suffocating, because how the hell are you supposed to process this?

At first, you wanted to deny it—you tried to.

You clung to the idea that last night was a fever dream, a fantasy your lonely brain had concocted. But the evidence is etched into your very cells.

You can’t lie to yourself.

Not when your muscles ache with a delicious weakness, and your skin still hums, buzzing with the phantom memory of his hands, his mouth. Not when his hoodie hangs from your shoulders, the fabric saturated with his scent, a brand you willingly let him burn into you.

This. This is what one stupid, breathless, needy night bought you.

A memory so vivid it feels more real than the morning light.

And it comes back not in fragments, but in a relentless, full-sensory assault. You recall the explicit details with a clarity that steals your breath. That night, Geo didn't just want to touch you; he craved your touch, your complete and utter attention, as if his very sanity depended on the map of your body.

His lips weren't just on yours—they were a question, a slow, searching pressure that begged for an answer. They moved against your mouth with a hypnotic rhythm, each soft press and parting whisper asking, "Do you feel this? Do you understand what you're doing to me?"

And you did.

You answered by pulling him closer, your fingers sliding into the soft, dark silk of his hair, fisting gently to tilt his head and deepen the kiss. A low, approving hum vibrated in his throat. "Thank you," he breathed against your lips, the words ragged, as if he’d read your mind.

"For what?" you managed to whisper back, your own voice thick.

"For letting me…" His sentence trailed off as his mouth found the sensitive spot just below your ear. "...for not running from this. From you.”

He asked for everything, his voice a hushed, reverent murmur against your skin. As his hands traced paths of fire down your sides, his fingers hooking under the hem of your top, he paused, his forehead resting against yours. "Can I take this off?" he asked, his breath ghosting over your lips. "I need to feel you properly. No more layers."

His exploration was methodical, a long, intimate unveiling. His large, hands were everywhere, but not with greed—with a gentle, awestruck curiosity. He would press his palm flat against your stomach, feeling the muscles jump, and murmur, "So soft here." His thumb would stroke the delicate arch of your hip bone, and he’d watch, fascinated, as a shiver wracked your frame. It was entirely devoid of vulgarity; it was discovery.

It was a lesson in shared neediness.

There were no intrusive thoughts about what you should be doing. It was simply the flow of sensation, a silent conversation of touch.

"Just feel," he whispered, as if sensing your thoughts, when you tried to reach for the buckle of his pants. He gently guided your hand back to his shoulder, lacing his fingers with yours for a moment. "Tonight… just let me take care of you. Let me feel your warmth. That's all I need."

You don't even recall the moment you moved from the couch to the bed, one moment you were against the cushions, the next you were sinking into the cool sheets of his bed, with the heavy, welcome weight of him settling over you, lost in a haze of tangled limbs and shared breaths.

His kisses, little more confident, became tentative. Hesitant. His lips moved against yours with a questioning softness, as if he was terrified of assuming too much, of taking something you weren't freely giving.

You felt the hesitation in the slight tremble of his body. "Geo," you breathed against his mouth, your voice a soft reassurance. "It's okay." You said, pulling him closer, and in that closeness, you made a discovery: you never knew his lips were so soft.

You'd seen them—plump, often set in a stubborn line, a little red—but feeling them on yours, while you were bare beneath him and his warm breath fanned across your chest, was a revelation.

He broke the kiss, trailing his mouth down to your neck. The kisses were soft, open-mouthed, followed by a series of gentle, exploratory bites that made you shiver. His hand came up, his palm cupping the base of your throat. It wasn't a choke, but a steadying hold, an anchor point. He lifted his head, his eyes filled with serious intensity.

"Can I…" he started, his voice rough. "Can I touch you here?" His gaze flickered down to your chest.

"Yes," you whispered, your own pulse hammering against his palm.

Instead of acting, he surprised you by burying his face in the crook of your neck, his next words muffled and vulnerable against your skin.

"Show me where it feels good."

The request was so awkward, so genuinely earnest, that a flush of heat spread across your cheeks.

Truth be told, it was a little embarrassing.

Still, you gently, you took his hand—the one that wasn't holding you so carefully—and placed his palm flat against the center of your bare chest, over your sternum. His skin was cool against your feverish heat. “Over here feels good I believe,” you murmured.

He lifted his head to look at you, processing for a few seconds before eyes looks at your chest, his fingers tentatively brushed over your nipple. The contact was so sudden, that you jumped. He immediately froze, concern etching his features. "Did I hurt you?"

A soft laugh escaped you. "No. It's just… sensitive. Your hands are still little cold." You placed his hand back firmly on your chest. "Keep them here.”

Understanding dawned in his eyes. It didn't take him long to figure out the next logical step. He lowered his head, his plump lips closing over your other nipple, biting with a gentle pressure that made you arch off the bed. A sigh, long and shuddering, left your lips.

It felt infinitely better than when you touched yourself.

Then, he paused, his voice a low, stubborn mumble against your skin. "I'm… sorry for this."

"Sorry for wha—" Your question was cut off as you felt the slow, deliberate drag of his fingers lower, through your folds, circling your clit. The sensation was so odd and electric it sent a full-body shiver through you.

He hid his face in your chest, his ears turning red. "I don't… really know what I'm doing," he admitted, the confession clearly painful. "Most of what I know, I overheard from Crowe. I was just trying to ignore him and read my book."

The admission was so unexpectedly pure you had to bite your lip to stop a laugh. "I kind of figured," you said softly, carding your fingers through his hair. "Just… trust your instincts.”

He looked up, his hesitation laid bare. "There are… only certain parts I'm interested in. Not the other part where you have to…" He trailed off, unable to say it.

You tilted your head, understanding dawning. Oh… "That's perfectly fine," you assured him, meaning it. "We only do what you're comfortable with."

"Thank you," he said, the words simple but weighted with gratitude. Then, his voice firmed with resolve. "I'm going to… slip a finger inside now."

You simply nodded, your breath catching. When he did, a soft, involuntary moan escaped you. The sound seemed to startle both of you. The look on your face—pure, unadulterated pleasure—was all the encouragement he needed. He added a second finger, then a third, until you lost count, your body singing with an overwhelming sensitivity, reacting to every new discovery he made.

You held onto his shoulders, pushing yourself up against him to give him better access as he claimed your neck again with his teeth. It was a glorious sensory overload: the slow, curling motion of his fingers inside you, his other hand pinching and kneading your chest, the sharp sting of his bites marking your skin.

He was meticulous, switching sides, ensuring no inch of you was left unattended until the sensations began to border on too much. When you gently pushed at his shoulder, it was a blissful, breathless protest, a silent plea for a moment to simply breathe under his touch.

Then a familiar, playful impulse sparked in you.

This was Geo, after all, and even here, in the heart of this intensity, you couldn’t resist teasing him. “Is there anything you want me to do for you?” you asked, your voice a low, suggestive murmur against his shoulder. Your fingers traced idle patterns on his back.

He stilled for a moment, his head buried in the crook of your neck. When he spoke, his voice was rough, stripped bare. “No.” He lifted his head, his teal eyes dark with something more than desire—a flicker of vulnerability. “The idea of… someone’s mouth on there… it’s too intimate, iffy.”

You blinked, your playful smile softening. “But I’m here.”

“And I’m cleary aware of that,” he said, his gaze holding yours. “You being here is enough. It’s everything.” He took hold of your hand, his fingers lacing with yours before gently pressing your palm back into the mattress, pinning it there. Then he lowered his mouth to yours, kissing you with a deep, soul-searching intensity that made your head spin. Both your eyes fluttered closed, lost in the taste and feel of each other.

And then, that playful side returned.

As he kissed you, you gently caught his lower lip between your teeth, applying just the slightest, teasing pressure.

He pulled back as if shocked, his eyes dazed and then narrowing with a mix of surprise and pure, unadulterated heat. A warning hummed in the air.

“Be careful,” you whispered, a smug smile playing on your well-kissed lips.

You watched him, captivated, as he guided his thumb across his bottom lip, your bite mark invisible but undoubtedly felt. He looked away, a muscle ticking in his jaw, wrestling with his control.

You saw the exact moment where you lost the battle.

With a low growl, his hands were on you, flipping you over onto your stomach with a startling efficiency that stole your breath. He arranged you with a possessiveness that made you shiver, sliding a pillow beneath your hips to tilt you up, exposing you completely. From your vantage point, you saw his hands planted on either side of your head, his arms caging you in. You tried to twist to look back at him, but you felt his lips, hot and demanding, against your shoulder blade.

“Just accept it,” he whispered, his breath a ghost against the shell of your ear before his mouth found the sensitive skin of your inner neck, sucking gently. There was a quietness, a trembling need for warmth

A moan escaped you. “You’re the only one who can handle this.”

His words were a brand.

You felt the evidence of his claim as his mouth traveled down your spine, leaving a trail of faint, stinging bite marks in its wake. His hands followed, dragging up from the swell of your hips, over the curve of your chest, until one large palm came to rest against your throat. It wasn't a choke, but a cradle, his thumb pressing gently under your jaw to lift your head.

Then you felt him—the hot, hard press of his cock against your slick, sensitive clit. He didn’t enter you. He just… ground against you, slow and torturous, the friction sending jolts of pure lightning through your veins. Each careful circle of his hips was a promise and a punishment for your earlier teasing.

Driven wild, you managed to turn your head to look back at him.

His eyes were waiting, locked onto yours, blazing with an intensity that stole the air from your lungs. Holding your gaze captive, he nibbled a fresh path along the tendon of your neck, his hand angling your head to the side to give him better access. His voice was a ragged whisper, so close it vibrated through your very bones.

“Can I be inside?”

You nodded frantically, your body arching back against him in silent, desperate plea.

That wasn’t enough for him.

He stilled, his grinding ceasing, leaving you aching and empty. “I need to hear you say it,” he demanded, his voice thick with a need that mirrored your own.

A broken, pleading sound was all you could manage at first. Then, his name tumbled out, a moan of surrender. “Subaru… yes, please.”

It was all the permission he needed.

You felt his hand, large and sure, guide your hips higher. The other held himself, and you felt the blunt pressure of him, just the tip, slowly slipping inside. A testing press. He winced, a sharp, hissed inhale. "Fuck... you're so soft," he breathed, the words ragged. "So warm…. Are you okay?" His eyes searched your face, concern cutting through the haze of his need.

You were clutching the pillow, your face half-buried in it, muffling your response. "I'm fine. Just... keep going." But practicality, stubborn and inconvenient, surfaced. You turned your head back. "Subaru. Wait. You have to put on a condom."

He froze, panic flashing in his eyes. "Shit… right." He scrambled off the bed for a moment, grabbing his discarded hoodie and fumbling in the pocket. He pulled out the small packet Crowe had so graciously slipped him earlier.

"That bastard," he muttered, his fingers clumsy and shaking as he tried to tear it open. “You need help?” you reached out to help, he gently batted your hand away, a sigh of frustration leaving his lips. "I got it."

Once he was ready, he came back to you, moving like he really cared now, and it was kind of intense. "Okay," he whispered, his breath a bit shaky against your collarbone, like he was trying to calm himself more than anything. He slid back in slowly, and this time, there was no wall, no second thoughts—just the two of you, totally connected.

The feeling was cataclysmic for you both.

A guttural groan was torn from his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated feeling. "God. you're so perfect," he choked out, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he stilled, letting you both adjust to the shocking, intimate fullness. You felt every inch of him, a deep, stretching presence that stole the air from your lungs and replaced it with him.

You emit this soft, broken moan when he began moving, settling on a stride that was amazingly steady, a rhythm you just knew was designed to completely destroy you.

You didn't actually get a good gaze but you totally understood how big he was in the most intimate way imaginable—as in how he just filled you to full capacity, to a point that was so scary but so exhilarating.

Then he was shifting, his large hand moving from your hip to cradle the base of your skull, his fingers tangling in your hair as he lifted you to meet his kiss. It was a little desperate, a little forceful, all tongue and heat and shared breath. His tongue swiped against your lips, a silent, pleading question before sliding inside when you yielded completely.

It was becoming difficult to keep pace; the overstimulation was a live wire within your skin, causing your mind to blur to static, your limbs to be heavy with a sweet weakness. He was a force to be reckoned with, his stamina an uncompromising tide against your yielding, pliant body.

"Subaru," you breathed, your voice a thin thread of sound. "Look at me." His eyes, all heavy and dark with pleasure, locked onto yours, which were filled with this breathtaking vulnerability.

"Come for me," you whispered, your voice all husky but calm, your fingers digging in tighter on his shoulder. "I wanna feel you let go."

It was the go-ahead he didn’t even realize he was waiting for.

A shudder wracked his entire frame, and his rhythm fractured, losing its precision for something raw and primal. His gaze, locked on yours, was a window to his soul—his pupils were blown black, his brow furrowed not in pain, but in the intense, overwhelming pleasure he was finally allowing himself to feel. He was beautiful in his surrender, his usual guarded composure completely erased.

He rolled you both over suddenly but tenderly, your back to the mattress as he climbed atop you, continuing that close contact. He wasn't simply grasping your hand; he interlocked his with yours, holding it beside your head as a firm anchor amidst all the commotion.

His other arm was around your knee, opening you to him further still, and his eyes remained fastened on your face as he pushed into you harder and deeper, seeking his release.

"Come on," he pleaded, his voice all rough. "Please."

"You're almost there, I can feel it," you encouraged, rubbing the back of his shaky hand with your thumb. "Just give in, Subaru. I'm here for you."

A choked sob broke from him. His head dropped back, the muscles of his neck rising proud and rigid, his jaw locked. You stood transfixed, watching as each muscle in his stomach and chest contracted, a marvelous, agonized-looking contortion of sheer joy. His face was a mask of tortured rapture—eyes closed tight, mouth open on a scream of silence, until his whole body convulsed, and a low, raw moan was torn from the core of his being.

You experienced that twitch within, incredibly intense for a moment, then that hot, pulsating surge of his orgasm right down within you, those final shuddering drives that seemed to drain from him every ounce of strength.

He’d collapsed half on top of you when it was over, his weight pressing down in that oddly comforting way—like a shield and an anchor all at once. His breath came hot and uneven against the damp curve of your neck, his head tucked neatly into the bend where your shoulder met your throat. You could still feel his pulse hammering against you, almost in sync with your own.

The last thing you remember before blacking out was the press of his lips against your temple—soft, almost reverent—and his fingers laced with yours, refusing to let go even as exhaustion dragged you both under.

It wasn’t like the world disappeared completely.

It just shrunk—down to the haze of heat between you, the weight of him, the strange, raw sweetness of being held like you mattered. The air itself felt thick, heavy with a kind of dreamy exhaustion that seemed to belong to no one else but you two.

And then—like a cruel, dizzy wave—the reality began came back. Every movement. Every sound. Every look. Your whole body tensed as it hit you, the sheer reality of it.

You and Geo basicaily fucked.

You swallowed hard, heat rushing to your face until you thought you might combust. Your expression twisted into unsure, guilty lines—because, damn… all of that really happened.

He’d fucked you. Fucked you real good too.

Your chest rose with a shaky breath. You lifted the back of your hand to your lips like you could erase the ghost of his kiss still lingering there, but the gesture only made the memories sharper, closer.

In every sense of the word, you and him had crossed that line.

And hell, the worst part?

You even remembered flashes of the aftercare—the tenderness in his hands, the hoodie he draped over your shoulders, the way he held you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

The heavy, boneless weight of your body as he must have cleaned you up with a damp cloth, his touch so careful, hesitant, almost reverent. Not desire. Not hunger. Just gentleness — the kind you never expected from him, yet it clung to every movement.

The soft drag of fabric as he draped his hoodie over your shoulders, the familiar scent of him — warmth, smoke, faint sweetness — cocooning you when words failed.

You remember his arms winding around you, pulling you back against him as if he couldn’t stand even an inch of distance. His breath uneven against your hair, chest pressing to your spine like an anchor in a storm. His voice, low and raw, muffled into the quiet:

“Don’t… don’t move. Just stay. Stay forever… please.”

In the hazy half-light before sleep claimed you, lashes heavy, you could have sworn you felt it — the slip of a single, hot tear across your shoulder blade. A confession he’d never risk sober: that he didn’t want you out of attraction, but out of need. Out of the human ache to hold on to someone who wouldn’t vanish.

Now, in the cruel light of morning, that memory twists into a sharp blade of guilt. Your gaze drifts to him, still asleep, face soft and unguarded. And the sight hurts more than any physical ache.

A moment you can’t erase.

A memory seared deep, potent enough to turn your body into a furnace of shame. Because yes, he’d said it was okay. He’d met your eyes, steady enough to fool you. But he wasn’t sober. His judgment was blurred, his need laid bare in ways he’d never allow awake. And that truth gnaws at you, ripping your insides raw: you hadn’t just given in to him—you’d taken from him, in a state where his consent couldn’t shine clear.

You could have stopped it.

You should have stopped it.

You weren’t gone enough to lose yourself. You were aware, painfully aware, of where the night was headed. You could have built a wall, drawn a line, said no. But you didn’t. You were childish.

Too needy for your own damn good.

You let hunger drive you, let loneliness win, and in the end, you allowed yourself to do the unspeakable with a man you’ve spent months mocking, teasing, pretending not to care about, all while hiding how deeply you actually did.

Tears betray you before your thoughts can even form, slipping hot and relentless down your cheeks. You press your palms to your face, but it doesn’t help.

“How dare I do this to him?” The words escape in a ragged whisper, shaking and brittle. You don’t even care that he sleeps on, serene. “It doesn’t matter that he said it was okay. He wasn’t… in his right mind. And my dumbass knew it.”

You press your forehead to your knees, pulling his hoodie tighter over yourself like it can hide what you’ve done. “Fucking needy for no reason,” you murmur into the fabric, each word a lash of self-hatred.

Geo wasn’t a crush. He was someone you liked poking fun at, someone you secretly cared for quietly, obsessively. You wanted to learn about him.

Understand him. Be near him. That was all.

And yet… here you are, evidence of your own selfishness sleeping peacefully beside you. You never needed this before. You never wanted it. And now, staring at him, you realize you’ve undone yourself completely. Last night wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t supposed to change anything.

But it did. So you were childish. You were selfish.

You were too much of a needy.

Too… ridiculously, catastrophically needy.

You curl tighter into yourself, hoodie pulled over your head like it’s some magical invisibility cloak, muttering to the air like a deranged person in a horror movie: “Ugh… I’m such an idiot… How could I—he didn’t… I shouldn’t… Oh god, why am I like this—” The words tumble out in a jumble, soft, frantic, desperate.

And, of course, somehow perfectly audible to the one person who absolutely should still be asleep: Geo. A low, annoyed murmur cuts through your panic.

“Stop,” he mutters, voice gravel-thick. “I can hear you thinking from here.”

You freeze. Literally.

Every muscle locking up. Face angled away, eyes wide, heart hammering like a washing machine on its spin cycle. You’re basically a cartoon character right now—steam whistling out of your ears, limbs flailing invisibly while your body stays rigid on the bed. Geo shifts on his side, and when you finally risk a glance, you’re met with… oh God.

His messy bowl cut was still complete disaster, his long hair sticking out in every possible direction, like it’s actively rebelling against the laws of gravity. His face is pressed half into the pillow, one eye squinting open with the kind of glazed, bloodshot look that screams ‘hangover survival mode.’

His brows are scrunched, forehead creased deep, like the mere act of existing right now is offensive to him. His lips, the corners tugging downward in a lazy, crooked frown. And yet—despite all that—his one teal-green eye manages to focus on you.

Your stomach plummets.

Oh God. He’s awake. Fuck.

You curl tighter into yourself, hoodie tugged up, cheeks burning hot enough to ignite fabric.

Geo just stares, brows knitting deeper. He looks at your red-rimmed eyes, your shaky breathing, the tear tracks on your face. Slowly, very slowly, he lifts his head an inch off the pillow, squints harder like you’re some alien phenomenon, then lets it thunk back down again. ‘What the actual hell,’ his expression says.

The words catch in your throat. “…You were drunk.”

He hums, not denying it. “Yeah. I was.” His gaze drags over you, hoodie swallowing your trembling body, finally, your rambling spirals into a whisper.

“I—I took advantage of you.” You swallow. “I should’ve stopped it. Shouldn’t have let it happen. You don’t… want me like that.”

Geo blinks. Once. Twice. His brow furrows deeper, like the words themselves have given him a headache. And then—he exhales, long and low, into the pillow, “…You’re seriously crying about that?” Flat. Dry. A perfect mix of exhaustion and disbelief, like he can’t decide if he should scold you, comfort you, or just roll over and go back to sleep.

“You think I don’t know what I want?”

You freeze.

He pushed himself up on one elbow, hair sticking up like he’d lost a bar fight with a pillow. His hand shifts, taking your hand in his with surprising gentleness. Geo exhaled slowly, “First off,” he muttered, “I don’t look at you and burn up with desire. That’s not me. But don’t you dare think I don’t care. Don’t you dare think I don’t want you.”

Your breath catches, confusion bleeding into something heavier.

“I want you here,” he says simply, “I want your laugh in my ears, your chaos in my space, your warmth where I can reach it. You drive me insane, but I like looking at you. I like being near you. I like touching you, even when I don’t have the words for why.”

The bluntness moved you, guilt and relief tangling into a knot you can’t undo. Still, your cheeks puffed out in an unconscious pout. Well. This was mortifying. Overthinking for nothing. Fuck.

“…So you don’t regret it?” you whisper.

He exhales, slow and steady, like it’s the simplest truth in the world. “No. Not a damn bit. I needed closeness. And it had to be you.” He added, softer, “So stop whining. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

His hand reached up, rough palm brushing away the wetness under your eyes with surprising care. “What happened last night was… both of us. Not just you. Yeah, I was tipsy. That’s not your fault.”

Relief hit before the words even finished leaving his mouth. You let out a shaky breath, shoulders sagging, the tension bleeding out just a little.

Geo glanced away then, chewing his lip like he was working through something unscripted. “…So, uh… eveything is fine bewteen us?”

The question blindsided you. You blinked. “What do you mean?”

He rubbed at the back of his neck, eyes flicking toward the sheets, then back to you. “I mean—last night. Us. Does it… change anything for you? Because you look like you think you stole something from me. And the way you’re acting—” He broke off, frustration flashing across his brow before he finally admitted:

“I thought… we were already together.”

Now, how he came to that conclusion, you were deadass lost, “Together?” you echoed, startled.

He nodded, almost sheepishly. “…yeah.”

You could see the hesitation, the way he fumbled for words he didn’t fully have. “Look—I don’t know the baselines, alright? Relationships, how they’re supposed to work, what counts and what doesn’t… I never paid attention to that. Crowe told me once the only things that matter are expectations, communication, being upfront about who you are. So… I thought we had that. I thought we were… us.”

He lifted his gaze, eyes unguarded. “Everyone on campus already acts like you’re mine. Haven’t you noticed? No one bothers you anymore. I figured that’s just… what we were. Didn’t think we needed to say it out loud.”

Your expression flickered, surprise sparking before you let out a soft, disbelieving sigh. “Damn,” you muttered, half to yourself. “All this time?”

“You shocked?” He asked, “You sound rather surprised…”

You stared at him for a long moment, his words circling in your head. Relief and confusion knotted together until it all spilled out in a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Am I surprised?” you echoed, tilting your head at him. “Yeah. Completely. Because if I know one thing about you, Geo, you made it clear that relationships aren’t your thing. Romantic, sexual—hell, you’ve told me more than once they’re a waste of time when you kept getting those love letters from your little admirers…” You lead off for a second.

“…that no one could ever be worth the effort. And you’re so damn mean about it too—like, textbook ‘tell me you’ve never been in love without telling me you’ve never been in love.’ type.”

Your voice carried more curiosity than bite, but the words still made him shift, his frown tugging deeper at the edges of his mouth.

“I don’t care,” he muttered, shrugging like it didn’t matter. “If it means I get to do whatever I want, no one in my way, no one demanding anything—I’ll take it. Doesn’t bother me.” His eyes slid back to you, steady, almost defiant. “You don’t interfere with my life. You don’t make me compromise. Having you by my side doesn’t change anything. So what’s the difference?”

Really… did he have to ask such a qustion?

‘What’s the difference?’ hah.

You blinked at him, a pout tugging at your lips as you crossed your arms over your chest. “Wow. Out of everything, that’s what you go with? That I don’t interfere with your precious, broody, moody, mad-at-the-world lifestyle?”

Geo’s brow arched, unbothered. That small, pitiful scoff was his go on, throw your little tantrum, it won’t stick. But you leaned in anyway, your tone dripping with mock sweetness. “Ahhh, you know what still kills me, though? Of all the people—me. You. Mr. ‘I don’t need anyone.’ Mr. ‘I bite before I bleed.’”

Your eyes narrowed, mock-offense sharpening the words.

“You got needy for me, regardless what you say.”

That landed. His jaw ticked, a quick flash of embarrassment breaking through his mask before it snapped back into place.

You tilted your head, smiling slowly. “Congratulations.”

His fingers gave the smallest tremor, betraying him before anything else did. Then he looked at you—really looked—and for the first time since you’d known him, the glare he leveled at you was venomous.

“Do I look,” he said slowly, each word a stone hurled into the silence, “like the kind of man who’d lose his value just by…” His lip curled as he spat it out, blunt as a blade, “…fucking you?”

The words hung there, sharp and ugly, but you didn’t even blink.

“That’s not what you meant,” you said flatly.

Geo’s eyes narrowed, still carved into a scowl. “The hell it isn’t—”

Your arms tightened across your chest, but you didn’t back down. In fact, you leaned closer, voice soft and steady. “No. You’re not the kind of man who uses people. You know it. I know it. So don’t hide behind cheap ass words like that. Fool that with anyone else; not with me.”

He bristled, lips parting to snap back, but you were already pressing in, sharper now, a flicker of something possessive in your stare.

“What you meant was: ‘I don’t lose my worth by needing you.’ That’s what you were trying to say. You’re just too damn proud to put it in plain language. Which I thought we went over this… last night.”

Silence. His jaw worked, his glare faltering into something less venomous, more unsettled. You could almost hear the gears grinding behind his eyes.

You softened your voice, but not your stare—still holding him pinned there. “So go ahead. Keep throwing arrows at me if it makes you feel better. You’ll miss the shot on everything. Hell, keep showing everyone I’m yours. Keep being possessive over me, at least it keeps the admirers in check, am I right?” Your tone was teasing, but the flash in your eyes wasn’t.

You weren’t just some soft, cute thing in bed.

Not when you sat there in his hoodie, drowning in the smell of him, skin mapped with his bite marks like a living claim.

No—wrapped in all that proof of him, you were something scarier, darker. A mirror tilted back at the most unguarded, most vulnerable parts of him.

And for the first time, Geo actually seemed to register it. His glare faltered, not breaking but hesitating, like the weight of your stare was pressing too close.

“I see you, and you see me,” you said, “I know exactly what you meant. And I’m not one of those worthless, brainless admirers who cry—hell, even throw up when you reject them.”

You leaned in, eyes unflinching, your voice threading through the space like a snare tightening. “I’ll give you a piece of my mind every single time you act out. You think you’re possessive over me?” Your lips curved, not quite a smile—something sharper, something that cut. “I’ll be ten times worse with you. Playfulness doesn’t mean harmless. And you should know better than anyone…”

You didn’t back off—you pressed closer, the tension between you humming like a live wire. His hoodie slid off one of your shoulders, exposing the bruise-dark imprint of his teeth. You tilted your head, letting him see it, letting him remember exactly what he’d done.

“Look at me,” you whispered. When his eyes finally—reluctantly—snapped to yours, you held them like chains. “You already marked me as yours. Eventually, I’ll do the same to you.”

It wasn’t a threat.

It wasn’t even a promise.

It was a statement of fact, spoken in a voice that was all calm steel. You didn’t want him the way others did—no romance, no starry-eyed devotion. You wanted him anchored. Present. His sharpness, his meanness, the weight of him where no one else ever dared to stand.

You exhaled slowly, as though steadying him more than yourself. Your hand came up, cupping his face with a deceptively tender touch. Your thumb brushed his lips—ghosting over the curve of his mouth, the same mouth that had just spat such ugly words at you.

“It’s best if you stay needy only for me,” you murmured, sweet and chilling in equal measure.

For a few seconds, Geo didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. His eyes flicked wider, and his shoulders dropped a fraction, caught between pride and the kind of vulnerability he swore he never had.

And for the first time, he looked like the one cornered.

You didn’t let him look away.

Your stare pinned him, steady and merciless in its quiet claim. He’d marked you, and now you’d turned the mirror back on him.

His jaw worked once, twice, before he finally let out a low sound, somewhat pouting, “Tch.” Then he caught your wrist, not to push you away, but to press your hand more firmly to his cheek. His breath warmed your skin as he nuzzled into your palm, a quiet sound leaving him—half scoff, half surrender, eyes narrowing as if he could burn through you by sheer force of will.

“You’re scarier than I thought.” The words weren’t an insult.

If anything, they were laced with reluctant awe, threaded with the smallest curl of unease.

His lips ghosted against the pad of your thumb when he spoke again, quieter this time, sharpness blunted by something rawer. “And here I thought you were just loud, reckless… harmless.” His gaze dropped, lingered on the teeth marks bruising your shoulder, then dragged back to your eyes. “Guess I was wrong.”

You smiled—soft, almost sweet, but he could feel the bite underneath it. And that, more than anything, made him flinch.

Geo had faced enemies who wanted him dead, rivals who wanted to break him, admirers who wanted to claim him. But you? You terrified him in a way none of them ever could—because you weren’t trying to change him or cage him. You just stood there, claiming him anyway, without asking.

And for a man who swore he’d never need anyone, that was the scariest thing of all.

But you weren’t about to let him have the last word—not after he’d tried to twist everything into pride and venom. If he got to show his neediness, then you deserved the sober truth.

And if you had to tease it out of him, well… you had the perfect plan.

“You know,” you murmured, lips curling into a sly little grin, “you’re only this needy when Crowe’s involved somehow.”

That earned you exactly what you wanted: Geo’s sharp frown. His brows knit, teal eyes narrowing as suspicion cut through his lingering vulnerability. “Huh? State your case.”

“Oh, gladly,” you hummed, leaning in close enough to poke him in the chest with one finger. “I saw you two whispering before he left. Crowe practically shoved you into this. And let me guess…” Your grin widened, teeth flashing. “…he’s the one who slipped that condom into your pocket, isn’t he?”

Geo’s jaw locked, the faintest twitch giving him away before he could hide it.

You gasped dramatically, hand flying to your mouth. “Oh my god. I’m right. Aren’t I? He set you up!” You dissolved into a laugh, poking him again, sing-songing the words, “Maybe I should call him right now—thank him for finally getting you to—”

You didn’t even get to finish.

In one sudden, seamless motion, Geo’s hands moved to your waist, tugging hard enough to knock the breath out of you as you toppled forward. You landed squarely on top of him, palms splayed across his bare chest. His skin was warm now, no trace of last night’s chill, his heartbeat steady and solid beneath your fingers.

And yes—thank every star—he was still covered from the waist down with the blanket. You weren’t even going to think about what was under there.

You squirmed, trying to lean back, brush it off like a joke, but his arms locked around your waist. Not bruising, not desperate—just there, solid and unyielding, like iron disguised as comfort.

“Subaru—” you started, still half-laughing, half-nervous.

But then his eyes caught you. Teal, sharp as ever, but softened at the edges, softened just enough to pin you without force. The weight of his stare pressed into you harder than his arms ever could, tracing over every line of your face, drinking in the closeness.

“Don’t,” he said, voice low.

The single word landed like a weight, slicing right through your teasing. His thumb pressed against the small of your back, firm, grounding you there against him.

“Yes, Crowe told me to stay with you,” he admitted, blunt as ever. “Yeah, he pushed. And…” he paused, lips tightening as if the words themselves tasted bitter, “…he gave me the condom.”

For a second, you nearly burst out laughing, the image of Crowe’s smug face too easy to imagine. But then Geo’s voice dipped, rough but steady, and you shut your mouth.

“But everything that happened after that?” His eyes locked on yours, pinning you still. “That was me. Not him. Don’t give him all the credit.”

He leaned in fractionally, the faintest brush of his hair against your forehead, his breath warm against your cheek. His gaze never wavered, sharp even in its rawness. “I don’t need Crowe to tell me how to feel about you. I don’t need anyone to make my decisions. Not with this.”

His hand shifted up your spine, resting between your shoulder blades, a quiet claim hidden in the gesture.

And then, just when your chest began to ache from the weight of it all, he tilted his head with that cruel little smirk again. “Besides,” he added, tone smooth and mean, “do you really think I’d stick around just because Crowe told me to? I don’t take orders. Not even from him.”

His words sank in deep, leaving you half-flustered, half-reeling, caught between the reassurance and the sting of his teasing.

You opened your mouth, trying to form a retort, but stopped when you saw the subtle battle playing across his face—the way his jaw flexed, tightened, loosened again. Like he was fighting himself and losing.

Finally, he exhaled through his nose, the sound sharp but shaky at the edges. “…You’re right.”

You blinked at him. “About what?”

He frowned, almost offended by the question.

“Technically,” you said with a little grin, “I’m right about everything.”

The dumbfounded look he gave you was priceless—part disbelief, part irritation, and maybe the faintest of admiration.

“I accepted a long time ago that I’d stay that way,” he said at last, voice low but steady. “No relationships. No attachments. Nobody’s worth it. You keep your head down, you work, you do your thing, you don’t waste time—”

He stopped himself, fingers rubbing at the back of his neck like he could scrub the words off. “That’s who I was. That’s who I still am.”

Then his eyes slid to you.

They weren’t venomous this time.

They were more steady, naked in a way you’d never seen.

“But then you…” He swallowed, the corner of his mouth twitching like he didn’t know whether to smile or curse. “You were the perfect distraction. You took the idea I had of my whole damn life and cracked it. I didn’t plan for you. I wouldn’t have picked you if it was a choice. But here you are.”

He drew a shaky breath, jaw working. “You’re the rare and unexpected friend. The thing I didn’t know was missing. The one thing I don’t want to lose, even though I never wanted to need anyone.” He looked down at his hands and muttered, almost too quiet to catch.

“…You’re the best thing I never knew I needed.”

The words lingered, raw and unpolished, like he’d ripped them straight from his chest and dropped them into your hands. He shifted closer, forehead brushing yours, teal eyes burning with something almost unbearable—intensity softened at the edges.

The bed still smelled of sake, of sweat, of him. Damning evidence of a night you couldn’t rewrite, no matter how much your chest ached to undo or relive it. His arm was heavy where it wrapped around your waist, his breath hot at your ear.

He hadn’t asked for more than you could give.

He just held you.

Your pulse thundered, but your body melted, spine uncoiling like you’d finally surrendered the fight you didn’t even know you’d been having.

You tilted your head, studying him in the dim light. He’d just stripped himself bare in the only way he knew how—blunt, stumbling, unintentionally tender—and somehow you were still the one holding the upper hand. The realization twisted something warm and dangerous inside you.

Leaning in, you let your lips ghost the edge of his jawline. Not quite a kiss, but a brush of heat that had his breath hitching almost imperceptibly. Your voice followed, soft and teasing against his skin:

“Lucky for you,” you whispered, “I agree the same way.”

His arms tightened just a little, pulling you closer until there wasn’t an inch left between you. The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was full. Heavy with everything unspoken, thick with the kind of need neither of you could pretend away anymore.

After a moment, you breathed out a laugh, trying to defuse your own racing pulse. “So… you planning to shower here? We don’t have classes today, no excuse.”

Geo hummed low in his chest, eyes half-lidded but sharp. “No. I’d rather shower at home.”

You pouted, lips pushing into an exaggerated curve. “Wow. Bougie. What, my plumbing’s not good enough for you?”

His mouth tugged into the faintest smirk, merciless. “Correct. I am too good for it. And so are you. Those cheap soaps of yours shouldn’t touch your skin. You should be smelling like me.”

That stopped you—because it wasn’t just vanity.

That was a whole other level of possessiveness, and your stomach flipped at the quiet claim threaded through his voice. “Fine then,” you shot back playfully, voice sfot, “…maybe I should just take a bath with you instead?”

He turned his head toward you with the slowest, most tasteful glare you’d ever seen, like he was trying not to dignify that with a response. But you caught the way his jaw shifted, the way his eyes flickered in thought before settling on you again. “…Not a bad idea,” he said at last, voice rough. “My tub’s big enough for both of us.”

Your mouth parted, caught off guard. You pouted again, mumbling under your breath, “…I hate rich people.”

Geo’s smirk deepened, unrepentant, and his hand pressed more firmly against your back, keeping you close.

It wasn’t hunger. Not lust, not possession.

It was the quieter, heavier ache of needing—and knowing the other person needed you back. At least now it was clear. You both filled the silence, the bed, the space between heartbeats with the same thing:

Turns out, being needy wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

♤ — 𝓉𝓀𝒶𝓉𝒷 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

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