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~ Nerd! Nat Headcanons pt 3 ~
This is 18+ content. Minors DNI!
Part 1 | Part 2
@esposadejoyhuerta here you go girl
SFW
Nerd!Nat who is incredibly excited when you go on a small vacation for your first anniversary. You surprise her with a small (a little run down) van you rented and spend a couple of days driving around beautiful places together. It's not much but it's what she's always talked about wanting to do.
Nerd! Nat who acts like she's taking pictures of the beautiful view but secretly always includes you in them. She ends up gathering all the photos she's taken of you and of the two of you together to make a little album of the memories of your first anniversary and gifts it to you.
Nerd! Nat who hugs you while lying between your legs on a blanket in a small field and falls asleep as soon as you start running your fingers through her hair. You can't help but lovingly look at her peacefully sleeping and chuckle when she wakes up, notices your eyes on her and buries her face on your front embarrassed.
Nerd! Nat who blushes like a tomato each and every time she catches you staring at her with an enamored look in your eyes, no matter how long you've been together, she'll just never get used to it.
Nerd! Nat who studies at the small desk next to her bed, turns her head and once again finds you looking at her like she's the most beautiful piece of art while lying on your stomach on her bed.
Nerd! Nat who suddenly gets bold enough to get up and walk over to the bed to stroke your cheek before holding you in place with a finger under your chin to kiss you tenderly, making you fully melt for her.
Nerd! Nat who (surprising herself) starts to get used if not happy to show pda with you and not only loves it when you initiate it, but starts doing it herself as well.
Nerd! Nat who now loves it even more when you're out with your friends and you wrap your arm around her waist or you hug her from the side.
Nerd! Nat who is anything but sporty (she's just a tall, thin little one) but still insists on accompanying you on your walks, feeling uneasy knowing you're out on your own. At the end it's a mutual benefit since you get to see her in grey sweatpants and she gets to savor you in leggings and sometimes a tank top or even a sports bra (poor Natty always ends up so flustered).
NSFW
Nerd! Nat who cums so hard when you jerk her off under the blanket while you're supposed to be watching TV together.
Nerd! Nat who immediately starts to get hard once again while you keep pumping your hand to get every last bit of cum out of her. The way you murmur in her ear, praising her for how good she was for you does nothing but worsen the problem.
Nerd! Nat who secretly loves it when you masturbate each other so she insists on ârepaying youâ and casually fingers you so insanely good, to the point where you shock yourself a little with the sounds she gets out of you and the way she leaves you shaking and limp after 2 orgasms.
Nerd! Nat who looks at you with big doe eyes and asks you if she did well, making you chuckle breathlessly. You realize she's so insecure she needs you to physically reassure her that she couldn't be any better before grabbing her hand to suck her fingers clean just to mess with her.
Nerd! Nat who's always loved to fuck you doggystyle but hates that she can't see your pretty face, so you start doing it facing the mirror in the room and surprise yourselves with how hot you find it to look at each other's reflection.
Nerd! Nat who, while you're on all fours, makes you feel so good you physically can't hold yourself up anymore, so you let your front fall basically face down on the bed.
Nerd! Nat who doesn't even think about it when she grips your hair to lift your head and only wants to be able to see your face again, making you moan so loud and tighten even more around her at her unexpected action.
Nerd! Nat who desperately begs you with a pout to cum for her. She always wants to wait for you to cum first because in her words âshe wants to make sure you feel all the pleasure you deserveâ, and seeing you orgasm makes her cum even harder inside of you.
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.
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Tags: @fxckmiup @natashasilverfox @fawnedolly
#nerd!natasha#natasha romanoff#natasha romanoff x reader#natasha romanoff x fem!reader#natasha romanoff x you#natasha romanoff smut#natasha romanoff x reader smut#natasha romanoff fluff#black widow#black widow x reader#black widow x female reader#black widow x you#black widow x reader smut#black widow smut#black widow fluff#marvel#mcu
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so high school | l.hc
âno oneâs ever had me. not like youâŠâ
đnow playing: so high school by taylor swift
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⯠summary: Hyuck doesnât care that high school was years ago; after learning his girlfriendâs experience was shitty, heâs determined to rewrite it for you. After all, heâs nothing if not smitten.
⯠pairings: haechan x fem!reader
⯠genre: established relationship, fluff, eventual smut
⯠words: 6.4k
⯠tags: 18+ minors dni, swearing, fingering, dirty talk, oral sex (male receiving), face fucking, exhibitionism, reader uses she/her pronouns, lots of gendered female terms, slight begging, brief possessiveness and jealousy bc itâs me, a brief cheating accusation but itâs stupid, hyuck being a cute boyfriend for 6k words.
an: did someone say haechan lover boy smut for valentineâs day? (they didnât, lol. i wrote this for me, i love men in love)
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âI fucking loved high school,â Hyuck says, placing down his yearbook on the coffee table.
It had to be a few years old by now, stuffed at the back of one of your bookshelves. Youâd found it while doing an annual declutter and handed it to him on a whim. Knowing your boyfriend, you figured heâd find it nostalgic, or funny, or both.
You glance at him from your spot on the couch, eyebrow arched. âThat doesnât surprise me.â
âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â He shifts, sitting up straighter.
âYou were on the football team, babe. Voted prom king, had good grades, and probably never had to eat lunch alone,â you list off, counting on your fingers for dramatic effect. âIâd be shocked if you did hate high school.â
He laughs with a shake of his head, sinking back further into the sofa. âOkay, fine, maybe I was a little... popular.â
You roll your eyes, but a laugh slips out before you can help it. âA little? I bet you walked through the hallways like you were the lead in a drama or something stupid like that.â
He nods. âDamn right. I was the shit.â
You scoff, tossing a pillow in his direction. Heâs such a cocky bastardâbut you love that about him.
âJealous?â he shoots back, smirking.
You try to playfully roll your eyes, but instead, a small frown pulls at your lips. You know heâs just teasing, messing around, but memories of junior and senior year creep into your mind uninvited. Youâd never been outright bullied, but high school wasnât exactly a highlight reel for you.Â
It was a blur of sitting in the back row, trying to make yourself small enough to avoid attention. Lunches alone in the library. No group of friends. No teenage dream. Dances you skipped, pretending you didnât care when your chest ached from watching your classmates gush over photos the Monday after.
So yeah, you were a little jealous.
âYes, actually,â you say finally, voice quieter. âHigh school sucked for me.â
His grin falters, posture straightening. âWhat?â
âI mean, it wasnât all bad,â you rush to explain, suddenly self-conscious. âI got through it, you know? I just wasnât... you.â
Hyuck leans back, studying you with a look you donât see often on himâconcern, worry. âWhat do you mean you werenât me?â
âI wasnât popular or cool or good at sports. I didnât have a big friend group, and I definitely didnât win prom queenâŠnot that I even went.â
Hyuck doesnât respond right away, and when you finally glance up, you find him staring at you with an expression you canât quite place. Thereâs no teasing glint in his eyes, no cocky smile playing at his lips. He just looks... sad.
âWait,â he says, his voice softer now. âYou didnât go to prom?â
You shrug. âDidnât really have anyone to go with.â
He blinks at you like you just told him you spent your teenage years stranded on a deserted island, which for the likes of Hyuck, not attending prom was the justified equivalent.Â
âAre you serious?â
âHyuck, itâs not a big deal,â you say quickly, waving him off. âHigh school just wasnât my thing.â
âNot a big deal?â he repeats. âBabe, prom is like... the peak of high school. Itâs the one night everyone remembers forever. How did no one ask you? I canât wrap my head around that.â
You canât help but laugh, despite the tightness in your chest. âNot everyone peaked in high school, Hyuck. Some of us just... took it for what it was: school.â
His expression softens even more, guilt creeping into his features as he scoots closer, his thigh brushing yours. âYou know you deserved better than that, right?â
âHyuckââ
âI mean it,â he says firmly, cupping your face in his hands. âIf Iâd been there, you wouldâve been my prom queen. Hell, Iâd have skipped the whole damn thing just to hang out with you if you didnât wanna go.â
The honeyed warmth in his voice makes your throat tighten, and you hate how easily he can do thisâtake the ache of old memories and replace it with something softer, lighter. Something you almost want to believe.
âToo bad we didnât meet until after high school,â you say, forcing a smile.
Hyuck faltersâbut only for a moment. His gaze lingers on you as if a thought is forming behind his dark eyes.
âYeah,â he murmurs, brushing a kiss against your forehead. âToo bad.â
You donât think anything of it when he pulls you into his chest, resting his chin on your head as the conversation drifts elsewhere. But later, when heâs holding you close and youâre half-asleep, Hyuck is still thinking. Planning.
Because Lee Donghyuck might not be able to rewrite your past, but heâs damn sure going to be the best part of your futureïżœïżœtrust.Â
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Hyuck just couldnât stop thinking about it.
The coolest person heâd ever metâhis girlfriend, his soulmateâhadnât gotten to live the high school teenage dream. No prom, no stupid corsages, no dancing barefoot at the end of the night because the heels were too much. Nothing.
It didnât make sense. You were too fucking beautiful to be treated as background noise by those losers. Hyuck remembers the day he met youâa fully grown manâand you made him a stuttering mess. Heâs never asked Mark for flirting advice ever in his life, but fuck, he wasnât about to miss his chance with you.Â
How could they just disregard you?
He raked a hand through his hair, frustrated. How did no one ask you out? Were they blind? Or just stupid? What kind of idiot couldnât see what he saw every day?
The thought of you sitting at home on prom night, like it didnât matter, made his chest ache. He couldnât picture itâbecause you were you, the type of person every cheesy teen movie was written about: beautiful, funny, and so damn perfect. And yet... those assholes in high school had somehow missed it.
And even though the sick, selfish, possessive side of him is so fucking grateful that heâs the only one thatâs ever had you, and those assholes missed out, he still canât help but obsess over it. He couldnât change the past, no matter how much he wanted to, and that realization burned.Â
Hyuck groans, tipping his head back. âIâm losing it,â he mutters, mostly to himself.
But he couldnât let it go. And because he was Lee fucking Donghyuck, when something got under his skin, he acted on it. Which is why, two days later, he finds himself standing in the middle of a small-town gymnasium, arms crossed over his chest as he surveys the scene in front of him.
âIs this the best you can do?â he asks, unimpressed.
Mark, balancing precariously on a ladder while stringing up fairy lights, glares down at him. âDude, shut the fuck up,â he snaps. âYou gave us two days to put this together. Do you even know how hard it was to convince the principal? I had to name-drop you!âÂ
Hyuck ignores him, his eyes sweeping over the room again. Mark wasnât wrongâhe had given his friends next to no time to work with. But that didnât stop him from wanting it to be perfect. You deserved perfect.
A cheap speaker sits on the ground, currently blasting some old prom playlist Mark had found online. The string lights slowly started taking shape, casting a soft glow across the gym. There is a table in the corner with a bowl of something pink and suspicious-looking, and a few chairs scattered around. It wasnât bad, but it wasnât great either.
Mark climbs down from the ladder, dusting his hands on his jeans. âI think it looks fine.â
âFine?â Hyuck repeats, scoffing. âMark, this is a high school prom. Itâs supposed to be magical or whatever. This just looks like... a school event.â
âBecause it is a school event,â Mark shoots back, rolling his eyes. âLook, man, if you wanted a five-star gala, maybe you shouldnât have sprung this on me last minute.â
Hyuck sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He wasnât trying to be an ass, but he wanted, needed, to do this for you. Youâd brushed off your high school experience like it was no big deal, but he could tell it meant something to you. Maybe not in a way you wanted to admit, but it was there.
And now it was his jobâno, his missionâto fix it.
âJust... add more lights,â Hyuck says finally. âAnd maybe some balloons? Chenle, do we have balloons?â
Chenle, who was sweeping the floors, looked back with a shake of his head, scurrying off before he got caught in the crossfire.Â
Mark groans. âHyuck, if we add any more lights, the entire gymâs gonna blow a fuse. And no, we donât have balloons. Youâre lucky I even managed to get lights.â
Hyuck sighs again, running a hand through his hair. He had money, sureâthat was the only reason heâd managed to rent out the gym on such short noticeâbut even he couldnât buy time.
Still, as he looked around the gym, he felt a flicker of pride. It wasnât perfect, but it was something. Heâd move mountains for you if he had to. And if this half-assed prom was the closest he could get, then so be it.
Mark claps a hand on his shoulder, jolting him out of his thoughts. âHey,â he says, softer now. âSheâs gonna love it, dude. Stop stressing out.â
Hyuck nods, swallowing hard. âYeah.â
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Your boyfriendâs acting weird. Well, weirder than usual.
Hyuckâs always been a little oddâbut thatâs one of the things you love about him. The endless hobbies he picks up and abandons in a week like juggling, the random facts he collects from late-night YouTube rabbit holes, and his never-ending need to one-up his friends in bets and challenges. But this? This feels different. Like itâs more than some dumb dare or fleeting obsession.
For the past two days, heâs been unusually secretive. Youâve caught him whispering with Mark on the phone more than once, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush whenever youâd walk into the room. And then there was yesterdayâwhen you brought coffee to his rehearsal. You barely stepped inside before the entire group went awkwardly silent, and Hyuck practically herded you back out the door. Hyuck, who usually couldnât keep his hands off you in public and loved showing you off, suddenly turning shyâŠsuspicious doesnât even begin to cover it.
And letâs not forget the disappearing act last night. He came home late, shrugging off your questions with a grin and the vague excuse of âguy stuff.â Guy stuff. That was the moment you knew something was up.
And so, youâve been sitting on the couch, stewing, waiting for him to get home from rehearsal. The seconds drag, and with each passing minute, your frustration builds. By the time you hear the jingle of his keys in the door, youâre ready to burst.
Hyuck stumbles in, his hair slightly mussed, a garment bag slung over his shoulder. He looks exhausted but excited, strange. He barely gets a foot inside before youâre on him.
âAre you cheating on me?â
His jaw drops, the grin on his face disappearing instantly, eyes blinking at you like youâve just accused him of arson. Youâd honestly prefer it if he had. âWhat?! No! Why would you evenâwhat the fuck?â
âYouâve been acting so weird!â you snap, crossing your arms. âThe sneaky phone calls, the late nights, the whispering, the weird excusesâguy stuff? Do you think I was born yesterday?â
That makes him laugh and you swear you see red. He thinks this is funny? Youâll show him funny.Â
âIf you wanted to break up with me, Hyuck, donât insult me by sneaking around! Justâjust tell me to my face!â Your voice wavers, hurt bubbling in your throat as you glare at him.
Hyuckâs expression softens instantly, his eyebrows furrowing. âHey, hey, waitâbabe, no. Thatâs not whatâs happening here, I swear.â
You narrow your eyes, pointing at the garment bag. âOh yeah? Whatâs that, then? Some outfit for your other girlfriend?â
His mouth drops open, and then he barks out a laugh, though he quickly smothers it when he sees your glare. âNo! Oh my God, no. Look, just⊠this isnât how I wanted to do this,â he pinches his temples âCould you just go upstairs and put this on, okay?â He holds the bag out to you, practically shoving it into your hands.
âExcuse me?â you quirk an eyebrow.
âJustâtrust me, babe. Please. Go upstairs, put this on, and come back down when youâre ready.â
You stand there, staring at him like heâs lost his mind. Because he must have. âHyuck, I am notââ
âPlease,â he interrupts, his voice softer now. âJust this once. Do this for me. Itâll all make sense.â
His eyes meet yours, and for all the frustration boiling under your skin, you canât ignore the quiet sincerity in his voice. Because even though his recent actions have been enough to make your paranoia spike, heâs still your Hyuckâand you trust your Hyuck.
With a sharp huff, you snatch the garment bag from his hands and stomp upstairs, slamming the bedroom door behind you before he can say another word. Your pulse is racing, irritation curling hot in your chest as you yank the zipper down and pull the dress out with more force than necessary.
Itâs beautiful. And that pisses you off even more.
Who does he think he is? Sneaking around all week, ignoring you for days, then showing up with a pretty dress and expecting you to put it on without question?
Annoying. Heâs so annoying.
Still scowling, you step into the dress, the silky fabric gliding over your skin like it was made for you, and knowing Hyuck heâd probably ask someone to do that for him. It fits perfectly, hugging every curve, and when you catch your reflection in the mirror, your anger stuttersâjust for a second. Itâs beautiful. You look beautiful.
Damn it.
You swipe at your eyes before anything ridiculous like tears can form and square your shoulders. Fine. Youâll wear the dress. But youâre not going to let him off the hook so easily. Throwing the door open, you march downstairs, irritation simmering beneath the surface of your foundation. âLee Donghyuck, you betterââ
But you freeze.
Because heâs standing at the bottom of the steps in an equally beautiful suit, rocking on his heels, with a small, nervous smile playing on his lips. Heâs holding a corsage in his handsâdelicate flowers wrapped in silk, matching your dress perfectly.
And then, all at once, it clicks.
That fucking yearbook you found. The conversation that came after it. The sneaking around. The secrecy.Â
Your breath catches in your throat, warmth creeping up your neck as a blush dusts his skin. He chews his lip, eyes flickering up to meet yours, and if you didnât know him any better, youâd swear he was nervous.
Hyuck never gets nervous.
âDo you wanna rewrite prom with me?â
And just like that, you break.
Tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them, and Hyuckâs smile falters just slightly as he steps forward, hand reaching out to you, as if heâs ready to catch you, to hold you close, if you were to fall. But you donât fall. You just nod, because it feels impossible to do anything else.
How could you say no to him? How could you possibly deny the one person in the world who would do something like this for youânot because he had to, but because he wanted to, because he loves you to a point you never thought possible because he needs you to be happy.
âI love you,â you choke out through your happy tears, the words tumbling from your lips before you can stop them.
Hyuckâs worry shifts into something warmer, something softer. He steps closer, brushing his thumb gently against your cheek to wipe away the tear.
âDoes that mean weâre not breaking up, then?â His voice is teasing, but thereâs a tenderness underneath, a soft hope in his eyes that mirrors the love you just confessed.
Your heart skips a beat, and you nod through blurry eyes, a small smile breaking through. âNot even close.â
His face splits into the brightest grin youâve ever seen, and before you can say anything else, heâs pulling you into his arms, rocking you side to side like heâs never going to let go. Itâs overwhelmingâthe warmth of him, the scent of his cologne, the steady beat of his heart against your ear. And for once, you let yourself lean into it, let yourself feel just how much he loves you, because God, does he know how to show it.
âI love you too, you know,â he murmurs, voice quieter now, meant just for you. âLike, stupidly. Like, Iâm gonna remind you every day until youâre sick of me, because I never want you to think Iâm cheating on you ever again.â
You huff a laugh, sniffling. âI donât think I could ever be sick of you.â
âMm, weâll see about that.â He pulls back just enough to look at you, taking in the glassiness in your eyes, the heat in your cheeks. Then, with a smirk, he presses the corsage into your hands. âYour favourite colour.â
âNow,â he says, stepping back and offering his arm, âif we donât leave soon, Mark might actually rip my balls off.â
It takes you a second to register what he means, and when you glance past him, you see Mark leaning against his car, arms crossed, exuding pure suffering. He looks like heâd rather be anywhere but here, but you know your Hyuck can be very convincing.Â
âAre you two done?â Mark calls, exasperated. âBecause I have better things to do than play chauffeur for your little rom-com tonight.â
âLiar!â Hyuck yells, dragging you toward the car. âIf you werenât here, youâd be playing video games with Chenle or something. Your life is boring and bitchless!â
Mark groans but doesnât deny it.
âWait! One more thing,â Hyuck gasps, stopping you just as youâre about to step into the car. Before you can question it, heâs already sprinting back inside. A few seconds later, he bursts through the door, holding up a letterman jacket that doesnât match your old schoolâs colours, but his.Â
And when he drapes it over your shoulders, his fingers lingering just a little longer than necessary, his gaze catches on his surname stitched across your back. His cheeks flush that familiar shade of pink, and for once, heâs the one left speechless.
You clutch your hands to the jacket, making sure it doesnât fall off and you canât stop smiling. Because even though he was just being a fouled-mouthed menace to his friend. Heâs clearly only ever sweet and soft with you. Hyuck opens the car door for you and he slides in beside you, lacing his fingers through yours like itâs second nature, like they belong. You look down at your joined hands, his thumb stroking slow circles against your skin, and warmth blooms in your chest.
The corsage, the letterman, the chauffeur to prom. Itâs silly. Itâs cheesy. Itâs the kind of thing you used to roll your eyes at in movies as a teenager. But right now, with him, you wouldnât trade it for the world. Because heâs rewriting how you feel about the cheesy stuff, giving you the giddy, reckless kind of love you never got to have.Â
Letting his hand rest on your thigh, making you stifle your sighs as it slowly crept up your flesh. His touch is heedless and uncaring as if Mark wasnât inches away in the front seat. Itâs compulsive, carless, and so ridiculously juvenileâitâs so high school.
Which feels very on-brand as you pull up to an old brick building. Mark cuts the engine, allowing Hyuck to round the car and open your car door before holding your hand tight and walking you towards the football field.
So many memories flooded back to you as soon as he opened the gate that led to the field. Heels on the grass, on the sacred sanctuary you never had the chance to belong on. Suddenly youâre sixteen again and Hyuck leds you over to the bleachers, climbing up several rows before taking a seat and pulling you down next to him.Â
"Are we trespassing right now?" you ask, slipping your arms into his letterman to ward off the winter chill. "I know you love me, but you donât have to commit a crime for me."
Hyuck scoffs, a playful smirk on his lips. "Please, you know I wouldnât think twice about committing a crime for you if you asked me to." He pauses, then adds, "But no, weâre not trespassing. This is my old high school, and since I'm such an outstanding alumni, I had some strings pulled. They left me the key for tonight."
You roll your eyes, trying to hide your smile. "So they did all this just for you, huh?"
âDonât look at me like that, this is for us.â
"Uh-huh," you tease. "I must say, knowing how to ball in high school seems to have its perks. I was in the wrong clubs clearly. Youâre basically the only person I know who managed to continue peaking after high school."
Hyuckâs smile falters, a flicker of something sad crossing his face. His eyes drift downward, and you catch that same troubled look he had when you found his yearbookâwhen he learned how different your high school experiences were. You donât want him to feel like that, not when heâs trying so hard to fix it. But you donât want him to fix it either, because as messed up as your teenage years were, they led you to him. No oneâs ever had you. Not like him anyway.Â
You slide your hand over his, squeezing gently as you move closer. âYou didnât have to do all this for me, you know?â
Hyuck chuckles, that flicker of sadness vanishing as quickly as it came. âDonât say that. You havenât even seen what Iâve got planned inside yet. I had all the boys stressed over fairy lights and balloons all week.â
Knowing how much effort heâs put in makes you smile, your fingers drifting up to trace the curve of his cheek. Heâs so beautiful. So in love. So undeniably yours.
âIâm excited to see it,â you say. âBut right now, I just want to be here. Is that okay? I never really got to hang out on the bleachers.â
âWill you yell at me if I say that a sick part of me loves that you never cheered for other guys playing football?â
You shake your head with a smile. âYouâre ridiculous.â
âIâm just saying,â he continues, undeterred. âYeah, I wanna kill those assholes for never inviting you to a game, for not taking you to prom. But I also love that I get to be the one to do it with you. Even if weâre adults.â
You bite your lip, feigning hesitation. âWell, I have some information I think you might like.â
Hyuck raises a brow. âOh?â
âI always wanted to make out under the bleachers,â you admit, heat creeping up your neck. âCall me clichĂ©, but when I was a freshman, I imagined having my first kiss with Lee Felix under there.â
His nose crinkles instantly. âI donât know who that is, but I hate him.â Hyuck scoffs, but his hands are already sliding around your waist, pulling you closer. âStill⊠this night is about me making your fantasies come true. So fuck that guy and let me kiss you, baby.â
And you doâlet his lips capture yours, kissing you until theyâre swollen and puffy, until they mould perfectly to his, like they were always meant to. Until thereâs no doubt that they, and you, belong to him.
Hyuck wastes no time, scooping you into his arms with ease, carrying you into the shadows beneath the rickety metal frame. And then his lips are on yours againâhungry, unrelenting. Itâs everything you ever imagined. Noâbetter. Because itâs him and you.Â
His hand trails up your body as he presses you against one of the cold metal pillars, calloused fingers graze your thigh, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Years of football have roughened his touch, but itâs the way he holds youâlike he canât get enough, like he never willâthat really makes your breath hitch. And you almost want to laugh, because youâre pretty sure most people fuck after prom, not before it. But this is you and Hyuck. Youâve never played by the rules, never followed the scripted path. You never wanted to.
And thatâs exactly why a soft, desperate âPlease,â slips from your lips as his fingers venture higher, until theyâre brushing against the hem of your panties.
âCute,â he smiles and murmurs against your lips, grinning as his fingers slip beneath the fabric, his cool touch grazing your clit. You shiver, and it only makes him that more pleasedâmore proud. His other hand glides up your stomach, sneaking beneath your dress until heâs palming your breast, his thumb teasing over your nipple.
âYou knowâŠâ he muses, voice dripping with amusement, âI paid good money for this dress. Itâd be a shame to ruin it.â
âPlease. Youâd never buy me a dress you didnât plan on ruining.â
Hyuck giggles, shaking his head, but before you can run that smart mouth of yours again, his finger slips so easily into your pussy, and you gasp, clinging to his shoulders.
âFuck,â he breathes against your ear, voice thick with need. âI love that you know me so well.â
His fingers keep working you, desperate and wildâbecause if you know Hyuck so well, he knows you even better. Knows your body like itâs his to worship. And when he adds a second finger, stretching you open, pleasure floods through you so intensely your eyes flutter shut, your head tipping back as a moan catches in your throat.
But that wonât do.
Hyuck likes to watch you. Likes to see the way your lips part, the way your brows knit together, the way your pupils blow wide with nothing but him. He wants you to knowâno, needs you to knowâthat heâs the one making you feel this good. That itâs his touch unravelling you, his name you should be thinking about, whimpering, crying out.
So the second your lashes flicker, his fingers slow, teasing, withholding. You whimper, forced to open your eyes again, hazy and weakâjust the way he likes themâjust the way he needs them to be before he picks up his pace.
Heâs meticulous, carefulâdetermined to make you cum right here, right now. If your fantasy was just to make out under the bleachers, Hyuck is going to take it further, push it past anything you ever imagined. Heâs going to make you cum here, again and again, until this moment is burned into your memory. Until you can never think about high school, about this field, about these bleachers, without thinking about him. About the way he touched you. About the way he made it perfect. He always makes everything perfect.Â
âNeed you to cum all over my fingers, pretty girl. Come on,â he murmurs, pinching your clit as he tries to coax an orgasm out of you. And it doesnât take long. The honeyed rasp of his voice, the relentless rhythm of his fingers, the way his eyes stay locked on yoursâitâs all too much. You shatter around him with a high-pitched moan.
âAtta girl,â he breathes, watching you with nothing but admiration. âSo fucking pretty when you cum for me.â
Your mind is fuzzy, his words melting into white noise as you come down from your high on shaky legs. If it werenât for the pillar at your back, youâre certain youâd be a puddle on the floor. Hyuck holds you close, his hand stroking your hair as he murmurs soft praises against your earâsomething about being so pretty, so good, so his. But all you can focus on is the growing bulge in his pants, the evidence of just how much he wants you. A bulge you put there. One youâre aching to take care of.
You start to drop to your knees, and he sucks in a breath, his eyes locked on yours.
âStop,â he commands harshly, stepping back as if somethingâs shifted. It forces you to stand up straight again, confusion crossing your face.
âDonât you want me toââ
âOh, I fucking want you to, and youâre going to,â he growls. Then, he peels off his suit jacket and drapes it on the concrete floor between you two. âNow, you can get on your knees for me, Y/N,â he orders, his voice rough and commanding, but then it cracks, desperately. âPlease.â
You lower yourself onto his suit jacket, kneeling before him, palms pressing firmly against his thighs. His erection is hard, straining through his suit pants, but heâs waitedâwaited until he knew youâd be most comfortable because thatâs just who he is.Â
âLook at you,â he says, running his thumb over your mouth. âPuffy lips parted and ready for me. Big fucking eyes, so innocent, so needy.â
âOnly for you, Hyuck,â you breathe softly as you start undoing his belt and his jaw visibly ticks.
Youâve sucked his cock beforeâof course you have, and you love it. And still, he looks at you like itâs the first time, nostrils flaring, pupils dilated, as he drinks in every detail of your eagerness. Heâs so hungry to feel you, to get lost in youâso feral.
Using his forefinger, he lifts your chin, forcing your chin and attention on him. âI know, baby. Only me. Always me.â
You run your tongue over your lower lip, and he tracks the entire thing, looking like some kind of predator.
âTake it out.â
You comply, dropping his pants to his ankles and tugging his boxer briefs down with them. His cock springs free, angry veins visible and the tip glistening. The sight of his straining cock right in front of you pulls this desperate sound from deep in his throat. He traces every inch of your face as if he plans to paint it soon, and youâd let him.
His palm glides over your head again, fingers weaving through your hair, cupping the back of your skull to keep you anchored in place. Rough and dominantâjust how he likes it, and just how you crave it.
âI need to fuck your mouth, baby. Seeing you cum in my letterman has got me so damn hard. I need this pretty mouth,â he whimpers as his palm rests on your scalp. âYouâre gonna let me do that arenât you? Because youâre such a good fucking girl.â
You nod and squirm in anticipation, using the tip of your tongue to lick a path over his slit, savouring the salty taste from the bead of precum. His eyes instantly roll back and you grip his shaft with one hand and lick a path from root to tip.
âMmm,â he hums. âJust like that,â he hisses between his teeth as his entire body vibrates.
You look up at him, fluttering your lashes over heavy eyes. Because the only thing Hyuck craves more than his own pleasure is the sight of yours. You round your lips, sucking him in slowly. Your head bobs as you work your tongue in sync with your lips, but heâs so big, a fact youâll never get used to. He hits the back of your throat and you hold him there, swallowing around his tip, tears welling at the corners of your eyes as your throat tightens with a gentle choke.
"Fuckâ" He lurches forward, one hand gripping the pillar for support while the other tugs at your hair, pulling you off him just long enough to catch your breathâbecause he's nothing if not considerate.
Hyuck runs his thumb by the corner of your eye, gathering the moisture that pooled there.
âIâm ruining your makeup,â he muses, lips curling into a smirk. âI had prom pictures planned.â
A blush creeps on your cheeks, âWe donât have to take them.â
âWeâre taking them.â Thereâs no question in his tone. Itâs simply a statement. A demand. âThen Iâm keeping a copy in my wallet, so next time Iâm on tour, fisting my cock, I can think about you. About this."
You nod, breath hitching. "O-okay."
"Okay." His thumb drags over your lip again, teasing until you part for him, wrapping around it. He presses down, tugging lightly. "So agreeable. So obedient. Arenât you?"
"Yes," you breathe.
His smirk deepens. "Good. So you'll keep sucking my cock, won't you?"
You donât even bother with wordsâtoo eager to please, too determined to finish what you started. Your fingers wrap around him, stroking once before you take him back into your mouth, sucking deep before pulling off with a lewd pop. Then you do it again, following his cues, giving him exactly what you know he loves. A slow flick of your tongue along the underside of his head, a firm squeeze as you cup his balls, and then youâre taking him to the back of your throat. His entire abdomen tenses. His breathing turns ragged.
"Fuck." His curse is sharp as he pulls back, just enough to look at you. "Iâm gonna cum. You gonna let me cum in your mouth, baby?"
You nod eagerly, mascara streaking your cheeks, spit glistening at the corner of your lips. "Please, Hyuck."
His smirk is wicked. "Are you gonna be a good little girlfriend and swallow it all for me?"
You nodâfar too enthusiastically.
"Good. Now, take a deep breath, babyâ'cause itâs the last one youâre getting for a while."
He runs a gentle thumb over your cheekbone before guiding your head forward. Your lips part instinctively, wrapping around him as he sets the pace, fucking your mouth with a steady rhythm. His palms cover your ears, his hips roll with precisionânothing but pure pleasure as he chases his high. And you let him. You take it, let him use you because heâs done all of this for you tonight. Because he deserves his reward.
Truthfully, watching Hyuck unravel beneath youâknowing youâre the one making him this needy, this desperate to cumâis your own reward. Because seeing him lost in pure bliss is the hottest thing youâve ever witnessed.
Your fingernails dig into his skin, leaving faint crescents as he keeps his paceâsteady, deliberateâbut always mindful, always making sure you can breathe. He checks in with his eyes, just like you saidâconsiderate.
You moan around his length, hips shifting instinctively, searching for friction. And of course, Hyuck notices. He always notices.
"Are you getting turned on from sucking me off, Y/N?" he taunts, through a tight restraint breath. "So wet, even after I already made you cum." He pulls out of your mouth, gaze dark. "Show me. Show me how wet sucking my cock has made you.â
Heat prickles your skin as you reach under your dress, the one he bought, and gather your arousal on two fingers. You bring them up, letting him see the proof, the evidence of just how much you want him.
âFuck,â he growls, as deep brown eyes turn black as they lock on your fingers. âSo fucking obedient.âÂ
Hyuck leans in, grasping your wrist before guiding your fingers into his mouth. His tongue flicks over the tips, slow and careful, savouring the tasteâthe proof of how badly heâs wrecked you. Of how much you like him, love him.Â
He nods toward his cock, covered in your saliva, hard and twitching, ready to cum. "Make me cum, baby. Please."
You hold his eye contact, grip his cock, and bring your mouth back to cover him. He moans, head falling back, and you work his length with your mouth and hand, doing your best to take what you canât handle. It doesnât take long until his hips jerk in short, sloppy movements. His breath comes out in ragged gasps, moans soft but pitched, the sound of him unravelling.
âY/N,â he cries out your name in a whimper of desperation. One hand finds yours, holding it tenderly, while the other braces on the pillar behind you. Then, he cumsâhard.
He tries to keep his eyes locked on yours, because thatâs his favourite part, but the sensation overwhelms him, and he has to shut them. Every muscle in his body tightens as hot, forceful pulses hit the back of your throat.
âSo pretty like this,â he pants breathlessly. âMouth full of my cum.â The pad of his thumb traces down the line of your throat. âYouâre gonna swallow it, arenât you?â
Itâs not a question, and you donât hesitate. You swallow all of him, but itâs not enough. You need moreâneed him inside of you.
âFuck me, please, Hyuck.â
He shakes his head, a teasing smile tugging at his lips and then he laughs. He uses the hand heâs had entangled with yours to pull you up to your feet, steadying you gently. âI canât. Not here.â
You pout, disappointed, your body aching for him. âWhy not?â
His smile widens as he adjusts your dress, pulling the fabric down to cover you properly, the moment feeling suddenly too sweet considering he was just fucking your throat.
âBecause,â he draws out playfully, âI planned a prom, and like all cheesy teenagers, I donât plan to fuck you here.â
You quirk a brow, crossing your arms across your body. But before you can say anything, Hyuck fumbles with his suit jacket, dropping to the floor to search the pockets. His hands hover for a second before he pulls out a room key, holding it up like some kind of trophy.
You scoff with a mix of amusement and disbelief. âVery clichĂ©.â
He grins at you. âI think we have pictures to take.â
#nct smut#haechan smut#nct 127 smut#nct dream smut#nct x reader#haechan x reader#nct dream x reader#nct 127 x reader#nct hard hours#nct one shot#kpop smut
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The Being (Un)Known \\ S. Reid x fem!reader
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You never meant to orbit Spencer Reid, but somehow, you always do. The space between you is filled with quiet observations, lingering glances, and a tension that hums beneath every near miss. A brush of hands, a breath caught mid-sentenceâsmall moments that build into something undeniable. It takes a near-disaster to bring you closer, but itâs the nights spent tangled in conversation, stolen glances over case files, and the weight of his name in your mouth that seal your fate.
12.1k, fem!reader. Slow-burn, lingering tension, quiet devotion, and Spencer being insufferably charming without realizing it.
CW: mutual pining, near-miss injury, brief emotional vulnerability, mild anxiety, excessive overthinking, cannon-typical violence, references to religion.
Spencer Reid is an enigma you never mean to chase, a sun you donât realize youâve been orbiting until the pull of his gravity is undeniable. Heâs not someone youâre supposed to know, not reallyâhe works in profiling, a world built on instinct and razor-sharp deduction, while youâre still buried in textbooks, an academy student trying to shape yourself into something worthy.
Heâs only a few years older, but the distance between you feels vast, like a canyon carved by time and experience. And yet, no matter how often you tell yourself that heâs just another name, just another agent, you keep finding him. Or maybeâjust maybeâhe lets himself be found.
You donât think much of it at first, the way your paths cross in quiet placesâhallways humming with fluorescent light, libraries steeped in dust and silence, moments that seem incidental but never quite are. And then, without warning, that quiet fascination tilts your entire world:
Itâs Spencer who speaks your name when SSA Hotchner asks for a student to shadow the team.
âItâs only a few cases,â he tells you, voice warm with something like certainty. Thereâs a rare kind of confidence in the way he smilesâsmall, knowing. âBut Rossi and I agreeâyouâve got too much potential to stay in a classroom much longer.â
âYouâre sharp,â Rossi agrees, stepping in with the weight of experience, his approval easy but meaningful. âPlay this right, kid, and youâll be glad you did.â
Rossiâs words settle over you, weighty with promise, but reality is heavier.
Your first case comes fastâtoo fast. One moment, youâre standing in the bullpen with a crisp folder in your hands, the next, youâre on a jet with seasoned agents, listening as crime scene photos flick past on the monitor. Itâs a triple homicide, the kind of case youâve only studied in theory, where the victimology is murky and the suspect is still a shadow. The words feel clinical in the briefing, just patterns and deductions, but then youâre standing in a house that doesnât feel like a crime scene yet, where someone left dishes in the sink and a jacket draped over the back of a chair, never to be touched again.
You swallow hard.
âDeep breath,â Spencer murmurs beside you, so quiet you almost miss it.
Your fingers curl into fists at your sides. You donât want him to noticeâdonât want anyone to noticeâbut Spencerâs eyes are too sharp, always catching things before they surface. You inhale, steadying yourself.
âThis is different than the academy,â you admit, voice just above a whisper.
âIt should be.â Spencer doesnât sound condescending, doesnât sound like heâs telling you anything you donât already know. Just a simple, grounding fact. âBut youâre still here.â
You are. And for now, thatâs enough.
Slowly, you become accustomed to it. The days fly by while the hours drag on. \\
âOkay,â you tell the team, throwing your folders on the table to begin organizing them in the order youâll present them. âJJ gave me four cases flagged as urgent,â you say, clicking the remote in your hand. The screen behind you flickers to life, displaying a title screen verging on too childish, nearly girly. You built the theme last night, sipping dregs of coffee, clinging to something that makes you feel human. A colorful border is enough to make you feel better about plastering victims' faces on a PowerPoint slide. âEach presents a significant threat, and each has something that warrants immediate intervention.â
CASE ONE: THE RITUALIST
Youâre following the curriculum exactly, formatting how your professor told you to, but coming up with titles for the cases felt exaggerated, almost picturesque. You hesitated to do so last night, fingers flinching above your keyboard.
Your favorite professor, kindly answering your 3 am email, assured you it was natural. Par for the course. Identify the cases, give them a name to be referred to. It feels childish, she conceded in her response, but itâs what they want students to do.
âIn Savannah, Georgia, three women have been found buried in shallow graves near the riverfront, all posed identically and dressed in wedding gowns.â
Emily crosses her arms, frowning. âThatâs theatrical.â
âIt is,â you agree, clicking to the next slideâa zoomed-in shot of the delicate lace on one victimâs gown, carefully arranged over stiff, lifeless hands. âThe unsub is mimicking a local legendâone about a grieving bride who drowned herself in the river in the 1800s.â
âAn emerging pattern?â JJ asks.
You nod. âThe first body was found two weeks ago. The second, one week ago. The third, two days ago.â
âWhich means heâs escalating,â Hotch observes.
âYes. If the unsub continues following this timeline, we could see another victim within days.â
Morgan exhales, shaking his head. âA guy like this? Heâs loving the attention. Heâs not gonna stop on his own.â
âNo,â you agree. âAnd if his rituals are as important to him as they seem, he wonât just pick random victims. Heâs looking for somethingâsomeoneâto fit his narrative.â
Spencer leans forward, fingers tapping absently on the table. âThat level of organization suggests a highly controlled personality. Heâs not just killingâheâs curating.â
âHeâs hand-stitching the dresses, too. Each is perfectly tailored to fit the victims.â The thought leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. You switch the slide.
CASE TWO: THE FAMILY ANNIHILATOR
âIn Tulsa, Oklahoma, three families have been murdered in their homes over the course of the past two days.â You keep your voice steady, clicking through the crime scene imagesâtoo much blood, overturned furniture, a dinner table frozen mid-meal. âIn all of the cases, the father was restrained and forced to watch before he was killed last.â
A grim silence settles over the room.
Rossi rubs a hand over his jaw. âHeâs not just taking them outâheâs making them suffer.â
Morgan exhales sharply. âWhich means this is personal.â
âPossibly,â you say. âThere was no forced entry in either case, which suggests the unsub is either someone the victims trusted or someone who knew how to manipulate his way inside.â
âA service worker, maybe?â Emily muses. âSomeone posing as law enforcement?â
âThatâs a strong possibility,â you admit. âAnd if the pattern holds, weâre looking at another family being targeted in a few hours.â
JJâs expression hardens. âWe canât let that happen.â
The weight in her voice lingers as you switch to the next slide.
CASE THREE: THE PHANTOM ABDUCTOR
âDenver, Colorado,â you say, clicking to a map marked with four red pins. âFour people have vanished over the last five monthsâone woman, two men, and a child. No bodies, no forensic evidence, no trace of them after the moment they disappeared.â
Spencer tilts his head. âNo pattern in victim selection?â
âNone that we can see,â you agree. âDifferent ages, different backgrounds. The only common thread is that they all vanished from public places.â
JJ frowns. âSecurity footage?â
You shake your head. âIn each case, cameras malfunctioned or lost power at the exact moment the victim disappeared.â
âThatâs not a coincidence,â Hotch says.
âNo,â you agree. âWhich means weâre looking at an unsubïżœïżœor possibly multipleâwho is incredibly meticulous, well-prepared, and willing to wait for the perfect conditions.â
Morgan exhales. âDamn. If heâs this careful, we might not even know how many victims weâre missing.â
You nod, the reality of it settling into your gut like lead. You click to the final slide.
CASE FOUR: THE JANE DOE MURDERS
âPhoenix, Arizona,â you begin. âFive women have been found dead in the last six months. None have been identified.â
Emily shifts in her seat. âThatâs a long time for that many women to go without names.â
âExactly,â you say, flipping through the slidesâmalnourished bodies, identical scars along their spines. âWe suspect the victims were held for an extended period before being killed. Medical reports indicate malnutrition and signs of prolonged restraint.â
Rossi exhales slowly. âTorture?â
âMaybe. But what stands out are these.â You zoom in on the marks along the victimsâ backsâprecise, deliberate incisions. âThe wounds suggest medical knowledge. Someone who knew what they were doing.â
JJâs face tightens. âHeâs experimenting.â
âThatâs the concern.â You glance at the team, your stomach twisting. âThe unsub could still have others in captivity.â
A beat of silence.
Then, Hotch clears his throat. âAlright. Youâve presented four cases, all high priority. Now comes the hard part.â The part where you choose.
You inhale. Exhale. The weight of the decision presses against your ribs, but you donât let it show.
âTake a moment,â Hotch says, voice even. âDecide which one we handle first.â
The room is quiet as you grip the remote a little tighter, eyes flicking between the slides, between the horrors laid out before you. Whichever case you choose, the others will wait. But not forever. You swallow hard and decide. The weight of it sits heavy in your chest, pressing against your ribs like a vice.
You shift your gaze between the slides still illuminated on the monitorâeach one a tragedy waiting to unfold, each one a door closing on lives youâll never be able to save if you donât act now.
You exhale slowly, steadying yourself. How awful that the fate of lives rests on a test for a student. You know itâs important â they have to test you. Youâre here because Rossi and Spencer see potential, kept around because, according to Hotchâs last report, youâre proving to be irreplaceable. Still, the decision feels too big to be handed off to you.
You have to make a case, despite. You bite your lip, wrinkle your nose. Tells everyone around you can see, signals theyâre noting and remembering. âThe Tulsa case,â you say, finally, voice firm, but not as even as you want it to be. âThatâs where we go first.â
Across the room, the team absorbs your choice in silence.
Hotch nods once, expression unreadable. âWalk us through your reasoning.â
You click back to the slide, the images of two shattered families staring back at you. You resist the urge to look away. âThe unsubâs pattern is clear. Three families, mere hours apart. If he keeps to his timeline, another family is in dangerâpossibly right nowâ
JJâs jaw tightens, her fingers tapping lightly against the table. âAnd this isnât just about killing them,â she adds. âThe way he makes the fathers watchâitâs personal.â
âExactly.â You glance at Spencer, whoâs already nodding in agreement. âThe level of control, the methodical natureâit suggests military or law enforcement training. Someone used to hierarchy, dominance.â
Morgan folds his arms. âWhich means heâs not picking his victims at random.â
âNo,â you agree. âIf we can find the connection between the families, we can narrow down potential targets before he chooses his next one.â You click to the next slide, where the family structures are laid out side by side. âRight now, we have limited victimology, but the fathers were in leadership positions. One was a high-ranking bank manager, the other an attorney, the most recent one a sheriff.â
Emily tilts her head, considering. âA grudge? Financial ruin, a court case, something that connects them?â
âPossibly,â you say. âBut we wonât know for sure until we dig deeper. And we donât have time to wait for another murder to give us more evidence.â
Hotch doesnât hesitate. âAgreed.â He turns to the team. âIf we leave within the hour, weâll be in Tulsa by tonight. JJ, contact the local PD and get us access to the crime scenes. Morgan, start looking into the victimsâ professional historiesâsee if thereâs overlap. Prentiss, work with Garcia to pull any major financial or legal disputes in the last six months. Rossi, coordinate with victim servicesâwe need to talk to the families.â
Everyone moves into action around you, gathering files, pushing back chairs, murmuring in low voices.
Then, Spencer speaks, âYou made the right call.â You glance up to find him watching you, head tilted slightly, something unreadable in his expression.
You swallow. âI hope so.â Because it doesnât feel like the right call. It just feels like the least wrong one.
Spencer studies you for a moment longer, then nods, as if he understands something you havenât said aloud. The decision is made.Â
You catch the guy â youâre with the best team in the world, of course, you do â and subsequently pass the âtestâ JJ posed for you. This is the deal with your professors: aid in exchange for grades. Itâs not totally unheard of, accepting an academy student onto a team for a brief trial to test-run them. Especially a student top of their class like you are.
Whatâs unusual is how long you stay on the team.Â
Itâs long enough to catch more sightings of Spencer, scattered across the building, like watching a dove rest.
You donât mean to linger, but you do. A moment too long, just enough to feel like a pause in a conversation neither of you started. His fingers drum against the ceramic of his mugâquick, controlled, an absent rhythm. You canât help but wonder if he hears the world like that, like patterns waiting to be unraveled. Like music waiting to be played.
You scamper away, like a startled animal, afraid of what the mundane action awakens.Â
You donât have time to be entranced by Spencer Reid. You really, really donât, but you still feel the beginnings of it pool in your belly.Â
\\
 The air in the bullpen is thick with the low hum of voices, the shuffle of papers, the occasional ring of a phone cutting through the din before being silenced by a hurried answer. Stale coffee lingers in the air, curling around the sharper scent of printer ink and the faintest traces of cologne clinging to coats draped over chairs. It smells like exhaustion, like long hours pressed into fabric, like something too lived-in to ever be fully washed away. The air conditioning murmurs somewhere overhead, cooling the space unevenly so that certain corners feel frigid while others remain stubbornly warm, weighted by too many bodies moving too slowly.
You should be focused. You should be finishing the report in front of you, should be paying attention to the pages you keep flipping through but not actually reading. But instead, your gaze drifts, betraying you before you can stop it. Across the room, at the coffee station, Spencer stands with his back to you, one hand in the pocket of his slacks, the other wrapped loosely around a ceramic mug, fingers curled just slightly, resting on the smooth surface in a way that seems absentminded. His thumb moves in slow, methodical circles against the ridges of the cup, a rhythm so small and controlled that you might have missed it if you werenât watching. If you werenât, despite every part of you screaming not to, noticing. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a pale glow over the angles of his face, sharpening the cut of his cheekbones, catching in the strands of his hair that are just slightly disheveled, like heâs run his fingers through them one too many times.
He doesnât look up.
Not at you, not at anyone. His focus is turned inward, lost somewhere else, eyes fixed on the dark surface of his coffee as if heâs reading something in it, tracing the shape of a thought that hasnât yet fully formed. His brow furrows slightly, just enough for you to notice, and then his fingers drum onceâtwiceâagainst the ceramic, a quick tap-tap before stilling again. A habit, you think. A rhythm he follows without meaning to, the kind of movement that comes from a mind that never truly rests.
It is only then, only in the moment before you force yourself to look away, that he lifts his head. Not in your direction, not searching for you, but simply breaking free from whatever thought had been holding him captive. His lips part slightly, as if he might say something, but no sound comes. He just breathes, slow and measured, before lifting the mug to his mouth, taking a small sip, swallowing in a way that seems almost careful, like heâs weighing the warmth of the liquid against the feeling of it settling in his throat. You shouldnât be watching this. Itâs too small, too insignificant, and yet you canât help but be transfixed by the way something as simple as drinking coffee becomes a deliberate act with him.
You realize that youâre still staring but youâre struggling to stop. You need to, you really need to, but the impulse to look at him is strong. Itâs beyond physical attraction â something in him calls to you. A hunger to understand him, to be near him, to listen to him talk. He soothes something inside of you just by existing, piques your interest without trying, captivates your attention and hardly notices.
You tear your gaze away, back to your report, blinking rapidly, but itâs too late. The image of him is already burned into your mind, curling itself around your ribs, slipping into the spaces between thoughts like ink seeping into paper.
You tell yourself itâs nothing.
But you donât look up again.
The scent of rain clings to his clothes when he sits beside you. Not the sharp, metallic bite of a downpour, but the softer, earthier remnants of a drizzle that has already passed, leaving only damp fabric and the faintest trace of petrichor in its wake. His coat is slung over the back of his chair, sleeves still holding the ghost of the movement he made when shrugging it off, the fabric folded in on itself in a way that suggests he hadnât given it much thought before sitting down. He smells like paper and ink, like something faintly sweet beneath itâmaybe cinnamon, maybe something darker, warmer, something that lingers just long enough to make you yearn to lean closer, to breathe in deeply enough to decipher it. You donât, of course. You force yourself to stay still, to keep your eyes on your screen, your hands resting on the keyboard even though you havenât typed anything in at least five minutes.
Spencer doesnât notice. Or if he does, he doesnât say anything.
Instead, he flips open a case file, fingers moving fluidly over the pages, eyes scanning the text with a kind of quiet intensity that makes it look effortless. The silence between you is thick, but not uncomfortable. It is the kind of silence that settles rather than lingers, the kind that feels less like absence and more like something tangible, something with weight, something wet and dripping, something shared. You wonder if he feels it, too.
After a while, he shifts, just slightly, and the movement is enough to break the stillness.
âDid you know,â he says, without preamble, voice smooth and even, âthat the human olfactory system can distinguish over a trillion different scents?â
You blink, glancing at him, and heâs still looking at the file in front of him, fingers tracing the edge of the page like heâs only half-aware that heâs doing it.
âA trillion?â you echo. You hope you hadnât inhaled too deeply when he sat down, pray to a god you donât believe in that you donât smell, start to attempt to calculate the probability of him simply thinking similar thoughts to you about the rain. The roof has been leaking, the scent of the sky is impossible to ignore.Â
His lips twitch slightly, not quite a smile but something close to it. âMost studies used to claim it was around ten thousand, but newer research suggests itâs significantly higher. The brain can recognize scent combinations even in extremely small concentrations, which meansââ
âThat weâre capable of identifying more smells than we ever actually register.â
His head turns slightly toward you, just enough for his eyes to flicker up, catching yours for the briefest second before he nods. âExactly.â
There is something about the way he looks at you in that momentâsomething unreadable, something lingering just beneath the surfaceâthat makes your breath catch in your throat.
You glance away first. Spencer exhales through his nose, quiet, considering. He doesnât continue with the tangent.
But the scent of rain still clings to him, even now. And for some reason, you canât stop thinking about it.
After stretched moments, the scent of rain and dirt and musk and sweet lingering between the two of you while you try your hardest to get actual work done, Spencer clears his throat. âYou know, you have a tell,â he says, voice thoughtful, not teasing.
You turn to him, brow lifting. âA tell?â
âWhenever youâre thinking about something but donât want to say it, you press your thumb to your middle finger. Like youâre holding something between them.â His gaze flickers downward. Sure enough, youâre doing it now.
You exhale, glancing out at the room in front of you. âI didnât realize you paid that much attention.â
Spencer smiles, small and knowing. Nearly sad, it twinges at your heart. The organ aches to leap out of your chest and fall into his hands. âI always do.â
The silence returns, but itâs different now. Heâs looking at you like heâs already memorized the way your hands move, the way your breath catches, the way your thoughts betray themselves in the smallest, most inconsequential gestures. And maybe he has. Maybe you shouldnât be surprised that he sees you so clearly, that he can read the shape of your hesitations as easily as words printed on a page. Itâs his job, of course he does.
The weight of his attention sits heavy on your skin, not uncomfortable but warm, seeping into the spaces between your ribs, something close to reverence but not quite. You donât know what to do with it.
So you do what you always do. You look away.
Itâs nothing more than what heâs trained to do. Youâve noticed his habit of clinking his nails against his coffee mugs. Beyond that, ignoring your fascination with him, you know Hotch only ever sleeps on the plane after a case is solved, never on the way even though the rest of the team will if it's convenient. Emily has a cat that she never talks about, one she methodically lint rolls hair from off of her pants. JJ smoothes her hair when sheâs happy. Morgan flares his nostrils often when heâs tired.
You all notice things, itâs natural. Thereâs nothing more to it than that. Spencer Reid isnât watching you for any reason other than itâs a habit heâs developed to survive, to thrive, in this line of work.Â
The night outside is thick with the slow hush of passing cars, headlights dragging shadows across the pavement, the distant murmur of a city that never quite sleeps. The rain has stopped, but its remnants remain, clinging to the asphalt, to the scent of damp earth rising in waves from the ground, to the fabric of Spencerâs shirt, the faint musk of it curling in the space between you.
You curl your fingers tighter, pressing your thumb to your middle finger again, not even thinking.
Spencerâs breath shifts, barely audible, and when you glance back at him, his eyes are still on your hands, watching, studying, something flickering behind his expressionâsomething unreadable, something you donât think you have the courage to name.
âWhat is it?â He asks instead of taking the leap.Â
âWhat is what?â
He gestures at your hands, veins flexing at the movement. âWhatâre you thinking and not saying?â
You flounder for a moment, lost in what to say. I think youâre beyond attractive, I canât believe youâve been staring at my hands, can you tell how often I stare at your hands, did you know sometimes I fall asleep thinking about you, that I have your smell memorized, that Iâm sure this means nothing and I just admire you as a person and there are definitely no fluttery feeling in my gut begging me to put my mouth on you? Also, do I reak? Are you spewing facts about smells, about something so unavoidable, because your desk is next to mine and Iâm simply putrid?
âIâm allergic to oranges,â you blurt out instead.Â
Spencer seems shocked, blinking at you, mouth slightly open. You can see the pink of his tongue between his teeth, slowly pressing into the bone as he begins to smile, pinching the soft skin there in reflex. You hadnât noticed it in detail before, but you suppose he does that often â bites the tip of his tongue when heâs fighting to keep that full-mouthed smile at bay.Â
âWhat?â
âIâm allergic. And Garcia gives one to me every week and Rossi noticed and assumed I love them so heâs started giving them to me, too, and, well,â you push back your desk chair and pull your drawer open. Orange scent wafts out, perfuming the air and making your nose wrinkle.Â
Sitting in the desk are five oranges, collected over the week, that youâve been waiting on a clear office to throw away.Â
âYouâre kidding!â Spencer cries, peering over your shoulder and snickering. âI thought you loved them, too. You always smell like them.â
âOh, ew.â
Spencer waves you off, plucking the fruit from your desk and cradling them in his arms, âItâs lovely, donât worry. Why didnât you say anything? You could get sick.â
You swallow the lovely comment, feeling it hit the base of your skull and sink into your blood, warming you all the way down. âItâs only a problem if I eat them, nothing happens if they touch me. Shove a slice down my throat, though, and I break out in hives.â
âIâll keep that in mind,â Spencer says, snickering and tossing the oranges away for you.Â
You make it through the rest of the evening. You get back to work. You pretend like none of it happened, like you didnât just let him glimpse a piece of you that you didnât mean to reveal. You tell yourself that itâs fine, that the moment is already dissolving into the rest of the day, folding itself into the pile of interactions that mean nothing, that donât linger.
But later, when youâre in bed, staring up at the ceiling, you realize two things.
OneâSpencer noticed your scent.
And twoâhe thinks itâs lovely.
âYou lied, earlier,â Spencer tells you, hours later in the elevator.Â
âHm?â
âAbout the oranges.â
âDo you want to see a doctors note?â Youâre tired, struggling to remember what heâs talking about. You two are the last in the office usually â youâre just a student and Spencer is vocal about not doing much outside of work.Â
âNo, I believe youâre allergic, itâs just not what you were thinking about.â Heâs leaning against the wall of the elevator, golden hair illuminated by the fluorescent lights. Itâs not the most flattering â the harsh lighting gives him a sickly complexion, deepening the dark circles under his eyes. Frankly, he looks nearly sick.Â
Frankly, he still looks so handsome that you feel slightly overwhelmed with it.Â
You decide to give him a piece of the truth to satiate him, knowing thereâs not much use in lying to a seasoned profiler. Thereâs a reason why heâs only a few years older than you with years more experience under his belt.Â
âYou freaked me out. I was thinking about how you smelled like the rain and cinnamon and then you started talking about smells. I thought I either smelled so bad that you couldnât think of any other way to tell me or you suddenly learned how to read minds.â
Spencer chuckles, motioning forward with his hand as the door opens. You walk forward, keeping your head turned to the side slightly to catch how his eyes crinkle as she smiles. His eyes drift up and then down, a habit he has before he speaks when heâs tired, and then he pushes himself off of the wall to follow you.Â
âI mentioned it because I could smell you, but itâs not bad, I promise.â
âReassuring.â
âIâm telling the truth!â
âSure. Just say I reak and Iâll change my shampoo or something, promise!â
âOh, please donât,â Spencer pleads, laughing. âWhat will I do without your Pantene-y scent filling the office every morning!â
\\
The safe house is supposed to be secure.
Itâs supposed to be a temporary holding place, a nondescript home tucked into a quiet neighborhood just far enough from the city that no one should be looking. The doors are reinforced, the blinds drawn tight, the exits mapped and double-checked. A necessary precaution. A routine assignment. A night of keeping a witness safe until she can testify in the morning.
You tell yourself all of this, but none of it changes the sharp tug of unease curling in your gut.
You donât let it show. Not when you check your watch for the third time in twenty minutes. Not when you shift your stance near the window, your fingers flexing at your sides like your body is already preparing for a fight you havenât seen yet. Not when Spencer, who has spent the better part of the evening reviewing case notes at the kitchen table, finally lifts his head and looks at you like heâs about to ask whatâs wrong.
âNothing,â you say before he can speak.
He doesnât believe you.
He tilts his head, studying you, eyes flickering across your face like he can read the tension there. Maybe he can. Maybe he has been for longer than you realize. You press your thumb to your middle finger, grounding yourself, and Spencer notices that, too.
You roll your eyes as you notice his noticing but say nothing, turning your attention back to the window. The street outside is still. Too still. The kind of silence that doesnât settle right, that carries the weight of something unseen pressing against it. It makes your stomach twist.
Spencer shifts behind you. âThe odds of an actual attack on a safe house are statistically low. Most unsubs wonât risk a direct confrontation in a location they canât control.â
âMost,â you echo.
He hesitates. âThere are exceptions.â
âAnd this feels like an exception.â
Spencer doesnât answer right away, but the flicker in his expression is enough. The same unease thatâs gnawing at you has made its way under his skin, too. He may not operate on instinct the way the others do, may rely on numbers and data and probabilities before action, but he isnât blind to the feeling in the airâthe one that says something is coming.
And then, something does.
The first gunshot cracks through the silence like a splintering branch, tearing the night open. The second follows immediately after, embedding into the window frame centimeters from where you were standing just seconds before. You donât think. You move.
Spencer is already on his feet when you shove him down, his body colliding with yours as the two of you hit the floor. The room erupts into chaosâglass shattering, bullets puncturing drywall, the distant, terrified gasp of the witness as she ducks behind the couch. Your heart pounds, adrenaline splashing hot and fast through your veins as you press against Spencer, shielding as much of him as you can. Heâs speaking, but you barely hear him over the sound of your own pulse roaring in your ears. The ringing of the gunshot so close to your head has left you dizzy and deaf.
âMove!â you manage to shout, grabbing his wrist and pulling him with you, keeping low as another round of gunfire splinters the table where he was sitting just moments before. You donât know how many shooters there are. You donât know where they are. But you know you have to get out.
Spencer doesnât hesitate. His fingers tighten around yours, and together you bolt for the hallway, ducking as another window bursts inward. You shove him ahead of you, searching for cover, for an escape, for anything but the open target the living room has become.
âBasement,â Spencer says, voice sharp, focused. It warbles against your pulsing ears, barely understood. Youâre mostly relying on lip reading and context clues. âWe need to get underground.â
You donât argue. You barely register the movement of your own body as you drag the witness with you, shoving open the basement door and practically throwing Spencer down the stairs before following, slamming it shut just as more bullets spray against the frame. Your breath is ragged, too loud in the thick darkness, the only light coming from the single flickering bulb overhead. The space is small, cluttered with storage boxes and old furniture, but itâs shelter. For now.
Youâre still gripping Spencerâs arm. Hard. You can feel the hammering of his pulse beneath your fingers, mirroring your own. It takes effort to release him, to force your hands to unclench.
He doesnât move away.
The witness is shaking, her breath coming in uneven gasps. Spencer kneels beside her, murmuring something soft, something steadying. You press your back against the door, listening for movement above, trying to piece together a plan while your body still thrums with leftover adrenaline.
Spencer looks up at you. His eyes are dark in the dim light, sharp with something between urgency and something else, something you donât have time to name.
âTheyâll breach soon,â he says, quiet but certain.
You nod, swallowing hard. The air is thick. The scent of dust and damp wood clings to it, mixing with the faint trace of Spencerâs cologne, something warm and familiar despite the chaos above. You focus on it, on the grounding presence of him beside you, close enough that you could reach out and touch the fabric of his shirt if you wanted to.
You donât.
You grip your gun tighter.
âThen we make sure weâre ready.â
Spencer exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate, and shifts closer, just slightly, his shoulder brushing against yours. The contact is brief but solid, enough to remind you that heâs here, that heâs real, that this isnât just a moment suspended in panic but something unfolding, something with weight.
The witness sniffles, drawing both of your attention back. Spencer softens his voice, murmuring reassurances, quiet, steady things meant to anchor her. You keep your focus on the door, ears tuned to the movements above, but some part of you latches onto his words, the cadence of them, the way they smooth over the jagged edges of the moment.
Another creak from upstairs. A shuffle of movement. Your fingers flex around your gun. Spencer glances at you again, expression unreadable in the dim light, but his meaning is clear.
Hold.
Wait.
And when the moment comes, move together.
Then the door bursts inward, and everything moves at once. Gunfire explodes, too close, too loud. You fire off two rounds before a sharp pain sears through your side, white-hot and immediate. The impact sends you stumbling back against the cold concrete floor, breath catching as a wave of dizziness threatens to pull you under.
Spencer is there before you even register falling. His hands are on you, pressing against the wound, urgent and shaking, his breath coming fast.
âYouâre hit,â he says, voice tight, edged with something near panic.
You grit your teeth. âI noticed.â
Spencer doesnât laugh. He just presses harder, trying to slow the bleeding, his fingers slick with warmth that doesnât belong to him. He glances up, scanning the dark corners of the basement, the outline of the intruder slumping forward as your shots take effect. The danger isnât over, not yet, but Spencer isnât moving away from you.
âYouâll be fine,â he mutters, more to himself than you.
You try for a smirk but only manage a wince. âWorried about me, Reid?â
His jaw tightens. âAlways.â
A crash echoes upstairs, heavy footsteps pounding against the floor. Reinforcements. You and Spencer exchange a glance, unspoken understanding passing between you. You both know that staying here is no longer an option.
Spencer shifts, keeping one hand pressed against your wound while the other reaches for the gun at his side. âWe need to move.â
The witness, still trembling in the corner, looks between you both with wide, terrified eyes. âWhat do we do?â
You grit your teeth, swallowing the pain threatening to pull you under. âThereâs a cellar door. Side of the house.â
Spencer nods sharply, adjusting his grip. âWe go now.â
He helps you up, his arm sliding under yours, bracing you against him. The movement sends fire through your side, but thereâs no time to dwell on it. The sound of approaching footsteps upstairs is growing louder, more deliberate. Whoever is coming isnât planning to leave survivors.
The three of you move as quickly as you can, Spencer leading the way with his gun raised, the witness keeping close behind. The basement door groans on its hinges as you push through, emerging into the damp night air. The rain has started again, a fine mist clinging to your skin as you stumble forward.
Headlights slice through the darkness just as the first gunshot erupts behind you. Spencer pulls you down, shielding you as best he can while the FBI-issued SUV skids to a stop at the curb. The doors burst open, Morgan and Hotch emerging with their weapons drawn.
âSheâs hit!â Spencer shouts, his grip on you tightening as the gunfire continues behind you.
Morgan doesnât hesitate. He returns fire, his stance steady, controlled. Hotch moves to cover you and the witness, his eyes sweeping over your injury before snapping back to the fight. âGet her in the car!â he orders.
Spencer doesnât wait. He all but lifts you into the backseat, the witness scrambling in after you. You can feel how his muscles strain to lift you, flexing and rolling as he lifts you as carefully as possible, refusing to allow you to help. The slam of the door barely muffles the chaos outside. Your breath comes in shallow gasps, the weight of adrenaline keeping you upright.It takes your swimming mind time to process that Spencer is curling the van instead of allowing you to move over. You should protest but your mind continues to jump around, straining to pay attention to the scene outside. Have they caught him? The witness is safe, sheâs sobbing beside you, but is the rest of the team?
Then the passenger door swings open, and Spencer climbs in beside you. Heâs breathing hard, his knuckles white where they grip his gun, but his eyes are locked on yours. âYou still with me?â
You nod, though exhaustion is dragging at your limbs, pulling you under. âStill here.â
His shoulders sag, just slightly. âGood.â
Morgan jumps into the driver's seat and peels away from the curb, tires screeching against wet pavement. You glance out the window just in time to see Hotch and the rest of the team securing the scene, the last of the gunfire fading into the distance.
Spencer exhales, finally lowering his weapon, and turns back to you. âLetâs get you home.â
\\
The jet hums beneath you, a steady vibration you feel in your bones. Most of the team is asleep, exhaustion weighing heavy after the mission. The overhead lights are dimmed, casting the cabin in soft shadows. You should be asleep, too, but the throbbing ache in your side keeps you from finding rest.
Spencer hasnât left your side. He sits next to you, his book open but untouched, his fingers drumming against the cover in restless patterns. Every so often, you catch him glancing at you, eyes flicking toward your face, your side, your hands.
âYouâre staring,â you murmur, not opening your eyes.
Spencer shifts. âIâm not.â
You crack an eye open, giving him a pointed look. âReid.â
He presses his lips together. âIâm just⊠observing.â
You huff a quiet laugh, shifting slightly, wincing at the sharp pull of your injury. Spencer moves before you can stop him, adjusting the blanket draped over you, tucking it carefully around your shoulders. His touch is light, careful.
âYou lost a lot of blood,â he says, voice soft but firm. âAnd, statistically, someone in your condition should be experiencing lightheadedness, muscle fatigue, and an increased need for rest. Your body is trying to compensate for the blood loss by increasing your heart rate, which is why youâre still feeling so warm despite the cabin temperature being nearly ten degrees lower than standard room temperature.â
You blink at him, half amused, half exhausted. âYou always talk this much when youâre worried?â
Spencer huffs. âIâm not worried.â
âYouâre quoting medical statistics at me, Reid.â
He shifts uncomfortably but doesnât argue. âI just think you should be resting.â
âThen stop talking and let me sleep.â
A pause. Then, almost reluctantly, he nods. âRight. Okay.â
You sigh, closing your eyes, exhaustion creeping in. Just as your body starts to go heavy with sleep, you feel movement beside youâthe soft rustle of fabric. Something warm drapes over your shoulders, heavier than the blanket.
You crack an eye open and see Spencer shrugging out of his jacket, carefully settling it around you.
âSpenceââ you start, but he shakes his head.
âJust sleep,â he murmurs, voice softer now. âYou need it.â
You donât argue. The warmth of his jacket, the steady hum of the jet, and the quiet presence of Spencer beside you lull you under.
The last thing you hear before sleep takes over is the sound of him turning another pageânot reading, just waiting.
\\
The bullpen is buzzing with the familiar hum of keyboards clacking, quiet conversations murmuring through the space, and the occasional scrape of a chair against the floor. Itâs one of those rare in-between daysâno pressing cases, no jet waiting on the tarmac, just paperwork and coffee refills. A brief, deceptive calm before the inevitable storm.
Youâre at your desk, fingers drumming absently against a stack of reports youâve been meaning to go through for the past half hour. You should be working, but your attention keeps driftingâparticularly to the desk across from yours, where Spencer is deep in thought, a book propped open against his keyboard. Heâs not even pretending to do his paperwork.
You tilt your head, watching him for a beat. His lips move slightly as he reads, fingers tapping a rhythm on his desk, entirely lost in whatever tangent heâs found himself in. You fight a giggle.
âShould I be concerned that youâve been staring at that same page for the last fifteen minutes?â
Spencer blinks, snapping out of his reverie. He looks at you, then down at his book, then back at you, brow furrowing like heâs just realized heâs been caught.
âI wasnâtâI mean, I was reading. But I was also thinking.â
You raise an eyebrow. âAbout?â
He hesitates, glancing toward his book as if debating whether to explain. Then, with a small sigh, he leans back in his chair, pushing his hair out of his face. âDid you know that the average person speaks about sixteen thousand words per day? But in reality, most of our daily conversations are filled with repetition, small talk, and pleasantries that donât contribute much meaningful information.â
You blink at him. âSo, what, youâre saying we all talk too much?â
His lips twitch. âNot exactly. Just that⊠statistically, most conversations are redundant. People say the same things over and over again, sometimes just for the sake of filling silence.â
You smirk. âAnd yet, youâre one of the most talkative people I know.â
Spencer narrows his eyes, but thereâs amusement flickering there. âThatâs different. I provide new information.â
You hum, pretending to consider that. âDebatable.â The joke dances on your tongue and you see the edge of a smile fight to peel its way across his cheeks.
Before he can argue, a coffee cup appears in your peripheral vision, and you glance up to see JJ setting it on your desk with a knowing smile. âFlirting through statistics again?â she teases before apologetically placing another file on your desk next to the coffee-offering and walking off.
Spencer clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his book again, while you just chuckle, lifting the cup in silent thanks, adding the case to your impending pile.
âFace it, Reid,â you say, taking a sip. âYou talk a lot. Donât worry, itâs endearing.â
He exhales, shaking his head, but thereâs the hint of a smile playing at his lips. âYouâre impossible.â
You grin. âAnd yet, youâre still talking to me.â
You turn back to your work, flipping through the pages stuck in your folder. You werenât on the assignment youâre tasked with processing, the curse of being lowest on the totem pole, but the case is interesting enough. Still, you find your eyes skimming, fingers tapping on the desk.Â
âNow whoâs zoning out?â Spencer asks. When you look up, heâs smiling at you.
âSorry, I was just wondering. Were you saying that because you feel like our conversations are actually redundant?â
Spencer tilts his head, considering. âNo. If anything, our conversations are anomalous.â
You arch a brow. âAnomalous?â
âYes.â He shifts in his seat, leaning slightly toward you. âMost daily conversations consist of formulaic exchangesâsmall talk, routine inquiries, expected responses. But ours deviate. We donât follow typical social scripts.â
You take another sip of coffee, fighting a grin. âSo what youâre saying is⊠weâre special? Different? Not like other coworkers?â
Spencer huffs, clearly trying to fight back a smile of his own. âStatistically speaking, yes.â
You hum thoughtfully. âThatâs a very fancy way of admitting you enjoy talking to me.â
Spencer opens his mouth, then closes it, before finally shaking his head. âYouâre impossible.â
You smirk, leaning back in your chair. âYou already said that.â
âIâm repeating myself,â he says, deadpan. âWhich, as I previously stated, most people do without realizing.â
You burst into laughter, shaking your head. âSee? Redundant.â
Spencer exhales, feigning exasperation, but you catch the way his lips twitch, like heâs barely containing his amusement. He glances down at his book again, but itâs obvious heâs no longer reading. Instead, his fingers tap absently against the desk, his gaze drifting back to you as if heâs waiting for whatever youâll say next.
After a beat, you shift slightly in your chair, hesitating before asking, âIf most conversations are menial and redundant, is there anything youâd actually like to know about me?â
Spencerâs fingers stop tapping. His head tilts slightly, eyes brightening with interest. âYes.â
You blink, caught off guard by his immediate answer. âOh. Okay.â
He leans forward, forearms resting on his desk. âWhatâs your favorite color?â
The question is so simple, so unexpected, that you laugh softly. âThatâs what you want to know?â
He shrugs. âI like colors. Theyâre associated with memory and emotion. The colors we gravitate toward can tell a lot about how we perceive the world.â
You consider it. âHm. Blue, I think. The kind of blue right before the sun sets.â
Spencerâs lips twitch, like heâs cataloging that information for later. âThat makes sense.â
You raise a brow. âAnd yours?â
âYellow,â he says easily. âStatistically, itâs associated with intelligence and optimism. But mostly, I just like how warm it feels.â
You nod, smiling. âThat checks out.â
Spencer watches you for a beat before continuing, âDo you like to cook?â
âI can cook,â you say hesitantly. âDo I enjoy it? Debatable.â
His eyes crinkle at the corners. âSo, a reluctant chef.â
âMore like a survivalist cook,â you amend. âYou?â
âI actually do like cooking. Itâs methodical. Precise.â
You snort. âOf course, youâd say that.â
His lips twitch again. âWhat about books? Do you read for fun, or do you avoid it since we deal with enough research at work?â
You glance at the stack of case files on your desk before meeting his gaze. âI do read. But nothing⊠analytical. I like stories. Ones that pull you out of reality.â
Spencer hums, clearly pleased by that. âEscapism.â
âSomething like that. What about you?ïżœïżœïżœ
âIâm currently translating a Russian novel written in the 16th century.â
âAh. So you research at work and at home.â
Spencer hums, tilting his head to the side. âNo, I think itâs still escapism. Itâs something to focus on that takes just enough of my focus that I can let the world fade away. General novels donât do enough to âpull me out of reality.ââ
Your conversation continues, the questions growing deeperâfavorite childhood memory, biggest irrational fear, if you believe in fate. The air between you shifts, still lighthearted but threaded with something more thoughtful, something lingering. Neither of you notice how much time has passed, how the rest of the bullpen has faded into the background. Neither of you seem to mind.
âAre you two actually planning on doing work today, or just nerding out over here?â Morgan saunters over, arms crossed, a teasing grin plastered across his face. âSeriously, I donât think Iâve ever seen two people more excited to talk about words.â
You roll your eyes but play along immediately, sitting up straighter. âWeâre conducting an in-depth analysis of human conversation patterns, actually. Very important work.â
Spencer nods solemnly. âItâs a highly valuable study in linguistic redundancy.â
Morgan snorts. âRight. And how many case files have you two managed to process between all this very valuable research?â
You glance at the untouched stack of paperwork on your desk. âDefine âprocess.ââ
Morgan barks out a laugh, shaking his head. âUnbelievable. Youâre really letting him rub off on you, huh?â
Your grin falters, just slightly, something warm settling in your chest at the thought. You donât want to just be letting it happenâyou want to belong here, to be part of this team in every way that matters. And for the first time, it feels like maybe you already do.
Later that evening, Rossi hosts a team dinner at his house, a tradition that has somehow become a staple among the group. His kitchen is full of the warm scent of garlic and herbs, the clinking of dishes, the comfortable laughter of people who have seen the worst parts of the world together and still choose to sit at the same table.
When you arrive, the house is already brimming with conversation. Morgan greets you first, throwing an arm around your shoulders with an easy grin. "Look who finally decided to show up. We thought you might be hiding out, avoiding us."
You roll your eyes. "As if I could ever avoid all this chaos."
"Chaos?" JJ chimes in, nudging you playfully as she passes by with three drinks balanced between her two hands. "This is tradition."
Emily smirks, leaning against the counter as she sips her wine. "Some traditions involve singing. Others involve roasting marshmallows. Ours? A fine mix of sarcasm and psychological analysis."
âAnd food,â Rossi interrupts.
"And some of us even make an effort to discuss more elevated topics," Spencer adds, stepping into the kitchen with a book tucked under his arm.
Morgan groans. "Oh God, donât tell me you brought a book to dinner."
"Itâs not for dinner," Spencer says, offended. "Itâs just something I was reading earlier. Did you know that communal meals have historically played a significant role in human bonding? Anthropologists argue that the act of sharing food helped shape early societal structures, reinforcing a sense of trust and cooperation."
You smile, all warm edges and fuzzy thoughts. "So what you're saying is, this dinner is historically significant?"
Spencer nods, pleased. "Exactly."
Morgan shakes his head. "Yeah, alright, professor. How about instead of a lecture, you help set the table?"
Rossi moves through the kitchen with practiced ease, stirring sauces and pulling fresh bread from the oven, effortlessly hosting while still engaging in every conversation. He waves you over at one point, nudging a wine bottle toward you. "Since you brought such a good one last time, how about you do the honors?"
You take the bottle from him, grateful for something to do, something to focus on besides the bubbling warmth of the evening settling under your skin. As you work the cork from the bottle, Spencer sidles up beside you, watching with quiet amusement.
"You know," he starts, "thereâs actually a method to opening wine that prevents cork residue from contaminating the liquid."
You glance up at him with a self-conscious smile. "Is that your way of telling me Iâm doing it wrong?"
His lips twitch, a near-smile. "Not wrong. Just⊠suboptimal."
You roll your eyes, finally freeing the cork and handing him the bottle. "Then, by all means, Dr. Reid, show me the optimal way."
Spencer takes the bottle, hands brushing against yours. You find yourself still looking up at him for a moment, fingers gently touching, a moment collapsing into itself. You watch as his pupils dilate, slightly, a normal reaction to eye contact and nothing further (a notion your body refuses to acknowledge, filled with the silly idea that maybe itâs attraction pushing his eyes open further to observe more of you). His mouth opens, ready to explain what heâs doing. But, before he can launch into an explanation, Morganâs voice carries across the room. "Oh great, the nerds found each other again. Should we all just clear out and let you guys talk statistics over dinner?"
Emily snorts from where sheâs leaning against the counter, sipping her drink. "Honestly, Iâd pay to watch that."
You play along easily, shaking your head in faux exasperation. "We were having a very riveting discussion about wine physics, actually. Life-altering shit."
Morgan grins. "Yeah, I bet. Whatâs next, the molecular breakdown of garlic bread?"
Spencer straightens slightly. "Actuallyâ"
You elbow him lightly before he can get started, and his mouth snaps shut. Itâs the smallest moment, but it sends a ripple of warmth through youâthis unspoken understanding, the ease of teasing him without making him feel small.
Youâve noticed before when the gentle teasing goes too far. When the team pushes a bit too much, makes him feel like a burden instead of a fountain of knowledge. The painful edge of it digs into your stomach more often than you would care to admit. A significant amount of your energy when talking to Spencer is spent toeing that line. You canât help but tease but you never want to make him feel like his interests and knowledge are a burden.
Rossi chuckles, setting a tray of pasta on the counter. "Alright, everyone, grab a plate before the food gets cold."
The group disperses into easy movement, laughter trailing behind as plates are filled and seats are taken around the long wooden dining table. You settle beside Spencer again, your knees brushing under the table. The proximity is unintentional, but you donât move away, and neither does he.
The meal is indulgent, the flavors rich and familiar, but itâs not the food that lingersâitâs the feeling. The warmth of being gathered around this table, among these people, feels sacred in a way youâre not sure youâve ever experienced before. Like communion, like breaking bread with disciples who have seen you bleed and stayed anyway. You wonder if Spencer feels it, too, if he sees the holiness in shared meals and easy laughter, in the way the team fills the spaces between each other like stained glass fitted carefully into its frame.
You and this team have been through so much together â the rest more than you. The past months shadowing the team have been insightful, exciting, and have done more than anything else to solidify that this is what you want to be doing with your career. Beyond that, the time has been tough. Your grit, your ability to persevere and persist, and your skills, have been tested day beyond day.Â
Beyond the toughness though, youâve found a home. Community. Family. You see through their exteriors to admire them, the people around you. Itâs more than you could have ever thought it to be, this life. Before this, youâve been floating. Drifting through life, living for exams and physicals and finals. Studying, working for a result you were unfamiliar with. Now, though, the taste of the life youâve ground yourself to the bone for glistening on the tip of your tongue, youâre hungry. Starving for life to continue, salivating at the mouth for any and all opportunities to stay here, in this moment, with the team.Â
Conversations flow freely around you, a mix of teasing and genuine storytelling, warmth curling in your chest as you sip your wine and let yourself exist in this moment. Spencer doesnât talk much, but he listensâreally listensâhis attention flickering between the voices around the table, occasionally back to you.
At one point, Rossi taps his glass, drawing attention. "Since weâve got everyone here tonight, Iâd like to make a toast. To this team, to good food, and to the fact that somehow, against all odds, we manage to stay sane."
A chorus of laughter follows, glasses raised and clinking together. You catch Spencer watching you again over the rim of his glass, something unreadable in his gaze. Not quite curiosity, not quite something else. Whatever it is, it lingers between you like the space between notes in a songâpresent, felt, but not yet fully realized.
You take another sip of wine, and the flavor sits heavy on your tongue, tart and deep, reminiscent of something older than yourself. You wonder if this is what devotion feels likeâlingering in a moment you donât want to leave, knowing that if you close your eyes, youâll still hear the echoes of this laughter in your bones.
Spencer shifts beside you, his knee pressing just a little more firmly against yours. He doesnât look away this time. And for the first time, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, this is where you belong.
\\
It starts over coffee, late in the afternoon when the sky has begun its slow descent into gold. The cafĂ© is small, tucked between a used bookstore and a florist, the kind of place that smells like roasted beans and cinnamon, where the music is just quiet enough to let conversation breathe. You meet there often, sometimes after work, sometimes on weekends when neither of you have anywhere urgent to be. It feels like neutral groundâsafe, familiar, but tonight, something feels different.
Spencer is fidgeting.
His fingers curl and uncurl around his coffee cup, tracing patterns in the ceramic like heâs working up to something. His gaze flickers to the window, the steam curling from his drink, your hands resting on the table. Anywhere but your face.
You sip your drink slowly, watching him with quiet apprehension. âYou look like youâre debating something incredibly complicated.â
He huffs a breath, almost a laugh, but it doesnât quite land. âI am.â
âMust be serious, then.â
âIt is.â He shifts, finallyâfinallyâmeets your gaze, something fragile and certain flickering in the warm depths of his eyes. âWould youââ he stops, swallows, starts again. âWould you want to go to dinner with me?â
The words settle between you, weighty but delicate, like something precious placed carefully in waiting hands. You can see the way he braces for impact, his fingers tightening around his cup, his breath just a little too still.
You tilt your head, letting the moment stretch, just to watch him squirm. Then, softly, âIn what way? A date?â
You are hesitant, voice barely audible. Youâre scared to ask, feeling childish, the words tasting forbiddenly sweet on your lips. You tell yourself you canât have been imagining everything between you two the past weeks â months, even. The lingering touches, the connection that sits at the base of your spine and ignites you with something far beyond holiness.Â
Spencer watches you for a moment before ducking his head. He looks shy, uncertain. âIf thatâs okay, yes.â
The words hit you in the center of your chest. Youâre certain youâve heard wrong for a full second, sure that he couldnât possibly be confirming your wildest dreams.Â
âI would really like that.â
His shoulders loosen, just slightly. Relief unwinds in the smallest of waysâthe way his fingers flex, the subtle shift in his posture. He nods, barely, taking a slow sip of his coffee like he needs to ground himself against the movement.
You donât miss the small, pleased smile he hides behind the rim of his cup.
\\
The evening of the date arrives, and your apartment is a disaster zone.
Clothes are strewn across your bed in varying states of rejection, your closet door hanging half-open as if it, too, is exhausted from your indecision. You tell yourself itâs not nervesâitâs just a normal dinner, just Spencerâbut your pulse betrays you, humming under your skin like an electric current.
You tug at the hem of your sweater, second-guessing, then third-guessing, your reflection offering no clarity. A date. The word itself feels foreign on your tongue, weighty in your mind. The possibility of something more, something unknown, something irreversibleâ
Then, the knock at your door.
You exhale sharply, pressing your hands against your thighs like itâll steady you, before crossing the room. You hesitate for just a moment, long enough to gather breath, then open it.
Spencer stands there, scarf wrapped around his neck, cheeks flushed from the cold. Heâs holding flowers, wrapped in delicate brown paper, not random but deliberate, purposeful. His fingers tighten around them as his lips part, ready to explain, but you reach out first, brushing your fingers over the petals.
âTheyâre beautiful.â
His gaze flickers to yours, searching. âThey, uh⊠they all have different meanings. I can tell you, if you want.â
Your chest feels warm, full. âIâd like that.â
He nods once, clearing his throat. âWell, the blue cornflowersâthey mean âhope in love,â and the lavender represents devotion. And the ivy, thatâs for fidelity, and umââ he stops, shifting awkwardlyââI wanted it to mean something. To you.â
Your fingers tighten just slightly around the bouquet, breath catching.
âIt does.â
The drive to the restaurant is wrapped in quiet conversation, the kind that feels like warmth on a winter evening. Spencer talksâof course he talksâhis voice weaving through facts about the historical significance of first dates, how certain cultures believed that sharing a meal was an intimate ritual, a way of binding souls together.
âYouâre romanticizing it,â you tease, studying the way the streetlights paint fleeting golden patterns across his profile.
He huffs a soft laugh. âItâs just history.â
âHistory can be romantic.â
He glances at you then, something unreadable settling in his features. âI suppose it can.â
You watch him as he drivesâthe way his fingers flex against the wheel, the small furrow between his brows when he concentrates. Thereâs something in the ease of this, in the soft lull of conversation and the quiet hum of the road beneath you, that feels like itâs teetering on the edge of something significant.
When you arrive, he moves to open your door but nearly smacks you in the face in his haste. He freezes, mortified, clears his throat. âSorry.â
You bite back a laugh. âItâs okay. I appreciate the effort.â
The restaurant is intimate, the kind of place that makes everything feel softerâlow candlelight, warm wood paneling, the steady murmur of quiet conversation. A flickering candle sits at the center of your table, casting shifting patterns along the surface, making everything feel just a little dreamlike, just a little surreal.
Spencer shifts in his seat, his fingers tapping once against the table before stilling. He exhales a quiet laugh. âThis is⊠nice.â
You nod, the candlelight catching in his eyes. âYeah. It is.â
The menu is filled with dishes just unfamiliar enough to make you both pause, debating choices. Spencer, of course, has read about half of them before.
âYou know, the origins of risotto actually trace back to the Middle Ages. It was influenced by Arabic rice cultivation techniques brought to Sicily, andââ he stops himself, clearing his throat. âSorry. I can, uh, get carried away.â
You shake your head, smiling. âI like when you get carried away.â
His gaze lingers, just a second too long.
The night stretches in slow, golden increments, conversation winding through shared stories, quiet laughter, the clink of silverware against plates. He tells you about childhood books that meant something to him, you tell him about the first time you realized you loved what you do. The space between you narrows, not in distance, but in something deeper, something quieter.
And then it happens.
The realization strikes like a bolt of lightning, sharp and electric. You want to kiss him. It isnât a slow realization, isnât something that builds over timeâit hits all at once, undeniable.
The candlelight flickers, catching the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his lips move around words. His fingers curl around his coffee cup, knuckles flexing. Something about it feels holy.
You realize, suddenly, that youâre staring. That youâre leaning in.
Spencer pauses mid-sentence, blinking at you. âWhat?â
You exhale, a slow smile tugging at your lips. âNothing.â
He watches you for a beat longer, his gaze searching, curious, like heâs trying to decipher something just out of reach. The air between you thickens, humming with something unspoken, something waiting.
But he doesnât press. Instead, he picks up his coffee again, takes a slow sip, and when he speaks next, itâs with the same easy rhythm as before.
And you let yourself sink into it, into him, into the quiet certainty of being here, together.
\\
The knock comes late. Too late for pleasantries, too late for anything but something raw, something that has been waiting to surface.
You arenât asleep. Havenât even tried. The air in your apartment feels too thick, the weight of the last case pressing into the spaces between your ribs, making every breath feel just a little too shallow. So when the knock sounds again, quieter this time but insistent, you already know who it is before you even reach for the door.
Spencer stands on the other side, hands buried in his pockets, his shoulders hunched like heâs been standing there for too long, debating whether or not to knock again. The dim hallway lighting casts shadows under his eyes, exhaustion lining his face, but thereâs something else, tooâsomething hesitant, something that flickers behind his expression like a barely-contained thought.
âSpencer?â you ask, brow furrowing.
He exhales, slow, measured, the way he does when heâs trying to pick the right words before speaking. âIââ He hesitates, shakes his head. âI donât know why Iâm here.â
A lie. You see it in the way his fingers twitch, in the way his breath stumbles. You see it in the way his eyes donât quite meet yours, how they flicker toward your shoulder, your collarbone, before darting away again, like heâs afraid of being caught.
You step aside, let him in.
The silence between you stretches, thick and heavy, but not uncomfortable. It settles, wraps around you both as he moves past you, as he lingers near the kitchen counter without quite leaning against it, as you close the door and turn to face him.
You should say something. Should ask him why heâs here, why he looks like heâs spent hours convincing himself not to be. But the words donât come. They tangle in your throat, unwilling to break the moment that is already unraveling between you.
Instead, itâs him who speaks first.
âI think about you.â
The words are soft, careful, but steady. Not a confession, not quite, but something close. Something that shifts the air between you, makes it sharper, makes it real.
You inhale, slow, deliberate, but it doesnât steady you the way you hope it will. Your pulse jumps, a small stutter beneath fragile skin, and you know he sees it, knows heâs cataloging it the way he does everything.
Spencer exhales, a quiet, disbelieving laugh escaping him, and when he finally looks at you, really looks at you, thereâs something unguarded in his gaze. âI think about you all the time.â
You watch as he sways slightly, like heâs resisting the pull, like gravity itself is urging him closer.
And then he stops resisting.
He moves carefully, like heâs giving you space to step back, to stop him, but you donât. You stay rooted where you stand, watching as his hands hover at your sides, reverent, hesitant. His fingers flex once, a brief curl like heâs debating whether or not to touch you, whether or not to let himself have this.
âTell me to stop,â he murmurs, barely more than a breath.
You donât.
Instead, you reach for him first.
Your fingers brush against his wrist, a featherlight touch, tentative, but itâs enough. Enough for him to let out a slow, shaky breath, enough for him to tilt his head, just slightly, enough for his handsâhovering, waitingâto finally settle at your waist. His touch is a whisper of warmth, hesitant, reverent, the weight of it barely there as if afraid that pressing too hard will shatter whatever fragile thing exists between you in this moment.
His skin is fever-warm beneath your fingertips, the heat of him bleeding through the fabric of his sleeves, seeping into your own. The air between you hums, thick with something unspoken, a tension so finely drawn it feels like it might snap at the slightest movement. You donât know who moves first. Maybe itâs him, maybe itâs you, maybe itâs the inevitable force that has been pulling you together for longer than either of you has been willing to admit. But suddenly, impossibly, there is no more space left to close.
He is close. Close enough that you can see the flicker of uncertainty in his gaze, the way his pupils darken like ink spilling into warm honey. Close enough that you can feel the tremor in his fingers where they rest against you, like heâs bracing himself against something too big to name. Close enough that his breathâuneven, shallow, shakingâghosts across your cheek, the warmth of it sinking into your skin like an imprint that will never leave. His fingers flexâbarely, just a littleâbut the movement is enough to send a ripple down your spine, enough to make your stomach dip like a held note in a song unfinished.
He exhales again, something like a laugh but softer, more fragile, like he canât quite believe this is happening. Like he is standing at the edge of something vast and unknown, and for once in his life, he is hesitating.
âI donât know how to do this,â he admits, voice barely above a whisper, almost swallowed by the quiet between you.
You smile, small and real, the kind of smile meant only for him. âMe either.â
Spencer swallows hard, his throat bobbing. His gaze dropsâto your lips, flickers back to your eyesâsearching, waiting, still holding himself back. The space between you crackles with electricity, the kind that comes before a storm, before the sky splits open and the world drowns in something relentless, inescapable.
You make the choice for him.
You lift your chin just slightly, tilt forward just enough, and thatâs all it takes.
The first touch of his mouth to yours is hesitant, uncertain, the kind of kiss that feels like a question. A quiet, careful can I? rather than I will. His lips are warm, softer than you imagined, and his breath stumbles against yours as he presses just a little closer, as if afraid you might pull away. You feel it the moment something in him gives way, the moment the tension in his body unwinds and he stops second-guessing himself and simply lets go.
His fingers tighten at your waist, just barely, but enough to make you shiver. His other hand drifts, fingertips skimming up the curve of your spine like a whisper of a prayer, settling lightly at the back of your neck, a delicate anchor. He kisses you like heâs memorizing the shape of it, like heâs afraid heâll forget how you fit against him if he doesnât take his time.
He tastes like coffee, like exhaustion, like something sweeter underneath it all, something uniquely him. You drink him in, slow, deliberate, every second stretched thin and precious. The world has narrowed to thisâhis breath, his touch, the way he exhales so quietly when you sigh against his lips.
And then he pulls you closer, deepening it just slightly, just enough to steal whatever air was left between you.
When you part, neither of you move away. Your foreheads rest together, breaths mingling, still wrapped in the hush of the moment, still holding on, just for a little longer.
Spencer exhales, barely more than a whisper. âI donât want this to be a mistake.â
You press your fingers against the back of his hand, grounding. âItâs not.â
Something eases in his expression. He nods, just once, before his fingers trace lightly over your jaw, tilting your face back up toward his.
And then, he kisses you again.
#bubbs.writes#criminal minds#cm#x reader#spencer reid#fluff#criminal minds x reader#spencer reid x reader#reid x reader#fem!reader#spencer reid x rem!reader#spencer reid fanfiction#dr spencer reid#bau team#criminal minds fanfiction#dr reid#doctor spencer reid#fluff and angst#mutual pining#cannon typical violence#mentions of blood#mentions of injuries#mentions of injury#cw: guns
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Batboys & Twitter links âč àŁȘ Ë
Dick Grayson ê©.á
He's a handsome giver.
So good, you might want to consider running away, really. Fucking handsy. Makes you just wanna do it yourself! Patrol makes you hungry, you know.
Jason Todd ê©.á
He's mean, and there's no exceptionânot even you. Bat your lashes, and this is how you'll end up.
Makes you finish just as fast as his bikeâif not faster.
Regardless of whose fault it is, he'll put you in your place.
Like a fucking chair.
Tim Drake ê©.á
He tries to hold back. I promise you, he really is.
Oh, he's such a sweetheart.
Bent over his computer desk on a random wednesday.
You and those powerful fucking hands.
The enemy keeps on moving. Tim can barely grasp at straws. Oh, he's weak.
Damian Wayne ê©.á
One way to shut that conceited mouth of his.
You're supposed to be under, not above him.
Better than any book and more fulfilling than a patrol. His study chair hates to see you both coming (cumming).
The type of shit he needs before smoking villains.
#damian al ghul#richard grayson x reader#damian wayne dc#damian wayne#damian wayne x reader#damian wayne x you#dc comics#damian wayne x y/n#red hood#jason todd#jason todd x reader#jason todd x you#jason todd x y/n#dick grayson#richard grayson#nightwing#richard grayson x you#dick grayson x reader#dick grayson x you#dick grayson x y/n
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Echos of Home: Stray Kids' reactions to their S/O not being close with their parents
Bang Chan
The front door clicks shut, quieter than usual, but itâs enough for Chris to hear from the living room. He frowns, glancing at the time on his phone. You werenât supposed to be back for another few hours.
âBabe?â His voice carries through the apartment as he stands up, walking toward the entryway. When he sees you, his expression softens, but thereâs still a flicker of concern in his eyes. âYouâre back early.â
You nod, setting your bag down a little too carefully, like youâre keeping yourself in check. âYeah. Iâm back.â
He studies you for a moment, his head tilting slightly the way it does when heâs trying to piece something together. He knows â has always known â that things with your parents arenât exactly smooth. Thereâs no big, dramatic fallout, no abusive history, just a constant, lingering sense of not quite fitting in with them. Conversations that feel like walking through a minefield, small comments that chip away at you, a love that never feels warm enough.
Chris takes a step closer, reaching for your hand. âWhat happened?â
You shrug, not really wanting to get into it. âNothing new.â
His thumb brushes over your knuckles, grounding, patient. âWanna talk about it?â
You shake your head. âNot really.â
He just tugs you into his arms, wrapping you up in a hug that is nothing like the ones you get from your parents â half-hearted, obligatory. No, this one is firm, warm, steady. You melt into it before you even realize how much you needed it.
His chin rests atop your head, his voice gentle. âYou know you donât have to go if you donât want to, right?â
You close your eyes, exhaling slowly. âI know.â
âAnd you know that no matter what, you always have a home here with me?â
Your throat tightens, but in a good way. In a way that makes you feel safe. âYeah,â you murmur. âI know.â
Chris squeezes you a little tighter before swaying side to side, humming softly. Youâre home. Thatâs all that matters.
Lee Know
It wasnât unusual for you to be at his parentâs house; in fact, it was almost expected at this point. His parents had practically adopted you into their family, treating you like one of their own. His mom always insisted you stay for dinner, and his dad would ask you about school or work like he would his own son. With the cats curling at your side, it felt warm here â comfortable, safe.
Thatâs why, when Lee Know casually mentioned, âYou know, I think you spend more time at my parentsâ house than at your own parentsâ,â with a teasing smile, he didnât expect the way your body tensed ever so slightly.
It was brief, almost imperceptible, but he caught it.
You let out a small laugh, but it didnât quite reach your eyes. âMaybe you're right.â
He didnât press, not yet, but the thought lingered in his mind. And then, as if the idea had just struck him, he said, âMaybe next time, I should come over to your place. Your parents probably think I donât exist.â
Your reaction was immediate. A flicker of hesitation crossed your face, and for a moment, you looked like you wanted to say something â anything â but then, you just shrugged. âTheyâre busy,â you said vaguely. âThey wouldnât really care.â
That didnât sit right with him. You had always been good at avoiding certain topics, but this one was different. This wasnât just avoidance â it was reluctance, something deeper.
He tilted his head slightly, his voice softening. âYou never really talk about them.â
You forced a smile. âThereâs not much to talk about.â
Lee Know didnât push. He knew you well enough to understand that if he did, youâd only retreat further into yourself. Instead, he nudged your arm lightly. âWell, if theyâre too busy, you know that you can come over any time. I start to think that my mom already likes you better than me.â
Changbin
Changbin slumped onto the couch beside you, letting out a dramatic sigh. âWhen was the last time you even visited your parents?â he joked, nudging your shoulder playfully.
You snorted, rolling your eyes. âOh, you know,â you said with heavy sarcasm, âgot yelled at for every life decision Iâve ever made. Good times.â
The teasing glint in Changbinâs eyes disappeared in an instant. He frowned, tilting his head to get a better look at your expression, but you avoided his gaze, pretending to scroll through your phone. His heart sank at the forced nonchalance in your voice.
âWait⊠what do you mean?â His voice softened, laced with concern.
You shrugged, trying to play it off. âYou know how they are. Nothing I do is ever right. I could be a literal millionaire and theyâd still find a way to tell me I messed up.â You let out a small, humorless laugh. âItâs just how it is.â
Changbin didnât laugh. He didnât even smile. âThatâs not how it should be, though,â he murmured. âYou deserve better than that.â
You blinked at his sincerity, feeling a lump form in your throat. âItâs fine, Bin. Iâm used to it.â
He sighed, shifting closer so your shoulders touched. âThat doesnât make it okay,â he countered, his brows knitting together in frustration.Â
You hesitated for a moment before speaking again, voice barely above a whisper. âSometimes, I wonder if I could ever be a good mom,â you admitted. âlike⊠I never really got to experience what having a good mom feels like. What if I mess up the way they did?â
Changbinâs eyes softened, and he gently cupped your cheek, forcing you to meet his gaze. âHey,â he said firmly. âYou are already so full of love and care. The fact that you worry about that proves youâre going to be amazing. You wonât be like them. You get to choose the kind of parent you want to be.â
Your heart swelled at his words, warmth spreading through your chest. You had always carried the weight of your strained relationship with your parents alone.
âYeah,â you whispered. âI know.â
Hyunjin
Hyunjin had never been one to push too hard when it came to personal matters. He understood boundaries, respected them even. But every time the topic of parents came up â his or yours â you always managed to steer the conversation elsewhere. And most importantly, you had never once mentioned introducing him to them.
At first, he brushed it off, thinking you were just taking things slow. But after nearly a year together, it stung. It made him wonder if there was a reason, a reason that had everything to do with him.
That thought festered in his chest until one evening, it finally slipped out.
âDo you not want me to meet your parents?â His voice was soft, uncertain.
You blinked, caught off guard. âWhat?â
âI mean⊠weâve been together for a while now, but you never bring it up.â He forced a small chuckle, trying to keep his tone light even though it felt anything but. âI just⊠I guess I canât help but wonder if itâs because of me.â
Your heart sank at the vulnerability in his voice. âHyunjinââ
âIs it because Iâm an idol?â He cut in before you could explain. âI know that might be weird for some parents, and if thatâs the case, I get it. But I justââ He exhaled sharply, running a hand over his hair. âI donât know. It feels like you donât want to include me in that part of your life.â
You swallowed hard, guilt settling in.
âHyunjin, itâs not that I donât want you to meet them,â you said carefully, fingers gripping the fabric of your sleeves. âItâs just⊠my relationship with my parents isnât great. Itâs complicated.â
His eyes searched yours, confusion flickering across his face. âComplicated how?â
You hesitated. âWe donât really⊠talk much. When we do, itâs tense. We just donât see eye to eye on a lot of things.â
Hyunjinâs expression softened slightly. âThen why didnât you just tell me that?â
âBecause I didnât want to talk about it,â you admitted. âItâs messy and frustrating, and I didnât want to drag you into that.â
âBut I want to be dragged into it,â he said, leaning forward. âI want to understand whatâs going on in your life. That includes the bad parts, too.â
You looked away, the weight of his words settling in. âI guess⊠I was embarrassed.â
Hyunjinâs brows furrowed. âEmbarrassed?â
âI donât have the kind of parents who are loving and supportive,â you admitted, voice quieter now. âAnd I didnât want you to see that and think less of me.â
âY/N, I would never think less of you because of something like that.â He reached for your hand, squeezing it gently. âI just wanted to understand. I thought⊠I thought you didnât want me to meet them because of me.â
You exhaled shakily. âIâm sorry. I didnât mean to make you feel that way.â
Hyunjin shook his head, lips pressing into a thin line before he let out a breath. âI just want you to trust me enough to talk to me about these things.â
âI do,â you said quickly. âI just⊠I didnât know how.â
Han
"So you donât want me to meet your parents?" Han repeated, his voice softer than you expected. Not quite hurt or offended â just⊠concerned.
You swallowed hard, nodding. "Itâs not that I donât want you to. I justâ I donât think itâs a good idea."
He tilted his head, studying you. "Can you tell me why?"
You hesitated. Han had always been so good at making you feel safe, but there was still a deep-rooted instinct inside you that told you to keep this part of your life locked away. It wasnât that your parents were abusive, not in the way people might think, but they had never really seen you. Not truly. Their love came with conditions, with expectations you could never quite meet.
"I just⊠I donât want to put you in a situation where you're not treated well," you admitted, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "They donât respect me, Han. And since youâre with me, they wonât respect you either. I donât want that for you."
"I get it," he said quietly, his voice steady. "And I love that youâre thinking about me. But, baby⊠you donât have to protect me from them."
You opened your mouth to argue, but he shook his head before you could.
"Iâm not saying we have to go to a family dinner or anything," he continued. "But you donât have to carry this alone. I know itâs complicated, and I know it sucks. But I donât want you to think that you have to shield me from this part of your life just because youâve been dealing with it alone for so long."
Your throat tightened. "But theyâllâ"
"They can think whatever they want about me," he interrupted gently. "What matters is what you think. And if they donât respect you, thatâs on them. Thatâs not a reflection of who you are, and itâs definitely not going to change how I see you."
You exhaled shakily. "I donât know if Iâll ever be ready to let you meet them. I've spent too much time hoping they'll change."
Han smiled, squeezing your hands reassuringly. "Thatâs okay. Weâll take it at your pace. Just⊠donât shut me out, okay? I want to be here for you. For everything."
Felix
Felix stretched his arms, groaning slightly as he leaned back against the couch. The two of you had been catching up on life the whole evening. He had just been telling you about his latest video call with his parents, laughing about how his mom still worried if he was eating enough.
"Honestly," he said between bites of the cookies he had brought over, "I think I see my parents more often than you see yours."
You froze, your fingers tightening around the mug of tea you were holding. The playful lilt in his voice made it clear that he hadnât meant any harm, but the words hit you harder than you expected. Your mind ran through the last time you had actually visited your parents.
Felix must have noticed your sudden stillness, because when you looked up at him, his brows were slightly furrowed, eyes searching yours.Â
"Youâre not wrong," you admitted quietly, sipping your tea to avoid his gaze. "I think you really do."
"Oh. Iâ I didnât mean to... I was just joking."
"I know," offering him a small smile. "Itâs just⊠true."
A beat of silence stretched between you. Felix set his cookie down, shifting closer until his knee bumped against yours. "Do you wanna talk about it?"
You hesitated. It wasnât that you never talked about your parents, but it always felt exhausting to explain the complicated mess that was your relationship with them. They werenât cruel or absent, just distant â close enough to be in your life, but never truly present.
"Not much to say, really," you murmured. "We just donât talk much. Itâs always⊠weird. Like we donât know how to be around each other."
Felix listened, nodding. "That sounds really lonely."
Your lips parted slightly, caught off guard by the simple truth in his words. "Yeah," you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "It kinda is."
Felix didnât say anything at first. "You know," he said, voice warm and sure, "family doesnât have to be just the people youâre born with."
Your chest tightened, not with sadness, but with something gentler.
Felix grinned, before nudging you playfully. "Well, for what itâs worth, my parents love adopting people into the family. You might already be part of it without knowing."
Seungmin
The living room was quiet except for the occasional tapping of Seungminâs phone as he scrolled, stretched out comfortably on your couch. You sat beside him, your head resting against the couch cushion, feeling the warmth of his presence next to you.Â
Then, your phone buzzed on the coffee table.
Mom flashed across the screen.
Seungmin glanced at it briefly before looking at you, expecting you to reach for it. But instead, you pressed decline without a second thought.
He blinked, his brows furrowing slightly. "Youâre not gonna answer?"
You shrugged. "Nope."
He sat up a little, setting his phone down. "Why not? It could be important."
"Unlikely," you muttered, avoiding his gaze.
The confusion on his face lingered for a moment before realization set in. "You donât really talk to her much, do you?"
You sighed, leaning back against the couch. "Not if I can help it."
Seungmin didnât respond right away, just watched you carefully. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. "You guys donât get along?"
"Not really," you admitted. "We just... donât see things the same way. Talking always turns into a disagreement, and honestly, itâs exhausting. Itâs easier to just not deal with it."
Seungmin hummed, a quiet sound of understanding.Â
For a moment, he just sat there, thinking. Then, without warning, he leaned over and lightly nudged your shoulder with his own. "You donât have to pretend youâre fine."
You glanced at him, surprised by how easily he saw through you.
He tilted his head, his expression unreadable yet undeniably gentle. "Youâre allowed to be upset about it. You donât have to act like it doesnât bother you."
Something in your chest loosened. You hadnât even realized how much tension youâd been carrying until now.
"Thanks," you murmured.
He gave you a small, reassuring smile. "Anytime."Â
I.N
You sighed as you scrolled through your messages, the same feeling of disappointment creeping in. Your parents had sent another message in the family group chat â one of their usual updates about your sibling, filled with admiration and excitement. You were happy for them, truly. But every time you saw their name being praised while yours was barely acknowledged, the ache in your chest deepened.
I.N sat beside you on the couch, watching your face shift from neutral to something more distant. He nudged your arm gently. âHey, whatâs wrong?â
You hesitated before tilting your phone toward him. He skimmed the messages, his features tightening as he put the pieces together. He already knew the story â how your relationship with your parents had grown distant ever since you chose a different path, how they seemed to relate more to your sibling, leaving you feeling like an outsider in your own family. He also knew you werenât looking for pity.
Instead of offering empty words, I.N put your phone aside. âDoes it hurt?â he asked quietly.
You swallowed the lump in your throat. âA little,â you admitted. âI mean, I moved out as soon as I could, and Iâve been independent for a while, so I shouldnât care so much. But⊠itâs like no matter what I do, Iâm not enough for them.â
I.N frowned. âThatâs not true. You are enough. They just⊠donât see you the way they should, and thatâs on them, not you.â
You looked at him, feeling a flicker of warmth in his gaze. He wasnât trying to fix it. He wasnât telling you to move on or pretend it didnât matter.Â
âYouâve built a life for yourself that you love, havenât you?â he continued. âThat takes courage. And just because they donât recognize it doesnât make it any less real.â
A small, wobbly smile broke through your somber expression.
I.N grinned, giving your hand a playful squeeze. âI just know you. And I know that you deserve to be seen, to be valued. Even if they donât show it, I will.â
You exhaled, leaning into him, resting your head on his shoulder. âThank you, Innie.â
masterlist
#stray kids reactions#stray kids#straykids x reader#skz reactions#skz x reader#skz imagines#skz#bang chan#lee know#changbin#hyunjin#han jisung#lee felix#seungmin#i.n#skz x you#skz fluff#skz scenarios#stray kids x you#stray kids x reader#stray kids fluff#stray kids angst#skz angst
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Holidays - Valentines
Bucky Barnes x reader (GN)
Summary: An accidental series centered around the various holidays with my beloved Bucky Barnes Â
Warnings- Soft!Bucky (a warning bc oh god I love him he's a cutie patootie), my overuse of italics and commas.Â
Word count- 1.2k
Author's Note- Happy (late) Valentine's day! Hope you are all having a lovely day <3 I was gonna try to have this done on time but college kicked my ass and I decided Iâd rather spend my valentines night with my amazing girlfriend lol xoxo
Masterlist
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âNo, Bucky, seriously,â The words tumbled out of your mouth quicker than you planned, a few incoherent words sputtered out until you got them under control again, âsweethart, itâs beautiful, I love it.â
You placed your hand on his arm for a moment, giving it a gentle squeeze before you let your mind take in the room again. This valentines day was supposed to be simple, considering you had been in a âwill they/ wont theyâ relationship with him since about November. Nothing was even fully confirmed until that new year's party!
Though, Bucky apparently hadn't shared the same sentiment of keeping it simple.
âAre you sure?â Bucky nervously asked, brows pulled tightly together as he studied the way you turned your head around the room. You hadn't ever heard this level of vulnerability in him before, his voice was low and slightly gravely. He hadn't spoken much since he knocked on your door and asked you to join him in the living room.
âItâs⊠wow,â You mumbled, eyes jumping from decoration to decoration, trying to take it all in. There were balloons on one side of the room, pinned up against the floor to ceiling windows that spelled âLOVEâ in red kevlar. In the same type of balloon, hearts were floating up to the ceiling, just a few feet above Buckyâs head with white ribbons dropping down from them.
The couch was decorated with the normal valentines decor that Pepper always set out, simple heart shaped throw pillows and white fluffy blankets draped over it. Alpine curled up tightly on the back of the couch, almost hiding in the fuzz. On the small coffee table in the center was a large vase of your favorite flowers, neatly trimmed and clearly from a nice florist and not just the local corner store. There were valentines themed garland strung around the walls, small pink and red hearts tied together with white twine against one of the other walls. Rose petals scattered on the coffee table (one had very distinct teeth marks from a certain feline), forming a heart around the vase.
It was really sweet of Bucky to do, truly! But, it seemed a bit much considering how long the two of you had been together. It seemed Alpine could read your mind, she uncurled her body and stretched dramatically.
âI just, know, wasn't expecting so much, BuckâŠâ You admit, turning around towards him with a soft smile on your face. You glance at Alpine, scratching behind her ear for a moment before she jumped off the couch and trotted up to Bucky
She had been watching the whole thing unfurl, from Bucky setting it all up hours ago, to Sam and Steve doing damage control, to Bucky anxiously dragging you in. She had been silently watching it the whole time.
Bucky scooped up Alp in his arms almost the moment she came to his leg, âI know, that's my fault,â he nods, mirroring your smile when it was clear you weren't truly upset.
âIt felt like a big day, andâŠâ Bucky trailed off slightly, clearing his throat as he looked at you. You took a step closer to him, the biggest block between you being the cat. His eyes were a beautiful blue that you could get lost in, but you could see the way they flickered as he focused on each of your eyes, taking in the rest of your face as he did so. He swallowed thickly, his throat bobbing, âI wanted you to feel special.â
It was impossible to hold back the stupid grin that spread across your face. He wanted you to feel special?Â
Didn't he know that the way your heart fluttered was because you knew he cared? Didn't he know that your brain kinda stopped working every time he silently held the door open or grabbed your coat for you? Did he know you never felt like anything less?
âI do feel special,â You murmured softly, a small laugh bubbling up. Alpine let out a small huff, the sound seemed too big for her little body, âWhat?â you chuckle, both you and Bucky looking down at her.
Alpine just blinked, the amount of sass in her gaze was absolutely unmatched. BUcky grinned, shifting her weight to one of his arms and petting her with the other. She almost immediately started to purr and melt into his hold. Oh, she was definitely a daddy's girl. Spoiled fuckinâ rotten.
âSheâs jealous,â Bucky answers under his breath. You could feel his gaze on you as you continued to pet Alpine.
âSheâs pissed realizing you did all of this for me and not her,â You laugh, glancing at Bucky then behind you to the bouquet. One of the flowers in there was a lili, both you and Bucky were completely aware they were dangerous to cats, but Alpine did not eat plants.
She merely decided they deserved to be on the floor instead.
Bucky laughed, a fuller laugh that caused Alp to shake slightly. She only tolerated him doing that, anyone else and sheâd leave. He nodded with your statement, âI had to put sticky tack on the vase,â he explains, corners of his eyes crinkling as he talks, âShe was hellbent on knockinâ âem over.â
You playfully narrowed your eyes at Bucky, shaking your head as if scolding him, âBecause they belong on the floor, obviously!â you tease. Alpine seemed to get the hint that she was outnumbered in this, and squirmed out of Bucky's arms. She landed with a graceful thunk on the ground, silently tip-tapping her way back to the coffee table.
â... and sheâs gonna try again-!â Bucky quickly realized, stepping around you quickly to grab Alpine before she could jump onto the table again.
He vaguely plops her back down in the doorway of the living room, she glares at him for a moment before doing a slow blink. She then ducks her head to look at you, you give her a challenging look back in return. You raise your eyebrow, both of you in a silent battle that makes Bucky roll his eyes. Alpine acquiesces, with a slow blink and flick of her fluffy tail she stalks out of the room. Presumably to go bother Steve for a second dinner.
âSheâs a little hellion,â you murmur, rubbing your face as Bucky closes the distance between the two of you. His arms wrap around your waist, pressing a light kiss to your temple. Your body relaxes into his.
âMmh,â he hums in agreement, pressing his nose against your neck. You both stood there for a moment before he spoke again, âyou sure the room isnt too much? âCause I have a dinner planned too.â he mumbles.
You laugh in disbelief, hands on his biceps as you pull back to look at him, âI thought we were keeping it simple this year?â
Bucky shrugs, a slight smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth, âThis is simple, darling.â
âBarnes, I swearâŠâ You jokingly huff, eyes rolling. Your protests and following complaints were cut off as his lips pressed against yours. It was gentle and sweet. You grin against his lips, meeting his movements which stayed slow.
There it wasâŠ
Simple.
#avengers#marvel#bucky barnes#bucky barnes x male reader#avengers x male reader#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes imagine#bucky barnes fanfiction#bucky x reader#bucky x male reader#valentines day
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Finally getting to read the other fics of this event!!Another Raya fic and it's Choi Beomgyu no less, going to fight for my life (bias wrecker Gyu đ). I am of course, very excited.
Writing this sentence after I fixed up the review and holy moly, I'm sorry it's so long!
I absolutely love a good red string au, it taps into my romantic side so bad. The rules are simple: the second your eyes meet theirs, a delicate crimson thread will wrap and tug around your ring finger, stretching across, tied to the one who is destined to love you. â like this is exactly why I love this trope, to be destined to have someone to love and receive love from in such an unconditional way just puts me at ease.
The universe doesnât make mistakes. And yet, your hands remained... stringless.â of course for right now that isn't the case for reader :( but I'm looking forward to how this will unravel.
How does love do that? How does it make someone shine like theyâre carrying sunlight beneath their skin? Like just standing beside the right person is enough to set them alight? â I feel like Raya took my thoughts here, especially the first lineđ like how does love do that. I've always seen love where it seems more one-sided, falls apart later down or doesn't seem to exist in hard times, so I've always wanted/wondered of the existence of such an unconditional type of love.
"That's⊠weird, right?" The first girl tilts her head, genuinely puzzled. "I mean, we sat through those lectures together. Didnât the studies say most people find their soulmate before twenty-five? Thatâs what the records say." â that's so, uncalled forđ like as reader said she's just pointing out a fact but damn, maybe I'm a bit to sensitive lmfao.
Raya's change in POV will always be my favorite transition and I will die on that hill. It brings back memories of The Last Safe Place which was ironically also an idol!Gyu fic. I love that without fail, amidst the business, Gyu always wishes to meet reader, it's so sweet.
I love that the doctor reassures reader and the concept of there being therapy for things like this warms my heart. Lee Heesung cameo omg I did not expect this (so I love with him ugh). It's so disheartening tho that the reaction to idols having soulmates seems possible and that hurts, like theyre people too yknow?
âCome on, Y/N.â She grabs your arm, shaking it dramatically. âLook at me. I have a soulmate, and I still thirst over Tomorrow X Together.â â I love Da-hee so much, she's so real for this. I do love that reader isn't a MOA though, it somehow makes her future bond with Gyu even sweeter. And the fact that reader unknowingly picks Gyu's picketđđđ they are so destined and her getting his photocard further solidifies it I'm going to fucking sob.
A tall manâeasily the tallestâmoves toward your section, waving with an easy smile, deep dimples carving into his soft-looking cheeks. It reminds you of bread. The warmth of it is infectious, and before you even realise it, you're waving back, grinning at someone whose name you didnât even know this morning. â Soobin :(((( I'm going to sob this is so cute, it makes me so excited
And they have the bond ughđđđđđI'm going to throw upđđđ â Everything else fades. The crowd, the shake of Da-hee beside you, even the music that was supposed to be loud. All thatâs left is the pullâa red thread stretching between, searing itself into your vision, blinding in its intensityâdemanding to be seen. â oh my god ugh.
I love that this POV change goes a bit before the moment and we see the boys thoughts on everything pertaining to soulmates and how hard it is for them as idols to deal with that considering society's response.
God, I love Gyu's entire reaction to them being soulmates, it's so endearing. Thin, and so impossibly red. A string stretched between, glowing faintly under the stage lights. He looks down at his handâat his ring fingerâ it's tied there. His eyes trace its path. To you. His chest tightens. â this is so cute and I love how it makes him nervous for the concert now :(((.
He waves again, but this time, itâs for you. Directly. You tilt your head, hesitant, and thenâan unsure wave back. Itâs so small, so subtle, but it makes him smile. His grin spreads before he can think twice. â this is so cute I'll pass out. Him and reader are so cute your honor, I love them do much like the interactions are so cute I genuinely have no other words.
Love that Soobin kinda realizes something was up in the moment and ahhh :((( Gyu asking him I'll cry. I love that Da-hee is that supportive if a friend that she's so moved to cry for you (like same) but it's so endearing how much their friendship means to them.
Their first interaction:(( I feel so damn softâ"So, uh, hi?" Beomgyu says, and it pulls a laugh from you. His heart stumbles over itself at the sound, warmth blooming in his chest. Itâs ridiculous, really, how easily you affect him.âgod they're so awkward I love it :(( I think they're so cute I want to keep them in my pocket. I just love the idea of them not knowing anything about each other especially since ready wasn't a fan before so it feels so much more genuine.
The message he sends her afterđđ I was wondering the significance behind the 315 roses and then I just fucking sobbed oh my god, may this kind of love find everyoneđ I'm so giggly lol, I love how cute Gyu reacts when she sends him a message during live God this is adorable.
Yall really do love causing me pain huh? Some people really are insane like, going that length to harass Gyu's soulmate??? Like he's glowing and happy let them live :(( The angst has fully kicked in and the only thing I feel is sick but best girl Da-hee coming to the rescue, she's such an empathic friend I actually love her so much, she's such a well written character.
I actually love how it was discussed from Gyu's perspective with everyone. Like their manager assuming reader asked him to choose when she in fact rather sacrifice the relationship for his job shows how much she loves him and the fact that he would trade it all for her is so heartwarming. "Because your words could never hurt me as much as your leaving does." â may this love find us wtf. I've been told before that my words will push people away (even if I'm being honest with no intention to hurt) and often times voicing your opinion or just trying to do the best for others comes off differently to them, but I hope everyone is able to receive a response like this in their life. To be loved really is an amazing thing.
Trying to go out my comfort zone this year and comment on smut because I always get shy/embarrassed but oh my god âBeomgyu's eyes never left yours as his fingers found your hand, seeking the place where the string was tied. The red thread appears, and he lifts it to his lips. A kissâfeatherlight, reverentâpressed against the place where destiny tied you to him. â this is absolutely everything.
âI love you,â he murmured as he positioned himself, slowly sliding into you. A low, guttural sound escaped him as he felt you, tight and warm, pulling him deeper. He's sure he'll come right there and then. His face buried itself in the curve of your neck, and his words spilled outâ"I'm sorry it took this long." â Raya, I AM GOING SO INSANE RN, running laps in my head rn.
He's so reassuring to reader too, that's so hot oh my god. âBecause now, in his arms, with his lips claiming yours over and over, only pulls away when breathing becomes a necessityâhis forehead pressing against yours for a fleeting second before his mouth finds yours again, as if letting go for too long might break him, you realise the truthâit was foolish of you to think that pushing him away would solve it all. â brb crying my eyes out again.
The moment I saw the title of the fic oh my god, my chest tightened, I gasped and a tear fell. I always love when titles are integrated into fics with significance like this.
I love that they met each others parents and reader and Da-hee met the members it's so cute, and reader using Gyu's nickname that his dad used omg crying.
Maybe in another world, the sky is burning, the world is ending, an apocalypse, and he still falls in love with you. Maybe in another life, he is a man undone, a husband who shatters more than he mends, but even then, he would spend eternity piecing himself back together just to be worthy of you.â Raya this caught me so off guard that I am sobbing so hard, a reference to The Last Safe Place and The Slow Surrender, you are absolutely insane oh my god.
This was so good Raya omgđđ I will always be so happy that ive read every fic you've published thus far and I always love to see how you'd grow with each fic and you never fail to surprise me, I absolutely loved this.
RAIN LILIES
pairing: soulmate idol choi beomgyu x soulmate fem!reader
Sitting at parties surrounded by lovers, a silent third wheel at movie nights, the friend holding the camera at weddingsâyour hands are always... alone in the spaces where others are full.
Were you an error in the grand scheme? An anomaly? A glitch in the unforgiving script? Or maybe, he simply doesnât really⊠exist.
Thatâs how you ended up here, standing beside your korean-pop-obsessed friend who practically dragged you out and swore youâd love the show. It all became a blur when your eyes met his.
Heâs on stage, gripping the mic impossibly still, staring down back at you like he feels it too.
He shouldnât be real.
warnings: red-string au, strangers to lovers, reader is two years older, normal society norms, waiting, anxiety, doubts, sasaengs, insecurities, hasty decisions, drunk-in-love beomgyu. pov switching. everything written is a work of fiction. let me know if I missed anything.
smut-warnings: MDNI, explicit-descriptions, missionary, fingering, oral!fem receiving, dom beomgyu.
wc: 20k â playlist.
notes: fighting both my delulu and my demons while writing this. đ Might just be the fic I enjoyed writing the mostâI hope you love it just as much! so glad to be part of this beautiful event. a big thank you to @killa-1009 for beta reading this. ilysm.
1/5 part of the valentine event with talented moas! see the full masterlist here.
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If fate promised you something so certain, how could you not long for it?
Since childhood, youâve heard the stories. The way people speak in hushed voices, weaving fate into riddles, how somewhere out there, it's waitingâa single red string, unseen until the exact moment itâs meant to appear.
The rules are simple: the second your eyes meet theirs, a delicate crimson thread will wrap and tug around your ring finger, stretching across, tied to the one who is destined to love you.
You watched it happen to everyone else. From playground giggles in elementary school to whispered confessions in high school hallways, to late-night talks in college dorm rooms. You listened as your friends spoke about finding their own soulmates, the feelingâthe pull, the process. It's everywhere. In the way, your parents fit together like pages of the same story. On the way your younger sisterâstill so new to the world found her match.
When youâre told your whole life that destiny is waiting for you, how could you not ache for it?
The universe doesnât make mistakes. And yet, your hands remained... stringless.
And now you wonder if it didâwith you.
"One, two, three, smile!"
You press the shutter, capturing the way they look at each other. You lower the camera, but they donât even noticeâtheyâre too caught up in their own little world, whispering sentences only theyâll ever understand. They laugh, eyes soft, bodies leaning in just a little closer.
How does love do that? How does it make someone shine like theyâre carrying sunlight beneath their skin? Like just standing beside the right person is enough to set them alight?
And why, no matter how long you wait, does that light never seem to find you?
There are days you curse itâthis cruel design, this aching uncertain certainty. You tell yourself it would be easier not to know, to live without the quiet hope that somewhere, someone is meant to find you, or that fate had already written your name beside someone elseâs.
And then there are days you fear it.
What if they donât want to find you? What if thatâs why youâre still alone? What if they got it wrong, skipped over your name, and he simply⊠doesnât exist?
You're an anomaly. A glitch in the well-made script.
You lost count of how many times you wished it was never made this way. That love shouldnât be a promise. Yet in the deepest hours of the night, you found yourselfâgasping, trembling, and sobbing to your palms. The feeling ofâ
How can you miss someone you've never met?
You want to reach for a hand youâve never held. You long for a voice youâve never heard, a scent youâve never breathed, a shadow youâve never chased. And more than anything, you wish you had a name to whisper, to give you hope.
You swallow, forcing a smile as you turn back to the couple. "Congratulations," you say, "Itâs a beautiful wedding."
"Thank you, Y/N!" Ha-rin squeals, practically glowing as she steps forward to hug you. "And thank you for being our photographerâI know you must be busy."
"Youâre welcome," you reply, adjusting your camera strap. "Itâs what I do, after all."
Ju-won steps in then, reaching for Ha-rinâs hand like he canât stand even a moment of space between them. "Thank you, Y/N," he says, his eyes never straying far from his wife.
They were your high school classmates. You remember the day they metâfirst year, first morning, when their eyes met across the classroom, and just like that, the red string appeared. They grew together, from awkward introductions to effortless friendship, and now, here they were, husband and wife.
A picture of everything the universe had promised them.
Ju-won leans in, pressing a kiss to Ha-rinâs cheek like itâs the first time, like they havenât spent years by each otherâs side. The look in their eyes is so easy, so full of love, that you have to look away.
You can't look.
"Uh, Iâll get some drinks," you say, forcing a smile that feels as out of place as you do. You donât wait for a response. You just turn, your heels clicking against the polished floor, head spinning as you try to count how many weddings youâve attended this year.
Or no. Youâve lost count.
Everyone you grew up withâyour friends, your classmatesâhave already found their soulmates. Most are married now, some already raising children.
Your heels dig into your feet with each hurried step, but you donât slow down. You just keep moving, past everyone. You know exactly where youâll end up. The same place you always do.
Alone at the sidelines.
You grab a drink, bringing it to your lips a little too quickly, hoping the cool burn will settle the unease twisting in your stomach.
"Hey! Itâs been a while!" A voice cuts calls out, familiarâbut not familiar enough. You turn to see a girl skidding towards you, her face vaguely recognizable. A former classmate? A clubmate? Someone who once sat next to you in a lecture hall?
"How have you been?" she asks, taking a drink for herself.
"Iâm fine, thanks," you reply, forcing an easy nod before taking another sip.
A second passes, and then another girl joins the conversation, breathless with laughter. "Beom-seok finally let me go," she teases, tilting her head toward the man across the roomâher soulmate. "The guyâs obsessed."
"Of course he is," the first girl grins. "Heâs your soulmate." She swirls her drink before adding, "Mine just got back from overseas. Heâll see me tomorrow once heâs in the city." And there it is againâcircling back to the same topic, the one you can never take part in. You nod, offering a small smile, pretending to listen.
Because what is there to say when everyone else has something you donât?
"Y/N?" Your name pulls you out of your thoughts.
"Huh?"
"Did you meet yours yet?" The question hits like a slow, squeezing ache in your chest.
"No," you say, reaching for another drink. It's embarrassing that everyone knows you're empty. "I haven't."
"That's⊠weird, right?" The first girl tilts her head, genuinely puzzled. "I mean, we sat through those lectures together. Didnât the studies say most people find their soulmate before twenty-five? Thatâs what the records say."
Thereâs no malice in her voice, just matter-of-fact. Like sheâs pointing out a statistic, saying out whatâs already been made painfully clear to you. itâs the same tired reminder, the same unspoken question: whatâs wrong with you?
Youâre used to it by now.
"Yeah," you say, unwilling to argue. Whatâs the point? Your mind slips back to those reckless high school daysâthe days when older girls, too cool and too cruel, mocked you for not having a soulmate. You remember snapping back, pretending their words didnât sting.
Later, the tears came on the bus ride homeâcarving rivers down your cheeks as you sob. Strangers offered tissues, soft words, awkward kindness, but none of it could stitch you back together. You remember your mother's words after seeing her home. To stop them from hurting you, you have to accept all of yourself.
But how do you accept the whole of you, when it doesnât even feel like you have all of you?
From the corner of your eye, you catch the second girl nudging her. "Donât mind her, Y/N," she says quickly. "She doesnât always think before she talks." Then, after a beat, she adds, "Have you tried dating in the meantime? You know, while you're waiting?"
You blink at her, taken aback.
"I mean, it's not like itâs cheating, right? Since you havenât met them yet."
You set your drink down, your fingers suddenly cold. "Why are you suggesting something you wouldnât even do?" Your voice is calm, but it makes her shift uncomfortably. "Or did you? Does your soulmate know?"
Neither of them speaks. Guilt in their expressions. You donât wait for an answer. You're done for tonight.
Itâs time to go.
You turn away, not bothering to look back. No one needs you hereâyour part is done. Your role here is over. You pull out your phone, quickly typing out a polite apology to the bride before slipping it back into your pocket.
The drive home is silent, and the buzz of the engine is the only company you have. Your hands grip the wheel a little too tightly, your thoughts drifting despite your best efforts to keep them at bay. When you finally reach your small apartment, you step out, clutching yet another wedding souvenir in one hand a meaningless token of a night that wasnât yours to celebrate.
You lock the door behind you and lean against it blinking, exhaling shakily. "I guess today wasnât the day either," you murmur to no one in particular, wiping away the single tear that managed to escape. "What's taking you so long?"
No matter how often you whispered this question, it never hurt any less.
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"What's taking you so long?"
Beomgyu groans from under the covers, trying to burrow deeper into the warmth of his bed. The sudden tug of his blanket makes him blindly reach out, attempting to grab it back. "You shiâ"
"Beomgyu, you're the last one. We're all almost ready to go," Soobin says, adjusting his belt in the mirror. "Look at this little child."
Beomgyu stretches with a dramatic yawn. "I'm up, I'm up," he mumbles, sitting up sluggishly and blinking against the light. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, feet landing on the bedside table. Soobin shakes his head but doesn't stick aroundâhis job is done. Beomgyu is finally awake.
Minutes later, Beomgyu trudges into the living room, hair a mess, voice still deep with sleep. "Are we eating there?"
The entire room turns to look at him.
"You woke up late, and thatâs the first thing you care about?" Yeonjun teases, shaking his head with a laugh.
"Well, I didnât eat last night," Beomgyu grumbles.
"Oh?"
"Liar," the maknae pipes up from the couch, casually applying lip balm. "You literally snuck out to eat."
"You snitch," Beomgyu gasps, feigning betrayal. "I didnât raise you to turn on me like this!"
"You? Raise me?" Kai scoffs. "Soobin hyungâs the one who raised me, what are you talking about?"
Soobin smirks and chucks Beomgyuâs towel straight at his face. "Exactly. Now go shower, you idiot."
Laughter erupts around the room as Beomgyu groans, trudging toward the bathroom. "Shower quick, hyung," Taehyun calls out.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever."
Beomgyuâs slightly damp hair clings to the back of his neck. He hadnât had time to dry it properly before they rushed out of the dormâthere was no room for delays today. A broadcast for their comeback. Another promotion. His stylist would handle it in the green room anyway.
They pile into the van, the usual quiet settling over them. Despite being fully dressed and ready, exhaustion hangs heavy. One by one, his members drift off, heads resting against windows, bodies slumped in their seats. Only Kai remains awake, lost in his own world, music pulsing through his earphones. The maknae was so engrossed on his phone, obviously texting with a small smile on his face.
Beomgyu sighs, pressing his forehead against the cool glass, his breath slightly fogging up the window. Today would be a long day. Rehearsals, performances, a challenge video, taping. He missed this. He missed MOAs. The rush of the stage. The high of performing. And thenâ
Oh.
The van slows at a red light, and his gaze drifts absentmindedly to the sidewalk. His chest tightens.
A couple walks by, laughing, hands intertwined, completely lost in their own world. The way they move together, effortlessly in sync. In love. Content. Happy. He stares longer than he should.
He can't look away.
His throat feels tight as the van lurches forward again, pulling him out of his thoughts. He blinks hard, shifting in his seat. The image stayed, pressed into the back of his mind.
All four of his members had already found theirsâtheir soulmates. The one they could lean on when the world became too loud. Beomgyu was happy for them, of course, he was. He remember how he was when Kai blushed when he met his soulmate recently, right after his 23rd birthday.
Everyone teased the maknae relentlessly for weeks.
Beomgyu had been too busy his whole life, training since he was just a kid, running full speed toward a dream. His mind is busy to the point he sometimes forgets it. He does not mean to. It's just thatâhe never let himself dwell on it for too long. Pushing it aside became second nature, the same way heâd forget to eat when he was too busy, too distracted.
But every year, without fail, when the room dimmed and the birthday candles in front of him, his wish was always the same.
His soulmate.
It didnât matter how many years passed or how much he achievedâwhen the glow of those tiny flames danced in his eyes, it was the only thing his heart whispered.
Beomgyu exhales shakily, his fingers curling into his hoodie. a quiet sigh slipping from his pouting lips.
Where are you?
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The stark white walls of the hospital room loom over, mocking your awkwardness.
"There's nothing wrong with you, dear," the woman in front of you says, her lab coat lending a sense of authority to her words. Her voice is gentle, reassuring, but it barely soothes the unease twisting in your chest. "Soulmates do tend to find each other early, statistically speaking. But thatâs just a pattern, not a guarantee."
You swallow hard. The lump in your throat stays put. "Is there⊠any chance this is a mistake?" Your voice is quieter than you intend, fragile in a way you hate. "That someone could go their whole life without one? Thatâ" you hesitate, your chest tightening, "that Iâm just⊠meant to be alone?"
Something flickers across her faceâpity, maybe. Youâre not sure. "Iâll look into it, I promise," she says after a moment. "I know twenty-six feels late, and I know itâs frustrating. But⊠trust in destiny a little longer. If you want, I can also recommend a therapist. I know the pressure can get to you."
Her words are meant to be comforting. They only make the weight in your chest heavier. You shake your head, managing a quiet âthank youâ before slipping out of the room, the door clicking shut behind you.
âHow was it?â Da-heeâs voice reaches you before you even look up. Sheâs already on her feet, eyes scanning your face, searching for an answer. âWhat did they say?â
âNothing I havenât heard before.â You sigh, walking past her. âI told you I should not do this.â
She huffs, crossing her arms as she falls into step beside you. âYou never tried it,â
Your best friend doesnât argue anymore, following you to the counter in silence. The cashier barely looks up as they say, âThat consultation is $120 total, plus taxes, bringing it to $145.86. Card or cash?â
You catch Da-hee reaching for her wallet, but you gently push her hand away. âDonât,â you murmur. âThis was for me.â
You hand over your card. A quick swipe, a faint beep. And just like that, youâre down nearly $150 with nothing to show for it but a sinking feeling in your stomach.
That much money for a consultation. A conversation. No treatment, no tests, nothing tangible. Soulmate doctors are expensive. Too expensive. And health insurance? Useless. They donât cover something as rare, as unquantifiable, as soulmate problems.
Because to them, itâs not a real sickness, proving that you areâonce againâthe outlier.
Perfect.
âCome on,â you say, nudging your still-guilty-looking friend. She follows you out of the hospital, quiet and pouting.
At the car, she pulls open the driverâs side door. âLet me at least drive?â she offers, voice softer now.
You chuckle at her persistence, shaking your head before tossing her the keys. âOkay.â Sliding into the passenger seat, you reach for the radio, as she pulls out of the parking lot.
"Let's hang out at your place," Da-hee says, and she grins as she sees you nod your head.
Music played softly through the speakers, blending with the casual flow of conversation. The air is light, and easyâuntil your car rolls past a towering black building.
HYBE.
Funeral wreaths. Trucks. Massive banners.
Your brows furrow as you take it in, the sight so jarring that it silences you for a beat. The road ahead clogs with slowed traffic, people lingering to gawk at the scene.
âWhat the fuck?â Da-hee mutters, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter, eyes darting across the scene. The traffic slows as more people crane their necks to look. You do the same, stomach twisting at the sheer scale of it. "This is insane."
âWhatâs going on?â you ask, still trying to piece together the meaning behind it all.
She exhales, lips pressing into a thin line. âLee Heeseung. An idol,â she starts. âNews got out that he recently went out with his soulmate.â Her voice dips, sadness flickering across her face. âAnd now⊠now, people want him out of the group.â
Your stomach twists. âWhat?â
You strain to read the bold, angry messages plastered across the banners:
GET LEE HEESEUNG OUT OF HYBE.
APOLOGIZE, LEE HEESEUNG.
EXPLAIN THIS, LEE HEESEUNG.
ENHYPEN IS NOW ONLY SIX.
IDOLS WITH SOULMATES ARE NOT IDOLS.
The messages feel suffocating, each one worse than the last. Then you see itâone of the trucks, its LED screen flashing an image like a public execution.
A man, young and striking, caught mid-laughter as he eats ramen with a girl beside him. Sheâs smiling too, her expression warm, content. The matching caps on their heads make them look like any ordinary couple, but the grainy, long-lens quality of the photo gives it away. Someone had been watching. Someone had been waiting to expose them.
Your stomach turns.
âItâs worse when so many fans are⊠young,â Da-hee murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. âMost of them are stringless.â She says the last word carefully like she doesnât want to offend you.
But you almost hear what she isnât saying.
Stringless people canât understand the soulmate bond. And when it comes to idols, that misunderstanding twists into darker. As insane as it sounds, they feel entitled. Possessive. Like their devotion should be enough. Like an idolâs lifeâwho they love, who they belong toâshould be theirs to control.
Itâs the only explanation, isnât it?
The car inches forward, and your eyes drift back to the scene outside. Security guards push against the surging crowd, their faces strained. The banners wave wildly, like battle flags in a war meant to punish.
You swallow hard. âI donât get it.â You donât know him. You don't need to know him to know the injustice of it. âWhy treat him like he committed some kind of crime? Heâs meant to have someone. Heâs a person, notââ You gesture vaguely at the protest, frustration bubbling up. âNot their property.â
Da-hee sighs. âThatâs why idols who are caught with their soulmatesâespecially the ones who confirm it, get cancelled. Fans turn on them. They lose everything.â She shakes her head, voice laced with exhaustion and resignation. âItâs sad that they have to hide it.â
The thought of society hating someone just for loving who theyâre meant to love makes your chest feel tight. How could something meant to be beautiful turn into this?
You guess your own situation isnât the only cruel, unfair thing in this world.
The two of you make it back to your apartment, settling in for a movie with a bowl of popcorn between you. The glow of the TV flickers across the room, a comfortable silence stretching between youâuntil Da-hee suddenly squeals, nearly knocking the popcorn over in the process.
âOh my god,â she gasps, shoving the popcorn bowl off her lap as she scrambles to her feet. âOH MY GOD.â She starts stomping in place.
You glance at her, unimpressed. âI want to wipe that ridiculous grin off your face.â
She just giggles and shoves her phone in front of you. âJoon bought me VVIP tickets. Iâm going to die.â She pumps a fist in the air, bouncing on her toes like a kid who just won the lottery. âAnd thereâs two. He canât goâoh my god. Please, please, I am begging you to come with me. Itâs next week! That sneaky bastard didnât even tell me he bought them ages ago.â
You hesitate, already feeling the excuse forming on your tongue. âI donât thinkââ
âCome on, Y/N.â She grabs your arm, shaking it dramatically. âLook at me. I have a soulmate, and I still thirst over Tomorrow X Together.â
You nearly choke on your drink. âThatâs a long-ass name.â
âTheyâre my babies,â she says, clutching her chest like sheâs been personally blessed by the gods. âYouâll love the show, I promise. And maybeâyouâll be like me. While you wait for your soulmate, itâs harmless to fangirl a little. OMG, what if you become a MOA? Thatâs my dream. Imagine us going to cafĂ©s with photocards, buying merch, collecting albumsââ
âOkay, first of all, they are grown men. Not babies.â you cut in before she spirals. You know from experience that once she starts talking about her fangirl life, she never stops. âAnyways, okay, Iâll go. But donât expect anything.â
Da-hee lets out another excited squeal before launching herself at you, wrapping her arms around your neck and squeezing way too tight.
âYou wonât regret this!â
You already do.
It was your turn to trail behind Da-hee like a lost puppy, weaving through the sea of fans decked out in carefully coordinated outfits. Everyone is well dressed. So prepared. Keychains and accessories dangled from their bags, the sound of clinking metal filling the air.
"Look at them," Da-hee suddenly stopped, pulling out her phone. You followed her gaze to the massive banner hanging outside the arena.
TOMORROW X TOGETHER
They... didnât look bad.
"My husbands," Da-hee sighed dreamily spinning turning to you with wide eyes. "Let's take a selfie!"
Before you could protest, she yanked you in, holding her phone high. The two of you posedâher grinning ear to ear, you looking like a reluctant daughter humoring her overexcited mom.
At the ticketing section, an attendant handed you both event wristbands and ID laces. You're about to shove yours into your pocket, but Da-hee looped it around your neck like a medal.
âSo you donât lose it,â she said firmly.
You sighed, adjusting the strap as you followed her toward a merch booth. Fans swarmed the display, eyes gleaming as they scanned the shelves stacked with albums, shirts, and accessories.
"Everyone's so hyped," you muttered, glancing around. "I can see a lot of Da-hees here."
"Of course they are," Da-hee said ignoring your last comment with a dramatic sway of her hand. She skimmed the display. "This comeback is a masterpiece."
You frowned. "What are we even doing here?"
"You need a picket." She says. "And donât even think about saying no. Iâm still heartbroken you refused the lightstick, so at least take this. Weâre gonna be right at the barricades, you canât just stand there empty-handed. Pick one."
You groaned, "Fine."
Your eyes sweep over the options, scanning each face printed on the glossy boards. You wonât say it out loudânot yetâbut youâll admit it now. Theyâre all⊠ridiculously handsome.
And one of them stands out.
Soft brown eyes. A small, almost knowing smile. Something about his face makes your breath hitch. "Uh..."
Da-hee leans in, brow furrowing. "What are you picking? Wait. Are you okay? Why are you so redâ"
"I'm not," You quickly pointed at the picket, avoiding her stare like your life depended on it. "This one."
A slow, mischievous grin spreads across her face. "Oh-ho." She turns to the waiting merch seller, smiling some more.
"One Beomgyu, please."
You followed her... once again.
You didnât have much of a choice. But this time, your steps felt⊠lighter. Movements are less reluctant than when you first arrived.
You werenât sure why. Maybe it was the way the heat had finally eased, the golden glow of late afternoon settling over the pavement. Maybe it was the way MOAsâtotal strangersâsmiled at you like you belonged, their warmth making you feel strangely at ease. Maybe it was the fact of not hearing the word soulmate even once. That you don't feel the odd one out.
Or maybeâjust maybeâit was the picket you now held carefully in your hands.
You didnât know how it happened. How you went from teasing Da-hee about her obsession to clutching a piece of laminated paper like it meant something. But the more you looked around, the more you understood.
It wasnât just about the idols printed on banners or the music playing faintly in the background. But also, it was about them. These people who glowed with excitement, who found joy in simply being here, in loving unapologetically.
You were sceptical of it at first, seeing the front of HYBE last week. The protest. But just like everything, you saw it. The good side of being a fan.
How they shinedânot only because of who they adored, but because of how they adored. How happy they were to love, and to share that love with everyone around them.
And somehow, standing here among them, you felt a little brighter, too.
"Where are we going now?"
"MOAZONE," Da-hee answers without hesitation, pulling you toward yet another booth. The concert doors wonât open for another thirty minutes, but sheâs on a mission. The funny thing isâshe doesnât really need to drag you anymore.
Something has settled in your bones. Youâre going to see this through, stay until the last song fades. And maybeâyouâll find yourself here again next time.
"Itâs a booth where you can pull a concert-exclusive photocard," she explains further, eyes shining with excitement.
You nod, letting her lead the way. The line is long. When itâs finally Da-heeâs turn, she gasps, then squeals so loudly people around her chuckle. "Yeonjun!" she cries, clutching the card to her chest like itâs the most precious thing in the world. "I got him!"
Then, itâs your turn.
A row of face-down cards is laid out before you. You donât think too hard about itâyou just point to one.
The staff hands it over, and when you flip it, your breath catches.
"You got Beomgyu?!" Da-hee shrieks, bouncing on her toes beside you. You barely hear her. Because there he is.
Elbow propped up, chin resting on his hand, that same small, knowing smileâonly this time, itâs wider.
Fucking hell.
Da-hee grabs your arm, shaking you. "Girl, you are officially a Beomgyu magnet. I'm unfriending you if don't start liking them,"
Beomgyu.
Beomgyu. His name loops in your mind, over and over. And for some reason, it fits. His name suits him.
You tried your best not to break a smile. "Come on,"
If you had told yourself a year ago that youâd be hereâcrammed into a packed venue, surrounded by screaming teenagersâyou wouldâve laughed. Hard.
And yet, here you are, laughing. Not at the absurdity of it, but with it. Caught up in the moment with Da-hee, the crowdâs energy vibrates as hundreds of voices chant their names.
âItâs soundcheck first,â Da-hee leans in, her voice barely cutting through the noise. âThen the main concert.â
You nod, still grinning. âOkay.â
Then, the opening notes of a song play through the speakers. The crowd erupts. âOh my god!â Da-hee shrieks, âItâs Deja Vu!â
The five of them step onto the stage. Itâs a blurâlights flashing, voices screaming. Your heart pounds against your ribs as the music swells, wrapping around you like something alive.
Itâs beautiful.
A tall manâeasily the tallestâmoves toward your section, waving with an easy smile, deep dimples carving into his soft-looking cheeks. It reminds you of bread. The warmth of it is infectious, and before you even realise it, you're waving back, grinning at someone whose name you didnât even know this morning.
Then, the song begins to wind down. And thatâs when you see him.
Beomgyu.
His steps are slower than the others, like heâs taking his time, scanning the crowd with careful eyes. You tell yourself not to look. Not when he gets closer. Not when that strange, restless nervousness twists in your stomach. You clench your fists and stare at the ground. Why? Why does this feel so overwhelming?
Around you, voices grew. The energy shifts, and you know itâs only a matter of time before you give in. You look up, unsure.
The mic is at his lips, his voice singing into the melodyâuntil suddenly, he stops.
All because his eyes meet yours.
Everything else fades. The crowd, the shake of Da-hee beside you, even the music that was supposed to be loud. All thatâs left is the pullâa red thread stretching between, searing itself into your vision, blinding in its intensityâdemanding to be seen.
On stage, he stands impossibly still, his fingers gripping the mic like he sees it too.
It can't be real.
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âWe're trending again,â Taehyun says, flopping onto Beomgyuâs hotel bed with a sigh. âWhat the hell?â
Beomgyu leans back against the headboard, âHow much time do we have?â
Taehyun checks his watch. âPractice is in⊠oh. Hours.â He exhales, shaking his head in awe. âThis is actually happening. A sold-out stadium, Beomgyu. Can you believe that? Remember that tiny, run-down building we used to train in? The cracked floorboards, the growing mushrooms?â He laughs, eyes distant.
âWhen Yeonjun used to sneak his soulmate in, trying to show off like he was already famous? As a trainee. And nowânow, weâre here.â
Beomgyu snorts. âIn that practice room, too. I still donât know how his soulmate put up with that. Or how Yeonjun didnât get kicked out.â
âYeah. They just couldnât let go of each other.â Taehyun laughs, shaking his head. âAnd I don't think Big Hit will let go of him too."
It had been one of the first rules drilled into them during trainingâno soulmates. No... searching. And if they already had one? They had to tell them. Have the conversation. An agreement that would turn everything into a secret.
Soulmates were inevitable, unstoppable. Beomgyu still remembers the contract in his hands, the way he read every word over and over, heart pounding. As if somewhere in the fine print, there was a clause that might hurt his soulmate. In the end, he signed.
If he ever found his soulmate, no one could know. Not until everything was over. In other words, disbandment.
"I'm missing her like crazy these days."
Beomgyu doesnât respond right away. He just shrugs, tossing things out of his suitcaseâa hoodie, a toothbrush, whatever his hands find first. He had noticed how restless Taehyun had been, the way he kept his phone glued to his hands, typing, hesitating, typing again. But what was there to say? What could he do about it?
The others were good at pretending. Hiding. The quiet hotel meetups, the stolen hours between schedules. But if Beomgyu was being honest, he could count on both hands the number of times any of the four had actually been with their soulmates since debut.
The fear of getting caught kept them all in line. Not just by the company, but by the fans. The horror stories werenât just industry rumoursâsome were ancient, some recent.
If this doesnât work out, I donât know if I can take it. Taehyun had said that once. This career was everything. He wasnât going to risk it. He wasn't ready. And Beomgyu understood. Everyone understood. He could already picture the protest trucks outside the company building if anyone ever slipped up.
"You heard anything from Heeseung?" Taehyun asks, his voice careful, his fingers tightening around his phone. Beomgyu knows him well enough to catch the shiftâthe way his mind drifts, went from missing his soulmate to remembering the latest scandal in their world.
Heeseung, the newest idol thrown into the fire.
He, who got caught with his soulmate.
"Yeah," Beomgyu says, swallowing. "He's okay, but⊠his soulmate is taking the worst of it."
Taehyun stills. The thought of his own soulmate being dragged into something like thatâstarts to burn at the back of his mind. What if it were her?
"Hey, don't overthink it," Beomgyu says because he sees it. He sees it in all of them. The quiet way they carry it, that they arenât supposed to want. In their world, the idea that you should be free with your soulmate is just thatâan idea. Or maybe worse. A peril. A risk too big to take.
He remembers Soobin crying once, blaming himself for wanting this lifeâthis job. And how, in the end, the only person who could calm him down was his soulmate. The same person the company treated like a liability. Yet, the only one with the power to bring their leader back to himself.
The irony.
He also remembers the night he sat with his dad, asking him how he knew Mom was his. He had tilted his head, recounting their encounter, before he said one thing that stuck with him.
"Before I even saw the string, I knew⊠it was her."
Beomgyu used to cringe at that. Now, he wonders if he'll ever get the chance to feel it.
âDid you see everyone? Insane.â Yeonjun says, eyes wide as they sit in the salon-like chairs. âTheyâve been out there since last night.â
Kai glances at him as much as he can without moving his head, his makeup artist carefully blending eyeshadow. âYeah, I saw them. MOAs are bundled up out there, and itâs freezing. It's worrying me.â
"I feel like I'm about to throw up. I'm nervous,"
Playing a stadiumâa sold-out one, this is the dream. The one every trainee chases, the one Beomgyu used to stare at the ceiling imagining, too afraid to believe it could ever be real. And yet, here it is.
His mind pulls him back to the past. The long nights, the aching muscles, the quiet sobs muffled into his pillow. The moments of doubt, the voicesâhis own, the other'sâtelling him he wasnât enough. He remembers how hard they worked. How hard he worked. How many times they shared one meal because they couldn't afford another one. And still, somehow, they held on.
He knows he earned this, and fought for it with everything he had. But standing here now, bathed in the price of it all, it still doesnât feel real. He stares at his hands once his stylist is done with his eyes. Thereâs something else tugging at him, a strange feeling thatâs been lurking since morning.
What it is, he canât quite say.
Beomgyu's eyes sweep over the big space. The kind of big that makes his head spin if he thinks about it too much. In a few hours, this place will be much packed. Heâs beenâon stages just like this, under lights just as bright but somehow, it still knocks the wind out of him.
It's soundcheck. He likes it because, with the lights up, he can actually see everyone. It was one of the rare moments he could see faces. He likes it as much as the offline fan signs. They move through the set, running back and forth across the stage, but his feet keep pulling him toward one sideâlike an instinct.
Beomgyu likes looking at MOAs. It feels good. Familiar, almost. Sometimes, he even recognizes a faceâ it was a feeling like a reminder of home, a classmate from school, someone heâd seen before. And then thereâs the simple joy of it all. The way someoneâs face brightens up because of him. It never gets old. It never stops making him happy, too.
But then, he notices one weird thing.
Itâs strange. Heâs right here. He could understand if you were looking at another memberâfans have their favourites, after all. But youâre not looking at anyone. You're staring at the floor?
Youâre not looking at all.
He tilts his head, trying to see betterâto get a curious glimpse, and suddenly, his whole world shifts. His heart slams to a stop. Itâs so sudden, so overwhelming, he almost stumbles forward, yanking him toward the barricade. "What?"
And thenâyou move, as if you heard his thoughts.
Just the slightest turn of your head, your face lifting, eyes locking onto his. He stops breathing. His fingers go numb around the mic. Everything slows, softens, blurs at the edges until thereâs nothing but this moment. Just the two of you, staring.
The closeness of Beomgyu makes the crowd shift, bodies pressing closerâbut you donât move. You just stand thereâstill, steadyâwhile the rest of the world shifts around you. Like the last grain of sand in an hourglass, holding on as everything else rushes past.
He swears he wouldâve stayed like that foreverâfrozen, staring, lostâif not for the firm hand on his shoulder. A small tug. He blinks, the spell breaking just enough for reality to slip back in.
"Beomgyu? What's wrong?" Soobin. His leader gives him a look of worry and urgency, and thatâs when he hears it, the music. He closes his agape lips, and clears his throat. The song is still playing. Right. Heâs supposed to beâ
But then his gaze flickers back to you.
Itâs nothing, he tells himself. Youâre just so so pretty. Thatâs all. Maybe it was your eyes or your hair or the way you did it. It was just fucking cute. It doesnât mean anything. Andâ
His breath falters. He sees it.
He hadnât noticed before. He had been too busy looking at you. Too caught up in the moment that he missed it entirely. Something all of the members have. Something Beomgyu had waited for his whole life.
The thread.
Thin, and so impossibly red. A string stretched between, glowing faintly under the stage lights. He looks down at his handâat his ring fingerâ it's tied there. His eyes trace its path. To you. His chest tightens.
"Before I even saw the string, I knew⊠it was her."
Soulmate.
Youâre his. After everythingâafter all this timeâ
He finally found you.
The dressing room is a blur of movement, stylists rushing, last-minute adjustments being made, and voices overlapping but he just sits there. Staring at the floor.
Heâs dressed. Heâs ready. He should be used to this by now, the pre-show jitters, the nervous energy that always sits in his chest before he steps on stage. Butâhis soulmate is out there. Somewhere in the crowd. And the thought grips him so tight it almost hurts. What if he never sees you again? What if youâre gone before he can find you?
Your face lingers in his mind, vivid and haunting. The way the lights hit your dress, the way you looked at himâit knocked the breath right out of his lungs. He was completely unprepared for it. You were so beautiful that he almost forgot what he was doing.
Heâs never been shaken like that before. Not in his personal life. Not as an idol. Not in school, at the company, on stage, meeting seniors, at award showsânever.
Waiting for the music queue, he finally lifts his head.
Muscle memory takes over. His body knows what to do. Heâs trained for this, conditioned for it. Every movement, every note, every expressionâitâs muscle memory now. His instincts take over before his thoughts can catch up. This is his life. His career. The one thing he chose, out of everything he could have been. How many people in the world get to do this? To stand under those lights, to hear thousands of voices calling his name, to live a dream most wouldnât even dare to chase?
Would he trade it all, just to see you again?
His feet moveâbefore he can stop them, despite his thoughts, his heart pulls him stronger toward your section. It's a force beyond his control. When he finally sees you again, it feels like a miracle. Youâre still near the barricade, still close enough that he doesnât have to search.
He keeps up, waves, and makes facesâthings for MOAs, things heâs done a thousand times before. But his mind isnât on them. Itâs on you. And youâre just standing there again, frozen in place like you donât trust yourself to move.
He waves again, but this time, itâs for you. Directly. You tilt your head, hesitant, and thenâan unsure wave back. Itâs so small, so subtle, but it makes him smile. His grin spreads before he can think twice.
Got you, beautiful.
He pumps his fist in an exaggerated show of triumph, like he just won a game only the two of you are playing. He watches as your eyes go wide, and if the lights werenât so blinding, he swears heâd see the warmth rising to your cheeks. He fists his hand, trying to hold back from reaching out to you.
He crouches, and the fans around you surge forward, eager to be seen, but you donât move. And then, he sees itâyour eyes kept flickering downward, tracing the thread again and again, like you were making sure.
Yet you see it perfectly too.
You smileâsmall, hesitant, like youâre not sure this is really happening. Then, as if on impulse, you lift your hand, forming a careful, uncertain hand heart.
He doesnât even wait a second before returning it.
His eagerness made you laugh. A breathless, disbelieving kind of laugh. He canât hear it, not over the noise of the crowd, but he sees it in the way your shoulders shake, the way your eyes crease at the corners. His chest aches.
You're even more beautiful when you laugh.
He tosses a few kisses out into the air, but he gives his last kiss, the last one to you. You hesitate for only a second before sending one back. His response is instantâdramatic, ridiculousâclutching his chest like youâve just shot him straight through the heart. He stumbles back, clutches at his clothes, so completely gone for you.
Itâs meant to be a joke, but it isnât.
Because you do have his heart, donât you? And the strangest thing is, he doesnât even know your name. Has never heard your voice. But right now, none of that matters. Maybe heâd stay here forever if he could, but the next song cut through the air, pulling him back to the present. His feet move, leading him awayâaway from you.
Before he joins the centre, just for a second, he looks back. A second to meet your eyes again, to make sure you're watching him.
And you are.
"Hyung," he breathes out.
Soobin turns, both of them standing still as stylists tug their sweat-drenched shirts off, replacing them with fresh ones.
But Beomgyu isnât thinking about the show anymore.
Heâs looking at Soobin. Waiting. Searching for the right way to ask without anyone else catching on. He doesnât want them to hear. Doesnât want them to know.
Not yet.
Soobin frowns slightly. âWhat? You've been looking distracted since earlier. Are you okay?â
âYour soulmateâŠâ His eyes flicker down. He hesitates, searching for the right words. The right way to say this. "AtâTokyo? How did youâŠ?"
He doesnât need to finish the thought. How can the older forget the only time he managed to sneak his soulmate backstage? Soobin stares at Beomgyu. The latter's face is practically screaming his questions. How did you do it? How did you get them backstage? How did you make it happen?
Beomgyu has to see you. In front of him. Next to him. Because what if you disappear? What if he lets this slip through his fingers, and suddenlyâyouâre just gone? And what if this is his only chance?
The room moves around himâzippers, voices, fabric rustlingâbut all he can hear is his own ragged breathing. He moves his eyes. And there, watching him is their leader who knows him better than anyoneâwith that equally knowing look on his face.
"Let's talk. Just the two of us."
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Beomgyu is your soulmate.
The boys just disappeared backstage, their song still ringing in your ears, but your hands wonât stop shaking. Your chest is tight, your throat burns, and thereâs a sting at the corners of your eyes.
You're not a mistake. Heâs here. He saw you.
His eyes, his smile. The way he moves, the faint dimple that appears when he does. The thought is too muchâit makes your knees weak, and forces you to grip the barricade to keep yourself upright.
"Girl, I swear Beomgyu kept looking over here," Da-hee says, nudging you, completely oblivious to the storm unraveling in your chest. Then she catches sight of your faceâat your trembling fingers, at the way you canât seem to catch your breath.
âY/N?â Her voice softens. âWhatâs wrong?â
The words leave your lips before you can even think. "I saw my soulmate."
Your voice shakes, barely above a whisper, but Da-hee hears it. Her eyes go wide. "Wait, what? Oh my godâwhere is he? Is he a MOA? Is heââ
She doesnât even get to finish the thought before she freezes.
It clicks.
Then, slowly, her face shiftsâfrom confusion to shock to absolute disbelief. The finding out, then the realising. She stares at you, her mouth slightly open, her hands hovering in the air like she doesnât know what to do with them.
âOh my fucking god.â Her hands fly to her mouth, like she needs to physically stop herself from screaming. Then she grabs her hair, like thatâs going to help her process this.
âIs heâis Beomgyuââ She cuts herself off, whisper-shouting now, eyes darting toward the stage, toward the place where he just was. âIs that why he kept coming back over here?â
Her grip tightens on your arm, searching your face, waiting for you to confirm what she already knows. But you canât say anything. All you can give is a small nod.
Minutes pass. The music swells and fades, song after song drifting through the speakers.
Da-hee stays by your side, rubbing soothing circles on your back, whispering reassurances you canât fully process. At some point, you catch her sniffling into her hands, wiping away her own tears.
Sixteen years.
Sixteen years of friendship, of growing up together, of knowing each other better than anyone else ever could. Sheâs seen every version of youâthe messy, the broken, the parts of you even you struggled to accept. Sheâs cried with you, cried for you, carried your grief like it was her own. Even after finding her own soulmate, she never left you behind. Never made you feel like you were missing something, like you were less.
And nowânow sheâs the reason youâre here.
Sheâs the reason you met him.
You think of every birthday candle she ever closed her eyes for, every whispered wish she made on your behalfâbecause she believed that if two people wished for the same thing, the universe had to listen.
And maybe she was right.
It doesnât matter if he never speaks to you. If the lights were too bright, if the crowd was too big, if he never even saw the thread at all.
It doesnât matter. Because you saw it.
And that means you were never a mistake. Never some error in the grand design.
He exists.
Da-hee squeezes your hands, grounding you as a woman in staff uniform approaches. Her eyes lock onto yours, scanning your face, your outfitâlike sheâs confirming, making sure. Then, she stops directly in front of you. âWe need to check some information on your tickets.â
Your heart slams against your ribs. Youâre not stupid. You know what this is. You know they wouldnât say it outright, not here, not in front of all these people.
âIâI have a friend with me,â
The staff member hesitates, studying you for a beat too long. Then she nods. âShe can come with you, but sheâll have to wait in the holding room.â
You turn to Da-hee, and sheâs already looking at you, her eyes wide and glassy. For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then she forces a wobbly smile.
Let's go.
Youâre going to meet Beomgyu.
The walk was terrifying. Your hands clench tighter with every step, nails digging into your palms, but it does nothing to steady you. Every passing glance burns into your skinâpeople sneaking curious glancesâstaff members, crew, people who know exactly why youâre here.
Da-hee had to stay behind in the outer lounge. Now, itâs just you and the staff member leading you deeper into the backstage hallways. The air is thick, suffocating, and you force yourself to breathe through it.
Then she stops. A white door stands in front of you. Dressing Room is printed neatly on a sign, but the words blur as your mind spins.
She knocks. Opens it.
Panic rushes in. What if he doesnât want this? What if he only let you come here to reject youâto tell you, to your face, that even if the universe says youâre meant to be, he doesnât want you? What ifâ
The thought vanishes the second you see him.
Beomgyu.
Heâs mid-step, like heâs been pacing. He removes his hands from his face, his eyes widening just slightly before he clears his throat. âCome in,â he says, voice softer than you expected. Itâs meant for the staff member, but his gaze never left yours.
The staff steps aside, gesturing for you to enter. Heat crawls up your neck as you force yourself to move, hyper-aware of the way heâs watching every step.
âYou have 60 minutes, Beomgyu,â she says before closing the door behind you.
Beomgyu stares at you, and you stare back.
For a moment, neither of you move. Just standing there, eyes locked, as if the world has paused just for this. To anyone else, it might look awkwardâbut you can't look away as he does.
Your eyes traces over his face, bare and fresh like he just washed up. The soft curve of his cheekbones, the freckles and moles scattered like constellationsâproof that the universe took its time with him. Perfect in a way that makes your chest ache.
He blinks, and your eyes catch on his lashesâdelicate, dark, fluttering against his skin like something out of a dream.
How can someone be made this perfect?
The question lodges itself in your throat, and before you can stop it, your vision blurs. Tears threaten to spill, but you blink them away. You donât even know if he wants this yetâ
"Whatâs your name?" Beomgyu asks, his voice quieter than he expected. He watches the way you blink, the slight parting of your lips like you hadnât expected him to speak first.
His hands curl into fists at his sides. The urge to reach outâto cup your face, to feel your skinâis overwhelming. But he holds himself back.
Beomgyu has never considered himself the kind of person to take the first step. But not this. Not with you. He wants to start a conversation, anythingâto get you talking, to hear your voice, to know you.
"Y/N." The sound of your voice stills him. It settles in his chest, not as something new, but as something he swears heâs always knownâlike a song heâs heard in a dream, waiting to be remembered. His lips twitch into a small, almost dazed smile.
Your voice is so pretty, he thinks. So pretty that it hurts.
He repeats your name, slower this time, rolling it over his tongue like heâs memorizing the way it feels to say it. And when you smileâjust the faintest curve of your lipsâhis own smile widens into a grin.
"So, uh, hi?" Beomgyu says, and it pulls a laugh from you. His heart stumbles over itself at the sound, warmth blooming in his chest. Itâs ridiculous, really, how easily you affect him.
"Did you come here alone?" he asks, trying to steady himself.
"I was with a friend," you say, and his eyes flickerâjust for a secondâto your lips before settling back on yours. "Sheâs outside."
"Hm." Beomgyu nods slowly, as if letting the thought settle. Then, slowly, he reaches outâhis palm open, facing up, an unspoken invitation for you to give your hand out.
Your breath catches. Hesitation flickers for just a moment before you place your hand in his. Beomgyu feels warmth creep up his neck the second your skin meets, a flush he hopes you donât notice. His fingers curl gently around yours, testing the weight of your hand in his own.
"Come on," he says, his voice softer now. He tugs you forwardâcareful, gentle, afraid he's hurt you in any way if he pulls too hard. "You should sit. You must be tired from standing out there."
"I could say the same," you murmur as you both sink into the couch. Beomgyu turns slightly toward you, his knee brushing yours, but he doesnât let go of your hand. His thumb traces absentminded circles against your skin. "You danced and ran around the stage all night," you add, tilting your head at him.
He chuckles, the sound low and a little breathless. Your eyes drift around the roomâclothing racks, scattered bags, the quiet remnants of a space that had been buzzing with energy just minutes ago.
"Yeah, I was pretty tired," he admits. Then, after a pause, softer this time, when you look at him again, heâs already staring. "But not anymore."
Beomgyu takes in everythingâyour lips, the way the light catches in your eyes, the soft of your hand in his. He doesnât even think before he speaks, before the thought thatâs been looping in his head since he first saw you finally slips past his lips.
"God, you're so beautiful."
Beomgyu watches as your cheeks flush, the warmth creeping up your skin like the slow bloom of dawn. He knewâyou were his soulmate. Fates stitched together long before this moment, yet nothing could have prepared him for the way you looked right now. He never imagined that watching you blush under his words would feel this intoxicating.
"Youâre the one whoâs beautiful," you murmur, barely above a whisper. The words feel foreign on your tongue, yet true in a way that unsettles you. You clear your throat, trying to mask the way your heart stumbles over itself, but Beomgyu only tightens his grip on your hand.
You wonder how you even got here. This morning, you woke up with no idea that by evening, you'd be sitting across from your soulmate, flirting like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He chucklesâBeomgyu has heard the word beautiful more times than he can count. Itâs been thrown at him in passing, whispered through screams from fans, printed in glossy magazines. But somehow, from your lips, it sounds different.
The next few minutes passed in easy conversation. Beomgyu had already pieced together bits of your lifeâyou were only here because Da-hee dragged you alongâheâd been hoping to meet her too, if only to thank her.
He knew you worked a corporate job, that photography was your escape. That you were two years older than him, a fact that he immediately latched onto, whispering noona in a teasing lilt just to see the way youâd roll your eyes laugh and swat his arm. But the truth was, he didnât want to call you that. It was your name he wanted to say. He felt like heâd already spent a lifetime missing it, and now that he knew it, he never wanted to stop saying it.
You had learned things about him, too. That heâd loved music since he was a kid, that he picked up a guitar before he fully understood its chords. That he was cast as a trainee before he even hit the climax of his teenage years, and that six years had passed since he debuted. Things you could have easily searched online, or you could have read every article, and watched every interview, but nothing made your heart flutter quite like the way he told his own story.
The contrast between your lives was undeniable. Maybe thatâs why it took so long for fate to push you toward each other.
While you were drowning in homework, he was in a practice room, chasing a dream. While you sat through lectures and worried about exams, he was in a studio, recording songs that would echo through stadiums. While you cried over a failed job interview, he stayed up until dawn, running through choreography again and again until his legs gave out. Your societyâwere parallel lines moving in different directions.
But sitting here, watching him scrunch his nose in laughter, none of that seemed to matter. Two people from different worlds, felt like it had faded into oneâjust by being next to each other.
He hadnât once let go of your hand for the past hour.
"No, I justâI didnât know where else to put it, so I stuck it there." You fumble for an excuse, cheeks burning as Beomgyu grins at you. He had spotted the photocard of him tucked into the back of your phone case, and he hadnât let it go since.
âAnd it was random,â you add quickly, feeling your face heat up. âYou have to randomly pick it.â
The truth is, Beomgyu knows. He knows it was a random selection. He knows youâre flustered. And he loves it. Loves the way you try to explain yourself, loves hearing you ramble, loves the way your face heats up under his stare. And to be honest, if it had been another memberâs face staring back at him, no matter how petty it sounded, he also knows he wouldnât have been too thrilled about it.
Heâs in deep.
"Beomgyu, it's time to go." The same staff member says, pulling you both back to reality. You didn't even hear the doors opening. Her eyes flicker to your joined hands for a second, but she doesnât say anythingâjust turns and steps outside.
You glance at Beomgyu, and heâs pouting. "Weâre flying to Japan tomorrow morning, Y/N."
"Oh." The thought hadnât even crossed your mind. You just met your soulmate, and by morning, heâd be gone. "Okay."
You stand up, expecting him to do the same, but he doesnât move. Your hands dangle between you because he still hasnât let go. "Beomgyu?"
"Iâll see you as soon as I get back, okay?" His voice is softer now, like heâs trying to find the right words. His gaze lingers on you, unreadable for a moment, before he finally stands. He squeezes your hands gently. "It wonât be too long."
"Alright⊠we have each other's numbers, so⊠text me."
"Just know your phone might be buzzing non-stop,"
"Got it." You roll your eyes, smiling. "Iâll survive."
"And wear warm clothesâitâs winter."
"You too."
"Eat on time."
"Youâre the one doing concerts. I should be the one saying that."
He ignores your deflection, pressing on. "Sleep well. Lock your doors properly. You live alone, so itâs dangerous. Donât go out too late. And if you do, call me, okay? Actually, Iâd prefer if you didnât go out too late at all. Pleaseâmake sure you donâtâ"
He doesnât get to finish. Before he can say another word, you reach up, sliding your arms around the back of his neck, pulling him into a hug. His words cut off instantly, replaced by a soft inhaleâlike he hadnât breathed since he started speaking. Your heart squuezes over itself at his endless concern, spreading through your chest. Blinking rapidly, trying to push away the tears threatening to spill.
For the first time tonight, Beomgyu lets go of your handâonly to wrap both arms around you, one firm around your waist, the other reaching up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair.
"Iâll see you soon, Beomgyu," you murmur.
You feel him tilt his head slightly before pressing a fleeting, warm kiss to your temple. "Iâll see you soon."
Elevators terrify you. It scares you because it feels like everything could come crashing down at any second. Why would you trust something that rises so quicklyâtoo fast?
It can't last, doesn't it?
You feel him snuggle to you more, and you chuckle, pressed against him, his scent, his arms around you, holding you safelyâhis heartbeat steady beneath your cheek, as if whispering that the fall you fear will never come.
Elevators terrified you.
You wish you could have captured Da-heeâs face when she saw you walking over with Beomgyu beside you, his hand resting firmly on your back. Her eyes widened, mouth slightly agape, before she shot you a knowing look.
Beomgyu offered her a quick thanks, the paper bag with your heels swinging from your hands, and you stood there in the fresh pair of sneakers heâd somehow found in your sizeâbecause he wanted to. His eyes met yours for just a second longer before he turned to leave.
The second you stepped into the parking lot, Da-hee lost it. She let out a squeal so loud you had to clamp a hand over her mouth, laughing as she practically vibrated with excitement. "What just happened?!" she whispered against your palm, her eyes sparkling.
That night, as soon as you got home, your phone rang. His name lit up the screen.
It took only a second before answering.
It was awkward at firstâneither of you really knowing what to sayâbut before you knew it, you were talking about everything and nothing, voices laced with exhaustion but neither willing to hang up first. He was leaving in a few hours, and you had to be the one to convince him to sleep, reminding himâmore than onceâthat he had a flight to catch.
You had just curled up in your blankets when your phone buzzed again. Dozy, you reached for it, thumb swiping across the screen.
Choi Beomgyu Iâm sorry for making you wait. I promise weâll make up for all the time we lost. Sleep well, beautiful.
Even as sleep pulled you under, the smile on your lips never faded.
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You wake up to the relentless ringing of your doorbell. A groan slips past your lips as you burrow deeper into your blankets. Itâs Sunday. No work. No alarms. Just sleepâat least, that was the plan.
The doorbell rings again.
With an exaggerated sigh, you drag yourself out of bed, doing the bare minimum to look somewhat presentable. Your hair is probably a mess, your face still puffy from sleep, but you donât care. Whoever decided to disturb your well-earned rest better have a damn good reason.
You glance at the clock on your way out. Oh. Itâs not even earlyâitâs almost 1 PM.
Squinting against the bright light as you crack the door open, youâre met with a sight that instantly wakes you up. A delivery man stands there, arms full, holding the biggest bouquet of red roses youâve ever seen. The sheer number of petals is overwhelming, a deep sea of crimson spilling over the edges of his grasp.
"Whatâ" Your brain struggles to catch up, and then it clicks. Beomgyu. He asked for your address yesterday.
"Y/N?" The man confirms, struggling under the bouquet.
Your eyes widen. "Damn, just how many are in there?"
"Three hundred and fifteen roses," he says, barely holding onto the mass of flowers. "Please sign here."
Three hundred and fifteen. Youâre smiling as you take the pen from him.
You stumble slightly, still half-dazed as you carefully set the massive bouquet down, trying not to crush a single petal. Your fingers tremble as you reach for the small card nestled between the roses, your heart already beating a little too fast.
315 months of not being with you. This wonât make up for it, but I hope it makes you happy.
You inhale sharply. Your chest tightens. 315 months. He counted. Beomgyu counted the exact number of months youâve been aliveâhow does he even think like this? Tears prick at your eyes before you can stop them. Heâs ridiculous. Heâs thoughtful in a way that completely undoes you.
Before you even realise what youâre doing, youâre running. Not walkingârunning. Because suddenly, every second without hearing his voice feels like a second wasted.
Your fingers fumble as you dial his number, pressing the phone to your ear. It barely rings once before the line clicks openâlike he had been waiting for this call all along. âBeomgyuââ your voice comes out uneven, breathless.
He chuckles softly, âSo⊠I take it you liked it?â
Itâs already 3 PM.
Somehow, you lost track of time, carefully splitting the bundle into smaller arrangements, placing them in vases around your apartment. Now, your living room and kitchen are drenched in the scent of rosesânot that youâre complaining.
Beomgyu had stayed on the phone with you the entire time, talking about his morning, his voice in the background as you worked. That is, until someone called for him on the other end, reminding him he had things to do.
You sighed when the call ended. It's sunday, and his sunday is like the worst day of your week. And you're here, resting.
Now, fresh out of the shower, droplets of water still clung to your skin as you stepped onto the cool tile. A shiver ran down your spine as you grabbed a towel, pressing it to your face, inhaling the soft, familiar scent of fabric softener.
Dressed in cozy clothes, you curled up on the couch, remote in one hand, a bowl of yogurt and berries resting on your lap. Television played softly as you mindlessly scrolled through channels, enjoying the quiet.
Until your phone buzzed. You unlocked it, eyes immediately landing on the message.
Nut-job Da-hee. Girl! He's extra glowy today!! OMG <link>
You tapped the link, expecting a video to pop up, but instead, it directed you to download an app. You went along with it, quickly signing in and typing out a cheeky username.
The video loadedâSoobin and Beomgyu, in a hotel room. A small table sat near the camera, cluttered with food containers and drinks. Beomgyu was on the bed, lounging comfortably but still close enough to be part of the frame.
And Da-hee wasnât exaggeratingâhe looked good. The black shirt fit him just right, his dark hair falling effortlessly, lips tinted a soft pink. A phone in hand, completely unaware of just how stunning he looked.
An idea sparked in your mind.
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"It's not barley tea, MOA," Beomgyu laughs, shaking his head as Soobin insists otherwise. No matter how many times their leader repeats himself, the comments keep flooding in, doubting him.
"Choi Beomgyu really traumatized you, huh?" he teases, eyes crinkling with amusement.
"What do you mean?" Beomgyu argues, but Soobin is already moving on, reading a new comment aloud. "Barley tea is healthy,"
Just then, Beomgyuâs phone buzzes. He glances down at the screen.
My Y/N Live?
His back immediately straightens. Shit. Youâre watching? Heâs about to type out a response when another message pops up.
You look handsome.
Beomgyu presses a hand over his mouth, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. He wants toâ
"Beomgyu, MOAs are asking what you're doing," Soobin interrupts, his eyes full of silent curiosity.
"Nothing," Beomgyu says too quickly. "Kai sent a meme." He shifts closer to the camera, Soobin right beside him. With his phone in his hands, he types a message, fully aware that Soobin is peeking at his screen. They probably look ridiculousâboth of them staring down at their phones while thousands of people watch.
You're watching?
A few seconds pass before your reply pops up.
Yes.
Beomgyu inhales, trying to focus as Soobin keeps talking. His fingers move instinctively.
I'm shy.
Why? You look good.
A pause. Then another message.
Wait, stop looking at your phone. Let MOA see you? Username: 315flowersmyass.
Beomgyu chokes on a laugh. His lips curl up as he locks his phone and holds it up to the camera, as if to prove heâs done. As if to prove that he followed your words.
"So cute," he sings, the words slipping out without thought. The chat erupts, MOAs spamming hearts and messages.
Then he catches it.
315flowersmyass kekekeke -
His grin stretches wider. He closes his face on the screen. "Hi, MOA." He giggles.
Thisâthis is cute. Heâs always enjoyed going live, but now he knows youâre watching, he discovers a love for it he never even knew was possible.
The live eventually comes to an end. As soon as it does, Soobin turns to Beomgyu with a knowing smile. "I'm happy you finally found her," he says simply. Beomgyu doesnât respond right awayâjust smiles, warmth spreading through his chest. Then his phone buzzes.
He checks it, and the moment he does, a gasp slips past his lips.
Itâs a picture. You.
A snack is held near your face, your expression relaxed. Youâre in cozy clothes, looking effortlessly beautiful, breathtaking. The picture made Beomgyu wish he could fly back to you right there and then. Over his shoulder, Soobin leans in. "Is that her?" he asks, then grins. "She's pretty."
Beomgyu doesnât look away from his phone as his lips curl into a smile.
"She is," he murmurs, almost to himself.
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"Sheâs here."
Ji-anâs voice pulls you from your focus. Sheâs standing beside your desk, phone pressed to her ear, while you scan last weekâs finance report. Your eyes flick over the spreadsheet, catching an error in a formula, but before you can fix it, Ji-an calls your name. "Y/N, thereâs a delivery for you. Theyâre at the door."
"Oh," you murmur, pushing your reading glasses up the bridge of your nose. Contacts felt like too much trouble today. "Thanks."
As you stand, a familiar warmth spreads through your chest. Outside, the delivery man hands you a bouquetâthis time, white roses.
You peek at the note while walking back, the click of your heels filling the space. Your way back to your desk by the window. The skyline stretches endlessly beyond the glass, a vast expanse of city lights and open sky.
Ow! I fell! Fell for you~ âbg <3
A laugh escapes before you can stop itâhe's so silly. One of the things you realised recently.
"That's the fourth bouquet this month, Y/N," Ji-an muses, a teasing smile playing on her lips. "I know you just met your soulmate, but flowers every week? Thatâs next-level sweet. Iâm jealousâmine isn't really a flowers kind of person."
You return her smile, "Yeah, he's the sweetest."
Itâs been a month since you met Beomgyu. A single dayâthatâs all you had together. And yet, in the weeks that followed, he never let distance become an excuse. Even with his tour in full swing, miles stretching endlessly between you, he still found ways to reach you. A call in the middle of the night. A voice note filled with sleepy laughter. And these flowersâhis way of saying, I'm here. I'm coming back to you soon.
Ji-an leans against your desk, eyes glinting with curiosity. "So⊠when do we get to meet him?" she asks, wiggling her brows. "You know the drillâeveryone meets everyoneâs soulmate. Itâs basically tradition. At least one or two quick bond drinks a year, right?"
The playful edge in her voice makes your stomach twist. Because as much as you want to laugh along, to pretend that everything is as simple as it should be⊠you know the truth.
They canât meet him. Your friends, your familyânone of them can. Maybe not now. Maybe not ever. You donât even know when you will see him again.
You swallow, forcing down the sudden tightness in your throat. The warmth you felt just moments ago, thinking about him, is now laced with something heavier.
"He'sâhe's busy," you say, hoping your voice doesnât betray you. You glance at the bouquet on your desk, fingers tracing the petals as if they hold an answer you donât have. "Maybe next time."
The day finally ends, and youâre grateful Ji-an didnât push for more.
You clutch the bouquet a little tighter as you step into the elevator, the faint scent of roses lingering in the air. By the time you make it to the parking lot, exhaustion weighs on youâbut then you remember.
You forgot to send a text. Pulling out your phone, you type: Iâm heading home now.
The message sends, and a small smile tugs at your lips. Beomgyu is probably fast asleep by now, lost in a time zone opposite yours. He wonât see it for hours, but you text him anywayâbecause you can already hear his voice in your head, playful and pouty. You forgot to tell me again, heâd whine. Can you please let me know?
Youâve learned a lot from him in such a short time. How simple it is to make someone feel remembered. How easy it is to reach out. How even in the busiest moments, thereâs always a second to say, I havenât forgotten you.
Because thatâs what heâs been doing for you all along.
You slip your phone back into your pocket, ready to head to your car when someone stops you. Your steps slow, brows knitting together as your scan lands on a girlâsitting right on the hood of your car.
Your car. Sheâs perched there like she belongs, fingers idly tracing patterns against the metal.
"Hey," you call out, keeping your voice even. "Itâs not really polite to sit on someone elseâs car, sweetheart."
Her head lifts, eyes locking onto yours with disdain, "Don't sweetheart me, you slut."
The venom in her words knocks the air from your lungs. Your breath catches, shock flashing through you as she stands. Sheâs young. Much younger than you.
"Excuse me?"
"Are you fucking deaf?" she snaps.
Your instincts flareâthis isnât normal. You take a step back, "Leave. Now. Before I call the police."
But she doesnât move. Instead, she tilts her head, and smirked. "Youâre Beomgyuâs soulmate, arenât you?"
Your body locks up. How does she know? Your fingers tighten around the stems of the flowers, the thorns pressing into your palm. You want to speak, to deny, to do something, but the words wonât come.
Because you knowâwhatever you say next could make this worse.
She clicks her tongue, taking a slow step toward you. "Do this while Iâm still being nice," she says, voice eerily light. "Stay away from him. Or Iâll destroy everything." She tilts her head again, a slow blink. "Iâd rather see him ruined than with you, unnie."
She steps past you then, her shoulder knocking into yours just hard enough to make you stumble back. Your hands cold, heart hammering against your ribs. She doesnât look back. Not until sheâs a few feet away.
"Donât think I wonât do it," she murmurs. "Just think about how I knew. Your name. Your workplace. Your parking spot."
She smiles, "Donât test me."
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Iâm heading home now.
Beomgyu rubs the sleep from his eyes, his fingers fumbling for his phone the moment he wakes up. Checking for your messages has become second natureâhis first instinct, before he even fully shakes off sleep.
The corners of his lips curl into a soft smile as he reads your text. You remembered.
God, he misses you.
When he gets back, heâs not letting you out of his sight. Heâll beg his company if he has toâanything to steal just a little more time with you. He wants to spoil you, to show up with flowers every single day just to see that shy smile of yours. Heâd buy you things you didnât even know you needed, take pictures of you at every chance, make playlists for you, drag you into late-night game sessions just to hear you laugh and call him ridiculous. Love is effort. Thatâs what his parents always told him. Heâd give itâall of it.
Maybe one day, heâd convince you to visit Daegu with him. Introduce you to his family, let his mom fuss over you, watch his brother tease him relentlessly. And Toto⊠Would you like Toto?
The thought makes him chuckle as he taps your contact and presses call. It rings. Once. Twice. Three times. His smile falters.
Then, voicemail.
His brows knit together. He tries again. Straight to voicemail. The phone feels heavier in his hand now.
Itâs the first time you havenât picked up.
Heâs in the van now. Itâs been hours.
Beomgyu grips his phone, scrolling through his notifications, eyes darting to every new alert. His heart lifts for a secondâonly to sink just as fast when he realizes itâs not you. The screen dims in his hands, but he doesnât put it down. He canât.
"You still havenât heard from her?" Soobin asked. Heâs the only one still awake, eyes heavy but observant. Beomgyu hadnât meant to make it obvious, but heâs never been good at hiding thingsânot to his members.
"No," Beomgyu mutters, shaking his head. His throat feels tight. "We always talk before she falls asleep."
Soobin exhales, tilting his head back against the seat. "She probably crashed as soon as she got home. Long day, maybe?" He keeps his tone easy, reassuring. "Just focus on later's concert. Sheâll probably be awake by then."
Beomgyu nods, forcing a small smile. "Yeah. Youâre right. Thanks, hyung."
Soobin claps a hand on his back. "Don't think about it too much."
Beomgyu did his best to push thoughts of you aside during the concert. He smiled, he sang, he dancedâgave everything to the stage like he always did. But the second he was backstage, drenched in sweat and breathless from the high of performing, his hands were already reaching for his phone.
Still nothing.
Back at the hotel, Soobin and Yeonjun made sure he ate. He forced down a few bites, just enough to keep them from worrying. Now, fresh from a shower, exhaustion settles deep in his bones. His muscles ache, the weight of the night pressing down on him, but sleep wonât come.
His phone sits beside him on the bed. Youâre probably asleep. He tells himself that. He should leave it alone.
But knowing doesnât stop him from pressing call. It rings.
Once. Twice.
Heâs about to give up when the line clicks.
âH-Hello?â Beomgyu stutters, his voice unsteady. No response. His heart pounds as he pulls the phone away, checking the screen just to be sure. The call is still connected. âBaby, whatâs wrong?â
âBeomgyu.â The way you say his name makes his breath catch.
âAre you okay? Iâve beenââ
âBeomgyu.â You cut him off again, your voice softer this time. âYeah, Iâm⊠okay.â He hears you take a shaky breath. âIâve just been thinking for the past couple of hours, andâŠâ His grip on the phone tightens.
"What is it?"
âMaybe we should lie low for a bit? Youâre busy, and youâre at the peak of your career.â A pause. âItâs not that Iâm going away,â you add quickly, âIâm your soulmate, after all.â The last part is barely a whisper.
Beomgyu shoots up from where heâs sitting, running a hand through his hair, fingers pulling at the strands. He feels cold all over. His pulse pounds in his ears.
âWhere is this coming from?â His voice is raw, edged dangerously close to panic. âWhat happened, Y/N?â
âNothing, really,â you say too quickly. âIt just⊠crossed my mind.â Thereâs a pause. A beat of silence that feels like a lifetime. âItâs late there. Itâs 2 AM. Please sleep.â
His chest tightens. âAre you breaking up with me?â The words feel foreign in his mouth. His voice drops to a whisper. âDo you not want me? Do you not want this?â
âBeomgyu, please.â You voice wavers. âOur fate is certain. But right now⊠I just feel like itâs not working.â You exhale slowly. âYou should sleep, okay? Letâs talk again⊠soon.â
And then the line goes dead.
Beomgyu stares at his screen, his fingers frozen, his mind racing to process what just happened. His chest caves in, breath shaky as he stumbles back onto the bed. And thenâhe breaks.
His hands cover his face, shoulders trembling as it all crashes down on him. He had a feeling when you didn't answer his call. A whisper of doubt, an inkling of fear.
And now, itâs real.
4 AM, and Beomgyu still hasnât slept. His eyes burn from exhaustion, but his mind wonât shut off. Heâs been texting you, calling youâover and overâbut every attempt goes straight to voicemail. At some point, your phone must have died, or worse, you turned it off.
He lies on the stiff hotel bed, staring at the ceiling. Itâs unfamiliar. Cold. But then again, when was the last time anything in his life felt familiar? Felt like home?
His phone dings.
He scrambles for it, heartbeat hammering, but before he can check the notification, an unknown number flashes across the screen. Itâs stupid to answer an unknown call at this hour. Their managers had given them talks about it. But somethingâsomething in his gutâtells him to pick up.
âHello?â His voice is hoarse.
âBeomgyu.â A pause. Thenâ âItâs Da-hee,â
His breath catches.
âSheâs going to be angry if she finds out I called you,â Da-hee says, voice hushed, urgent. âBut I canât just sit back and watch this happen. Just listen to me. Iâm going to tell you everythingâfrom the start.â
"Please."
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"Donât think I wonât do it," she murmurs. "Just think about how I knew. Your name. Your workplace. Your parking spot."
She smiles, "Donât test me."
You take another sip of whiskey, curled up on the couch, knees drawn to your chest. The tears wonât stop. No matter how many times you wipe them away, they keep coming, slipping down your cheeks, burning just as much as the liquor sliding down your throat.
Your thoughts wonât stop either.
Beomgyu.
He has everythingâhis dream, his career, a future so bright it could swallow you whole. He has the world at his feet. And you? Youâre just⊠you. Not worth the risk. Not worth the detour. Maybe this was always how it was supposed to be. Maybe thatâs why your paths were never meant to cross in the first place. You saw the consequence, felt it when you passed the Hybe building, that heavy reminder of the impossible divide between your worlds.
It should be enough. Enough that you got to know him, enough that he even knows your name. Enough that you get to see him on a screen. It should be enough.
But is it?
âFuck,â you choke out, voice breaking. You press the heel of your palm against your eyes, as if that could stop the ache. âJust when I finally saw you⊠What a joke.â You shake your head, wiping your face with the sleeve of your sweater. âThe universe is a fucking idiot for ever thinking we were meant to be.â
You take another drink, and it burns.
âY/N.â
You blink up, vision swimming, to see Da-hee standing in the doorway, concern etched across her face.
âIâve been ringing your doorbell,â she says, stepping closer. âI used the spare keyâwhy are you crying?â
You donât respond. You just stare at her, eyes glassy, cheeks wet. She moves toward you, eyes flickering to the near-empty glass in your hand. Youâve been drinking for hours. You already called in sick to workâthereâs no way you could function like this.
"Oh, honey," She sighs, reaches for the glass, and you donât fight it. You let it go. "What happened?"
âFate is already taking back what it let me borrow.â Your voice is barely above a whisper, but Da-hee hears it. She your holds your hand.
âWhat are you talking about?â she asks. âExplain.â
You swallow hard. Your throat feels tight, like every word is fighting to stay buried. But you force them out.
âA sasaeng,â you murmur, watching as Da-heeâs eyes widen in alarm. âShe found out about me. She knows everything, Da-hee. Where I live, where I work, my familyâeverything.â You suck in a shaky breath, blinking back fresh tears. âAnd the worst of it, she fucking said sheâs going to ruin Beomgyu.â
The moment the words leave your lips, your resolve shatters. You cryâlike a child finally breaking after being scolded in front of everyone, holding it all in until no oneâs around to see. Da-hee pulled you into her arms as you sobbed. You cling to her, hands fisting her sweater. âI have to let him go,â you choke out. âI canât do this to him. To them. They donât deserve this.â
Da-hee pulls back, her hands firm on your shoulders. âNo,â she says, shaking her head. âYou donât have to do this alone. We can go to the police. We can tell Beomgyuââ
âAnd then what?â you cut in, voice hollow. âWhat can they really do? Stop her from telling the world? Keep every single person quiet? Even if she gets caught, the damage will already be done.â
Da-hee doesnât answer. She just sinks onto the couch beside you, eyes shining with unshed tears, because she knows you well. She knows you too wellâknows that the emotional version of you wouldnât be able to hear her, not right now. Not until the sobs quiet down and the pain in your chest eases just a little. So, she just holds you.
Your phone screen lights up between you. Another call.
Beomgyu. Heâs still calling. Still trying.
"I donât think itâs best to answer it right nowâ"
But you donât listen to Da-heeâs warning. Your fingers tremble as they hover over the screen. You have to end this. Now. While you still have the strength. Because deep down, you knowâ
If you wake up tomorrow, you might not be able to let him go.
âH-Hello?â He stutters on the other line, his voice unsteady. Your breath catches in your throat. âBaby, whatâs wrong?â
Everything. Everything is wrong.
âBeomgyu.â
I miss you. How can I go on without you?
âAre you okay? Iâve beenââ
âBeomgyu.â You cut him off again, your voice softer this time. âYeah, Iâm⊠okay.â You take a shaky breath. âIâve just been thinking for the past couple of hours, andâŠâ You hesitate.
Iâm not okay. Iâve been thinking about you, only you, and how my existence could ruin everything youâve worked for.
"What?" His inhale is sharp, laced with the beginnings of panic.
âMaybe we should lie low for a bit? Youâre busy, and youâre at the peak of your career.â You pause, fingers trembling. âItâs not that Iâm going away,â you add quickly, desperate to believe your own words. âIâm your soulmate, after all.â The last part is barely a whisper.
I should be replaceable. And I shouldnât be your priority. You press a hand to your mouth, as if you can keep the words from spilling outâkeep the truth from bleeding through.
âWhere is this coming from? What happened, Y/N?â
My heart is breaking. And youâre too far away to hold it together.
âNothing, really,â you say too quickly. âIt just⊠crossed my mind.â You pause, swallowing. âItâs late there. Itâs 2 AM. Please sleep.â
Please sleep. And forget about me.
âAre you breaking up with me? Do you not want me? Do you not want this?â
I want you more than anything. Thatâs why I have to do this. If I can save you from losing everything, Iâll do it. Even if it means losing you.
âBeomgyu, please.â You voice wavers. âOur fate is certain. But right now⊠I just feel like itâs not working.â You exhale slowly. âYou should sleep, okay? Letâs talk again⊠soon.â
You press the end button.
The sobs rip through you, shaking your whole body and stealing the air from your lungs. You curl in on yourself, pressing your fist to your mouth, as if that could stop the sound, as if that could stop the pain. How can love be this cruel? How can the same thing that made you feel so alive now leave you feeling so hollow?
But this is for him. You tell yourself that over and over, like a mantra, like a prayer, like a desperate attempt to make it hurt less.
Youâll do this for him. Even if it destroys you.
Da-hee wipes at her eyes, sniffling as she looks at youâcurled up in the fetal position, your body tense like youâre bracing for impact even in sleep. She managed to get you into bed, but it doesnât feel like enough.
Sheâd do anything for you.
Carefully, she tiptoes to the bedside table and picks up your phone. Her heart pounds. If anyoneâs watching me, Iâll beg for forgiveness later. But right now, she comes first.
She types in your usual password. 8888. Incorrect. She frowns, thinking. You changed it? Then, almost without realizing it, her fingers move on their own. 0313. The screen unlocks.
Beomgyuâs birthday.
Da-hee lets out a small, disbelieving laugh. âYou idiot,â she whispers, shaking her head. âYou love him so much, and yet youâre willing to walk away. How can you be this selfless?â
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she scrolls through your contacts, searching for his name. Her thumb hovers over it for only a second before she types his number on her own phone.
Youâll be furious. You might never forgive her. But if thereâs even the slightest chance this stops you from making the biggest mistake of your lifeâsheâll take that risk.
Someone has to tell him the things that you canât.
The line connects, and Da-hee inhales. âSheâs going to be angry if she finds out I called you, but I canât just sit back and watch this happen. Just listen to me. Iâm going to tell you everythingâfrom the start.â
Sheâll prepare her apology laterâmore than that, she hopes Beomgyu will fight for you.
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"I want to go home." Beomgyuâs voice is firm, but his hands are clenched into fists at his sides. His manager looks up from his laptop, brows furrowing.
The door bursts open. Soobin stumbles in, slightly out of breathâhe mustâve run after him. Beomgyu doesnât care.
Beomgyu already knows everythingâDa-hee told him. Every sickening detail. And now, standing here, he has no idea how to fix this. No idol has ever come out of this unscathed. But none of that matters right now. His only priority is getting to you.
His manager sighs, already exasperated. âYouâre flying back home in a few days, Beomgyu.â
âNo,â he says, jaw tightening. âI mean now. I need a few days. To rest. To handle something personal.â
âYou know your schedule is packedââ
âThen move everything,â Beomgyu interrupts sharply. He feels Soobinâs hand on his shoulder, hears his name spoken softly, but he shrugs it off. No one is stopping him from getting to you.
His manager sighs again, firmer this time. âWe canât do that.â
âYou wonât even try?â His voice wavers between frustration and desperation. âYou wonât even let the management know?â
âWe canât make last-minute changes like this.â
Beomgyu lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. âRight. Of course.â He clenches his fists. All his life, heâs done everything they asked. Pushed through exhaustion, smiled through sickness, showed up even when his body begged him to stop. âI wonât follow you on this,â he says, voice steady. âI canât do this. Not this time. If you wonât let me go, Iâll still leave.â
âBeomgyu, letâs talk about this when youâre calm,â Soobin says gently, patting Beomgyuâs back. âPlease.â
Beomgyu turns to him, his eyes dark with frustration. âI love MOAs, hyung. I love all of you. They gave me everything.â His voice wavers, but he pushes through. âBut Y/N⊠she is my everything.â His breath hitches. He can't even explain it properly. How badly he needs you. âYouâre lucky. All of you. Your soulmatesâ"
âSo this is about your soulmate?â The manager exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. âDonât you see? Sheâs making you choose between her and your career.â
âNo.â Beomgyuâs voice breaks, his chest tightens, and the lump in his throat is unbearable. âSheâs not making me choose. Sheâs already choosing for me.â His next breath is shaky. âSheâs leaving. Can you let your own soulmate leave?â
The room falls silent. Soobin watches him, stunned. Heâd never seen Beomgyu like this beforeâthis angry, this desperate. And the question stings the older.
Beomgyu turns away, blinking rapidly, trying to keep the tears at bay. Explaining further is useless. Heâs already said everything that matters. Nothing is going to stop him now. When he steps into the hallway, he sees Yeonjun standing there, leaning against the wall.
Heâs been listening the whole time.
Yeonjun immediately reaches out, tugging at his arm. âYah, Choi Beomgyu, come on,â he says quietly. âLetâs talk with everyone.â Beomgyu exhales shakily. If there's anyone he owes an explanation. It's them. His brothers.
So Beomgyu told them everything.
About the sasaeng. About the threats. About how you were walking away to protect him. About how he refused to let that happen. And just like he knew they would, the four of them listenedânot as bandmates, not as colleagues, but as brothers.
No one understood him better than they did.
They didnât tell him to reconsider. They didnât tell him to stay. Instead, they held onto him, arms wrapped tight, as if they could shield him from the storm that was already brewing. They prayedânot for him to change his mind, but for the world to understand.
Kai was the first to break. His voice barely above a whisper, âIs it really worth it⊠if the world doesnât want us to have soulmates?â
It shattered something in all of them.
Beomgyu didnât answerânot with words. Because what kind of world was it, where love had to be hidden? Where choosing your own heart felt like a betrayal?
With the help of his members, he managed to slip through the cracks, securing a last-minute flight. Now, as he sat on the plane, adjusting his mask, pulling his cap low, he caught his own reflection in the window.
Maybe it was time. Time to stop pretending. Time to stop hiding.
Because an idol in love isnât supposed to be shameful. Because having a soulmate shouldnât be treated like a scandal. Because loving you would never make him love his dream any less.
He just had to believe in MOAs. In the people who gave him everything. What he has with them, he treasures so much that the thought of baring his heart isnât impossible.
And he would.
Completely.
He would trade it all, just to see you again.
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The pounding in your head hasnât let up, a dull, relentless throb that even the hot shower couldnât wash away. You pop an aspirin, sighing as you press your fingertips against your temples, willing the acheâand everything elseâto disappear.
Then the doorbell rings. Right. The food.
Dragging your feet toward the door, you barely think as you swing it openâthen freeze.
Choi Beomgyu.
His face bare, a backpack slung over his shoulder. A car idles in your driveway, but you barely process it. Your eyes lock onto the messy strands of blonde peeking out from under his hoodie, his gaze searching yours. He looks at you like heâs afraid youâll vanish if he blinks.
âY/Nââ The door slams shut in his face before he can say another word.
Your breath stumbles. Your pulse pounds. The damp strands of your hair cling to your neck as you press your back against the door, fingers gripping the handle like itâs the only thing keeping you upright. Shit. He fucking looks good with his new dyed hairâ wait. Don't think about that. What is he doing here?
âIâm parked out front,â his voice comes through the door, muffled but you hear it. âI just want to talk.â A shaky inhale. Then softer, âBaby, Iâm here. When youâre ready, just open the door.â
His footsteps retreat.
You start pacing, your heart ricocheting against your ribs. Heâs here. He came all this way. After everything you stupidly said. You hurt him yetâ
The doorbell rings again.
You yank it open, âWait, my assââ
âChinese takeout for Y/N?â The delivery guy blinks at you, holding up the bag.
âOh.â You blush, embarrassed. You fumble for your wallet, signing the receipt with shaky hands. Your eyes keep drifting past him, toward the car still parked in front of your house.
Just like what he said. He's there.
The hours slip away unnoticed, morning fading seamlessly into afternoon. Every time you steal a glance through the curtain, heâs still there. Evening creeps in as you start making dinner. Without thinking, you plate portions for two. Your hands hesitate over the dishes, your heart heavy. When you check the clock, itâs 8 p.m. Heâs been outside for twelve hoursâsilent, waiting.
Just like he promised. He never knocked again. Twelve hours. Your hands tremble as you turn off the stove. He mustâve just come from another gruelling day, looking like heâd stepped off a plane after hours in the airârumpled, drained, and still without rest.
Why did you let him wait this long?
You donât stop to think anymore. You grab your keys, shove your feet into your slippers, and head straight for his car, blinking back the tears that blur your vision.
He must see you coming because, before you even reach him, the car door swings open.
And there he is.
His hoodie is pushed back now, his hair slightly dishevelled like heâs run his hands through it a hundred times. His face is drawn, exhausted. His eyesâred-rimmed, heavy, like heâs been crying for hours. You swallow the lump in your throat.
âCome inside,â Your voice cracks, but you donât stop. You just turn around and head back toward the door. You donât have to look back to know heâs following.
He steps inside, his tall frame filling the space as you quietly shut the door behind him. Your apartment looks small with him around. When you turn, your eyes meet, "Beomgyuâ"
You barely get his name out before heâs on you. He can't stop himself anymore. Itâs how you looked outside, so effortlessâyour hair pinned up, the simplicity of your everyday clothes, and yet, you somehow seemed untouchable. He envisions a life with you, a routine, your soft smile waiting for him when he comes home, you looking like something angelicâhis hands grip your waist, pulling you flush against him, his body heat searing through your clothes. His lips crash into yoursâhungry, desperate, like heâs been starved for you. His mouth moves against yours, claiming, taking.
His fingers thread through your hair, tilting your head back as his tongue slides against yours. His hands roam down, gripping, pulling, making sure you feel every bit of him. He grabs your wrists, lifting them, wrapping your arms around his neck as his lips move to your jaw, then to your neck, his breath ragged as he nips your sensitive skin. "I missed you," he murmurs. Another kissâhotter, deeper, his body pressing your back against the wall. "I got fucking scared you'd never open the door."
His movements were hurried, frantic, as if he were afraid youâd disappear if he let go. In one swift motion, he lifted you, his steps unsteady as he carried you to the bedroom. Your bedroom. The air felt heavy as he laid you down on the mattress.
"I get it. I know you donât mean itâthat you really believe this is for the best." His voice softens, almost breaking. He presses his crotch to yours, eyes seeking yours. "But did it ever cross your mind what I want? What I think is best for me? For us?"
âI'm sorry,â you said weakly, your hands clutching at his shirt, your voice trembling as much as your resolve.
"I'll always forgive you." His hands moved to your shoulders, then slid down to your waist, pulling you to him. He grinds desperately to you. You never knew that lips could talk without uttering a word as he captures your lips again and again. "Because your words could never hurt me as much as your leaving does."
You surrendered to his touch, your body softening beneath him. Your hands gripped his shoulders for balance as he pressed you deeper into the mattress, which groaned under your shifting weight. You reached for Beomgyuâs lips, catching him off guard as you kissed him with everything you had, tongues colliding in a heated frenzy. His hand slid between your thighs, cupping your middle and sending a shiver through you. But even in the haze of his taste, a heavy guilt settled in your chest. "Gyu,"
"I need you, baby. Or I'll go crazy." His breaths were ragged, syncing with your every moan as his tongue tangled with yours. Your fingers tugged at the hem of his shirt, pulling him closer, urging him on. His body pressed against yours, grinding to yours, while his hands roamed over your skin, igniting every nerve he touched. His lips trailed downward, leaving soft kisses that melted into your flesh, a path leading straight to your core.
He stripped you of every barrier, leaving you bare under his gaze. His eyes shimmered with adoration and awe as they traced your body. You hadnât realized how powerless you were against him until your legs parted, welcoming him. He's on top of you, looked at you like you were sacred, like you were his entire world.
Beomgyu's eyes never left yours as his fingers found your hand, seeking the place where the string was tied. The red thread appears, and he lifts it to his lips. A kissâfeatherlight, reverentâpressed against the place where destiny tied you to him.
âIt's going to be okayâŠâ he whispered between kisses, his voice breaking in a way that made your heart ache. Tears pricked your eyes because you wanted to believe him. You needed to believe him. His hands explored further, his fingers shakily reaching for your clit, pinching softly then roughly rubbing, coaxing sounds from your lips that you didnât know you were capable of.
"I'll fix it for us, for you." He looks at youâwanting to see every expression you make. Heâs going to fuck you until you cum all over his dick and then heâll do it again. Until you won't be able to think about leaving him anymore. He goes down furtherâkisses down and the smell of you is divine.
His face hovers and with his fingers he spreads you apart. He swallowsâsalivating. He sticks his tongue out, lightly licking your clit. You taste soâHe buries his face in, tongue inside, hands on your hips. "Shit, you were really gonna leave me? And I was gonna miss this?" He groans, lapping up, sucking the arousal out of you. He moves up, nose bumping on your clit then he suckles more. His cock throbs with every taste of you, the way you melt against his mouth driving him insane. He feels you slick against his chin, but he doesnât stopâdoesnât leave a single inch of you untouched by his warm, greedy mouth. It was as if your body had been crafted for his lips alone, flesh and heat meant to be devoured at his leisure.
When you tug hard on his hair, he groans against you, finally pulling back. His lips glisten as he moves up your body. He crashes his mouth onto yours, the kiss deep and hungry, and you taste yourself on his tongueâmessy, desperate, a mix of him and you, blurring the lines between whoâs devouring who.
âI love you,â he murmured as he positioned himself, slowly sliding into you. A low, guttural sound escaped him as he felt you, tight and warm, pulling him deeper. He's sure he'll come right there and then. His face buried itself in the curve of your neck, and his words spilled outâ"I'm sorry it took this long."
"You feel so so good, don't ask me to stop, please." His touch was gentle even as his thrusts inside you grew more desperate. He cradled your head, kissed away your tears, and pressed his lips to your cheek. âIâm in love with you, Y/N,"
âI love you,â you replied, capturing his lips in a desperate kiss as you both unravelled together, bodies trembling in unison. Your thighs clenched tightly around his waist.
"Beomgyu, Iâ It was selfish of meâ" You whispered his name and it made tears well up in his eyes. His hand gently pushed the damp strands of hair from your face, and he pressed tender kisses along your cheeks, your temple, and your jaw.
âShh, no,â he whispered, pulling you against his chest, holding you like he was afraid youâd slip away. His lips brushed the crown of your head. "None of this is your fault," he murmurs. "But you have to trust me now."
All the horrors inside you dissolve with every kiss he presses to your skin, each one stripping away the fear, the doubt, the self-imposed distance. He kisses you like heâs rewriting everything, like he knows exactly where every shattered piece of you belongs. As if heâs memorized the map of your ruin and decided, you were always meant to be whole.
And you let him.
Because now, in his arms, with his lips claiming yours over and over, only pulls away when breathing becomes a necessityâhis forehead pressing against yours for a fleeting second before his mouth finds yours again, as if letting go for too long might break him, you realise the truthâit was foolish of you to think that pushing him away would solve it all.
It was foolish to ever believe you could ever live without him.
Waking up with Beomgyuâs arm draped over your bare waist felt like something out of a dream.
The second you tried to slip away, he pulled you right back in, burying his face in the crook of your neck with a sleepy rough hum. His grip was loose but unwilling, like even in sleep, he couldnât bear to let you go. He filled your morning with lazy kisses, tangled limbs, and muffled laughter, his fingers tracing over your bare skin.
You could live a lifetime like this and still never believe it was real.
Now, you sit at your vanity, dressed for work, fastening an earring as Beomgyu, fresh from the shower, tugs on a clean hoodie. He catches your eye in the mirror and grins as he walks over. âWhat are you doing baby? Dolled up and all.â
âDrying my hair,â you say, âIâm actually early today. Da-hee is dropping by later too, by the way.â
âOkay. Iâll drive you.â He leans down, eyes flickering to the hairdryer on the desk. He picks it up, flipping it on. âI know how to do this.â
You give him a skeptical look. âOh, really?â
âUh-huh. I could probably do your makeup too.â He presses a teasing kiss to your cheek, making you giggle.
The warmth of the dryer was against your scalp as he carefully runs his fingers through your hair, drying it with surprising patience. His touch lingers even after the dryer clicks off, his fingers gently gathering strands of your hair.
âI used to braid my momâs hair when I was younger,â he murmurs. âI want to do yours too.â You nod, watching him through the mirror, watching the way he looks at you with so much quiet devotion it nearly steals your breath. "It will be an honour to do this every day for you, you know."
And just like that, you fall in love all over again.
You sit in the passenger seat, your hair loosely braidedâthe proof that he wasnât just bluffing. His fingers lace with yours as he drives, his thumb idly tracing circles against your skin. Every time the car slows at a red light, he lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. âI love you,â
He grins, that same cheeky, heart-stopping smile. "Love you more," he replies.
You let out a quiet breath, leaning your head against the window, watching the world blur past. But thenâout of the corner of your eyeâyou see it.
And your breath catches in your throat.
Rain Lilies.
Flowers that shine the brightest in the wake of the storm.
It looks out of place. You remembered last nightâs rain. It had come down in furious sheets, drowning the streets, washing everything away. The pavement is still slick, puddles reflecting the grey morning sky. And yetâthere it is.
Small. Alive.
In the middle of a city that never stops, where people rush past without a second glance, too busy to care about a thing so insignificant, so easily overlookedâit stands, untouched. A quiet defiance against the cruelty that tried to take it.
It looks out of place, and it's beautiful.
If something this fragile can survive and still bloomâmaybe, just maybe, so can you.
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"Hyung!" Beomgyuâs laughter rings through the air as he runs straight into his brotherâs arms. They embrace, laughing like theyâre kids again, the older one attempting to lift him off the ground. Behind them, his parents rush to catch up, smiles stretched wide across their faces. The house, with its endless stretch of green, looks like out of a memoryâsoft, a paradise.
Beomgyu turns to you then, his hand resting gently on your back. His eyes soft when he speaks.
"Mom, Dad," he says, "This is Y/N."
You bow politely, but before you can even rise fully, his mother pulls you into a hug. "Iâve wanted to meet you for so long, dear," she murmurs against your shoulder.
When Beomgyuâs father steps forward, you feel your chest tighten. He smiles, and for a second, itâs like looking at Beomgyu in the years to come. His hug is just as warm, just as safe.
Lunch is a blur of laughter and stories, of hands brushing, of Beomgyu sneaking glances at you when he thinks you arenât looking.
His parents laugh along with your storiesâthe one about meeting his sweet members, and how Da-hee had begged to meet them in person. You describe her pale face, wide-eyed and on the verge of fainting the entire time, and how Beomgyu grew irritated every time Yeonjun jokingly flirted with you, insisting he should be your favorite.
But itâs the story of Beomgyu meeting your family last week that really gets them, how heâd been so polite, yet adorably nervous, his hands fidgeting in his lap as he tried to make the right impression.
His mom grins, her eyes bright with excitement. âIâll have to meet them soon,â she says, already making plans in her head, as if youâve always been part of the family. At some point, Beomgyu tells them youâll be staying for the week. They are overjoyed, and Toto, takes an instant liking to you.
Beomgyu sits on the porch, it's evening now.
This deckâheâs spent years hereâon this very step, staring out at the world, wondering when heâd find you. Wondering if he ever would.
His fingers tighten around the handwritten letter on his phone screen, the words waiting to be sent out into the world. His heart pounds. What if they donât understand? What if this changes everything? What ifâ
Laughter drifts from inside the house, yours mixing with his momâs, his brotherâs. It was the only assurance he'd ever need.
He exhales sharply, thumb hovering for only a second longer before he clicks post. It loads. He doesnât watch. Just locks his phone and sets it aside as the front door creaks open.
"Youâre trying to escape me, cookie?" Your voice is playful, arms crossing as you step toward him. Beomgyu only grins, shaking his head at the nickname his father gave him. He slips an arm around your shoulders as soon as you sit down, pulling you while he presses kisses on the side of your head.
"Never," His fingers find yours, a new habit of hisâthumb caressing over your ring finger. His thoughts slip to the diamond ring hidden in his dorm, the one he bought after a week of meeting you. He just needs to find the right moment, the right words. Because even now, after everything, you still make him nervous. The way his heart races when you walk into a room, how everything seems to stop for a moment when you look his way.
He meets your smile with one of his own. Would he ever be this lucky in another life? To find you, to love youânot by destinyâs design, not by some divine script, but by choice?
Even without a soulmate mark, even without fateâ
It would always be you.
Maybe in another world, the sky is burning, the world is ending, an apocalypse, and he still falls in love with you. Maybe in another life, he is a man undone, a husband who shatters more than he mends, but even then, he would spend eternity piecing himself back together just to be worthy of you.
Beomgyu knows this much: no matter the lifetime, no matter the universe, he will love you. Again and again, without hesitation, without end. As if loving you is written into the very fabric of his existence.
His fingers graze your cheek, and you lean into him like you were always meant toâlike the universe has been bringing you back to him for centuries. Your smile reaches your eyes, soft and certain. His missing piece. The better half of him.
Beomgyu looks at you, and to him, you are something that comes after the rainâthe hush of the earth reborn, the golden light breaking through the clouds, the promise that even the chaos was worth it.
He canât help himself. Not when youâre looking at him like that. Not when your smile is the only thing he ever wants to see.
So he leans in.
The phone sits forgotten, lighting up with messagesâteary words, heartfelt congratulations, the world calling for him. But none of it matters.
Because right now, you are in his arms. Right now, he is kissing the soft of your addicting lips. And right now, that is all that ever was, all that ever is, all that ever will be.
THE END.
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taglist: I love you @beombunni @lovingbeomgyudayone @virtaideen @hyukascampfire @fancypeacepersona @bamgeutori @lilbrorufr @beomieeeeeeeeeeees @xylatox @imlonelydontsendhelp @yunverie @baekberrie @soobabby @hyunelixbun @kejingken @blossommi @sumzysworld @tyunningstar @filmnings @channieismylove @frankghgr @missychief1404 @fatbixchwithanopinion @saejinniestar @brrytears @sbnslver @hoefororeo @pagelets @urlocal-moa @ewsnup @moagyuu @melmochii
#xylatox ficrecs#rain lilies#txt#txt imagine#txt imagines#txt fic#txt post#txt x y/n#txt x you#txt x reader#tomorrow by together#tomorrow x together smut#tomorrow x together#txt smut#choi beomgyu x y/n#choi beomgyu x you#choi beomgyu x reader#choi beomgyu#choi beomgyu smut#choi beomgyu fluff#choi beomgyu fanfic#beomgyu moodboard#beomgyu txt#txt beomgyu#beomgyu#beomgyu x reader#beomgyu x female reader#beomgyu x you#kpop#kpop smut
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Little Miss Sunshine 2
Warnings: non/dubcon, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Characters: Nick Fowler
This AU is called Watcher Anonymous and will include different series for different characters. This is our introduction to Nick and Cloudy.
Summary: a bored man needs a new light in his life.
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. Iâm happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging â€ïž
Nick has a lot of habits. Some would call it a routine. His work is often unpredictable so his personal life needs to be tightly curated.
His new habit is her. He knows he shouldn't. That he's abusing his security clearance and his professional access. He knows that he is in dangerous territory but he's always thrived there.
Unusual territory for sure. He's a bit too old to be in the campus cafe but one might assume he's faculty, not pupil. He imagines that line of work might be boring. Safer, sure, but he's not sure he could bear the monotony.
She's at the corner table with her small tea. The cheapest thing on the menu. She counted out nickels just to purchase it then got a dirty look from the barista for having to pour hot water without a tip.
She pores over a textbook as she nurses the brew. She's oblivious to everything else going on. To him. It might be why she finds herself in such a downtrodden state much of the time.
Her phone lights up. She looks at it and frowns. She shakes her head and goes back to reading. She makes notes in her notebook, roll her hand to stretch her wrist as her fingers cramp. He can't say she doesn't try.
Her cell buzzes again and she blows through her lips and pops her head up. She swipes it up and reads the screen. Her face falls. He subtly slides his own phone from his pocket. He can see her messages on his screen. An old work trick.
'Call me. Now.'
It's from Jackie, her aunt. From his observation, he knows that's her aunt. She lives in her spare room so she can afford her classes. They don't have a very good relationship.
She closes up her books and slides them into her knapsack. She drapes it over her shoulder and her jacket over her forearm as she gets up. She knocks the table and sends the dregs of her tea all over the floor, spilling some down her jeans. She hangs her head and cleans it up. She wads up napkins as she only manages to spread it around. She gives up and apologises to the disproving employee behind the counter before fleeing.
He takes out an earbud and puts it in. She hurries out, a dot on his screen, and he flips through his apps. His Bluetooth picks up her call as her aunt picks up.
"I've been calling," the woman chides.
"I know. Sorry, I'm studying--"
"You have lots of time to study. And to find a new place."
"What?" She blurts out.
"Eh, well, your cousin needs to move back--"
"But-- but I've been paying you--"
"It barely covers the light bill," her aunt snips.
"But I buy my own food and--"
"It's too bad. What am I supposed to do, put my own child out on the street?" She huffs.
"When--"
"This week. You need to start packing."
"This week? How am I supposed to--"
"You're an adult," she derides. "You are just like your mother. I knew this was going to be a problem."
The line clicks. The call's over. Nick sneers and snags someone's gaze. They shy away as they mistake his spite as being aimed at them. He gets up and goes back to the map.
Her mother isn't any better. He's seen their messages. She's on pills even though she denies it. She burned bridges with the rest of the family. Her sister has every right to be upset. He went through months of messages. Still, the sins of the mother don't belong to the daughter. He's no stranger to cruelty, not in his line of work, but he doesn't see how anyone could be mean to her.
This is a problem. Not just for her. He can't just watch her be tossed out and yet, how can unveil himself without giving away the game? Watching is what he does.
He hears her crying before he sees her. She's at the bottom of some stairs, hiding as she mops her face. She doesn't hear him. He doesn't want her too. He needs to figure out how to finagle this. Maybe a fake ad? An email? Campus services always sends out housing stuff... He'll figure it out.
Her shoulders shake as she sobs. His chest pangs. She looks so frail down there. She leans into the wall and hugs her bag. Nothing else has gone right for her but maybe he can be the one thing that does.
Shit. Now his phone is going. He quickly retreats before the vibration can give him away. He pushes through a door and eases it shut behind him. He answers.
"Fowler?" The voice on the other end greets. He furrows his brows. Strange, he hasn't heard from Jensen in years. Not since they worked together.
"Jensen, long time."
"Sure has been," the other man agrees. "I... I have a favour to ask you."
"Really?" Nick taps his chin as his brain sparks. Jensen has a talent for tech and he's clever to boot. "Just so happens, I have one too."
#series#au#drabble#the 355#nick fowler#dark nick fowler#dark!nick fowler#nick fowler x reader#little miss sunshine#watchers anonymous
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fancy some old man company ceo!john price x young innocent little girl!personal assistant reader? (heâs in his late 40s and shes 21)
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usually, ceos werenât the ones in charge of hiring new employees, they left the boring job to their assistants or managers â but this morning, upon coming to his office, john price was met with the sight of a young, disoriented little girl, dolled up in heels and standing cluelessly like a lost little bunny in the main hall, curriculum file in hand, probably not having a clue where to go â
being the gentleman he was, as the boss, price welcomed you inside his office, telling you not to worry about the manager you were supposed to meet up with for the application, whom you had originally planned the appointment withâŠ
âthe file says youâre twenty one and fresh out of college,â his eyes briefly emerged from the paper he was holding with his thick, ringed fingers, slowly focusing on every inch of your sitting stance, taking you in with no hesitation nor costume mannerism, shamelessly staring, in a way that made you swallow nervously and nod politely, your hands neatly folded on your lap, right where the hem of your skirt hinted to your bare thighs.
ây-yes, sir, i-im actually looking for a job as a librarian, but iâve been in need of financial assistance since graduating, so in the meantime i could really use a part time position.â you could feel every nervous beat of your heart vibrating through your chest as you spose, your cheeks like burning flames, bright and red as you barely manage to stay still on your seat, trembling like a shy bunny â how could you find yourself working for him if you canât even meet his gaze? âthis one would be my first job..â
price just hums, leaning back on his chair that crackles under his massive body, wrapped in a expensive tailored suit, bulk and buff muscles giving him an intimidating appearance â his thighs spread wide, legs parted.
you were a young, shy, pretty thing, sweet and polite, in the prime of her blooming youth and just eager to find her place into this world, to prove herself and make someone proud, earn their (his) praise. he had lot and lot of experience behind his back, even more years, and he was sure you would be the best, obedient good girl just by looking at you.
john price could be that someone, he was old enough to be your father, burly and exuded power and security, exactly what you needed â he could use a sweet, young personal secretary like you, all doe eyes and in need of praise and approval, make his exhausting job as the boss less stressful, you would get him lunch or coffee, print paperwork sheets for him, bring him new cigars, and even be his lap bunny, his trophy little girl, warming him up.
âyouâre hired,â the words he muttered was so rough, gruff and low you had to blink twice, before opening your mouth and closing it right after.
âim sorry? oh- butâ uhm, are you sure?â you feel a little dumbstruck by the rapidity of the interview, but youâre thankful nonetheless, âi thought Iâd have to answer more questions..â
âwe have a lot of work to do here and never enough employees, sweetheart, im sure your help will be..â he let his eyes trail down on your figure again, slower this time, his large hand coming to scratch his thick, dark and graying beard as he studied you âwell appreciated and rewarded, little oneâ
#john price#john price imagine#john price x f!reader#john price x female reader#price x female reader#captain price x female reader#ceo!john price
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Rating Death Note characters by how much I'd trust them to watch my drink at a bar
(Saw someone do this with Teen Wolf and loved the concept. Here is the original)
Light: 10/10. If we're talking Normal!Light, I think he'd be very trustworthy on this front. Taking Kira!Light into account might change things, but I don't think drink spiking is even a consideration in that scenario; if he wants me dead, I won't be making it back in time to finish the drink anyway.
L: 0/10. I adore him but he does not care enough about anyone to bother doing this for them. I'd come back and he'd be like "yes I watched your drink" while it's sitting 20 feet away from him and he's staring soulfully into a coffee cup. May even spike it himself just to study me under the effects of a drug.
Misa: 5/10. Depends on the circumstances. If Light didn't like me (or, in her eyes, liked me a little TOO much) she is absolutely not looking out for me. Otherwise I feel like she'd happily do it but may get distracted.
Mello: 7/10. I think he'd do it provided that I could offer him something in return.
Near: 3/10. Listen. I DO trust him. I just don't trust that his presence is enough of an incentive for someone not to spike the drink.
Mikami: 11/10. If he sets his mind to something, by God he will do it. He is guarding that shit with his life.
Takada: 7/10. She's not really a girl's girl but I'd trust her if she had reason to look out for me.
Sayu: 9/10. I couldn't rate her a 10 since she's a child for half the series, but older Sayu has for sure got my back. Would buy me another one if anything happened to it.
Soichiro: 8/10. Generally speaking, I'd say he's the most trustworthy on this list. Loses points because he may try to talk me out of drinking in the first place.
Matsuda: 6/10. Would very enthusiastically volunteer to do it but would be so anxious about it, I'd feel like a burden on him. He is not enjoying himself at the bar as long as he has this task to worry about.
Task Force: 10/10. I think any of the other Task Force members would be super reliable. Mogi would be one of my top picks out of anyone on this list; no one is coming within a 10-mile radius of my drink on his watch.
SPK: 10/10. Similarly, I think all the SPK's surviving members would be very trustworthy. If Ill Ratt is in the mix, the rating drops to -15.
Watari: 9/10. The guy kind of sucks, but I think he'd do it. Loses points anyway for doing fucked-up experiments on children.
Naomi: 100/10. Spaced out thinking about her and forgot what I was supposed to be rating her on.
Matt: 0/10. That man is watching his Gameboy, not my drink.
Rem: 10/10. Fiercely loyal, and has no reason not to look out for me. May even kill anyone who tries.
Ryuk: 0/10. Absolutely not. He would let someone spike it just to see what happens.
Higuchi: -1000/10. He is the one spiking it.
#death note#christ i am not tagging everyone on this list. but i'll do the main ones#light yagami#l lawliet#misa amane#mihael keehl#nate river#teru mikami#kiyomi takada#cw drugs
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Undoing || Alucard x Reader
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You love Alucard, and you've no doubt that he adores you... but years of repression and shame leave you hesitant in matters of intimacy, no matter though, your love is a patient sort of man, willing to wait until you are ready for the ultimate undoing
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âThe potatoes must be in season.â Alucard mused, piercing one of the smaller field potatoes on his plate. Your eyes lingered on your own food, hardly touched. âLove?â His voice tempted you from whatever deep places your mind had wandered. Sighing, you pushed at the peas with your knife.Â
âI fear Iâm not inclined towards sex.â Alucardâs hand paused, fork centimeters from parted lips and looked at you wryly.Â
âWhat has that to do with whether the potatoes are in season?â His lips curl up to show the barest hint of fang.Â
You prattle on seemingly unawares of the diametrically opposed directions of your topics of conversation. âThat is, it isnât something that comes naturally to me. Certainly, I am capable of seeming like a sexual being, of affecting a nature similar to that of a siren of old.â Â
Alucard simply continues with his meal, albeit with an air of bemusement, heâs come to find your seemingly random wanderings a thing of second nature.Â
âYour affectation in the library yesterday afternoon was quite convincing.âYour neck flushed with the memory of his fingers and lips trailing along your heated skin as his voice bled into your consciousness. âI must say, I quite like yourâŠaffectations.â Looking up, you were met with the burning amber of his eyes.Â
âItâs hardly- that was hardly, sex.â You whisper the word as though it were an ugly thing. Thoroughly unphased, he merely shrugged and popped another potato into his mouth.Â
âThe exploration of my fingers under your garments and yours beneath mine begs to differ.â He says the words as though heâs talking about nothing more than the weather. Your fingers, trembling, reach for your wine glass. The strong notes of currant and bramble berries assault your tongue, and as the bitter heat runs down your throat, you feel strangely grounded. Nose screwing in distaste, you lean back and close your eyes.Â
âBe that as it may, there were still clothes involved.â Your voice waivers with the barest hint of nerves as you study the now empty glass. A single drop running down the side catches your notice, stealing your eyes away from Alucardâs.Â
âIâm in no great hurry to undo you, my love.â You know he means to comfort, truly you do, but somehow, those words prickle at your skin more than if heâd admitted to being terribly impatient. Your lack of eye contact and stiff posture are not lost on your observant lover. Deftly, as only a dhampir can be, Alucard comes to stand behind your chair with preternatural speed.Â
âIt is alright to desire things.â The words spoken, velvety and soft are your undoing. Shoulders slumping, you fold in on yourself, coming to rest your forehead on top of steepled fingers. âIt is alright to want things.â His voice comes as a welcome balm, as welcome as his fingers that toy with a curl at the nape of your neck. âIt is alright to want things with me.âÂ
âEven things Iâd like you to do to me, I suppose.â You murmur, tone acrid as the wine still lingering on your tongue. Alucardâs fingers come to a halt, his thumb tracing lightly at the back of your neck now.Â
âEspecially those things.â The heat growing around his words is not lost on you as his touch stirs prickles down your scalp, raising the skin of your arms to goose flesh.Â
âI can hardly-âÂ
âThere are no secrets between us mÄ iubire, I desire to know the things that stir your heart, and other places.â His tone takes on a teasing edge towards the end, lightening your mood a little.Â
That had always been one of the things youâd loved most about your darling love. No matter how morose your mood or how dark the shadows that lingered about your soul, tinging your eyes, Alucard always managed to lighten your spirit without admonishing you to banish that melancholy entirely. He was content to sit with you in those dark spaces- as you did with him.Â
Try as you might to muster up a smile, the embarrassment of years stayed and repressed kept your head bent and your shoulders sloped. âAlucard, I can scarcely tell you that I have the most⊠erotically devine imaginings about you.â Once the words start, they seem to have no beginning or end. âIt wouldnât be seemly for me to tell you that I thrill at the feel of your incisors at my throat. That I yearn for the warmth of your touch at my breast, your tongue between my-â Your face heated at the impassioned nature of your diatribe.Â
Alucard scarcely gave you a moment to regret that confession, his lips quick to soothe any lingering hesitation as they mapped a path down to the base of your neck. Long fingers nudged at your jaw, waiting until you turned ever so slightly before he was on his knees aside you, pressing open mouthed kisses along the column of your neck in eager supplication.Â
âWhenever you are ready,â He murmured against your ear, fingers settling at the swell of your breast over the satin of your bodice, âI will be here, and very much willing to undo you.âÂ
TL: @unintentionalseductress
#castlevania netflix#alucard x reader#alucard x you#adrian tepes#adrian tepes x reader#adrian tepes x you#alucard#alucard castlevania#alucard tepes#castlevania#alucard smut#i'm so down for this man it's not even funny...#dividers by @saradika graphics
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Between Rounds & Rhythms
Idol!Dino x afab!medicalstudent (Hana Chae)
Part 1 : The Unexpected Meeting
(A/N : Hi my Lovlies! Hope you all are doing well. This is my first official fanFic so please bear with me. My first language is not English but I hope you guys enjoy! Please feel free to send in requests/ suggestions. :)
TW : none!
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Hana Chae had never been one for distractions. Her days were a whirlwind of hospital rounds, late-night study sessions, and a relentless pursuit of something more... something greater than just scraping by in her final year of medical school. Sleep was a luxury, and free time was an illusion and entertainment? A distant memory.
Thatâs why, on a rainy Tuesday evening, she found herself at an indoor complexânot for leisure, but for work. The upcoming health seminar needed a venue, and she had volunteered to inspect the facilities. It was supposed to be a quick stop, a checklist item between her shift and the textbooks waiting on her desk.
But of course, fate had other plans.
As she stepped inside, the rhythmic thump of bass-heavy music.. which she swears she's heard somewhere.. reverberated through the empty halls, pulling her toward a partially open door. Curiosity won over logic. Peering in, she found a lone figure moving across the dance floor, his body flowing with effortless precision. Even with the sweat clinging to his shirt, exhaustion evident in the sharp rise and fall of his chest, he didnât falter. Every movement was sharp yet fluid, disciplined yet free.
Then he noticed herâŠ
As soon as his gaze met hers, Hana froze. The dancer straightened slightly, his movements coming to an abrupt halt. For a moment, all that filled the space between them was the lingering echo of the music and the steady rhythm of their breaths.
Hanaâs brain scrambled for a response, anything-but words failed her. The man in front of her, still catching his breath, tilted his head slightly.
âUhâŠâ she started, gripping the strap of her bag. âSorry, I didnât mean to interrupt.â
The dancer blinked before a small, amused smile tugged at the corner of his lips. âYouâre fine.â His voice was warm, yet slightly husky from exertion. He ran a hand through his damp hair, pushing it back from his forehead. âJust⊠wasnât expecting an audience.â
âI-â Hana took a step back, suddenly feeling like she had intruded on something personal. âI was just checking out the venue for a seminar. Didnât realize anyone would be here.â
The dancer nodded, finally reaching for a water bottle nearby. As he unscrewed the cap, he gave her a once-overânot in a scrutinizing way, but with the curiosity of someone trying to place a face.âYou work here?â he asked before taking a sip.
Hana shook her head. âMedical intern. I-uh-study at the hospital nearby.â
His eyebrows lifted slightly. âAh, a doctor-in-training.â He capped the bottle and set it aside. âYou must be busy.â
âYou have no idea,â she exhaled, then immediately clamped her mouth shut, realizing how easily she had spoken.
The dancer chuckled, eyes crinkling slightly. âSounds like weâve got that in common.â
Before she could ask what he meant, her phone buzzed in her pocket. A reminder about her upcoming rounds. Reality snapped back into place.âI should go,â she said quickly, taking another step back. âSorry again for disturbing you.âShe turned to leave, but his voice stopped her.
âHey.â
Hana looked over her shoulder.
âWhatâs your name?â he asked, his expression unreadable but his tone light.For reasons she couldnât quite explain, she hesitated. But then she figuredâwhat harm could it do?
âHana. Chae Hana.â
He nodded, rolling his shoulders. âNice to meet you, Hana.â
She waited for his name in return, but it never came. Instead, he simply shot her another small, knowing smile before picking up his phone and restarting the music.The heavy bass resumed, and just like that, he was moving againâfluid, effortless, lost in his world.
Hana didnât linger this time. But as she stepped back into the hallway, the faintest feeling nagged at her.
She swore she had heard that music somewhere before.
Hana shook off the odd feeling and continued down the hallway, mentally running through the checklist for the seminar venue. She had other things to focus on-real, tangible responsibilities that didnât involve mysterious dancers in empty studios.
Still, as she stepped outside, the sound of rain hitting the pavement greeted her, along with the cool scent of damp earth. She pulled out her umbrella, but hesitated for a moment.Something about that guy⊠It wasnât just his dancing. There was an air of familiarity, something lingering in the back of her mind, but no clear memory to grasp.
Shaking her head, she dismissed the thought and focused on her phone, sending a quick message to confirm the venueâs availability. The rain had lightened to a steady drizzle by the time she reached the hospital.
Part 2
#svt#svt dino#dino fluff#dino#lee chan#DinoAndGuitar#dino x reader#seventeen#svt fluff#svt x reader#lee chan x reader#hoshi#wonwoo#seungkwan#svt fanfic#scoups#svt fic#svt carat
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I am physically incapable of choosing a sole partner for Rook because *picks up all the Companions and shakes them* I mean, just look at them! I'm supposed to only want one! This is still very WIP levels, since this is the first time I've actually sat down and described their relationships together, so some of them are very sparse atm.
So, yeah, they're all a web of romantic/platonic/whatever they want -to call it, group.
Lucanis and Emmrich are Lance's main squeezes. (I've been contemplating a Blighted Treviso with Lucanis and Lance getting together officially later after the game but haven't made a decision yet). Primarily he lives with either one or the other.
Emmrich is the main one Lance pursued, since he was the eldest of the group, it felt good to have that sort of stability with someone whose been through things and knew what he wanted. He becomes a lich because of Lance's encouragement, though with the way I'm spinning my story, Manfred is still around (the way that whole thing spun out in-game still frustrates me.) They do dates when they can, proper fine dining and touring places dates, as well as funeral planning dates. Being Dalish and growing up in the Crows, Lance has a much more open mind about topics such as death. When Lance finds unconscious Nevarran habits creeping into his mannerisms, Emmrich about proposes to him on the spot. Lucanis: it took a long, long time for anything more than fleeting romantic feelings to bloom between them. They were able to develop a close friendship after the Blighting of Treviso, a small miracle with how Lucanis buried himself deep away from others. There's a key moment, in the Lighthouse, when Lucanis comes across Lance trying to keep himself together after so much has happened, that it starts to crack Lucanis's walls. They both have this sort of 'will be the leader but also needs someone to follow' personality that lets them swap the roles between them, a relief to know that if they need it, all they have to do is lay their head down on the other's lap and all their leadership responsibilities and titles and all that junk is flung out the door for a short respite. There's a big piece of Lance that will forever be guilty of what happened with Treviso, even though logically he knows it's not his fault. Spite, of all people, is able to soothe him the most of this (Lucanis also logically knows this, but it's difficult putting that kernel of hurt away.)
Taash and Davrin are big, big friends with benefits types. Taash and Lance share a strong bond through queerness; Lance transitioned when he was fairly young, been through all this shit for years at this point, so being able to guide Taash through that minefield has them thick as thieves. They do a lot of the more outlandish/frisky things together that Taash usually wouldn't do with Lace. Davrin: found they make better friends than full-time lovers, though their heartstrings do tug on them more often than they'd like. Lance is neither an animal person nor a parent type, so while his support in Davrin figuring out how to deal with Assan, it wasn't the best. (Assan though does now have a firm favorite spot in Lance's heart). Like with Bellara, they bonded over their shared Dalish history, both of them having left the Clan at a young age for various reasons.
Harding, as sweet of a woman as she is, she also reminds Lance of one of his prior relationships a little too much, so he keeps this relationship in the friendzone. (It was Bobber, a fellow Dalish elf who was the sweetest boy around, able to get past Lance's walls and bring out the softness in him.) OTOH, because of his prior relationship, Lance is much more equipped to deal with Lace's problems with dealing with the Titan's anger and her own lack of self.
Neve: Friends/Business partners with benefits. Lance adores hunting down clues and studying people with her! Once getting past each others walls, they make sure to check in on the other, that they're taking care of themselves and generally not running themselves into the ground. Lance encourages a sense of freedom and security in Neve that is hard to find elsewhere. Meanwhile Neve will help keep Lance's feet on the ground.
Bellara: girlfriend, shares her primarily with Neve (look girlfriends can still have sisterhood together, okay?) She has the ability to work with ancient tech and such that boggles Lance; he can pull people apart like nothing but give him an artifact and he'll be blowing up the continent. He delights in sitting nearby after a long day, asking a question or two about what she's doing, and sitting back and basking in her knowledge. Does he understand half of what's going on? No. Does he greatly enjoy these sessions? Yess. Bellara very much appreciates him being her wall to bounce ideas off of. Their time together is often spent staying weeks out in the wilderness, exploring whatever they can find to bring back to the Lighthouse, the other Veil Jumpers, etc.
They all still work in the Lighthouse, it's become a sort of stronghold for their group, expanding and shrinking as need be. Every few months they try to all get together and have a big reunion, share stories, experiences, knowledge and indulge in others they haven't seen in a while.
And then, there's Solas. A whole different and very unique kettle of fish that requires its own post. Though for a small detail of them; Solas was tricked into the Fade and can still talk to Rook, their blood bond unbroken.
Rook Introduction Hour 2/14/25
Happy Valentine's Day! I hope everyone celebrating is having a wonderful time! đđâŁïžđ§đŸââ€ïžâđâđ§đżđ©đ»ââ€ïžâđâđ©đœđšđŸââ€ïžâđâđšđŒđđ©”đ«¶đŒđ„°đđâŁïž
How it works: I ask you a question about your Rook(s) and you answer it with as much brevity or verbosity as you desire. You can do this whenever you want, and Iâll reblog it + add some comments! Thereâs no time limitâ if you want to do the older ones, they are collected here! (The post is updated on Fridays!)
đ¶ L is for the way you look at me /O is for the only one I see /V is very, very extraordinary /E is even more than anyone that you adore! đ¶
Today's Question(s): NOW it's all about đRomantic loveđ! Who is/are your Rook's LI(s)? Do they go on dates together frequently? Where do they like to go together? What's the most romantic thing that Rook's ever done for them? That they've ever done for Rook? If they had unlimited time and money, and no obligations, what would they do for each other? Is there anything Rook or their LI(s) want to say to each other that they haven't yet, for some reason? If they were to settle down together, would they want to start a family? Do you have any headcanons about anything they did together during the game that wasn't shown? And lastly, do you have any pictures of Rook and their LI(s) that you want to share?
Hopefully there are enough questions for everyone to find something they're excited about! Have fun, and thanks for sharing!
(Also, if you are looking for more DA themed Valentine's day content, taamlok made a new romance themed ask game, and corvus-frugilegus is sending silly valentines! And those of you playing on PC can also download the Veilguard of Love mod that metamancer-io made, and turn your Veilguard romantic! Hope you have fun!)
#crow chirps#rook: lance de riva#there is still *so much* i need to polish with the setup i want#but this is a start#gonna post this now before i agonize it any longer#not my best words but i am *tired*
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i want my room super organised and clean but my roommate sucks she's so filthy and pathetic it makes me want to kill myself
#i cannot do this alone im tired#past one year ive taken the incharge to clean the room everytime and all she ever replies when i want her help is#âim tired not right nowâ#i can't do this anymore i can't live in a dirty room with webs and floors with stains and hair lying around#i cannot settle her on this she doesn't care she never wants to have the conversation#ive grown around people who're innately always more hygienic than me and i can't live around someone who lives like a rat in sewer#and a looot of men are so unclean smelly weird#but neither my brother or friends or father who's actually been in defense so you can guess his obsession with cleanliness#and my bf who has the tidiest room in boys hostel washes his clothes aware about his breath nails his room is so#ugh where the fuck im stuck#how is one supposed to study in a place like this#oh guess it's not a problem for a her because she never fucking studies that's why she's repeating right#but im so so tired of only the doing it
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i hate feeling ambitionless aimless the future is so bleak
#this is about me not the events#i really don't think i have a plan lol and i ever will...#because all through school i had this thing. need to pass this unit test this half yearly this 2nd unit test final exams need to do this#cocurricular activity and the absolute relief when i flipped the report to see i was promoted every year. that was the aim right#now i don't know what's happening#a set set of friends i met everyday sat next to permanent place in the field where we had lunch. like?#it was all so permanent#i knew teachers did not like me or how people there felt about me#and i think a lot of it comes from the fact that i never changed schools#14 years in the same place then one random tuesday it ends everything ends and im supposed to start from scratch#losing friends was all my fault but goddddddf. i used to be good at things#like when i was in 10th grade i gave my everything to studying maths because mom threatened me that if do not get science here we'll change#your school#to wherever you get science#so i studied like crazy did not touch my phone for months and got science#like that is my level of attachment to that place#i just miss it so much probably more than my own home#and i can't belong anywhere because i'm so stuck and nothings good enough and i miss being good and being academically productive#it was my only win i think#this is so sad but i don't think i'll ever get that past work ethic back and it will never be good enough for me to feel good about myself#which can only be through study or work because im a loser who thinks she's worthless if not for a successful career#and I've felt this way for three years now. it is going to be permanent#everything is lonely
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to the person who left critical feedback on my bob dylan study I love you . I do plan to mention that in the discussion following the results section because it was SUCH a blunder that I was kicking myself for midway through collecting results but I didn't want to change horses in midstream so I just left the survey as it was. But there were so many little gender-related caveats I forgot to consider to be honest so I'm just rolling with the punches
#the issue is so many lines are blurred when it comes to discussing identity so I didn't want to place too many specifications on what it#meant to be genderqueer. but at the same time it would have been SO helpful to have like a scale with masc and fem on either side to#sort of distinguish the standpoints of different people. which also would have solved the issue of butch cis women and stuff which#I couldn't figure out how to consider without overcomplicating things when I was making the survey#MAYBE IF I HAD PLANNED THIS BETTERRRRRR but it was supposed to be a silly project and I made the survey at like 1am one evening. oh well#maybe I will do it again and it will be amazing and way better. such is the way of studies#to be hoenst I didn't want to overcomplicate it BECAUSE it was a silly project but now that I'm in so deep I may as well go the whole way#but anyway. I'm 2.5k words into this report and I haven't even done the discussion so let's go. it's so gonna reach 4k I just know it#emi's meandering jotts
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