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clementineinn · 1 month ago

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before you fade

abstract: a string of disappearances in a snowbound town pulls the BAU into a chilling case — one that hits too close when the next target is personal. chosen not for weakness, but for the strength that's been buried, hidden away in the depths of a person. as a team races against time, secrets resurface, and the line between subject and survivor begins to blur.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (some usage of Y/N)

genre: angst / fluff (a little dark i won't lie, but it resolves i swear fmskdjs)

word count: ~4.4k

note: this is my first time posting my writing on here,,, kinda nervous LOL. but huge thanks to all the writers here on tumblr that have inspired me to finally post some of my writing! i really hope you enjoy! :p

part one. part two.

The jet was quiet — the kind of quiet that hangs between two people with too many unsaid things. Y/N sat near the back of the plane, tucked into a corner, a case file sitting open in her lap. Her eyes drifted to the frost-laced window, watching the clouds pass like bruises over a pale sky. One hand toyed with the edge of the folder absently, her thumb flicking the corner rhythmically. Tap, tap, tap. She hadn’t flipped the page in ten minutes, a fact that Spencer quickly noticed.

Across from her, he was trying — failing — to read the same profile paragraph for the third time. His eyes kept tugging back to her like gravity, focused on the shadows under her eyes, the soft, focused line between her brows, the way her fingers rested against the page as she focused intently on the case file in her lap. Her brows were furrowed in concentration – he wanted to press his finger to the wrinkles between her eyebrows and ease her worries away. A pencil caught between her lips. Reid pretended to read the victimology section again, but his eyes kept drifting up — watching the way she tilted her head when something just didn’t add up.

She always read case files too fast. She annotated them in shorthand code that only Garcia had once dared to decipher — and even she had given up after the third sticky note label “internal triangulation, subjective anchor.” But today—nothing. No highlighter, no pen. Just stillness.

Spencer knew how many sugars she took in her coffee (zero, but only because she hated the grainy texture). He knew she double-knotted her boots because once, on an op, her laces had snapped mid-chase. He knew she kept her phone on silent unless her mom was sick or the team was in the field. He knew she hummed soft rock songs when she thought no one was listening. He even knew her heart rate elevated whenever he stood too close.

And he knew her tells.

She hummed when she was bored. Quizzed herself on bone fractures when she was nervous. Flipped her pencil in her hand when she was thinking — and now, she wasn’t doing any of that.

He leaned forward slightly. “You haven’t turned that page in a while,” he said gently.

Y/N blinked, slow and unfocused. “I know.” Then her voice dipped, dry as the cabin air. “The words stopped making sense.”

She didn’t look at him. Just stared out the window.

Spencer hesitated. “Want to talk about it?”

“Nope,” she said easily, popping the “p” with forced cheer, then gave him a half-hearted smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “But thanks for asking.”

He watched her for another beat. Then: “You’re allowed to not be okay, you know.”

“Yeah,” she said softly, “I know.”

She finally turned to face him — eyes shadowed, tired, but sharp. “You ever feel like a case is talking to you, not just at you?”

Spencer’s throat tightened. “Yes.”

“Yeah.” She looked back at the file, thumb pausing its rhythm. She said it like a joke, but the tension behind it wasn’t funny.

He loved her. In the deepest, quietest part of himself. The part he didn’t dare let breathe.

She didn’t know.

Or maybe she did. Maybe she felt it too — the tension strung between them like an invisible thread, pulled tight and trembling with everything unsaid. But neither of them moved and neither of them reached.

Their case in Vermont had gone cold long before the team arrived. Cold in every sense of the word — the kind that sunk into bone and refused to leave. Barre, Vermont was blanketed in an oppressive hush, the streets buried beneath layers of old snow and older secrets. The town itself felt suspended, frozen in time and temperature. Over six weeks, three women had vanished without a trace. No witnesses. No forensic evidence. No behavioral patterns to chase. Just absence. Until Isabel Warren came back.

She wasn’t whole, however.

Isabel had survived, but only technically. In the sterile fluorescent light of the hospital room, she looked less like a patient and more like something plucked from the ruins. A porcelain figure fractured at the seams, held together by instinct alone. Her voice, when it came, was dry leaves crushed underfoot — barely audible, brittle. Her eyes darted, flickering to corners and shadows as if expecting them to bite.

“He didn’t hurt me like you think,” she whispered, voice trembling like frost-laced glass. “He studied me.”

Morgan and Prentiss had taken the lead in her interview, giving the rest of the team space to process the implications. The story Isabel shared didn’t come all at once — it unraveled slowly, painfully, like unraveling gauze from a fresh wound. There was no rage, no screaming. No sudden violence. Instead: metal restraints that gleamed under surgical lights. Stainless steel trays. The cool pinch of needles. A camera that blinked silently in the corner, recording her every flinch.

And the man behind it was calm – precise. He didn’t shout – he asked questions. He didn’t hurt her in the way they expected. He violated her humanity in silence. Conversation filled the spaces where screams should have been.

What Isabel described wasn’t just captivity. It was dissection — of the mind, of identity, of control. And that made it worse.

The cold hit hard when they stepped out of the SUV — the kind that cracked at skin, settled in bones. Snow clung to the rooftops and drifted in thin sheets across the pavement, whispering over the soles of their boots as the team moved toward the small-town police station.

Y/N lagged behind slightly, scanning the street. Her breath fogged in front of her lips. Everything about Barre felt like it had stopped mid-sentence — frozen storefronts, shuttered windows, barely a sound beyond the wind.

Inside the precinct, the air was warmer, but only marginally. The heat came from space heaters along the hallway and the bitter scent of old coffee.

They’d just finished introducing themselves to the lead detective when someone behind the front desk called her name.

“Agent Y/L/N?”

She turned.

A uniformed officer — young, no older than twenty — held something out toward her. A plain white envelope.

“This came for you,” he said. “Dropped off about ten minutes before you arrived.”

Y/N frowned. “Dropped off by who?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t leave a name. Just walked it in. Said it was for you and left.”

The envelope was unmarked except for her name in neat, block print. No return address. No smudges. Just… clean.

She turned it over.

No seal.

Inside was a single sheet of paper.

No letterhead. No date. No signature.

Just one line, typed:

“You can hide what broke you, but I can still see the cracks.”

Beneath it — in ink — was a small, hand-drawn smiley face.

Eyes and the curve of a mouth.

Y/N stared at it, the paper crinkling slightly between her fingers.

Her pulse didn’t spike. Her face didn’t change.

But something in her stomach dropped.

She folded it carefully, tucking it back into the envelope — then into the inner pocket of her coat.

Not now.

Not yet.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

The precinct’s makeshift war room buzzed with the low hum of fluorescent lights and muted voices. It was late — the kind of late that slowed movement and turned everything grainy – and the team had been investigating for days. Half-drunk coffee cups cluttered the table. A printer sputtered in the background. The map of Barre, Vermont, glared back at them from the board, dotted with red pins that marked where the victims had been taken. Three so far. All in two weeks. All women. All gone without a sound.

“He didn’t leave anything behind,” Morgan said, dragging a hand down his face. “No fibers. No prints. He’s not improvising. This is controlled.”

JJ’s brows furrowed as she laid out the victim photos. “All three women had similar emotional profiles. Independent, intelligent. Lived alone. Minimal social entanglements. Their trauma histories go back to early adolescence. They’re survivors, but just barely holding themselves together.”

Garcia’s voice crackled through the speakerphone like an apology. “And I pulled medical records like you asked. Isabel Warren? PTSD flagged in her file three years ago. She’d been in and out of counseling. So had the other two.”

“So he targets women who’ve already been broken,” Rossi murmured, eyes narrowing.

“No,” Spencer said quietly, his voice threading through the room. “He targets women who’ve survived it. Who’ve spent years putting themselves back together. He doesn’t want destruction. He wants erosion. He doesn’t abduct them at their weakest — he waits until they’re strong enough to matter.”

That quieted the room.

“Observation,” Hotch said flatly as the details were laid bare. His voice was calm, but there was a tension in the set of his jaw — a rare betrayal of emotion. “He’s not in a hurry. He studies them. Prepares the environment. Then waits until the right moment to break them down.”

Emily crossed her arms, staring hard at the psychological profile. “He doesn’t kill them quickly. He watches them fall apart. Slowly. Deliberately. He chooses subjects that are already primed to fracture.”

No one moved for a moment.

Y/N sat at the edge of the conference table, spine arrow-straight, the collar of her coat still pulled close around her neck. Her eyes were on the photos — lined side by side, the faces of missing women caught mid-smile, mid-blink, alive in one frame, vanished in the next. She didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. But she wasn’t seeing them anymore.

The team kept talking.

Morgan cursed under his breath, pacing. “The guy’s using psychological stress like a weapon. Cages, lights, silence. It’s about control."

“And emotional isolation,” Spencer added. “He mimics safety — gives them just enough normalcy to confuse them. Then watches what they do with it. He’s cataloging survival behavior.”

Hotch nodded. “He builds trust just enough to remove it. Then he watches what’s left behind.”

A silence settled again, deeper this time.

Spencer glanced at Y/N — and that’s when he saw it.

She still hadn’t moved. Not once. But her hands, under the table, had shifted. Her fingers curled into fists. Small. Tense. Controlled.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

The crime scene board loomed like a ghost in the center of the precinct — faces, names, timelines. Victims rendered into data. But no one was speaking anymore. The weight of the profile sat heavy on all of them.

Y/N had left the room a few minutes ago. Silent. Swift. She’d said she was getting some air, but her expression hadn’t changed — just locked down tighter. More precise.

Prentiss watched her go, something flickering in her eyes.

Then she turned toward Spencer, her voice low. “Have you noticed something… off with her today?”

Spencer looked up from a page of victimology notes. “What do you mean?”

“She’s not reacting,” Emily said, stepping a little closer. “Not the way she usually does. She’s not asking questions. Not checking in. It’s like she’s watching the case from the inside out.”

Spencer’s brow furrowed. “I thought maybe she was just tired,” he said — but even to himself, it sounded like a lie.

Emily gave him a look. Not sharp. Just knowing.

“You know her better than the rest of us,” she said softly. “That’s why I’m asking.”

Spencer’s shoulders lowered slightly. “She’s… quiet. Too quiet. During Isabel Warren’s statement — she didn’t move. Her hands were clenched under the table, but her face didn’t change. Not once.”

Emily nodded. “Exactly. She was holding it in. And she’s too good at it.”

A beat passed. Then she added, voice careful now: “That’s the kind of woman he goes after, isn’t it?”

Spencer froze. Not because it was a surprise — but because it wasn’t.

“She hasn’t said anything,” he offered. Weakly.

“She wouldn’t,” Emily said. “Especially not about something like this. Not after what happened before she came here.”

They both fell quiet.

Everyone in the BAU knew that Y/N had come from Interpol. That she’d spent nearly two years undercover. That something had gone wrong — badly enough to get her pulled from the field and quietly reassigned to domestic ops. But the details? Those were sealed. Even Garcia couldn’t pull them.

Prentiss had always respected that silence. But now, that same silence felt like a liability.

“She doesn’t talk about it,” Spencer murmured. “Whatever happened overseas… I think she’s still carrying it.”

“I think he’d see that,” Emily replied. “He’d read it in her body before she ever said a word.”

Spencer looked toward the hallway where Y/N had disappeared. His chest tightened.

“Do you think he’s already noticed her?”

“I think he noticed her the second she walked into town,” Emily said quietly. “And if we don’t act like that’s a possibility, we risk everything.”

She paused, then stepped back, her voice softening.

“Keep her close. Even if she pushes you away. Especially then.”

Spencer nodded. Once. Tight and sharp.

Then they moved — together — toward the board.

Hotch stood at the front, arms folded, studying the regional map with a crease forming between his brows. Red pins marked abduction sites, discarded belongings, last-known locations. They looked like wounds.

“Hotch?” Emily’s voice was calm, but steady.

He turned. Both she and Spencer were standing too straight. Too still.

“We need to talk,” Spencer said.

Hotch motioned for them to continue.

“We think Y/N might be at risk,” Emily said. “Not just as a profiler. As a potential victim.”

Hotch’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”

Spencer stepped forward, voice quiet but precise. “All of the victims had histories of trauma — long-term, deeply buried. High-functioning women who survived something early, then spent their lives masking it. They weren’t fragile. They were contained.”

“And that’s how he chooses them,” Emily added. “Not because they’re vulnerable — because they’re strong. Because they hide it so well, no one sees the cracks.”

“She fits the pattern,” Spencer said. “Even if she hasn’t said it out loud… she knows.”

“I saw it,” Emily said. “The moment Isabel started talking. Y/N didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. She recognized it.”

Hotch looked between them. His jaw tightened.

“She hasn’t acknowledged it?”

“No,” Spencer said. “And I don’t think she will. Not until it’s too late.”

Hotch turned back to the board. Something clicked into place.

“If he’s watching her — if she’s already on his list — he won’t wait long.”

Then he faced them, all hesitation gone.

“Get the team.”

The air felt heavier as the team reconvened — everyone on edge from the tension radiating off Hotch’s stance alone. He waited until they’d all settled: JJ, Morgan, Rossi, Prentiss, and Spencer. Y/N wasn’t in the room — not yet.

Hotch spoke low and firm, voice carrying weight but no panic.

“We believe the unsub may be targeting someone on this team.”

That froze everyone.

Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “You saying he’s made us?”

“I’m saying,” Hotch continued, “he may have identified someone who fits his selection criteria. And we’ve determined that the agent most at risk… is Y/N.”

A beat of silence.

JJ’s eyes widened. Rossi’s expression hardened. Morgan leaned forward slightly, voice tight. “Are you sure?”

“She fits the behavioral profile to a T,” Spencer said, his voice almost too fast, like he was racing his own thoughts. “Trauma survivor. Emotionally reserved. Isolated but highly adaptive. She’s everything he’s been selecting for.”

Prentiss added, “And she hasn’t said a word about it — because she doesn’t want to be seen as vulnerable. Which only reinforces the pattern.”

Morgan swore under his breath, pushing away from the table. “We should’ve seen this sooner.”

“She did,” Hotch said quietly. “She just hasn’t said it.”

That landed like a weight.

Everyone knew Y/N had been through something in her Interpol years. Something she never talked about. Something that changed the course of her career and quietly followed her into every room.

Hotch’s eyes swept the room, sharp now. Focused.

“I want eyes on her every hour,” he said. “No one goes anywhere alone. Especially not Y/N. She doesn’t need to be scared — she needs to be covered. Discreetly. We don’t lose one of our own.”

Everyone nodded, a silent current of agreement moving through the room.

Spencer’s jaw clenched slightly. “If he’s already watching her... he won’t wait long to escalate.”

“Then we won’t give him the chance,” Hotch said. His voice was calm — but even Spencer could see the storm behind his eyes.

And just then — footsteps echoed in the hallway.

The door opened.

Y/N stepped into the room, unaware of the conversation that had just taken place. Her stride was even, composed — but to those who’d just been told to look closer, that composure now felt different.

Like armor.

Spencer’s eyes found her immediately. So did Emily’s. JJ’s smile faltered as she looked away and busied herself with her notes. Morgan leaned back, arms crossed too tightly. Everyone shifted — subtly, instinctively — forming an invisible perimeter around her.

She didn’t seem to notice.

But Spencer did.

As Hotch launched back into the debrief, picking up where he’d left off, Y/N settled at the edge of the table. Not beside anyone. Just slightly apart. Her coat was still on. Her coffee sat untouched. Her face didn’t move, but her shoulders gave away the truth — pulled up just a little too tight.

And Spencer knew.

Spencer watched her out of the corner of his eye as Hotch continued listing behavioral patterns and forensic gaps. Her eyes remained fixed ahead, but they were no longer following. Her breathing was even, but too shallow. Every muscle in her shoulders was drawn tight, and her jaw flexed once, twice, like she was swallowing words she didn’t trust herself to speak aloud.

He could see it now — the slow unraveling. The tiny threads fraying at the edge of her self-control. It wasn’t visible to anyone who didn’t know her. But he did.

She hadn’t slept. He could tell. There were faint shadows under her eyes, soft as smudged graphite. Her hair was neatly pulled back, but a few strands had slipped loose around her ears, stuck to her skin from where she’d rubbed at her temples earlier. And the coffee in her travel mug sat untouched.

The unsub sought emotional containment — not chaos. He didn’t want hysteria. He wanted the slow, clinical breakdown of a subject too proud or too traumatized to scream.

Y/N fit the profile because she was composed enough to attract him — and haunted enough to keep him interested.

The room had fallen into a contemplative hush.

Garcia’s voice crackled through the speaker, listing trauma indicators pulled from each victim’s medical and counseling history.

JJ added, “They all presented as stable — no recent crises, no major relapses. But every one of them had years of quiet therapy behind them. There’s a pattern of early trauma, but also recovery.”

Morgan leaned back in his chair, brow furrowed. “So what’s he hunting for? Strength? Weakness?”

Y/N looked up from her notes, finally speaking — voice calm, clear, steady.

“I don’t think it’s about strength or weakness,” she said. “I think it’s about endurance. The kind you don’t see unless you’re looking for it.”

The room quieted further.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, not rushed, just thoughtful.

“He’s choosing women who’ve rebuilt themselves. Not because they’re fragile — but because they’ve already been through something and survived it. He’s not looking for people who are breaking. He’s looking for people who know how to hold themselves together.”

Spencer glanced at her. There was something in his eyes — recognition, maybe. Respect.

Y/N continued, her voice soft but certain.

“He doesn’t want to destroy them. He wants to watch them try not to fall apart. To study the exact moment that strength starts to give.”

She didn’t say it with drama. She said it like she was laying something carefully on the table — something that mattered.

Hotch gave a small nod. “We’ll adjust the profile.”

And just like that, Y/N looked back down at her notepad and quietly underlined a single word: Endurance.

When the briefing ended, the team slowly dispersed to cross-reference victimology, revisit the scene logs, and check the geo-mapping data. No one said it out loud, but everyone lingered in her orbit. Just enough to keep her in their periphery. To follow Hotch’s directive without alarming her.

But Y/N lingered longer. Alone at the table, the light above her humming faintly.

Spencer didn’t leave. “You okay?” he asked softly.

She blinked. The motion was delayed, like a system rebooting. “I’m fine.”

It was automatic. Too fast.

“Y/N,” he said again, quieter now, stepping closer. “You don’t have to be fine.”

Her silence stretched. The room felt too big, too empty. Then she looked at him — really looked at him — and for a brief second, the glass cracked. The composure faltered. He saw it in her eyes. Not fear. Not yet. But recognition. Like she’d seen herself on that profile board, and couldn’t unsee it.

“He watches them fall apart,” she whispered. Her voice was barely audible, not really for him — more like a quiet realization rising from some place she’d kept sealed. “Like he’s waiting for something to break open.”

Spencer didn’t move. He just stood there beside her, close but not touching, like getting too near might crack what was left of her armor.

“He’s already watching,” she added, softer still.

Then, a pause. A slight shift.

She reached slowly into her coat pocket — careful, almost cautious — and pulled out a plain white envelope.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” she murmured. “I told myself it was just local paranoia. A scare tactic. But... this was waiting at the precinct when we arrived.”

Spencer took the envelope gently, his brow furrowed. He opened it, unfolded the sheet inside.

One line of typed text.

“You can hide what broke you, but I can still see the cracks.”

And beneath it — a smiley face. Small eyes and the curve of a mouth. Inked by hand.

Spencer’s blood went cold.

“Jesus,” he breathed. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“I wasn’t sure it meant anything. And part of me didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of reacting.” She paused. “But I haven’t stopped thinking about it since I read it. It’s not random. It’s not just a threat. It’s… intimate.”

His jaw tightened. “He knows.”

“I think he’s known,” she said. “Since the moment we stepped foot in Barre.”

They stared at each other in silence. Then Spencer slowly folded the paper and slipped it back into the envelope — like returning it to its cage.

“I’ll tell Hotch,” he said, his voice low, careful.

“No,” she said quickly, too quickly. “Not yet. Let me... let me handle it a little longer. Just until we’re sure.”

Spencer didn’t like it. Every nerve in his body told him not to let her walk that line alone.

But he nodded. “Only if you promise me something.”

“What?”

“If you see anything else — if you feel anything off, anything strange — you come to me. Not later. Right then.”

She met his eyes. For the first time all day, she looked like she might break.

But she didn’t.

“I promise,” she said.

And then JJ’s voice called out from across the room. Penelope had found something. Everyone was gathering again.

Y/N gave Spencer a practiced, quiet smile — the kind you use to keep people from looking too closely — and beckoned him toward the others.

He followed.

But his eyes stayed on her a second too long.

The case briefing had dissolved into murmured strategy and side conversations, whiteboards covered in red ink and shadowed photos. The team split off — Prentiss reviewing victim timelines with JJ, Morgan mapping out geographic overlays, Hotch and Rossi deep in behavioral cross-referencing.

Spencer hovered near the far wall, watching Y/N from across the room.

She sat perfectly still. Back straight. Hands folded. The epitome of focus. But he could see it — the hollow weight in her gaze, the way her shoulders sat too high, like her body hadn’t unclenched in hours.

He wanted to go to her. Say something. Tell her that she wasn’t alone — that even if she didn’t speak it aloud, even if she hadn’t admitted it to herself, they knew. But something in her expression told him she wasn’t ready. Not yet.

So he watched.

And what he missed — just barely — was the moment she excused herself to the bathroom and slipped out the door. If he hadn’t been looking at a case file, he would’ve seen the look on her face – would’ve known it was something deeper than just having to take a break. He would’ve seen the way she refused to make eye contact with anyone from worry of them seeing through her lies.

Y/N moved quickly but calmly, coat already over her shoulders, bag slung across her arm. The snow was still falling hard — it pelted the front windows in a sideways blur. A local officer sat behind the lobby desk, sipping weak coffee and half-reading a report.

She stepped close and kept her voice low.

“I need an escort back to the hotel,” she said. “Discreetly, please.”

The officer looked up, confused for only a moment. Then nodded. “Absolutely. You alright, Agent?”

“I’m fine,” she said with a tired smile. “Just need some air. It’s been a long night.”

He stood, grabbed his keys, and followed her out.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

Back in the conference room, the team reconvened quickly upon Penelope’s sudden gasp, the undercurrent of tension drawing them together like gravity.

JJ stood near the monitor, phone pressed to her ear as Garcia’s voice poured through the speaker — clear, fast, and edged with adrenaline.

“Okay, family — grab your metaphorical Kevlar, because I’ve got a name. And it’s not just a name. It’s a history, an address, and a very suspicious paper trail.”

Hotch leaned forward slightly, his voice sharp. “Go ahead, Garcia.”

“Meet Benjamin Cyrus Milburn,” Garcia said. “Age thirty-nine. Former veterinary technician — licensed in Massachusetts and Vermont. Worked at several rural clinics, most recently in Waterbury. No criminal record, no major red flags, but there’s something weird here. He dropped off the grid about two years ago — no income, no property under his name, no bills. Like he went full ghost mode.”

Prentiss frowned. “That lines up with the timeline for the first disappearance.”

“Oh, it gets better,” Garcia continued. “The last known address tied to him is a decommissioned vet clinic on the edge of Barre. Shut down three years ago for health code violations. He worked there part-time before it closed.”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “That’s within five miles of Isabel Warren’s last known location.”

Spencer’s head snapped up. “Does he have access to controlled substances?”

“Legally, not anymore,” Garcia said, “but based on the inventory records from the shutdown clinic, a whole list of sedatives and anesthetics went unaccounted for — ketamine, isoflurane, and acepromazine. It could easily knock someone out fast and keep them just conscious enough to know what’s happening.”

A brief silence fell.

Then Hotch asked, “Do we have a photo?”

“Sending it now,” Garcia confirmed. A moment later, her familiar digital sparkle sound effect echoed from the monitor, and Milburn’s DMV photo appeared on screen.

He looked unremarkable. Average build. Short brown hair. Clean-shaven. Wearing a collared shirt like he was applying for a job he didn’t want. But his eyes were wrong. Blank, but focused — like he was already watching something no one else could see.

Rossi exhaled through his nose. “That’s the face of someone who disappears in a crowd.”

Hotch turned to JJ. “Have local PD canvass the area around the old clinic. No contact. Not yet. I want eyes on it first.”

“On it,” she said, already dialing.

Prentiss shifted, voice lower now. “If he’s using the clinic as his hunting ground... and Y/N fits the profile...”

Spencer finished it. “Then he’s already chosen her.”

Everyone went still.

Hotch turned slowly to Spencer, eyes narrowing with precision. “Where is she right now?”

Spencer swallowed. “She was just here.”

Rossi spoke up. “She said she was going to the bathroom.”

“She didn’t leave with anyone.”

Morgan stood, tense. “I’ll find her.”

But before he could take a step, the lights flickered — just briefly. Long enough to make everyone freeze.

Then JJ’s phone buzzed sharply.

She checked the message. Her face went pale.

“That was the hotel desk clerk,” she said. “One of their officers was supposed to escort her back to the hotel. He never checked in. And Y/N’s not answering her room line.”

The air drained from the room.

Hotch didn’t hesitate.

“Where’s her phone?” he asked.

Garcia’s voice chimed in a half-second later over speaker. “Last ping was twenty minutes ago near the main road out of Barre—before it went dark.”

Silence. Immediate. Heavy.

Spencer’s mouth went dry. He stepped back like he’d been hit.

“She left,” he whispered. “She left without telling us. Alone.”

“No,” Prentiss said quickly, trying to stitch it together. “She wouldn’t—”

“She did,” Hotch cut in, sharp now. “And she’s not responding. That means one of two things: either she’s gone dark on purpose or someone took her.”

Morgan grabbed his coat. “I’ll take the road to the hotel.”

“I’m coming,” Spencer said immediately.

Hotch nodded. “Go. Now.”

As they rushed out, the room behind them fell to silence.

But no one said what they were all thinking: they’d profiled the next victim and let her walk straight into his hands.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

At first, it felt like nothing.

The cruiser glided over snow-slicked backroads, wipers beating steadily against the windshield. The officer beside her — nameplate reading J. D. Greeley — was quiet, focused on the road. Barre’s small-town streetlights flickered past in the rearview mirror, fading as they veered farther from downtown.

Y/N sat in silence, arms folded, her breath fogging faintly in the chill that leaked through the windows.

“You mind taking the long way?” she asked, her voice casual. “I just need to breathe for a few minutes before going back.”

The officer nodded once. “Sure. Not a problem.”

He turned down a road that dipped behind a line of tree cover, away from the main street.

That was her first warning.

She knew the town’s layout by now — knew this wasn’t the most direct route to the hotel. But maybe he was avoiding a traffic blockage. Or snow.

Still.

Her fingers tightened slightly on her coat sleeve. “You from around here?” she asked lightly, trying to place his cadence, his rhythm.

But the man didn’t answer.

The second warning.

Her stomach tightened. “Officer Greeley?” she tried again, voice sharper now.

No response. No acknowledgment. Her heart began to pound.

She reached for her phone, kept in her coat pocket. Cold leather met her fingertips — no phone. She checked the other pocket.

Gone.

Her pulse quickened. She glanced at the dashboard. No GPS. No radio on.

And then — the cruiser slowed.

Not at the hotel.

Not anywhere near it.

They were pulling into a snow-covered drive that disappeared into trees — overgrown, unlit, forgotten.

A thin, wavering breath escaped her lips.

She reached for the door handle. Locked.

The driver turned to her.

And for the first time, she really saw him.

Wrong eyes. Wrong age. Wrong badge.

Not Officer Greeley.

Not a cop.

Just the unsub wearing his uniform like a second skin.

“You’re everything I expected,” he said softly.

And before she could scream, move, or fight —

The needle was already at her neck.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

The cruiser’s wheels screeched to a stop at the edge of the snow-packed drive. Blue and red lights flashed across the skeletal trees, illuminating the icy breath that left Spencer’s lungs as he stared through the windshield.

“There,” Morgan said, already out of the vehicle.

The escort car was parked at a crooked angle just off the road — doors flung open. Snow had started to fill the driver’s seat. The headlights were still on.

Spencer sprinted forward.

“Y/N!” he shouted.

Nothing but the howl of wind.

Morgan reached the car first, flashlight sweeping the inside. The cabin was empty. Spencer circled to the passenger side — door wide open, scarf still clinging to the seatbelt.

Then he saw the needle cap in the snow.

“Oh God,” he whispered, dropping to one knee. He picked it up with gloved hands — a faint glisten of residue clinging to the tip.

“Chloroform or a paralytic,” Morgan said, voice grim. “He took her clean. Quiet. Knew how much time he had.”

Spencer rose, eyes scanning the tire tracks. “He left on foot or transferred her to another vehicle. There's no exit on this road except back the way we came. It was a trap.”

Morgan cursed low under his breath. “She asked for a private escort. He knew. He either intercepted the real cop, or he was waiting for her to ask.”

Spencer’s throat felt like it was closing. The image of her smiling softly, tugging on her gloves, saying I’ll be fine—it punched through his chest like a fist.

“She’s gone,” he said, barely audible.

Morgan’s hand came down on his shoulder. “Not for long. I’m calling Hotch.”

They stood in the snow, breath hard and fast, the empty cruiser behind them glowing like a signal flare in the dark.

Somewhere in the forest, Y/N was already fading.

And the clock had started.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer fic #reid fic #spencer reid fic #spencer x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst

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cbeargyu · 2 months ago

Note

how about childhood friends beomgyu to enemies to lovers 🤗

because of you

summary: you and beomgyu were never meant to be more than enemies — or so everyone thought. but one fake relationship, one wedding, and one jealous ex later, everything starts to unravel. somewhere between pretending and falling, the lines blur… and your heart forgets it’s all supposed to be fake.

pairing: beomgyu x fem!reader

genre: childhood friends to enemies to lovers, fake dating, slow burn, romance, fluff, a sprinkle of angst.

warnings: language, emotional vulnerability, mentions of past heartbreak, very soft kissing scenes, a little bit of yearning, friends reacting in shock.

wc: 14,3k

notes: omg i LOVED this request!! i’d been playing with the idea of fake dating with beomgyu for a while, and when this anon slid in with this concept, i instantly knew i had to merge both ideas 😭💕 i hope you enjoy reading it as much as i loved writing it <3

every time I trade my soul because of you, if you wanna be in my way because of me.

you don’t remember the exact moment beomgyu stopped being your best friend.

maybe it was a gradual thing. maybe it was one of those silent transitions, like the seasons changing in slow motion—summer bleeding into fall before you ever notice the chill in the air. or maybe it was a single instant, sharp and cruel, a rupture too quick to process in real time.

what you do remember is this: there was a time when choi beomgyu was your favorite person in the world. he was the loud laughter that echoed down the elementary school hallways, the warm hand that always reached for yours first during class trips, the boy who biked to your house even when it was raining just to drop off the pencil case you left behind. the one who knew your favorite candy, the stories you told yourself to fall asleep, the secrets you never said out loud to anyone else. he knew all of you. and back then, that meant everything.

you were inseparable. like people said it with a laugh, like it was cute how he always waited for you after class, how you saved a seat for him at lunch, how you shared snacks and whispered answers during tests. you didn’t care about what people said. beomgyu was your home. he was loud and goofy and a little chaotic, always pulling you into mischief, but he was yours. and you were his.

until middle school.

until popularity started to matter. until you realized that not everyone thought your closeness was endearing. especially not son hyejoo.

you’d heard the rumors about her before you ever exchanged words. she was the kind of girl who could make or break your social life with a single look. and somehow—of course—beomgyu got hers. she liked him. or maybe it was the idea of him: the boy with the easy smile, the boy people listened to, the boy who had potential. and he liked that she liked him. you watched it happen in real time—how he started sitting with her group, how he stopped waiting for you after class, how he laughed louder when he was with them, as if to prove something.

you didn’t say anything the first time he ignored you in the hallway. you didn’t say anything the second time either. but you started to feel it. the ache. the bitterness.

then came the cafeteria incident.

you can still feel the sickly-sweet stickiness of the juice dripping down your hair, soaking into your clothes, the weight of a thousand eyes on you as the sound of laughter exploded like fireworks.

"oops," hyejoo had said, her voice saccharine, lips curled into a smirk. "maybe watch where you're going next time."

you hadn’t touched her. you knew it. she knew it. everyone knew it. but no one said anything.

and beomgyu—beomgyu was right there. just a few feet away. sitting at the table with lee jeno, yang jeongin, kang yeosang, yoo jimin, shin ryujin, and shim jayoon. they were all laughing. pointing. except him.

he didn’t laugh.

he just watched you. eyes unreadable. lips in a tight line.

and then he turned away.

he... turned away...

that was the moment, you think.

not when he stopped being your friend— but when he proved he didn’t want to be.

you walked out of that cafeteria drenched and humiliated, but you didn’t cry. you didn’t give them that. what you gave them instead was silence.

you stopped acknowledging him. on the street. at school. in every space where your lives used to overlap.

it was almost laughable, how fate seemed to enjoy your misery. you ended up at the same high school, the same class, even seated next to each other on the very first day.

“i’d like to request a seat change,” you said, before the teacher even finished the roll call. your voice was steady. clear. “i don’t want to sit next to him.”

the class went silent. you could feel the way everyone stared, eyes flicking between you and beomgyu like they were waiting for a scandal to erupt.

kim chaewon, ever the peacemaker, raised her hand with a soft smile. “i can switch with her, if that’s okay.”

and just like that, you moved a few seats behind him.

he didn’t say anything.

he didn’t need to.

the coldness in his posture said it all. the tension. the subtle way he avoided your gaze, like your very existence annoyed him. and maybe it did. maybe he hated you now, too.

no one ever asked for details. no one really wanted the truth. they were satisfied with your vague, bitter shrugs and dry mutters of “he’s just a shitty person.”

and maybe he was. but he wasn’t always.

and maybe that’s what hurt the most.

you didn’t hate beomgyu because he was cruel.

you hated him because he used to be kind.

you hated him because he knew you better than anyone else ever had— and still chose to become a stranger.

you hadn’t seen it coming—university.

you didn’t expect that of all the people in the world, of all the schools, dorms, and friend groups, life would throw choi fucking beomgyu back into your orbit like some cruel joke written by a bored god.

you were here to reinvent yourself. to study psychology, bury yourself in theory and case studies, figure out how minds worked—maybe even understand why people hurt others for no reason. why best friends stopped being best friends. and beomgyu... you assumed he’d vanish with the rest of your high school nightmares.

but no. the universe, in all its twisted humor, made sure you ended up not just in the same university, but tangled in overlapping circles.

he majored in music. of course he did. you remembered how his face lit up in elementary school when he talked about melodies and chords, how his fingers clumsily pressed the keys of the tiny keyboard his dad gave him—only ever managing to play twinkle, twinkle, little star on loop, again and again until it was stuck in your head for days. in middle school, before everything went to shit, you’d heard whispers that he was learning guitar.

but after that—after he became someone else—you stopped caring. whether he mastered guitar or became a world-famous composer, it didn’t matter. he was nothing to you. just a shadow in your past. a ghost of someone who didn’t deserve to occupy your thoughts.

still, there he was. loud laughter across the quad. cigarette tucked behind his ear. headphones always hanging from his neck like an accessory. and worst of all, always around.

because the first friends you made in your dorm—soobin and yeonjun—just happened to be close to him. not best friendsclose, but hang-out-every-weekend close. and suddenly, your peaceful, beomgyu-free college fantasy went up in smoke.

you didn’t avoid him. no. that would’ve given him power. instead, you pretended like he didn’t exist. like he was air. stale, annoying air you occasionally had to breathe in. when he entered the room, you didn’t flinch. when he laughed too loud, you rolled your eyes. and when he spoke, you replied with thinly veiled sarcasm, the kind that made soobin squirm and yeonjun whistle through his teeth.

“what’s up with you two?” soobin asked once after beomgyu left a movie night early, mumbling something about a project. you didn’t answer. just shrugged and kept scrolling through your phone.

they didn’t push.

they could feel the tension. everyone could.

until that one night—the fraternity party.

you weren’t even going to go. but yeonjun begged. promised cheap drinks and good music and "no drama, babe, just fun."

liar.

you ended up on the worn-down leather couch in the corner of the frat house, a red solo cup in your hand, with your legs draped lazily over chaewon’s lap, head already buzzing. soobin was next to you, half-listening to a story yeonjun was telling about a disastrous tinder date, as you and the others fell into another round of drunk-university-party conversations.

chaewon—your anchor in the chaos of young adulthood—was laughing at what yeonjun had just said, cheeks flushed from the wine coolers she’d been sipping since you arrived. she nudged your thigh.

“this is kinda fun,” she murmured with a grin, eyes scanning the room. “it’s nice seeing you not buried in your notes or complaining about freud for once.”

“freud’s a menace,” you replied, deadpan. “but yeah, i guess... this is tolerable.”

soobin was perched on the arm of the couch beside yeonjun, who was starting to look glazed over, his hand swirling his drink like it held the answers to life.

and of course, it was only a matter of time before the conversation turned.

“okay, okay, but like...” yeonjun leaned in closer, squinting at you with exaggerated suspicion. “you still haven’t told us why you and beomgyu are always at each other’s throats.”

soobin raised his brows in agreement, shifting a little to face you.

“yeah, it’s like... one second he walks into a room and you’re suddenly the queen of sarcasm and shade. the tension is insane. you used to date or something?”

you groaned, letting your head fall back against the couch. “ugh. no. gross.”

“so what then?” yeonjun pushed, his tone teasing but curious.

chaewon chuckled softly. “i only know bits and pieces,” she added, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “she never really talks about it. anytime i asked in high school, she’d change the subject or pretend she didn’t hear me.”

you glanced at her. she wasn’t judging, just watching you carefully, giving you room if you wanted to take it.

and maybe it was the beer. maybe it was the fact that you were tired of the weird elephant always stomping through every hangout. or maybe it was because you were starting to realize that talking about it didn’t make it any less true.

so you shrugged, sitting up a little straighter, cup resting on your knee.

“we used to be friends,” you said simply. “like... actual friends. elementary school, mostly. did everything together. hung out after school. we’d sneak snacks into each other’s backpacks. he even let me write lyrics for the dumb little songs he made up when he first got that keyboard from his dad.”

chaewon blinked, surprised. soobin leaned in.

you continued, voice steady but colder now.

“but somewhere along the way—middle school, i think—he decided he wanted to be cool. and being cool meant hanging out with the kids who loved making my life miserable. the ones who called me names, who shoved my books off my desk, who made fun of how i dressed or talked or existed. and beomgyu... he laughed with them. he chose them.”

“damn,” yeonjun muttered, the mood shifting.

“he didn’t even look back,” you added, more to yourself than them. “just... left me there.”

the silence after that was a little too long. not uncomfortable, just heavy.

and then, because life is a master of bad timing, the front door creaked open. laughter spilled in along with a gust of cooler air. and there he was.

beomgyu walked in with that same lazy confidence he always had, hair a little messy, hoodie half-zipped, headphones hanging around his neck like an accessory he never actually used. he spotted your group almost instantly and started walking over.

yeonjun, without missing a beat, raised his hand in greeting and then pointed at him.

“you,” he said, loud and sloppy, a grin tugging at his lips. “we were just talking about you, asshole.”

beomgyu raised an eyebrow, amused. “oh yeah? good things, i hope.”

you didn’t even bother hiding your eye-roll.

“soooo,” yeonjun continued, half-laughing, half-serious, “did you really ditch her to be popular? that’s fucked up, man.”

beomgyu paused for a moment. then, slowly, he walked over and lowered himself onto the empty spot beside soobin, arms crossed over his chest, face unreadable.

“yeah,” he said. “i did.”

chaewon’s eyes darted between you and him, tension curling like smoke in the air.

“i mean,” beomgyu went on, voice cool, “we were kids. kids wanna fit in. kids make stupid decisions. i made mine.”

you scoffed. “you think that excuses it?”

he turned to you, his face carefully blank. “no. i’m just saying... people grow up. some faster than others.”

your jaw clenched. the cup in your hand crinkled slightly from the pressure.

“fuck you,” you said quietly, but not softly.

beomgyu laughed—a dry, humorless sound. “there it is. the victim complex. you’ve always had that down.”

“and you’ve always been a coward,” you snapped back. “you didn’t grow up. you just grew spineless. you couldn’t stand beside someone uncool because you were too scared of being uncool too.”

his eyes flashed then, something dark rising behind them, but he didn’t say anything. just stared.

chaewon’s hand found yours on your lap, grounding you with the gentlest squeeze.

soobin stood abruptly. “i need air.”

yeonjun followed a second later, mumbling something about refilling his drink, clearly regretting starting the whole thing.

and now it was just you and beomgyu on the couch. again.

he leaned back, head resting against the cushion, eyes closed.

“you always did know how to make an entrance,” he murmured.

you stared at him, hating how calm he looked.

“and you always knew how to ruin everything.”

you got up before he could answer.

you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of another comeback. not tonight.

the bathroom was the quietest place you could find. the fan buzzed softly overhead, doing little to clear the air of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne, but at least it was a buffer from the party outside. you sat on the closed toilet lid, your fingers clenched into the fabric of your jeans, heart still drumming a low, steady rhythm of frustration.

chaewon was crouched in front of you, her palms resting gently on your knees, her expression unreadable but calm—always calm, even when you couldn’t be.

“i’m sorry,” she said softly. “i didn’t know it was all... that deep.”

you didn’t answer immediately. the words were stuck behind the knot in your throat.

“i don’t talk about it,” you finally muttered. “not because i don’t remember. because i remember too well.”

chaewon’s lips pressed into a thin line. she didn’t try to hug you, didn’t try to distract you with jokes like others might. she just stayed there, solid and present, like she always did when the world spun too fast around you.

“you were kids,” she said after a beat. “but it doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. it’s okay that it still does.”

you looked at her then. her eyes didn’t pity you—they understood you. and maybe that was what broke something open in your chest, just a little.

“i didn’t need him to defend me. i just needed him to not join them,” you whispered. “and he did.”

chaewon nodded slowly. “that kind of betrayal... it sticks.”

you exhaled shakily. she gave you a moment, then stood and offered her hand. “come on. let’s get some fresh air. you need to breathe somewhere that doesn’t smell like weed and heartbreak.”

you laughed, a short, bitter sound, but you took her hand anyway.

meanwhile, across the house, in a quieter corner near the sliding glass doors, beomgyu stood with a drink in one hand, the other stuffed in his hoodie pocket. he was staring out into the backyard like the answer to the past ten years was hiding behind someone’s half-inflated kiddie pool.

yeonjun walked up beside him, no longer smiling, his drunken haze thinning into something a little more sober, a little more serious.

“i didn’t think you’d admit it,” he said without preamble.

beomgyu didn’t look at him. “wasn’t really a secret, was it?”

yeonjun gave a low snort, but it wasn’t amused. “i mean, yeah. but... shit, man.”

beomgyu took a sip from his drink. “i didn’t come here to fight her. but you stirred the pot.”

yeonjun shrugged. “you made the soup.”

they both stood in silence for a beat, the music thumping from the living room like a heartbeat too loud to ignore.

“you know,” yeonjun added, voice quieter now, “i don’t think she hates you because you were a jerk. i think she hates you because you weren’t—not back then. and losing someone good like that fucks you up.”

beomgyu finally turned his head, meeting his friend’s gaze. his eyes were sharper now, less detached.

“i was scared,” he said, almost too low to hear. “those guys... they made my life hell before they liked me. i thought if i laughed with them, they’d leave me alone. and they did. but i had to choose.”

“and you didn’t choose her.”

“no,” he said, and there was no pride in it. “i didn’t.”

just then, soobin appeared beside them, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his expression strained, like he’d been holding his breath since the moment he walked away.

“sorry,” he muttered. “i had to step out. i... i felt like if i stayed, i’d implode or something.”

yeonjun raised an eyebrow. “you okay?”

soobin nodded, but it looked more like a twitch. “not really. i mean, yeah, but no. fuck. you guys didn’t feel that?”

beomgyu looked down at his cup. “every word.”

“she was shaking,” soobin murmured. “not visibly. but i could tell. she looked like she was holding it all together with a thread.”

yeonjun ran a hand through his hair. “she was.”

the three of them stood in a triangle of shame, regret, and something unspoken that clung to the space between them.

soobin’s voice was the one to cut through it again. “so what now? you gonna keep pretending it didn’t happen, gyu?”

beomgyu didn’t answer right away. then he drained the rest of his drink and muttered, “nah. pretending’s never worked for me.”

yeonjun arched a brow. “what does that mean?”

beomgyu looked up, his gaze locked on the doorway where you’d disappeared minutes before with chaewon.

“it means i’m not done with this. not by a long shot.”

i'm gonna be fine, you left alone can i heal the wounds myself?

it happened a few days later, during a gray tuesday that smelled like leftover rain and wet concrete. you’d just finished a psychology lab with chaewon and were walking back toward the dorms alone, hoodie pulled tight over your head, earbuds in, trying to disappear into the low hum of city pop.

but the universe, always cruel and deeply committed to irony, had other plans. he was leaning against the brick wall near the entrance, arms crossed, eyes trained on you like he’d been waiting a while. beomgyu. same mop of dark hair, same posture that screamed too-cool-to-care, but his eyes—those were different. quieter. tired.

you pulled out your earbuds and sighed, already exhausted by the conversation you hadn’t even had yet.

“can we talk?” he asked, voice low, unsure.

you didn’t stop walking. just kept heading toward the entrance, as if your momentum could carry you past him without consequence. but of course, it didn’t. he fell in step beside you.

“just five minutes,” he tried again. “please.”

you stopped so suddenly he almost bumped into you. your eyes burned as they met his, and your voice came out colder than you expected, like winter had rooted itself in your lungs.

“what do you want from me?” you asked. “apologies? closure? a second chance at being a decent human being?”

beomgyu’s mouth opened, but you cut him off before he could try.

“i don’t want anything from you. not an explanation, not regret, not even guilt. nothing.”

he flinched slightly, the movement barely there, but you caught it.

“you don’t get to waltz back into my life just because you finally decided to grow a conscience,” you continued. “i’ve spent years learning how to breathe without you in the air. don’t you dare try to choke me with your presence again.”

you could tell your words hit him, maybe deeper than you meant to. his mouth was a thin, pale line now. he looked like he wanted to say something—maybe to defend himself, maybe to beg—but you didn’t care.

“just disappear,” you said, voice steady, final. “if there’s one thing you can do for me now, it’s that. disappear.”

and for once in his life, beomgyu actually listened.

he never tried again. he avoided places you frequented, never joined mutual hangouts unless you weren’t coming, and your friends—soobin, yeonjun, chaewon—they respected your silence like it was sacred scripture. everyone understood: the wound was too deep, the scar too sensitive. it wasn’t just history. it was trauma.

and then the years passed.

five of them, to be exact.

by the time the fifth one rolled around, you were no longer that angry, betrayed girl from university. you’d graduated with honors, completed your internship at a mental health clinic, even started working with children on the spectrum. you’d fallen in love. truly, profoundly, messily in love—with someone who wasn’t beomgyu.

kang taehyun.

you met him at a post-graduation mixer. marine biology major with a calm voice, shy eyes, and a laugh that made your chest bloom with warmth. he was the kind of guy who brought flowers for no reason, who always remembered your coffee order, who waited outside your night classes with an umbrella when it rained. you didn’t expect it, but somehow, slowly, it became everything.

you met his best friend, huening kai, who instantly adored you, calling you “noona” and sending memes at 3am. your little trio had beach picnics, study sessions, lazy sunday brunches where taehyun would rest his head on your lap and read aloud from whatever animal behavior article he was obsessed with that week. he made promises—so many of them. to stay, to love, to build something that wouldn’t crumble.

you believed him.

and you weren’t naive. you didn’t expect perfection. but you saw a future. you wanted it. late-night talks under blankets turned into quiet conversations about rings and cities you could live in. when he asked you if you’d move to jeju with him someday, you said yes without hesitation.

he said he wanted to marry you. he said he saw kids—two, maybe three, with your eyes and his dimples.

you thought you were safe.

but then came the internship offer. antarctica. nine months. field research. you smiled, encouraged him, kissed him before he left. wrote long emails. sent him care packages full of love letters and seaweed snacks.

when he came back, he was distant.

and when he ended it, it wasn’t dramatic. it was calm. heartbreakingly calm.

“i love you,” he said, hands shaking. “but i don’t want this. not the house. not the wedding. not the life you deserve. i want to travel, i want to work with endangered species, i want to spend months underwater and years away. and i’m not... i’m not willing to bring you with me.”

“i’ll go with you,” you’d said, crying, desperate, broken open. “taehyun, i don’t care where we are. i just want to be with you.”

but he shook his head.

“you’d get tired. eventually, you’d start asking me to stay, and i’d hate you for it. and you’d hate me for choosing fish over forever.”

it was the cruelest kind of love. the one that was real, but not enough.

so he left.

and you didn’t try to stop him again.

don't, don't lose my mind, dream of you again and i look at you as it fell

you were halfway through your second slice of avocado toast, sipping on orange juice and skimming through appointment logs when your phone buzzed against the laminated table. chaewon looked up from her yogurt bowl, raising an eyebrow at your distracted smile.

“who is it?” she asked, voice still wrapped in morning laziness.

you didn’t answer right away. you were too busy rereading the message.

huening kai: noonaaa 🥺 i’m getting married!! can you believe it??? i really hope you can come. it would mean a lot to me. she’s the one, i swear. you’ll love her. the wedding’s in two months — i sent you two tickets, in case you wanna bring someone special 😏 click the link below for your boarding passes & rsvp 💌 i miss you.

you choked.

like, actually choked.

orange juice went down the wrong pipe, and you doubled over in your chair coughing, one hand on your chest, the other waving chaewon off as she jumped to her feet in panic.

“are you okay? oh my god, did you swallow a bee? what’s happening?”

you managed to wheeze, “kai. he’s—he’s getting married.”

“what?” she blinked, stunned. “kai? as in taehyun’s kai?”

you nodded, eyes wide, phone shaking slightly in your grip. she leaned over to read the message and let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “holy shit. that was fast.”

you slumped back in your chair, staring at the screen like it held the secrets of the universe. “i barely met her twice. she was sweet, yeah, but—marriage? already?”

chaewon bit her bottom lip, then took a slow sip of her coffee. “he sent you two tickets. that’s cute. very optimistic of him.”

you didn’t reply. your thoughts had already spiraled ahead, crashing violently into one very obvious, very haunting possibility.

“he’ll be there,” you murmured.

“taehyun,” chaewon confirmed quietly.

you stared at your untouched toast, appetite completely obliterated. the clinic’s soft background music suddenly felt too loud, the sun too bright, the smell of oranges cloying. your stomach twisted, unfamiliar tension knotting in your chest.

it had been almost a year since you last saw taehyun. nearly five since you met him. and still, even now, his name had the power to freeze you mid-breath, to summon ghosts of promises that had once felt like scripture.

“do you think he’ll bring someone?” you asked, trying to sound casual. it came out hollow.

chaewon didn’t answer immediately. instead, she tilted her head and narrowed her eyes in that way she always did when she was about to say something ridiculous but necessary.

“okay,” she said, setting her spoon down with a decisive little clink. “then you’ll just have to make him regret everything.”

you blinked. “what?”

“you heard me. you’re going to go. you’re going to look insanely hot. and you’re going to bring someone who makes taehyun feel like he just let go of the woman of the century.”

“that’s ridiculous,” you scoffed, trying to hide the way your heart suddenly beat faster. “i’m not that petty.”

“you’re not,” she agreed. “but i am. and you deserve this. you deserve to walk into that wedding and remind him that while he was out falling in love with penguins and sea lions, you were healing. and thriving. and looking like a goddamn greek goddess.”

you laughed, but it came out shaky. her words were half a joke, half a battle cry.

“it still hurts,” you admitted, barely a whisper.

“i know,” she said, gently this time, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand. “but you don’t have to go alone. not to this. not ever.”

you looked back down at the message. kai’s digital smile practically beamed from the screen. he was getting married. he was happy. and despite everything—despite the silent weight of memory and heartbreak—you felt a tiny spark of happiness for him.

but taehyun would be there.

and maybe, just maybe, it was time he saw exactly what he’d walked away from.

the stars were shinning to me away, whispering "i want you to know you're my world"

chaewon reminded you that yeonjun's birthday was coming up, so you needed to buy a good gift. but what could it be? even though your mind was still preoccupied with kai's wedding, you decided to accompany her to buy the presents — since you were also planning to get something for him anyway.

yeonjun’s birthday parties were never modest. he had a reputation to uphold—not only as a top model, gracing magazines and runways alike, but as a host who knew how to turn any ordinary night into something cinematic. the kind of night people whispered about in green rooms and studio corners. the kind of night that started with champagne and ended with stolen glances and stories never told.

his penthouse was glowing in warm light, the skyline of the city bleeding gold and indigo through the vast windows. soft jazz played in the background, blending with laughter and the pop of corks, and everything smelled like vanilla and cashmere and something expensive you couldn’t name.

you were there early, with chaewon by your side, both of you dressed to impress—but not to steal the spotlight. that belonged to yeonjun, as always. soobin was already there, hand in hand with his girlfriend, who wore something pastel and silk, glowing with that gentle charm only she could pull off. you greeted them casually, sharing a quick toast before settling in with your drink, your dress hugging you like a second skin.

you hadn’t expected to see him.

beomgyu arrived later, not with fanfare, but quietly. like a ripple in a calm lake. he wasn’t the same boy you remembered, not even close. gone were the oversized hoodies, the ever-present headphones slung around his neck, the cigarette tucked behind his ear like a secret he wasn’t ready to part with. now, he wore tailored grey trousers that fell just right over his shoes, a black button-up rolled to the elbows revealing tan, toned forearms, a silver watch glinting under the soft chandelier lights. a single, delicate chain hung around his neck, subtle but striking. his hair was darker now, styled back with just enough softness to suggest he didn’t try too hard.

he looked expensive.

he smelled like sandalwood and clean linen and a memory you couldn’t quite place.

he greeted everyone with a quiet smile, hugging yeonjun, nodding at soobin, offering chaewon a gentle hello. and then his eyes found yours.

there was no tension in his shoulders. no arrogance in his walk. just... calm. time had smoothed the sharpness out of him. when he stepped closer, you stood tall, chin high. he offered his hand—polite, formal. “it’s been a while,” he said simply.

you shook it. firm grip. warm palm. “yeah,” you replied, meeting his gaze for one single, suspended second.

you looked for a ghost. but found a man.

chaewon nudged your arm the moment he moved on. “okay. wow. what was that?”

you didn’t answer. you just stared into your drink, letting the ice kiss your lips as you tried to quiet the drumbeat that had started in your chest.

“he’s changed,” she murmured, and you could only nod.

“you’re still thinking about the wedding, aren’t you?” chaewon pressed, playfully cruel in the way best friends always are.

“shut up,” you said, but your voice held no real bite.

you were thinking about it. still hadn’t found someone to take. your list of candidates was short, and honestly, pathetic. yeonjun was out of the question. he was your friend, yes, but also a model with a fragile PR image. dragging him to a wedding in another city would spark more rumors than your heart could handle. soobin was obviously unavailable, and most of your other male friends were either married, emotionally unavailable, or both.

and then there was beomgyu.

you looked over again—couldn’t help it. he was seated now, at the bar, sipping something amber and neat. he laughed at something yeonjun’s bartender said, his profile catching the light just enough to make your heart do a tiny, traitorous leap. his jaw was sharper now. his skin clearer. he looked like success disguised as mystery.

you knew his alias now, whispered among industry people like folklore—“GHOSTGYU”, the producer no one could quite pin down. no interviews. no live appearances. just music. always music. his beats had shaped some of the biggest hits of the year, but no one really knew him.

except you.

and even then, you weren’t sure anymore.

a dangerous, fleeting thought slipped past your defenses.

what if i asked him to go with me?

you froze, glass hovering midair.

no. absolutely not. that was ridiculous. crazy.

but the thought didn’t leave. it clung to you like perfume. persistent. seductive. as you watched him roll the glass between his fingers, as he leaned back in his seat with a grace that wasn’t there before, you wondered if asking him would be revenge, redemption, or something far more dangerous.

you didn’t want to care.

and yet, you did.

more with every passing second.

he disappeared for a while, drifting from the bar like smoke in the breeze. you didn’t notice at first—your mind was too busy pretending it wasn’t spinning. but when you turned your head and found the stool next to yours empty, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. you took the opportunity to refill your glass, fingers trembling slightly as you reached for the bottle. the coolness of the liquid was grounding. it kept you still. sane. focused.

you didn’t hear him come back. you just felt the shift in the air, like when a storm changes direction.

he sat beside you again, just as casually as before. no warning. no preamble. just him, leaning slightly over the bar, sipping from his glass like he hadn’t just left a crater in your chest by existing. he didn’t say anything at first. didn’t even look your way. but you could feel him, every inch of him, in your periphery—his scent, his quiet presence, the weight of his stillness.

when you turned your head, a little startled, your eyes met his.

his gaze wasn’t sharp or guarded like it had been years ago. it was calm now, curious maybe, with a hint of something unreadable beneath the surface. something too deep to touch without getting pulled in.

“how have you been?” he asked softly, as if it hadn’t been years. as if it were normal to ask that while sipping whiskey at a birthday party under city lights, after everything that had happened.

you blinked. once. then again. the question sounded simple, but it wasn’t. it cracked something open. and you weren’t sure you liked the feeling.

“i’ve been... good,” you said finally, the word catching a little on your tongue. “working. surviving. you know.”

your tone was neutral, maybe even too polite, but your body was stiff, your spine too straight.

he nodded, a slight tilt of his head. “it’s been a long time.”

you didn’t answer.

“i remember the last time we talked,” he continued, voice just above a whisper. “you told me not to show my face again.”

you inhaled sharply. of course he remembered. you did too. you remembered everything—his voice cracking when he apologized, your tears burning your cheeks, the tremble in your fingers as you pointed to the door and told him to leave. it had been final. absolute. like slamming a book shut in the middle of a chapter.

“yeah,” you said, finally meeting his eyes. “i did.”

his shoulders tensed a little, barely perceptible. but you noticed. “and yet here i am.”

you chuckled, bitter and short. “i guess the universe has a sense of humor.”

there was a silence then. not uncomfortable, but heavy. like it needed to exist for the next words to mean something. you stared into your glass, watching the ice melt slowly, as if the answer you needed was buried at the bottom.

and then, like a dam breaking—your voice was low, deliberate, but steady.

“do you still want me to accept your apology?”

he turned to you fully this time, caught off guard. “what?”

you looked at him. really looked at him. the face that had haunted your dreams and your worst nights. softer now. older. but still him. “you apologized,” you said. “but i didn’t accept it. i wasn’t ready.”

he nodded slowly. “i remember.”

“well,” you began, the fear rising like bile in your throat. “i might be. now.”

his brow furrowed slightly. “what does that mean?”

you hesitated. god, it felt so ridiculous now that it was about to come out of your mouth. but it was the only thing you could think of—the only way to keep the balance of power from tipping, the only way to keep yourself from being too vulnerable. so you wrapped the truth in a dare.

“it means... if you want me to even consider accepting it, you’ll have to do me a favor.”

he blinked. twice. confused, visibly, as his fingers stilled around his glass. “a favor?”

you nodded.

“what kind of favor?”

you stared straight ahead, the words burning their way up from your chest. “i need a date. for a wedding.”

he almost choked on his drink, coughing once as he looked at you incredulously. “a wedding? you want me to go with you to a wedding? me?”

you gave a weak shrug. “yeah. you.”

“but you—i mean, you hate me.”

you sighed, exhaling years of anger and heartbreak in a single breath. “i don’t hate you, beomgyu. not anymore.”

he stared, waiting. you turned to him finally, your voice quieter now. “i wouldn’t say you’re my favorite person in the world. and i wouldn’t say we’re... okay. but this is an emergency. and the list of people i trust enough to not make this weird is... short.”

he didn’t respond right away. he was too stunned, trying to piece together what this meant. if it was a trap. if it was a test. if it was real.

you looked at him again, eyes searching his. “so. will you help me?”

he didn’t answer yet. but you could see the question dancing in his gaze, the one he wouldn’t say out loud—what the hell happened to us?

and maybe, just maybe, this favor wasn’t about forgiveness.

maybe it was the beginning of something else entirely.

he looked away for a moment, lips pressing into a thin line before he bit the bottom one—nervously, like he was holding back words that wanted to escape. he let out a shaky breath, nostrils flaring slightly. and for the first time that night, he looked... scared.

you could see it. not just in his eyes, but in the tension of his shoulders, in the way he kept shifting slightly on the stool. he’s remembering, you thought. and he was.

he was remembering that party.

the one where you’d confronted him, voice trembling with rage and heartbreak. the one where, instead of being the person you needed, he laughed. made light of it. mocked your pain because he was too much of a coward to face the ugliness of what he'd done. he hadn’t apologized back then. not really. he’d smirked and said something like “i was shitty. so what?”like that was enough. like that made it okay.

he felt the weight of it now. years later. he’d felt it the moment your eyes found his tonight and they weren’t warm anymore. they weren’t familiar. they were sharp. cold. distant. and it had torn something open in him, something that had never really healed. he didn’t consider himself a victim—but god, it had hurt to realize he was someone you had to protect yourself from. someone who used to be your safe place, and then became a wound.

he swallowed hard, voice a little hoarse. “why me?��

you didn’t flinch. “i told you. i need someone i can trust to play the part. and despite... everything, i know you won’t make it worse.”

he looked at you for a long moment, expression unreadable. then finally, he nodded, slowly. “okay.”

you blinked, surprised. “okay?”

“yeah.” he exhaled, almost like he couldn’t believe himself. “i’ll do it.”

two days later, you met him at a quiet coffee shop tucked between bookstores and vintage vinyl stores, the kind of place you used to frequent in college. nostalgia clung to the wooden walls and smelled faintly of cinnamon and ink. you sat by the window, fiddling with your phone until the bell above the door rang.

you looked up—and there he was.

beomgyu walked in with sunglasses covering his eyes, messy dark hair falling over his forehead, wearing a white shirt that clung to his chest and jeans that hinted at the fact that maybe, just maybe, he’d been putting in work at the gym. your breath caught slightly. you hated that it did.

“hey,” he said, sliding into the seat across from you.

you nodded. “hey.”

there was a pause before either of you said anything else. then you cleared your throat. “okay, so. the wedding’s in two weeks.”

he leaned back, arms crossed. “whose wedding is it?”

you hesitated. “he’s... a friend. of my ex.”

his head tilted slightly. “ex?”

you gave a little nod. “his name’s taehyun. we were together for two years.”

something flickered across his face—surprise, a shadow of something deeper—but he kept his voice even. “i didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”

“you didn’t know a lot of things,” you said, almost too quietly.

he didn’t argue.

“kai is the one getting married. taehyun’s best friend. he gave me two tickets. and it’s a big deal—expensive venue, guest list full of people i used to know. i didn’t want to go alone.”

beomgyu raised an eyebrow. “so... you want me to come with you. to pretend we’re...?”

“a couple,” you finished.

he sat with that for a second, then chuckled bitterly. “so you want to make your ex jealous.”

you froze.

you hadn’t planned on saying it like that. you hadn’t even wanted to admit it, not out loud. but now, with the words dangling between you like a noose, you could only nod. “...yeah.”

he stared at you, then dragged a hand down his face, sighing. “jesus.”

“you can back out,” you said quickly, defensive. “i won’t hold it against you.”

but he didn’t. instead, he tapped his fingers against his thigh, thinking. after a long pause, he met your eyes again. “so i have to pretend to be your boyfriend?”

you nodded, trying to sound casual. “yep.”

he leaned forward slightly. “you do realize that means a lot of skinship, right?”

you blinked. “what?”

“holding hands. arms around waists. maybe even... i don’t know, kisses on the cheek? forehead?” he shrugged, but his voice was tight. careful. “are you comfortable with that?”

you hesitated. you hadn’t thought that far ahead. hadn’t wanted to. you could feel your pulse pick up, the idea of him touching you again sending conflicting signals through your brain—alarm bells and something else. something warmer.

but you forced a shrug. “we don’t have a choice. it has to look real.”

he nodded slowly. “alright.”

and then, you got to work.

“so, when did we start dating?”

you bit your lip. “six months ago?”

he smirked faintly. “sounds reasonable. what do we like doing together?”

“karaoke,” you said immediately, smiling at the memory of those nights when you were still friends. “you always picked the worst songs.”

“hey,” he laughed. “those were bangers.”

you rolled your eyes. “you once sang an anime opening in front of my parents.”

he grinned, and for a moment, it felt... like the past. like before everything burned down.

“okay, so,” he said, pulling out his phone. “we need a list. favorite restaurant. inside jokes. maybe a fake anniversary date.”

as he typed, you watched him. really watched him.

and you wondered—not for the first time—if this elaborate lie was going to lead you straight into the truth.

because maybe... just maybe... it never really ended between you two.

every time i'm crazy is because of you if you're looking right at me is because of love?

you had texted him that morning. short, to the point: “we should rehearse. come over around 6?”

he didn’t reply right away, but when he did, it was a simple “okay.”

you spent most of the afternoon pretending not to be nervous, cleaning surfaces that didn’t need cleaning, lighting a candle you usually reserved for guests. this was just beomgyu. and it wasn’t even real. except it had to feel real. that was the whole point.

when he rang the bell, you didn’t check yourself in the mirror. didn’t fix your hair. but your heart still skipped when you opened the door and found him standing there with a tote bag slung over his shoulder, black hoodie zipped halfway, his hair tousled like he hadn’t thought twice about it. he looked casual. effortless. you hated that it made your stomach turn.

“hey,” he said, eyes flicking down to your socks—mismatched—and then back to your face. “you ready to get fake engaged or whatever this is?”

you snorted. “not engaged. just... convincingly coupled.”

he stepped in, the scent of rain on his jacket mixing with your vanilla candle, and as he walked further into your space, you pulled out your phone with a flutter in your chest.

kai’s message was still open.

“let me know if you’re bringing someone. taehyun’s dying to know lol.”

you stared at it for a second, then typed.

“yes. i’m bringing someone. can’t wait for the wedding 🥂”

sent.

you didn’t overthink it. at least, not more than you already had.

your apartment smelled like vanilla, soft wood, and something citrusy that he couldn’t name but felt deeply you. beomgyu stepped inside slowly, letting the door close behind him as he looked around.

“wow,” he muttered, genuinely impressed. “this is... cozy.”

you raised an eyebrow. “cozy?”

he nodded, turning in place as his eyes landed on the framed photos, the neatly arranged books, the record player with a few vintage vinyls on display. “it’s just... you. like, unmistakably you.”

you smiled, a little embarrassed. “i try to keep it nice.”

he hummed, walking over to a small shelf, fingers grazing the spine of a poetry book. “it’s really nice.”

he turned back to you and for a second, neither of you said anything. then you clapped your hands once. “okay! let’s get into it.”

“right,” he said, shaking his head a little as if to clear it. “we’re fake dating. gotta make it look real.”

you both sat on the couch, knees brushing. you hadn’t meant for that to happen, but neither of you moved.

“so...” you began, “public displays of affection. we should probably practice.”

“yeah.” his voice came out rougher than expected. “makes sense.”

you reached out, hesitating before taking his hand. his fingers curled instinctively around yours. warm. familiar. a spark zipped through you and you knew he felt it too when he looked up, eyes wide and surprised.

“this okay?” you asked quietly.

he nodded once. “yeah. just... warm.”

you both laughed, trying to shake it off. but the air had already shifted.

“okay,” he said, forcing a grin. “let’s try something easier. karaoke.”

you perked up. “you sure?”

“you said we do it all the time as a couple, right? we better sell it.”

you loaded the song. one you both knew, but had never sung together. and yet, the moment the first beat dropped, it was like muscle memory. you both knew the words. the timing. the moves.

he looked at you, stunned. “no way.”

“don’t tell me you know the choreo too,” you teased, already stepping back into position.

he smirked. “you’re on.”

the two of you danced, laughing, off-key and dramatic. he twirled you once, then again. and when the chorus hit, he spun you into his arms, pulling you close. too close.

you were both laughing when it happened.

his arms wrapped around your waist. your hands rested on his chest. his breath hitched as your eyes met.

neither of you moved.

not right away.

his lips parted slightly, like he was about to say something—but nothing came. because this wasn’t rehearsed. this wasn’t fake.

it was just you. and him. flushed. breathless.

“sorry,” he whispered, stepping back.

you cleared your throat, heart pounding. “it’s fine. that’s... what couples do, right?”

“right.” he nodded. “totally normal.”

you both sat down again. this time, farther apart.

your hand brushed his when you reached for the remote and both of you flinched.

he glanced at you, eyes unreadable. “so... more practice?”

you nodded. “yeah. we’re getting good at this.”

but neither of you looked convinced.

in the days leading up to the wedding, your fake relationship had taken on a life of its own.

you went on more “dates” to build chemistry—coffee shops, galleries, night walks pretending to be that kind of couple who couldn't keep their hands to themselves. from the outside, it looked picture-perfect. inside, it was a storm. every casual brush of his fingers against yours, every accidental glance held too long, every laugh that turned into silence too quick—it all felt like a fucking heart attack.

it was only supposed to be a favor. a role. a lie dressed up in borrowed intimacy. but your body didn’t know that. your chest didn’t know that.

and neither did beomgyu’s.

especially not the night you were in your apartment again, this time sitting on the floor of your bedroom, surrounded by shoes, accessories, and two dress bags hanging off your closet door. the scent of fabric softener and his cologne filled the room, cozy but heavy. familiar but charged.

he was holding his tie, trying to decide between navy or burgundy, when he suddenly said, “this feels weird, right?”

you looked up from your heels, confused. “what?”

“us,” he said. “doing this. pretending. acting like none of it ever happened.”

the air stilled.

you didn’t answer immediately. your fingers froze on the strap of your shoe, heart kicking against your ribs.

“i know this is a favor,” he said, voice quieter now, “but i don’t want to keep pretending this is just about the wedding. i mean... not in that way, i just—i don’t want to keep dodging everything that’s still between us.”

you blinked, throat dry. “beomgyu—”

“no, listen. please.” he leaned back on his palms, gaze locked on the ceiling like he was too afraid to look at you. “i fucked up back then. i know i did. and it took me a long time to understand it. i was stupid and selfish and cruel. and i acted like it was funny. like it didn’t matter. but it did. and seeing you now... how much you’ve grown, how strong you are—shit, it kills me that i’m not part of your life the way i used to be.”

his voice cracked, just a little.

“i don’t want us to keep pretending this is easy,” he said. “because it’s not. not for me.”

you stared at him. at his jaw clenched tight, the way his chest rose and fell too fast. you weren’t expecting any of this. not tonight. not ever.

and yet, a part of you had waited for it.

“i hated you,” you said softly. “i hated the way you laughed when i cried. the way you dismissed what you did, made it seem like it was just... nothing. i hated the way you looked at me afterwards, like i was the one who’d changed.”

his shoulders slumped.

“but the thing is,” you continued, voice trembling, “i can’t keep living in that hate. i carried it for years and it only made me bitter. i can’t undo the past. and yeah, you hurt me. more than i thought someone like you ever could. but if you’re here now, helping me with this, putting yourself in this mess just because i asked... then maybe you do mean it. maybe you really are sorry.”

you looked at him, finally, and he was already looking back at you—eyes glossy, jaw tight, like he was holding something back.

“i accept your apology,” you said. “not because everything’s okay now. but because i want to stop letting what happened define how i feel. i want to move forward. and if that means... giving you another chance to show me who you are now—then fine.”

he swallowed hard. “thank you.”

“don’t thank me,” you murmured, “just don’t fuck it up.”

that made him smile. a real one. small and crooked, but warm.

you sat there in silence for a while, surrounded by silk and suits and the faint hum of the night through your window. it wasn’t peace exactly. it was something messier. raw. true.

and though you wouldn’t admit it—not yet—something in you shifted. you saw him. not the boy who broke your heart, but the man who was trying to make amends.

maybe it wasn’t love.

but it was something.

and it was terrifying.

to me it's a pretty wonderland, do not make cry again, i need you right now

the day of the wedding arrived cloaked in golden sunlight and nerves. your stomach was a mess of tangled wires—part excitement, part dread, and part something else you didn’t dare to name. standing in front of the mirror in your bedroom, you took a deep breath, hands smoothing down the soft folds of your dress. the fabric hugged your figure like a second skin—champagne satin with a low back and off-the-shoulder sleeves, the kind of dress that whispered luxury without screaming for attention. your earrings were subtle, your makeup warm and glowing. you looked ethereal. untouchable.

and then beomgyu stepped into the room, and your breath hitched in your throat.

he was wearing a tailored suit in a shade of deep, muted green, like pine trees in twilight. his tie matched your dress—a soft, pearlescent champagne—and the pocket square carried the same satin sheen. his hair was swept back effortlessly, a touch of curl still framing his forehead, and when he smiled at you, something inside you twisted painfully.

“you look beautiful,” he murmured, offering his hand. “ready to go make everyone jealous?”

you took his hand, heart hammering in your chest. “as i’ll ever be.”

on the ride to the venue, you kept rehearsing the things you were meant to feel. calm. confident. committed to the lie.

but instead, your hands trembled slightly. your heart wouldn’t slow down.

was it beomgyu? or was it the thought of taehyun?

the venue was breathtaking.

a glass-roofed reception hall nestled between rolling hills, draped in ivory florals and soft hanging lights. the sound of string instruments floated through the air, delicate and romantic. people were milling about in elegant attire, laughter ringing like champagne flutes clinking together. when you and beomgyu stepped inside, you felt all eyes drift in your direction.

you were holding hands.

and it wasn’t just for show—his grip was grounding you, firm and unshakable, like he knew your insides were a storm.

“smile,” he whispered against your ear as you walked. “we’re the couple of the evening.”

you found the newlyweds near the stage, glowing in white and silver, all laughter and tears. kai pulled you into a warm hug, wide grin on his face. “you made it!” he turned to glance between you and beomgyu. “and you brought your plus one, just like you said.”

you handed over their gift, a carefully wrapped box in gold paper. “i wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

they thanked you and guided you to your assigned table. the moment you saw the names, your heart sank. table 5. with taehyun’s old group. fuck.

and there he was.

kang taehyun.

he looked devastating in a black tux that fit like sin, his hair slightly tousled like he hadn’t tried but somehow looked perfect anyway. when he saw you, his expression changed—slowly, subtly, like recognition blooming across his features. your eyes met, and the air between you snapped taut. your breath caught. it’s him. he looked at you like you were the last person he expected and the only one he wanted to see.

he stood up.

and you—traitor of your own heart—you moved toward him.

drawn like a magnet, like gravity had shifted in his direction.

but before your hand could reach his, before you could even form a hi, beomgyu’s hand extended first, sliding into taehyun’s like a blade between ribs.

“hey,” he said smoothly, “i’m choi beomgyu. y/n’s boyfriend.”

it landed like a gunshot.

taehyun blinked. once. twice. his smile wavered, confusion flashing across his face like lightning. “boyfriend?” he echoed, the word like ash in his mouth.

your heart slammed into your ribs.

“it’s been a while, tae,” you said, stepping in quickly. the nickname rolled off your tongue like honey and broken memories. beomgyu’s eyes flicked to you sharply.

taehyun looked at you, still dazed. “yeah... yeah, it has.”

you greeted the others—yuna, wonjin, and a couple more you barely remembered but who definitely remembered you.they exchanged glances. curious. surprised. maybe even suspicious.

“i thought you two would come together,” yuna said, her tone sweet, but her eyes sharp.

taehyun cleared his throat.

“we broke up about a year ago,” you explained simply, sitting down. your hand stayed in beomgyu’s.

“so...” wonjin glanced between you and beomgyu. “who’s this guy?”

beomgyu leaned in, voice casual. “boyfriend,” he repeated, smiling. “been together for a while now.”

the questions came like a tidal wave. how long? where did you meet? how serious was it?

you and beomgyu handled them like pros—laughing, teasing, nudging each other like you were deeply in sync. you could feel taehyun’s eyes on you, every fucking second, and you hated how your body still reacted.

but then he asked.

“how did you two meet?”

and the world froze.

you opened your mouth. no sound came out. nothing. panic gripped you like ice.

that detail, the most basic of all, had somehow slipped through your careful planning.

you looked at beomgyu, your eyes wide, desperate. and he—cool as ever—slid his hand to your shoulder, his thumb stroking softly, soothing.

“we’ve known each other since we were kids,” he said, smile calm. “childhood friends. and you know how it goes... years pass, and those feelings you thought you buried start to grow again. it was almost inevitable, right, sweetheart?”

he looked at you.

and you smiled. because you had to. because you knew that’s what it took to sell this story.

“she rejected me once, though,” he added with a smirk. “but deep down, she knew she loved me.”

taehyun’s expression twisted. “so... you were in love with him when we met?”

his voice wasn’t loud, but it cut deep.

“no,” you said, quickly. “we had... a falling out in college. we didn’t speak for a long time. when i met you, he wasn’t in my life.”

beomgyu nodded. “we reconnected after you two ended things. and the feelings we’d buried came back stronger.”

he wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulled you into his side, his cheek brushing yours. you felt his breath against your skin. his touch was warm. grounding. too intimate.

you felt like you couldn’t breathe.

taehyun looked like he’d swallowed poison.

and you—trapped between past and present, between truth and performance—felt the familiar weight of discomfort slide back into your skin.

kang taehyun had always been your greatest heartbreak.

and sitting beside choi beomgyu, pretending he was your greatest love, was the cruelest irony of all.

the music shifts. the soft thump of the bass, the rhythmic clinking of champagne glasses, the laughter and rustling of silk and tulle—all of it merges into the warm blur of celebration. the lights dim just slightly as couples begin to rise, drawn toward the dance floor like moths to flame.

you’ve just taken another sip of wine, trying to relax after the intense introduction, the invasive questions, and the suffocating presence of your ex seated so dangerously close. but before you can even set your glass down, taehyun rises.

he walks toward you with a practiced calm, hands in his pockets, eyes locked on yours like he’s daring you to look away first. "may i have this dance?" he asks, voice soft enough for only you to hear, but there’s an edge to it—like a test, a provocation.

but before you can speak, beomgyu shifts in his chair beside you. his hand slides over yours, firm, grounding. “no,” he says coolly, voice louder. the table quiets. "how dare you ask someone to dance when she's clearly here with her boyfriend?"

taehyun lets out a breath of laughter, sharp and amused. “what, are you scared? that if she dances with me, she might remember what we had?”

the tension at the table becomes palpable, electric. beomgyu stands now, leveling his gaze at taehyun with a calm so composed it borders on threatening. “you’ve got nerve, i’ll give you that. but no—i’m not scared. i don’t doubt her feelings for me.”

your heart stutters.

taehyun’s smirk falters. “then why don’t we let her decide?” he challenges, turning back to you. “y/n?”

you freeze. the weight of their gazes pins you in place, your spine stiff, mouth dry. you do want to dance with taehyun. Your body remembers the warmth of his hands, the way he used to hold you like you were gravity itself. but then—

beomgyu extends his hand toward you. calm, steady, open.

a choice.

a silent reminder: this is why you're here.

to make him jealous. to make taehyun feel what you felt when he left.

you look up at beomgyu. his eyes flicker with something you can’t name. you take his hand.

“i’m sorry, taehyun,” you say gently, rising from your seat. “but i came to this wedding to enjoy it with my boyfriend.”

the word hits like a drop of ink in water—rippling out, staining the air.

beomgyu stiffens. just for a moment. just enough for you to feel his pulse skip against your fingers.

you don’t look back at taehyun. you let Beomgyu guide you to the dance floor where strings swell into the opening of a love song. the kind that makes people sway closer. the kind that makes you forget you're pretending.

you start to dance, slowly, hands placed properly, bodies at a safe, respectable distance. but then he speaks, voice low and amused by your nervous chuckle.

“looks like the plan’s working,” he murmurs near your ear.

your lips twitch into a half-smile. “maybe too well.”

his fingers trail slightly down the curve of your back. not inappropriate, but… intentional. “you look beautiful tonight,” he adds, tone suddenly more sincere, less teasing.

the compliment catches you off guard. you let out a small, uncertain laugh. “you don’t have to say that.”

“i’m not saying it because i have to.”

you glance up at him. he’s not looking at the other couples. he’s not looking at taehyun. he’s looking at you. and not just your eyes—your mouth, the slope of your neck, the place where your skin meets the lace of your dress. the dress you wore to fit the part. to be his girlfriend. to play the game.

but now you’re not so sure it’s a game.

the music climbs into its chorus. around you, couples draw closer. Some kiss—softly, unselfconsciously. you turn your head, scanning the room for taehyun, and there he is—watching. unmoving. drinking you in like a ghost he didn’t know he still loved.

beomgyu notices.

and then suddenly, his hands are on either side of your face. gentle but sure. you barely have time to inhale before his lips are on yours.

it’s soft. so soft you almost miss it. but then the second beat lands—his mouth molding perfectly to yours, and you gasp through your nose, hands tightening on his arms. your eyes flutter wide, shocked, searching for meaning in the space between reality and performance.

his lips are warm. confident. too confident.

you shouldn’t like this. but you do.

his hands move to your waist as the kiss deepens—just enough. just long enough to make it feel like more than an act.

then he pulls back, just far enough for breath to slip between you, his eyes slightly darker now, but still calm, still playing the role.

“we had to keep up with the others,” he says smoothly, like he didn’t just melt every logical thought out of your brain.

you can’t answer. not yet. you just nod.

because you're still not sure if the kiss was for them, or for you.

since the kiss, you haven’t been able to breathe quite right.

your body moves through the rest of the night, politely laughing at jokes, sipping wine, answering questions with nods and vague hums, but your mind is stuck. not on taehyun. not anymore. his presence at the table has blurred into the background, a faded photograph slowly losing its color.

no—what keeps echoing in your chest like a drum is beomgyu.

how close he’s sitting next to you. the way his thigh presses against yours beneath the tablecloth, warm and constant. how his hand hasn’t left your lower back for more than a minute, always returning like he owns that space now. how his fingers sometimes toy absentmindedly with yours, tracing lines over your knuckles, slow and soft. it should feel comforting, part of the charade. but instead, every brush of skin is a spark, every gentle squeeze is a ripple of heat that settles embarrassingly low in your stomach.

your heart stutters when you glance at him again.

he’s speaking to someone across the table, smiling with that crooked little smirk he wears when he knows he’s charming. and god, is he charming. his laughter is low, the kind that makes your shoulders soften even if you don’t understand the joke. and when he tilts his head to the side, the lights catch the curve of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the way his adam’s apple moves when he swallows between words—it’s so stupid, so dumb, but you can’t look away.

even his eyelashes are pretty. long, thick, casting shadows on his cheekbones. who notices eyelashes? apparently you do, now.

he leans in to murmur something in your ear, and your whole body reacts. you don’t even register what he says. your mind is too busy screaming over the way his breath brushes your neck, the soft weight of his arm resting around your waist like it belongs there, like he’s done this a thousand times.

you feel hot. flushed. overexposed and restless. you try to tell yourself it’s the wine. or the music. or the aftershock of the kiss. but nothing helps.

eventually, you can’t take it anymore. you excuse yourself, murmuring something about needing air, and slip out into the garden. the cool night hits your skin like a blessing. you exhale shakily, hugging your arms around yourself, trying to calm the chaos inside.

you barely get a minute of peace before footsteps follow you.

you turn—and of course, it’s taehyun.

he stands a few feet away, hands in his pockets, looking unsure for the first time tonight. he doesn’t speak right away. instead, he just watches you, like he’s still trying to read you, still trying to understand what changed.

"you look beautiful tonight," he says eventually. his voice is soft now. sincere.

you give him a tight smile. "thanks."

he steps closer. "when i got the invite... the first person i thought of was you."

you look away.

"i hoped maybe..." he trails off, then runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "fuck. i haven’t stopped thinking about you, y/n. after we broke up, i—i kept telling myself it was for the best. but it never felt right. it still doesn’t."

you freeze. the words hit you like cold rain—sharp and disorienting.

“i thought,” he continues, “that maybe tonight, i could try again. i saw you and i just... remembered everything. and maybe i thought it was fate or some shit. that this was our second chance.”

you inhale, shaky.

"taehyun…" you start, but your voice breaks. you pause. gather yourself. then look him in the eye.

"you hurt me."

he flinches.

"i was ready to give up everything. remember? i was going to follow you. i was ready to leave behind my job, my home, my family—just to see you chase your dreams. but i wasn’t part of those dreams, was i?"

he doesn't answer.

"you made that clear when you left. you made me feel like i was holding you back. like i was just... something temporary. something convenient." your voice quivers, but you don’t stop. “so no. you don’t get to come back now just because you regret it. you don’t get to pick me again now that you're lonely.”

he opens his mouth, but you cut him off.

“i’m happy with beomgyu.”

the words come out fast, maybe too fast. you swallow.

"he’s been... good to me. he listens. he’s patient. when i had that terrible week at work, he showed up with soup and made me watch dumb romcoms until i stopped crying. when i forgot my umbrella, he waited for me at the station with his. when i had the flu, he came over with three bags full of medicine and snacks and even folded my laundry."

your breath hitches. you're listing off things that happened. real things. but were they part of the act? or... were they just him? beomgyu, being soft. being kind.

your chest aches.

“he makes me laugh,” you add quietly. “and i feel safe with him. really safe.”

taehyun says nothing. the silence stretches.

and suddenly, you realize—you don’t know if you’re defending a lie anymore. or if somewhere along the way, the lie became a truth you’re not ready to admit.

you blink back the burn in your eyes.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper. “but you’re too late.”

taehyun nods, once. solemn. he doesn’t argue. doesn’t plead.

he just looks at you with a kind of hollow acceptance. then turns and walks back inside.

you stay in the garden a while longer. heart thudding. pulse unsteady. trying to figure out why it hurts so much. why your thoughts keep drifting back to the warmth of beomgyu’s hands. the taste of his kiss.

and why, even now, all you want… is to see him.

you don’t hear the footsteps this time. not over the thudding in your ears. not over the sound of your own pulse, rapid and rising.

but beomgyu appears beside you like he was pulled by a thread—drawn out into the garden by instinct, or maybe something less rational and more dangerous. you blink at him, startled, but it’s too late. you can tell by the way his eyes narrow slightly, by the way his jaw sets, that he’s heard enough.

his gaze flicks to taehyun, sharp, unreadable. "i think you should leave her alone," he says calmly. too calmly. there's a current under his voice. a warning.

taehyun stiffens. "we're just talking—"

"no," beomgyu cuts in. “you’ve done enough of that.”

you feel the shift in the air. it’s not dramatic, not a sudden snap, but something quieter—more dangerous. beomgyu’s eyes don’t leave taehyun’s face as he steps a little closer. “i’ve already told you. several times. she’s my girlfriend. she’s with me now. and there’s no opportunity here for you, hyung.”

taehyun’s mouth parts, like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t get the chance.

“so unless you’re actively trying to get your face broken,” beomgyu says, voice still steady but lower now, “i suggest you back the fuck off.”

the silence that follows is brutal. taehyun’s expression twists—not quite disbelief, not quite amusement, but something caught between. he raises an eyebrow, like he doesn't buy it. like he doesn't believe beomgyu would ever go that far.

but you do.

you know beomgyu. you’ve seen the softness, yes—the warmth, the silliness, the boy who cuddles stray cats and gets excited over mango smoothies. but there’s a different kind of fire under all of that. you’ve seen flashes of it before. you believe him. and you don’t want this to be the moment he burns someone.

you reach out, curling your fingers gently around his wrist. “gyu,” you say quietly. he doesn’t look at you right away. “you’re not doing that. not here. not for him. okay?”

finally, his gaze flicks down to you. something in his eyes softens just a fraction.

you take a breath. “let’s just go home.”

he watches you for a moment longer. then nods.

taehyun doesn’t say anything else. just steps back, jaw clenched, arms crossed over his chest. you can feel his stare on your back as you walk away with beomgyu, back into the house, past the warm golden lights and the laughter that now feels miles away.

the ride home is quiet.

too quiet.

beomgyu drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh. his jaw is tight. his lips pressed together in a line. the usual easygoing glow in him has dimmed, replaced by something colder. he hasn’t spoken a word since you got in the car, and the silence is starting to weigh on you, dense and uncomfortable.

you sit beside him, hands fidgeting in your lap. you glance at him from the corner of your eye—he looks beautiful, even like this. even tense and brooding and upset. the streetlights passing over his face only make him seem more carved out of light and shadow, more unreal. your chest aches in that strange way again.

“gyu,” you say, softly.

he doesn’t answer right away. just exhales, long and slow. “did you mean it?” he finally asks, voice low.

you turn toward him. “mean what?”

“everything you told him. about me.” his grip tightens slightly on the wheel. “about how i make you feel. or was that just part of the lie?”

the question shouldn’t catch you off guard—but it does. maybe because you’ve been asking yourself the same thing since you said it. maybe because you don’t know the answer. maybe because you do, and it scares you.

“i don’t know,” you admit. your voice cracks. “i don’t think it was a lie.”

he finally looks at you.

and it’s that look. the one that always makes your breath catch in your throat. the one that’s not teasing or flirty or playful. the one that’s real. too real. it’s him seeing you—really seeing you—and it’s almost too much.

“i meant everything i said,” you add. “i just don’t know what it means yet.”

beomgyu nods slowly. then turns his eyes back to the road.

you ride the rest of the way in silence again, but it’s different now. not cold. not angry. just heavy. like both of you are holding your breaths. like the story you were pretending to tell is suddenly demanding to become the truth.

when he pulls up to your place, he doesn’t kill the engine right away. just sits there.

you don’t move either.

the air between you hums.

“thank you,” you say finally, “for standing up for me.”

his mouth twitches. not quite a smile. “i wasn’t acting.”

you nod. “i know.”

then you open the door and step out, leaving it all suspended in the air between you—the kiss, the lie, the truth, the heat, the tension, the look he gave you that felt like a question you still don’t know how to answer.

but you’re starting to want to.

you close the door behind you, but the silence that follows feels deafening. the apartment suddenly seems too quiet, too still. your heart is still racing from everything that happened — taehyun’s words, beomgyu’s protectiveness, the kiss at the wedding, the car ride home. but beneath all the noise, beneath the confusion, something sharp and clear starts to rise.

a pulse.

his name.

beomgyu.

you press a hand to your chest, breathing deeply, but it doesn’t slow. and then it hits you — not gently, not sweetly, but like a wave knocking you off your feet: it’s him.

you don’t think. you don’t wait.

you spin around, yank the door open and run — barefoot, not even grabbing your coat — down the hall, down the stairs, heart hammering in your chest like it’s trying to chase him before he disappears for good. you reach the stairwell, breath caught in your throat, and then—

he’s there.

at the landing, a few steps below, chest rising and falling like he’s just run a marathon. his eyes find yours immediately, wild and soft all at once, and the relief in them makes your knees go weak.

“i couldn’t leave,” he breathes out, voice cracked and real. “i couldn’t just… leave you like that.”

his hair’s slightly messy, cheeks flushed, and there's this tiny line between his brows like he’s been worrying the whole time. and that’s when it hits you again — he came back. just like you ran after him. you both chose each other.

you don’t say anything. you just move.

arms around his neck, pulling him close, your face burying into the crook of his shoulder. he smells like night air and whatever cologne he wore to the wedding — it’s soft, grounding, familiar. his hands find your waist, then your back, holding you like he’s been waiting to do it forever.

and then you pull back, just enough to look at him.

his eyes flicker to your lips.

and you kiss him.

slow, deep, nothing like the kiss on the dance floor. this isn’t pretending. this is you, trembling fingers on the side of his face, his hand sliding up your back, holding you like you’re precious. his lips move against yours with a softness that borders on reverence, and when he exhales into your mouth, it sounds like he’s been holding his breath for days.

you only part when your lungs ache, foreheads pressed together, your heart loud and unrepentant between you both.

“i was halfway down the street,” he whispers, “and all i could think was, ‘i need to tell her.’”

“tell me what?” you ask, your voice a little breathless, a little cracked.

he leans in again, brushing his nose against yours.

“that i’m not pretending anymore.”

stay next to me push the bad memories aside

you’re in your apartment now. everything feels quieter, but not in that lonely way from before. it’s peaceful. your fingers are laced with beomgyu’s as you both sit on the couch, socks brushing, shoulders touching, hearts still racing from the moment downstairs. there’s a stillness now, but it’s full of possibility. your eyes meet and neither of you look away.

he’s the first to speak.

“so… that kiss,” he says softly, smiling just a little. “i hope you know that wasn’t part of the plan.”

you let out a quiet laugh, eyes flickering down to your intertwined hands. “i figured.”

“i meant it,” he adds, almost in a whisper, as if saying it too loud might shatter the moment. “i meant every second of it.”

your breath hitches, chest tightening in that warm, aching way that only truth brings. you turn your head to him, really look at him — the soft curve of his jaw, the way his lashes brush his cheeks when he blinks, the tenderness in his expression that you hadn’t noticed before but now feels impossible to ignore.

“when did it stop being pretend for you?” you ask, voice quiet, vulnerable.

he hesitates only a moment before answering. “somewhere between your laugh and the way you always fix my tie even when i don’t need you to.”

your heart clenches.

“between that night you texted me good luck before my interview… and the way you talk about the things you love like they’re magic.” he pauses, eyes locked on yours. “it’s always been you. i just didn’t know how badly i wanted it to be real until it already was.”

you don’t even realize you’re crying until he reaches up, brushing a thumb gently under your eye.

“hey,” he says, voice low, “you okay?”

you nod, smiling through the tears. “i just… i think i fell in love with you without meaning to.”

your fingers are tangled in your sleeves, knees pulled close to your chest. neither of you speaks for a while, but the silence is thick with everything left unsaid.

and then, softly—

“you sure about this?”

his voice is low. careful.

you look at him, brows furrowing. “about what?”

“about… us.” he swallows, gaze still down. “after everything.”

your heart tightens. “beomgyu—”

“no, i mean it,” he cuts in, gently but firm. “i’ve been thinking about it since last night. since we kissed. and then again this morning. and again, every second after. and it’s not that i don’t want this. i do. so badly i feel like i can’t breathe sometimes. but—”

he finally looks at you.

and god, it hurts.

“i treated you like shit,” he says, voice cracking. “back then. even if it was joking or flirting or whatever excuse i told myself, i was cruel sometimes. i pushed you, made you feel small just because i didn’t know how to handle what i was feeling. and now you're here—choosing me. like i deserve you.”

you blink, stunned. you hadn’t expected this—this confession bleeding out of him.

he runs a hand through his hair. “you’re good. you’re so good, and i’ve been so fucking scared that one day you’ll remember every time i made you cry, or shut down, or feel like you weren’t enough. because you were always more than enough. i just… i didn’t know how to see it. not then.”

your chest aches. “beomgyu—”

“i don’t want to be that person anymore,” he whispers. “i’ve worked so hard not to be. but i still look at you and think, she deserves someone who didn’t need a second chance to get it right.”

you move slowly, reaching out to cup his face, thumb brushing the corner of his eye where tears threaten.

“you are that someone,” you say softly. “you’re not who you were, beomgyu. you grew. you changed. you loved me, even when you didn’t know it. and now? now you treat me like i’m sacred.”

he leans into your touch, eyes glassy.

“you are sacred,” he breathes.

you smile, trembling. “then stop trying to push me away like i’m not choosing you with my whole heart.”

he exhales shakily. “i’m scared.”

“me too.”

he pulls you in then, arms around your waist, head tucked into the crook of your neck.

“don’t let me fuck this up,” he says against your skin.

“we’ll figure it out together,” you whisper, holding him tighter. “you’re not alone in this.”

he pulls back just enough to kiss your forehead.

“say it again,” he says.

“what?”

“that you choose me.”

you look him in the eyes, no hesitation. “i choose you.”

his lips find yours like a prayer answered. soft. reverent. a little desperate.

and when you part, he presses his forehead to yours, whispering,

“then i’ll spend the rest of forever proving you made the right choice.”

put me in the palm of you all my life time i will be thinking of you

saturday brunch is supposed to be chill.

the kind where chaewon shows up in oversized sunglasses like she’s famous, soobin talks about the latest alien documentary he found, and yeonjun takes a thousand photos of his latte art just to post the worst one with the caption “just vibing.”

but not today.

today, you and beomgyu are sitting side by side in the booth instead of across from each other like usual. your knees are touching. his hand is on your thigh. you're giggling. he whispers something in your ear and you blush.

chaewon is squinting at you both like she’s watching a glitch in the matrix.

soobin is staring at beomgyu like he’s about to conduct a full investigation.

yeonjun drops his phone into his mimosa.

"what the fuck is happening," chaewon says, flat out, fork frozen mid-air.

you smile sweetly, lacing your fingers with beomgyu's. “we’re dating.”

yeonjun gasps like he’s been shot in the chest. soobin literally chokes on his orange juice. chaewon blinks three times, then shakes her head. “no, no, no. you two hate each other. i was there. i’ve seen you call him a crusty medieval squirrel with commitment issues.”

beomgyu grins, smug. “and now i’m her crusty medieval squirrel.”

you nudge him, laughing. “don’t make it worse.”

“this is a prank,” yeonjun says. “you’re filming us for tiktok. where’s the camera. i know it’s here.”

“we’re not pranking you,” you say, cheeks pink. “it just… happened.”

“just happened?” soobin repeats, still dazed. “you two have been fake dating for weeks!”

beomgyu shrugs. “then it got real. sue us.”

chaewon narrows her eyes, studying you. “okay… but are we talking real real or like, ‘we’re trauma bonded and it’s sexy’ real?”

you look at beomgyu.

he looks at you.

you both smile, soft and full of something you didn’t used to know how to name.

“real real,” you say.

yeonjun makes a sound like a dying whale. “i feel gaslit. i’ve spent months mediating your arguments. you once threw a croissant at him in public.”

“he ate it off the floor,” you shoot back.

beomgyu squeezes your hand. “best croissant of my life.”

soobin groans. “i need to lie down. i can’t process this sober.”

“i give it a month,” chaewon announces, sipping her iced coffee with flair. “before you implode.”

you grin. “i’ll take that bet.”

yeonjun finally recovers enough to fish his phone out of his drink. “congrats, i guess. but if you break up, i’m choosing her in the custody battle.”

“damn,” beomgyu says, hand on his heart. “that hurt.”

chaewon smirks. “don’t worry. if she dumps you, i’ll help her write her hot girl summer playlist.”

beomgyu only pulls you closer, arm slung around your shoulders, eyes shining.

“good thing i’m planning on keeping her forever.”

you roll your eyes but can’t fight the smile spreading across your face.

and even through the chaos, the disbelief, and the dramatic reactions… you’ve never felt more sure.

this is real. and it’s only the beginning.

and it's because of you.

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im-yn-suckers · 7 months ago

Text

ᴄᴀᴜɢʜᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛ? ✧˖° bf!riki x gf!reader ✧˖° tw: kissies, cuddles, mention of stress, reader is said to be short but that could literally js mean shorter than him, and only sorta maybe perhaps a little kinda self indulgent bc i want a riki ^^ a little disclaimer: idk if riki listens to all of these, as they just come off of my playlist !

your desk is covered in pens, pencils, sticky notes and other supplies. ah yes, another paper, but this time you finished in time. previously you were worrying about getting in on time and if you did it right. will the professor think its good? will i get a good grade? i hope i didnt mess up

all of these thoughts crowded your mind for days maybe even weeks. it brought you tears and pride. the final paper you so horridly dreaded now turned in as you leave your desk, not bothering to clean it up. you walk over to your bf, who was busy playing league on the couch, that filled up, almost, the entire room.

you plop down next to him, leaning on his shoulder. his scent intoxicating you, god, how you missed it for the last 3 hours. "you done pretty girl?" he asks, though not looking down, too focused on his game. you only nod. minutes pass and youre still cuddled up to him. soon enough, he turns the tv off and turns toward you, fully sideways. he lets himself fall back onto the couch, allowing you to fall w him.

a giggle leaves his pretty lips, as you fall on top of him. the couch cant fit the both of you so he improvised. you lay your head on his shoulder, almost his clavicle. you lightly peck the skin-exposed by his black hoodie-covered by pretty moles. "youre squishing me!" "shhh this was all you" he sighs in defeat. "lets go to the bed then" you sigh, not wanting to move.

on the bed, you two lay on your backs, close together. something about his calm presence when you two are in bed, ready to fall asleep, is so comforting. maybe it was his scent, as mentioned, its intoxicating, almost dizzying. or maybe his giant figure next to yours, offering a sense of protection. maybe his soft breaths as he lays down, scrolling tiktok, not quite ready to sleep, yet.

"baby, baby!" he perks up, seeing a video "hm?" you respond, on the verge of falling asleep. your eyelids droopy. "lets make a playlist and take turns adding songs!" you giggle as you hear the idea, finding it quite endearing. you nod in agreement. he opens his laptop and pulls up spotify.

tapping the plus, he creates a new playlist. "what should we name it?" he asks, trying to complete the first step. "mmmm idk, something short but cute" he types in your name to tease you. "hey!" "what?? you said short and cute!" he deletes the name, trying to think of a new one.

"wait! ki! yk the song tell my momma by kard?" you have an idea, hoping its a good one. "uhm i know OF it, why?" "how bout we put 'ill do anything to make our love last long'?" you suggest a long but sweet lyric "baby, thats corny" "so is making a playlist tgt" silence. "ugh ig ure right" you giggle and he puts down the lyric.

"ok songs, you add one first" he pushes the laptop your way and you think for a moment you add the first song, every kind of way by h.e.r, he smiles seeing the song. he takes his turn "where is love" by 3house. your turn again, "wa-r-r" by colde. his turn again, "someone like u" by lullaboy "infranumi" by steve lacy, "pink+white" by frank ocean. "seasons" by wave to earth, "3:00 am" by finding hope it goes back and forth adding songs and laughing

once you two finish, he shuts the laptop, reaching over to set it down. he turns to his side to grab you and pull you close to him. his arms wrapping around you. he presses a little kiss to your lips saying goodnight.

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sevikaslatinawife · 4 months ago

Note

Sevika fluff, reader sat on her lap and doing sevikas makeup after months of begging her to let her do it she finally agrees

this is so fucking cute NOTE: I am keeping reader's skin tone unmentioned and only focusing on Sevika's skin tone bc I want everyone to feel welcomed to read this.

Makeup Practice

Warnings: modern!au, just fluff

Word Count: 1.9k

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Sevika grumbles as you peel off the sheet mask.

She was laid back on the pillows, your thighs straddling her abdomen while you sat on her hips. Her hands massaged the flesh of your thighs over the loose pajamas you had on.

“Shush,” You mutter, fingertips spreading the serum the sheet mask left behind. You thumbed down her neck, smearing it under her chin, jaw, and throat.

“This feels sticky.”

“It needs to dry, Vika,” You sigh and lean forward to peck her lips.

This makes her smile softly and lets you continue. You use an envelope of junk mail to fan the serum until it dries.

You continue to apply your toner on your fingers, tapping it against her face. She grunts at the suddenness of the tapping, squeezing your thighs under her hands.

Again, you lean over to peck her lips. This is the only way she stays a little compliant under the ministrations of her face.

After moisturizing, you do the same, kissing a little firmer. She hums low in her throat, parting her lips around yours to deepen the kiss only a little. You comply, distracting her enough while the moisturizer dries.

“This will feel strange,” You tell her as you apply a lip scrub to her lips. You use your ring finger to gently rub at her lips.

She frowns at the feeling and peels her eyes open, looking up at you while continuing to massage your thighs. “What is —”

“Stop,” you tell her, giggling when she grimaces. “You’re gonna get it in your mouth.”

You massage the lip scrub into her lips for another minute before reaching for the pack of baby wipes. “Sit up, please,” You tell her softly and she does without any more prompting.

She shifts your body closer as she lays back against the headboard, lips parting around your wiping of the grainy substance you put on her lips. Once they’re cleaned you turn to the towel you laid beside you, strewn with makeup and skincare products you were planning on using.

You had even gone out with her and got her shade-matched so you had everything in her color for the evening. To light-coverage foundation, to concealer, bronzer, and eyebrow pencil. You wanted it to be as simple as possible and nothing too full-coverage or full glam.

“Hey,” she complains, fingers squeezing your thighs as you scan the products with your eyes.

You hum as you turn to look at her, plucking the lip mask and the silicone applicator. When you turn to face her, her lips are pursed in a soft pout, awaiting another kiss. You coo and thumb away any leftover sugar scrub from her bottom lip before leaning forward to press another kiss to her mouth.

“You’re so needy,” You tease, giving her another kiss to cut off her grumbling. “Can’t kiss you after this step.”

“What? That’s stupid,” she mutters as she watches you open the small jar of lip mask. “You can still kiss me…”

“You want me to kiss you that badly?”

“No,” Sevika scoffs, pouting as you start scooping some product from the small jar. When you go to apply it, she moves her head to the side and speaks again. “Wait — are you really not gonna kiss me after this one?”

You can’t help the flutter of your heart as she pouts at the thought of not kissing you for a few, mere moments. Part of you wants to continue teasing that no, you won’t be able to kiss her after this, but — as you are used to doing when she pouts like this — you cave.

“I will kiss you,” You assure, giving her another soft kiss. “Since you’re being so pouty about not kissing me for a little while.”

She glares at you, but there’s no malice once there’s a soft quirk of her lips. “You’re such a pain,” and she leans up to kiss you again. “But I will pout if it gets me what I want.”

You laugh and shake your head, going to apply the lip mask to her lips. This time, however, you press a kiss to her nose. You cap the lip mask and go to take the primer, applying it to your fingers before gently applying it to her face.

“Do this,” You tell her, sucking in your lips to demonstrate. She follows orders and you apply the primer around her nose and upper lip, kissing her nose once more.

She relaxes her mouth and you hum as you pick up the foundation and the foundation puff you use. You dot the foundation around her face and dab the puff around her face to blend it into her skin.

“Ouch,” she fake pouts as you pat more foundation on her skin.

“My baby,” You coo and kiss her lips softly. “Such a softie.”

“ ‘m not a softie,” She scoffs, squeezing your thighs and massaging the flesh of them.

“Whatever you say,” you giggle as you finish dabbing the foundation down to her neck.

You pick up the concealer and apply a little beneath her eyes, her eyelids, the center of her chin, above her Cupid’s bow and a little on the bridge of her nose. You blend it all softly, instructing her to close her eyes when you need to blend her eyelids, and to look up when you blend her under eyes.

After, you apply cream blush and blend it, too. “Close your eyes, please,” You ask as you shake the setting spray bottle.

“Are we almost done?” She asks but complies.

“Nope,” You reply and spray the wet base of makeup with the setting spray. “Have some more steps to go.”

She groans and leans her head back against the headboard while you dry her face with the same envelope you did earlier.

You apply the powders next. You blend the creases of the concealer beneath her eyes before applying setting powder to her face and powder blush over where you placed the cream.

Sevika would momentarily grumble at a new step, only playing nice when you kissed any part of her face or her lips.

Bronzer, drawing in her eyebrows with the pencil, and her eyeshadow was a simple medium brown in her crease and under eye. You applied gold shimmer to her eyelids.

She normally always wears kohl, so she applied it herself while you held a mirror up to her face for her. She didn’t focus too much on what you had already applied to her face, so she hadn’t given you an honest reaction to the hour-long — maybe longer, since you can’t remember at what time you started — session on meticulous work you had put into the look.

The corners of her eyes, the bridge of her nose and her cheekbones in a similar gold highlighter. She even let you put on a bit of mascara on her, as well.

“This feels heavy,” Sevika complained about the mascara, lifting a hand to her eyes.

You caught her wrist before she touched her eyes. “You’re gonna smear it, Vika. You gotta let it dry.”

“Ugh, fine,” She groans and blinks slowly at you, trying to get used to the feeling of the mascara on her lashes. It did feel heavy and you understood, it felt the same way when you started wearing makeup all those years ago. It’s just something you grow accustomed to as the time passes and you don’t pay it any mind after a while.

As you wait for her mascara to dry, you reach for the baby wipe you had used earlier and use a clean corner to wipe Sevika’s lips of any foundation or concealer, as well as the remnants of the lip mask.

“Finally,” Sevika grumbles and leans forward, hand cupping your jaw to kiss you.

You kiss back softly, slowly because you hadn’t added the last round of setting spray and didn’t want the makeup you had been working so hard for to be wiped off.

“You taste like vanilla,” She tells you and licks her lips.

“It’s the lip mask. It’s vanilla flavored,” You tell her, sucking your lips together to rub them against each other, tasting the artificial vanilla on your tongue.

“I like that lipgloss you always wear,” She tells you as you brush your thumb across her lashes to make sure they’re dried. “Pink with sparkles, tastes like candy. The tube is like a hexagon.”

“That one?” You point to the tube on the nightstand and she nods, reaching over to pluck it and give it to you. Once you take it, her hands are on your thighs again, massaging and sinking her fingers into your skin.

It’s your Fenty Beauty lip gloss, Fu$$y.

“Do you want this one or this one?” You reach for the brown gloss, Hot Chocolit, from the same brand. “I think this one would look good on you, too.”

“That one,” Sevika nods to the brown gloss and you hum. You set the other gloss down and go to reach for your setting spray.

Sevika closes her eyes before even being told, already picking up what the product does. You smile and apply it, spraying generously before drying it thoroughly. She opened her eyes to glance at your face while you did so and you felt a soft smile creep around your lips.

“What is it?” you ask after a quiet moment, setting the envelope down after her face is fully dried.

“You’re so pretty,” She hums, a low sound that rumbles at her chest.

“So are you,” You smile as you apply the gloss to her lips, biting your lip in concentration. “All done!” You cap the gloss and set it beside you.

She lets your thighs go and you slowly stand and stretch. Your legs had been tucked at either side of her while you worked. You hadn’t moved an inch and now you felt it on your numb butt.

“What do you think?” You ask as she looks at the mirror.

Sevika goes quiet, eyes trailing her face. She can feel how heavy everything is because she is not used to it but she thinks she looks…pretty, for once. Her dark circles are hidden, the shimmer looks nice and you have even tried your best to keep it simple for her sake, too.

“ ‘s okay,” She shrugs, draping an arm around your shoulder and going to kiss your temple.

“You’re going to smear the gloss,” You whine as there’s now an evident lip-shaped mark on your skin.

“You do it all the time to me,” a kiss to the center of your forehead. “So suck it up, angel.”

“As long as you let me take pictures, too,” You smile innocently.

Sevika huffs and runs her fingers through her hair. “Fine, but don’t go fucking posting these everywhere.”

“I swear,” You say as you take way too many pictures of your girlfriend’s pretty face all done up in makeup.

Her face in your hand, just smiling at you. Some even of her mid-arguing about something or blurry but you didn’t delete a single one.

“My pretty girl,” You whisper against her mouth when she leans down to kiss you. She grumbles and kisses you again, in order to distract the way her heart leaped at the softness of your words.

Shameless plug to Fenty Beauty bc I am obsessed with my lipgloss. My all-time favorite.

#sevika headcanon #sevika arcane #sevika #sevika x y/n #arcane #sevika x you #sevika x female reader #sevika x reader #arcane sevika #sevikaslatinawife #sevika i love you #sevika lol #sevika my love #sevika comfort #sevika fluff #sevika fanfic

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the-shadiest-tomato · 3 months ago

Text

Now seems like a good time to do this

First of all, William Finn, that legend is missed

But I wanted to introduce y'all to my

Falsettos binder

An entirely hand written book of all the (dialogue? Lyrics?) of the entire musical.

Based on the revival 'cause that one's my favorite.

We got: in depth analysis of every bit of significance in nearly every line. Dumb thoughts of mine. And memes.

[I'm not exaggerating when I said I went through eight packs of sticky notes]

The point

A probably incorrect timeline based on a few dates and hella real world assumptions

Pencil/colored pencil drawings featuring every character's musical assigned colors and me-assigned chess pieces

Depressing watercolor paintings

A cobbled together study on the chess pieces used in "the chess game" cause they look so strange and are never used again

An extensive study on the cube which I used to build the whole thing functionally in the real world

What I call ✨ notes on a scene✨

Which is commentary and observations of every bootleg production I've seen.

There's also an In Trouser analysis in here somewhere, but alas, I have reached the image limit.

Perhaps you can tell I'm just slightly feral for this musical and had a bit too much free time a couple months back.

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ddejavvu · 2 years ago

Note

hey mei baby i was wondering if you could do something about shy!reader with spencer and she's just so smitten with everything he does and gets flustered really easily and spencer is like ??? like he doesn't get it cause he doesn't see how fucking gorgeous he is

love love love you!

love love love you too!

Spencer sits down at the table you'd scouted with a warm smile and a gift bag, and you eye it warily, noting the particular absence of one in return for him.

"I brought you something," He confesses bashfully, and you watch as he pushes it over the table towards you, "But- um, I'm sorry there's no tissue paper in there. I thought I had some, but then I didn't, so I went to the store earlier to find some, but they only had neon pink, and that didn't really go with the orange on the bag, so- just- it's in there." He concludes drearily, "Sorry."

The mere thought of him apologizing for a gift that he's giving you not being perfect makes you want to scream in agony and kiss the apologetic smile right off of his pretty pink lips. But you think that a gentle reassurance would work better, so that's what you give him.

"It's alright, Spencer," You promise, reaching into the bag and wrapping your fingers around what feels like soft paper, "The tissue paper is the least important part of the gift."

It turns out to be a book, and you suppose you shouldn't have expected anything different from Spencer. It's worn, well-loved, with sticky notes in disarray all down the sides and pencil scribbled in the margins. It's a collection of vignettes, from the title, old English tales that you'd find covered in dust at an ancient library.

"My mom used to read these to me when I was younger," Spencer admits, hands toying with each other nervously in his lap, "And I bought myself a copy when I moved out, for- to, like, start my collection," He explains, "And I always found myself going back and annotating it, because I just had so much to say, but- uh, no one to listen."

His cheeks burn pink at the admission, and you physically feel your heart swell to dangerous proportions within the confines of your chest, "So, I thought that- well, if you want to, at least... you could read them too. And- my notes, if you're interested."

He's staring at you with so much raw hope shimmering in his pretty brown eyes that it nearly brings tears to yours. Your brain is filled with static, useless and jittery, and all you can do is drop the book into your lap and slam your face into your arms on the table.

You let out a muffled groan, maybe more of a scream, and when you peek back up at Spencer, he looks mortified.

"I'm sorry! If you don't want it, I can- I can take it back, or get you a different copy, or-"

"Stop! Spencer, stop," You plead, clutching at his hands from across the tiny table, "You're perfect. How are you perfect?"

He looks bewildered, but doesn't pull his hands from yours, "What?"

"You gave me your special book," You whimper, "Actually, you apologized that you only gave me your special book, and you trusted me to care for it and read all of your thoughts and notes about it, and you're-sitting-with-me-in-a-coffee-shop-being-the-man-of-my-dreams! You're perfect!"

He looks heavily flustered now, cheeks burning only brighter red as he grins, "I- I'm glad you like it. Um- I didn't think you'd like it this much."

"I love it," You whine, dragging one of his hands to your mouth to smear a kiss over the back of it, "Spencer, you're perfect."

"Stop saying that," He pleads, but he has to avoid your eyes as he grins into his lap, "You're making me tongue-tied."

"I know," You confess, squeezing his hands, but you show him no mercy as you grin: "But it's only fair, Spence. You just gave me the most heartfelt gift of my life, I'm allowed to make you stutter."

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid one-shot #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid headcanons #spencer reid headcanon #spencer reid hc #spencer reid hcs #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid blurb #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid dialogue #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader fanfiction #spencer reid

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yukkiji · 12 days ago

Text

editor's note

you and akaashi talked about starting a family once. quietly. gently. a passing dream between cups of tea and weekend mornings. now, the dream is real—and you’ve been carrying the secret, waiting for the right moment to tell him. that moment arrives in the softest, most “you” way possible.

chapters of us. haikyuu masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. akaashi keiji x fem!reader

genre: fluff, romance, domestic fluff, timeskip!akaashi, pregnant!reader

wc: 1.1k

author's note: second chapter is now up! tbh i don't really have a specific number on how many chapters there will be, so it may be possible that even as the kids grow up, there would still be a few chapters or like short spin off with uncle kotaro who knows hehe

mornings with akaashi were always a kind of poetry in motion.

not loud, not extravagant. just slow, peaceful things—clinking mugs, slippers brushing over wood floors, your wedding rings catching faint morning light as they clinked against porcelain at the kitchen table. outside, the world was still half-asleep, clouds low and gray with the promise of gentle rain, birds calling lazily from the trees.

you’d been married for nearly two years now, and life with him was soft in all the right places. being his wife didn’t mean grand declarations or dramatic romance. it meant the small things, the real things. like freshly folded laundry left at the foot of the bed. like sticky notes on your lunch with doodles of flowers and sleepy cats. like the way he kissed the top of your head when you passed each other in the hallway, or how he made your tea just the way you liked it—without asking.

love with him wasn’t loud. it lingered. it lived in the quiet moments—the fogged-up mirror after your shared showers, brushing your teeth in sync, leaning into one another while half-asleep on the couch. it lived in the subtle touches, the whispered goodnights, the way his hand always found yours beneath the covers, even in dreams.

and it meant you knew—truly knew—how to tell him something life-changing. something terrifying and beautiful and big.

you hadn’t said the words out loud yet. you hadn’t needed to. instead, you gave it to him the way he gave things to you: subtly, thoughtfully, meaningfully.

you placed the envelope between the chapters he was editing.

he’d been working on a novel from one of his favorite authors—a returning client whose prose was deliberate and complicated, someone he admired for the slow unravel of emotional arcs. it felt fitting. like slipping truth into fiction. and you knew akaashi. you knew he read deeply. nothing escaped his eye.

he’d been up before you that morning, as usual. hair slightly tousled, glasses perched low on his nose, hoodie loose around his frame like it belonged more to you than him. you found him in the kitchen, already two sips into his coffee, one hand holding a red pencil, the other absently stirring the air in rhythm to whatever he was reading.

you leaned in, kissed his temple. he hummed something unintelligible and warm. when you refilled his mug, he didn’t even glance up—just murmured, “thank you, love,” like second nature. he didn’t suspect a thing.

now, it was just past 10 a.m. and the soft gray quiet of the house felt deeper than usual. the gentle scent of petrichor drifted in through the slightly cracked window. the world outside was still yawning. you were curled in a blanket by the window, your book long forgotten in your lap. you'd reread the same paragraph four times, your heart beating a little faster with each minute that passed.

waiting.

you didn’t know what page he was on. you didn’t know when he’d reach it.

but you knew he was close.

then came the shift—the change.

at first, just the slight pause in pencil movement. the absence of page turns. then the silence grew, thick and heavy with stillness.

he found it.

your breath caught.

from across the room, you heard the rustle of paper sliding out from between the chapters. the envelope being unfolded. and then, that long, unbroken quiet—the kind that held emotion too full to name.

you didn’t move. you didn’t dare. you only looked up when you heard the chair creak.

akaashi stepped into the doorway of the study, slow and disbelieving.

his expression was unreadable at first—stunned, wide-eyed, soft. his left hand trembled slightly where it held the ultrasound photo, while his right gripped the side of the door like he needed something to anchor him. his mouth parted, then closed again. his eyes—those gentle, intelligent eyes—met yours.

you stood.

neither of you said a word for a long moment.

he stepped forward, cautious, like he was approaching a fragile, precious truth. when he reached you, his hand rose to cradle the side of your face, his thumb brushing beneath your eye.

“i just…” he started, voice barely above a whisper. “i just flipped the page. i was ready to critique a scene. maybe circle a line. and then—” he exhaled shakily, holding up the photo, “this was there.”

your throat tightened.

“i didn’t know how to tell you,” you whispered. “so i gave you a story.”

his laugh was small, cracked around the edges. “i was marking up clichés. and then i found… everything.”

he dropped his forehead to yours, the photo between your hands now. the silence wrapped around you again—but this time, it was warm. full. whole.

you closed your eyes as he let out a breath that shook through his shoulders.

“twins,” he said, almost like it wasn’t real unless he heard it out loud.

you nodded. “i found out last week. i kept trying to find the right moment, but… they never came.”

“this was the right moment,” he murmured, his lips brushing your temple. “you gave me something real in the middle of something imaginary. you always know how to reach me.”

and then, with such reverence it made your knees weak, he crouched before you. his palm pressed gently to your stomach.

there was no bump yet. no visible sign. just the quiet knowing. just them.

you watched his lashes flutter as he looked at your stomach like it held galaxies.

“i hope they inherit your laugh,” he whispered. “i hear it every time i fall in love with you again.”

your heart fractured open at that. emotion welled, unspoken and overwhelming.

you dropped to your knees, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as he held you like the whole world had just fit into his hands.

“they’re going to be so lucky to have you,” you whispered, voice cracking.

he pulled back just enough to look at you—really look at you. “no. we’re lucky to have them. lucky to have this life. lucky to have each other.”

he pressed a hand to your cheek, brushing away a tear with his thumb.

“you’re everything i’ve ever wanted,” he said simply. “and now there’s more of you.”

a tear slipped down your face as a smile broke through. you didn’t know what to say. you didn’t need to.

his thumb swept over your lower lip.

“may i kiss you?” he asked, quiet and sure.

you smiled, eyes shining. “you always can.”

and when he kissed you—it wasn’t hurried or desperate. it was slow, grounding, tender. the kind of kiss that told stories. that promised futures. that sealed every unsaid word between you with something sacred.

you melted into it, into him, into the moment that changed everything.

and somewhere behind you, on the desk in the study, the manuscript sat—unfinished. still open to the page where fiction had been interrupted by truth. but tucked between the chapters, untouched by red pencil or revisions, was a new story now.

a new beginning.

the kind you don’t write. the kind you live.

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filmbyjy · 1 month ago

Text

HIDDEN LOVE

SYNOPSIS > park sunghoon was the most good looking and respectful man you’ve ever met at the age of 13. ignoring the fact that you had a loud and obnoxious older brother, park jongseong, as his best friend. with things going by in your life and a heartbreak at 17. what happens when you coincidentally reconnected with your past crush on someone 5 years older than you?

FIFTEEN – final warning

MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS | NEXT

WC: 1.6K words

a/n: you guys must be thinking that it's kinda pick me of (name) but i'd like to think that she hasn't experience the feeling of 'heartbroken' or 'rejection' hence she's acting this way. she's still innocent guys. trust me, when she's in uni, she will girlboss her way.

it was sad really. you'd think park sunghoon would always be around you, probably doing his own thing but still existing in your space somehow. no, of course he wasn't going to. he was a grown man. a 22 year old man who had his own life, his own worries. why would he stick around you?

you had groaned. groaned into your pillow at how stupid you were feeling. why was it that your stupid 17 year old brain couldn't comprehend that he never would have feelings for you. maybe something had to happen. yeah, let him get a girlfriend and then you can finally realise that it was stupid. okay.

'park sunghoon has a girlfriend.' you thought to yourself. the room was practically silent. you could almost hear the crickets chirping in the background. you groaned once and slammed your head on the pillow.

'stupid.'

you had lift your head up. the note staring right at you. you haven't read it yet but you were still curious. your hand reaches out and grabs the small paper. the writings on the page essentially filled the page. it seemed like sunghoon poured his whole heart into it.

it read:

Dear (name), Thank you for coming into my life. Both you and jay have always been the closest people I've ever been. Well, other than Jake and Heeseung hyung but that's besides the point. When I was young, my family was happy. We had everything, it was perfect. Then, something happened. I used to have a little sister. She reminds me of you. She was always so bright, running around. Always so positive. However, she's gone. My dad took her away from me. I trusted him. My whole world crumbled and just like that everything went downhill. Jay saw how everything went down. He helped me, I was forever thankful for him. Then, he mentioned he had a little sister. I was jealous at first, it's stupid really. However, I realised very quickly that Jay was always very protective over you. I related to him. It made me want to protect you. If only, I could've done it with my sister. Protect her from my dad. Which is why I want to protect you too, like an older brother would. P.S I got permission from jay. He says it's crazy that I'm coddling you so much but I'm sure he understands it.

as you finished the letter, you had looked down at the paper. it was soaked with your tears. you didn't even know you were crying. was this why he had no one? this changes everything. it made you want to care about sunghoon even more. you can't just let this feeling go. you had to fight for him.

but there was no way he'd ever let you take care of him. after all, you were only a 17 year old girl. it wouldn't be right. then an idea pops up in your head. you had remembered the present that sunghoon gave, the otter pencil case. you had decided to dumb out your pencils and pens out and grab onto a sticky note.

you had quietly wrote down your dreams and wishes into different notes and rolled it up. soon after, you had tied it up with a string. you would only be able to unravel them when you were older or if you and sunghoon ever start dating.

your main wish was to possibly go to Pusan National University, do well, get an amazing job and help sunghoon out. now, all you had to do was study and do well. which you did during your break, even your parents were surprised to see you strive to do something.

"darling, would you like some more noodles? i can cook more for you." your mom asks. you had simply shook your head and continued flipping the book.

"it's okay, mom. i'm going to go study now."

with that, you had left to go study. just as you made it towards your bedroom door, you had heard your brother jay talking on the phone.

"what? dude, no way. sunghoon got a girlfriend already? it's been like what? 3 months since he started working there? dude is working overtime." jay says. it intrigued you. sunghoon has a girlfriend?

don't tell me he had forgotten the promise...

"sunghoon oppa has a what?" you say as you entered jay's room. he jumps back in his seat, clutching his heart.

"oh my god, (name) you demon." he puts his phone to his ear. "jake, i'll call you back." the call ends.

"what do you mean sunghoon oppa has a girlfriend?"

"it means exactly that. he probably got laid or something." you grabbed jay's pillow and threw it at him. "ow?"

"don't say that!"

"what do you mean don't say that? i can say my friend got laid. i'm happy for him. you on the other hand should never get laid."

"fuck you."

"fuck you too!"

your mother yells from below to get you two to stop arguing.

"go study, you little shit." jay says. you had huffed.

"and how do you know, i don't get laid." you say with a final huff. you had stuck out your tongue and ran to your room. jay yells after you.

"YAH, WHAT DO YOU MEAN? HEY COME BACK HERE PARK (NAME)."

you had shut your door quickly before jay could even think about yapping in your ears. you had groaned out loud, it was stupid. why did you think he'd even care about your little promise. he is a literal 22 year old man. he wouldn't care about what a 17 year old promised him to do.

it was even more stupid with the fact that tears were now streaming down your face. why did you think you'd have a chance? you needed closure, one last time. what other possible thing to do then book a flight to Busan like a stupid person.

you had quietly packed your things. thrown the much needed clothes for the weather there. it was definitely cold. you were sure of it. the earliest flight to busan, 9am,, you had to sneak out of the house without your parents or brother knowing.

once the clock struck 9am, you had quickly left the house. your parents were definitely assuming you were on your way to school or to study with your classmates. you had taken a taxi to the airport and you had waited for the flight to busan, an hour flight from seoul. you had taken the plane once it was time for boarding. there were a bunch of people coming out from the departure hall. they were moving quick, all of them were talking on the phone.

your phone rings, it was jay. you didn't want to pick it up because you knew that they would have caught on. however, you knew you had to face the music. as soon as you picked up the phone, you were bombarded with questions from jay.

"you better not be meeting the guy you've fucked or you're fucked." jay threatens.

"oppa..."

"no, i'm booking you a flight back to seoul this instant. stay where you are. sunghoon is going over so you better stay."

sunghoon...is he bringing his girlfriend over?

"mmm." you had hummed. you could feel the tears threatening to spill. jay ends the call. you had waited for sunghoon. after about waiting for another 15 minutes, you heard footsteps hastily running towards you.

you had turned around to say something, but there you saw a woman approaching whilst looking at sunghoon worriedly. one of the prettiest woman you've ever seen. oh, it's her. she's really pretty.

"(name)." sunghoon's eyes widened. you could tell he held himself back from scolding you. "did he leave?" you had nodded. sunghoon sighs.

"why don't you go wash up in the bathroom." you nod once again and went to the bathroom. once you were hidden behind the wall, you had looked back. it truly was over. sunghoon had a girlfriend and he never would be yours ever again.

you had cried yourself out in the bathroom. this was so stupid of you. maybe this was the official sign to stay away from sunghoon. yeah, it was time you had moved on. you had left the bathroom and went back to where sunghoon stood. however, his girlfriend wasn't around.

"where did your-"

"she went back to work."

"oh."

sunghoon sighs, "i bought a ticket while you were in the bathroom. we have a bit of time before the flight. you should eat something." you had shook your head.

"i should wait inside." sunghoon hums. you had taken out a tie from your bag and handed it over to him. he was surprised, shocked even.

"what is this?"

"i wanted to give you this tie during your graduation but i couldn't go so here. oppa, good luck with your work and your life ahead." you say.

sunghoon opens the box, he felt his heart melt. you were the sweetest person he ever came across.

"thank you. i'll use the tie well." he smiles. you nodded.

and off you went, into the gates ready to fly home. when the plane landed, jay was waiting with the car. you knew he'd definitely give you an earful but you couldn't help but cry when you saw him. jay was taken aback. he pats your back.

"hey, it's okay. i won't scold you. i can't say about mom and dad-" your wails grew louder. "okay! okay! i'm sorry. i'll try to tell them to be more gentle. you know i love you right? men suck. booooo, men are bad guys." jay continues to coo you to stop crying.

but did it really even help? when your 17 year old heart was now broken?

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loves-n-kisses · 1 month ago

Note

Yes, I ment mind control and yes the reader sorry for not being specific, I suck at spelling and stuff, I love your work (btw I asked about the shinso one

Okay, thanks for specifying! I really enjoyed writing this one.

Mind's Misstep: Shinsou x GN!Reader

A story where Hitoshi Shinsou accidentally brainwashes you, causing an unexpected loss of control.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The common room of the UA dorms was buzzing with its usual low-key chaos. Kirishima was sprawled on one couch, scrolling through his phone, while Kaminari tried (and failed) to balance a pencil on his nose. You and Shinsou had claimed a corner table, surrounded by scattered textbooks and half-empty coffee mugs. Study sessions with him were a regular thing now—his dry humor and surprising patience made cramming for exams almost bearable.

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “I swear, if I have to memorize one more hero law, my brain’s gonna melt.”

Shinsou smirked, leaning back in his chair. “You’d make a terrible villain. Too lazy to memorize the loopholes.”

“Rude,” you shot back, tossing a crumpled sticky note at him. He dodged it with a lazy tilt of his head, his purple hair falling messily over his eyes. “You’re one to talk, Mr. ‘I’ll Just Brainwash the Teacher.’”

He snorted, but his expression softened. “You’re lucky I don’t use my quirk to make you study harder.”

“Ha, I’d like to see you try,” you teased, not thinking much of it. You reached for your coffee, expecting him to fire back with another quip.

Instead, his voice dropped, smooth and laced with that subtle, dangerous edge. “Why don’t you read the next chapter?”

Your hand froze mid-air, the mug slipping from your fingers. It hit the table with a soft clink, coffee sloshing over the rim. Your body moved before your mind could catch up, flipping open the textbook and scanning the page like it was the most important thing in the world. A faint fog clouded your thoughts, your own voice silent despite the scream building in your chest.

Shinsou’s eyes widened. “Wait—shit, no, stop!” His chair scraped against the floor as he shot to his feet, hands outstretched. “I didn’t mean—stop reading, now!”

The fog lifted, your hands dropping the book like it burned. You blinked, heart racing, the world snapping back into focus. The common room was quiet now, Kirishima and Kaminari staring from the couch. You shook your head, trying to shake off the lingering daze. “Whoa… did you just…?”

Shinsou’s face was ghost-white, his breathing quick and shallow. He stumbled back, hands trembling as he gripped the edge of the table. “I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to—fuck, I didn’t mean to use it.” His voice cracked, barely audible. “You weren’t supposed to answer.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” you said, pushing your chair back to stand. Your legs felt a little wobbly, but you ignored it, focusing on him. His eyes were wide, darting between you and the floor, like he was afraid to meet your gaze.

“No, it’s not okay,” he snapped, though the anger was aimed at himself. “I just controlled you. In the middle of the damn dorms, over nothing. What if I’d told you to do something worse? I’m—” He cut himself off, pressing a hand to his chest, his breaths coming in sharp gasps. “I’m a fucking danger.”

You stepped closer, careful not to startle him. “Shinsou, breathe. I’m fine, see? Just a little spooked, that’s all.” You kept your voice steady, even as your own pulse still raced.

He shook his head, turning away, his shoulders hunched. “You don’t get it. I can’t just… slip like that. I could’ve hurt you. I’m not—” His voice broke, and he dragged a hand through his hair, tugging hard. “I’m not safe.”

Your heart twisted at the raw fear in his voice. You’d seen Shinsou doubt himself before, but this was different—he looked like he was unraveling. Without hesitating, you reached out, gently touching his arm. He flinched but didn’t pull away.

“Shinsou, look at me,” you said softly. When he didn’t move, you stepped in front of him, your hand still on his arm. “You didn’t hurt me. You stopped it, fast. You realized what happened, and you fixed it. That’s what matters.”

His eyes flicked to yours, glossy and uncertain. “I shouldn’t have let it happen at all,” he muttered. “What kind of hero just… loses it like that?”

“One who’s human,” you said firmly. “You’re still figuring out your quirk. Mistakes happen. But you didn’t let it go too far, and I trust you to keep that from happening again.”

He let out a shaky breath, his jaw tight. “You’re too damn trusting, you know that?”

“Maybe,” you said, offering a small smile. “But I mean it. You’re not a danger. You’re someone I feel safe around, quirk and all.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, like he was searching for a catch. Slowly, the tension in his frame eased, his breathing steadying. “You’re ridiculous,” he mumbled, but there was a faint warmth in his tone, the panic starting to fade.

“Ridiculous enough to keep studying with you,” you said, nudging his arm lightly before stepping back. “So, what’s it gonna be? Back to hero laws, or do we take a break and clean up this coffee mess?”

He glanced at the spilled mug, then back at you, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Break,” he said quietly. “But… thanks. For, you know. Not freaking out.”

“Anytime,” you said, grabbing a napkin to start cleaning. As you worked, you caught him watching you, his expression softer than usual. And despite the scare, you couldn’t help but feel a little closer to him, like you’d both just crossed some invisible line together.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

note: I like how kirishima and denki have no purpose in this fic. they're just there. two extras. adore them tho <3

Drink water, sleep good, be productive my pookies!

-made with loves n' kisses!

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noisylime · 1 month ago

Text

Form and Figure

1. Registration

parts: next

battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

(eventual smut)

Art 111: Intro to Drawing

4 Credits. Lab & Studio

Instructor: Wayne, Bruce [email: [email protected]]

Course Description:

In this class, you will learn the basic elements of artistic composition, including line, shape, form, value, and perspective. Theory learned in lectures will be applied to various still life drawings using charcoal, pencil, and marker. This course is highly interactive, with each class requiring participation in studio time. Professor Wayne teaches a mixed lab and lecture course with availabilities for additional studio time outside of regular class hours. Materials not provided.

Course materials estimated price: $145.

To browse GU Bookstore bundles click here.

The phone alarm blasted through your skull, sounding like one of the commuter trains that rattled over your apartment had derailed and crashed through your ceiling. That actually sounded preferable to waking up at the ungodly hour of 6:30 am. The course calendar for Fall term at Gotham University opened in five minutes and you still hadn’t decided what classes you were going to take. It was your first term back in a long time.

Going to an out-of-state school had seemed like a way to find yourself on your own terms, and Gotham was far enough from home to feel like another planet. Two years of general education classes with a smattering of electives hadn’t quite been the elucidating experience you expected, but it had been fun. That had all gone to shit when you’d had to leave Gotham at the end of your sophomore year, taking an extended break from school to care for your dad. You’d called it taking a ‘gap year’ but it was closer to three.

Well, that was all over. Now you were a super-senior-aged-junior with enough trauma to stop your academic advisor from pushing you too hard to declare a major and almost enough credits to cobble a degree together.

You were currently waffling between majoring in civil engineering and English lit, both of which felt equally uninteresting. Last night you had planned out schedules for each option and decided to literally sleep on it, putting sticky notes with class codes scribbled on them under your pillow.

Rubbing sleep out of your eyes, you cracked open your laptop. You still had a few precious minutes to make a decision. The clarity you had wanted hadn’t miraculously come overnight, both options still sounded unbearable. You reached under your pillow and decided to go with whichever one you grabbed first. Civil Engineering, on a yellow crumpled 3x3 sheet.

Well, at least you were being decisive, which Titus would say was an improvement. Your friend since freshman year at GU and roommate for the past three months, he worked nights as a bouncer at a club, Mora’s.

Typing the codes into the school’s course registration system was a race to see if you could finish before the website crashed. Once you had double checked the numbers you clicked ‘submit’ and held your breath.

“You’re fucking kidding me!” you blurted as the schedule notification popped up. You’d gotten in to three of your four classes. And the fourth… “Waitlist full? It hasn’t even been two minutes!”

You closed the laptop and carried it out to the kitchen, sitting at the counter and pouring yourself a bowl of cereal. Crunching on Honeycomb violently expressed your dissatisfaction at the college experience to anyone who would listen.

“Damn, you’re up early,” Titus said, closing the front door behind him. He was wearing a smart black leather bomber over a white tee shirt, some gold jewelry accenting the outfit. He didn’t dress like your stereotypical idea of a bouncer, choosing to match the glam and glitz of the interior of the club. On the rare occasion a patron got on his bad side, misjudging his strength based on his appearance, they found themselves thrown to the curb in the blink of an eye.

“Hey,” you said.

He stomped off his military boots at the doorway and walked over to you, giving you a side hug which you accepted gratefully despite the glitter that transferred onto your black tee.

“What’s going on?” he asked, detecting your sour mood.

“Trying to sign up for classes. Everything’s full,” you said around a mouthful of cereal. You tapped the spoon on your closed laptop thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s not worth it, you know? College? It seems overrated.”

Titus plonked his backpack on the counter and pulled up onto one of the barstools. When Mora’s had remodeled over the summer he’d grabbed them from the dumpster, polished the stainless steel and conditioned the leather. You’d told him you could buy a set of stools that weren’t so beat up. He had waved your offer away, saying they had ‘character’ which apparently included the metallic squeak from the chair when he swiveled to face you.

“Honestly?” he said. “Yeah, it is. So overrated.” He grabbed a handful of cereal and popped a few of the hexagons in his mouth, crunching loudly. “My marketing degree does come in handy working at Mora’s, though.” He elbowed you playfully when you laughed.

Moving back to Gotham, getting this apartment with Titus, it hadn’t come cheap. You were lucky to not have to work through college for the time being, but it came with a catch. Your inheritance from your dad was locked behind a condition: finish school, get a degree.

“How was work?” you asked, wanting to think about anything other than the upcoming term.

“Broke up a few fights, had some drinks thrown at me, nothing crazy.” Titus pulled a handful of cards out of his pocket and slid them across the counter to you. “Some kids tried to pass these off as legit.” He crossed his arms on the countertop and laid his head down on them, closing his eyes.

You thumbed through the small pile of cards. The IDs were obvious fakes, the lamination had blistering from a defective card printer and the photos looked like they might be from a high school yearbook. “‘Drew Peacock?’ No fucking way. That’s so funny.”

“Yup. Droopy Cock, ha ha,” Titus said dryly, voice muffled from underneath his crossed arms. “And get this, there was a guy at the bar trying to tell everyone he knows the Batman. Like, actually knows him personally.”

He put on a faux sleaze-bag voice, dripping in slime. “’Hey lady, if you come back to my place I can ask him to come too.’ That type of thing.”

The Batman. Gotham’s resident vigilante, the Dark Knight himself. He was practically a myth, taking the law into his own hands.

“Are people into that kind of thing?” you asked.

“You’d be surprised,” Titus chuckled. “People are into all kinds of crazy shit. There’s something about the mask, the mystery. Gets people going.”

“Yeah, well, not me. Someone who gets off on beating the shit out of people in dark alleys? No thanks,” you said. You’d never seen the Batman and you never wanted to, the whole thing creeped you out. You preferred your men nice, bubbly, and vanilla.

“Don’t knock it till you try it,” Titus said. He stood up off the bar stool wearily and stretched, limbs creaking and cracking from a long shift. “Anyway, I’m going to crash. Get a good schedule for me, ok?”

Titus headed to his room, shedding layers of dark leather on the way. You opened your laptop and begrudgingly returned to the registration portal. Clicking through the remaining open classes, you hoped for something to catch your eye. Pottery? Yawn. Statistics? Please.

While you were browsing the course catalog, an email notification popped up in the corner of your screen. An announcement from the school’s Fine Arts department.

“Due to the high demand for Professor Wayne’s Art 111 course he has graciously agreed to open up another slot, available now. Seats are first-come-first serve. The course is open to all students, regardless of pathway.”

You were desperate to be done with registration and had no better ideas, so you took the email as a sign. You copy-pasted the course code into your schedule, clicked ‘submit,’ and waited while the loading icon swam laps around your cursor. Once you got a confirmation email of your Fall schedule change, you let out a sigh of relief.

It was only after you had signed up you started to wonder what you’d just gotten into. You skimmed through the course summary. Taught by Professor Bruce Wayne. That name rang a bell, but you couldn’t quite place it. The only catch was that it was a night class. That would have been nice to know before signing up. Too late now.

“You will learn the basic elements of artistic composition, including form, shadow, value, line…” you mumbled, reading the course description. The class sounded slightly better than abusing Titus’ goodwill to get a job at Mora’s washing dishes, spending the next fifty years paying back your loans while your inheritance sat in a trust fund you couldn’t access.

It hurt, knowing that your dad was making you jump through hoops for support even after he was gone. You’d taken care of him more than almost anyone, wasn’t that enough? Well, Dad, I’m doing it, you thought.

You closed your laptop and checked the time. Still painfully early. Going back to sleep might have been nice, make up for some of the stolen time, but you were too wired after the stress of registration. Instead, you tossed on a jacket and boots and headed out into the soggy Gotham morning in search of a real breakfast. One week left of break, you might as well try to enjoy it.

* * *

Standing in the checkout line at the GU bookstore, you again wished that you had looked at the course description of Art 111 a little more closely. Your arms were wrapped around a stack of art supplies carefully balanced atop two massive pads of paper, one was something called “newsprint,” and the other was “medium weight dry media cold press drawing paper.”

“What’s the difference, paper is paper,” you grumbled to yourself as you moved forward in line. The bookstore had just opened for the term and the line was as slow as you remembered it being back before you left Gotham. Some things never change, and apparently the number of cashiers at the GU bookstore was one of them.

You studied your pile of drawing implements, hoping you had gotten everything Professor Wayne’s syllabus had listed. Charcoal (vine and compressed), a kneaded eraser, a vinyl eraser, a set of sketching pencils in hardnesses 2H, HB, B, 2B, 4B, and 6B, a pencil sharpener (“please make sure your sharpener has a receptacle so we can avoid shavings on the ground”), a ruler, tape, and some other items buried underneath that you couldn’t remember. It was so much stuff that you’d resigned to a second, later trip to the bookstore for your actual textbooks once you had seen the size of the paper pads.

There were a few things you’d added that weren’t required, but you thought you might need. A pencil case, a few colored pencils just for fun, and a portfolio case to fit your supplies in. Wandering around the notoriously rainy campus with a big glob of wet paper sounded awful, so you’d splurged for the portfolio that was specifically labeled as waterproof.

When you finally reached the cashier, they eyed your mess of supplies warily. You plopped them onto the checkout counter, wringing your hands that were sore from holding it all for too long.

The cashier tallied up your total, beeping each item with a handheld scanner. You watched with unease as the price on the screen kept going up. Thanks, Professor Wayne, you thought. Real nice first impression, making me pay two hundred bucks for your class before I even get in the door.

“Student ID?” The cashier asked. She pointed at a sign hanging from the back of the cash register advertising a promotion. “It’s 10% off if you have it with you, this week only.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” you said and dug through your wallet for it. “Here you go.”

They took the card and turned it over, inspecting it. “This is from three years ago.”

Shit. You hadn’t had a chance to get a new one yet since moving back. “I’m getting a new one soon,” you said. “Like, tomorrow. I’m getting back to school after taking a break for a while.”

“Sorry, the discount only applies with current school year ID,” the cashier said.

“What? It doesn’t say that anywhere on this,” you said, pointing at the sign. “It just says ‘with student ID.”

The cashier gave you a look that said “I don’t make the rules.”

“Your total is two hundred and thirteen dollars and forty three cents,” they said flatly.

You scoffed. Typical GU, pinching pennies despite somehow pulling endless tuition out of their students. You didn’t like it on principle. If you were stuck taking classes here, you wanted to do it as cheaply as possible.

Someone behind you cleared their throat. You turned to see a student, probably four years your junior, wearing a flat cap and stiff brown sweater over a button down shirt. A collection of supplies that looked suspiciously similar to your own selections were organized in a shopping basket on the ground in front of him. Since when did they have baskets? He raised an eyebrow then moved his gaze to your scramble of items on the counter disapprovingly.

“What?” you said.

“Are you done?” the kid asked. As if you, and not the lack of cashiers, was the reason the line was stuck at a snail’s pace.

“Excuse me?”

“I said, aren’t you going to check out? There’s a line,” he said, gesturing behind him at the ever-growing retinue of students, some of which were turning away awkwardly to avoid your gaze. He smiled smugly. “Or are you going to keep arguing about the senior discount?”

You just stared for a second, not believing what you’d heard. He waited for you to retort back, then when he realized it wasn’t coming, rolled his eyes and turned away.

Silently, you pulled out your card, paid the full price, and left with your armful of stuff.

* * *

“Seriously, when did people get so rude?” you asked Titus the next day, at Mora’s. You were eating together before his shift started to celebrate your first day of the term. Since you still had Art 111 class later in the evening, you’d brought your massive portfolio bag full of supplies with you to Mora’s, garnering a few looks on the way in from patrons you had almost smacked.

“Tell me about it,” he said, mid-bite into a hot Italian sub slider. “They’re fucking awful. Not us, of course.” A pickled pepperoncini fell off the sandwich onto his plate. You’d gotten a seitan pork roll and a slice of pie. It was your dinner, but for his schedule the meal was closer to brunch.

“I don’t know how you can eat those,” you said, pointing at the stray pepperoncini. “They’re way too vinegar-y.”

“Says the person having a Hot Shot,” he retorted. The drink was a Mora’s staple, half tequila half jalapeño brine. “The most brine-y drink on the planet.”

“Hey, there’s something about it, okay? We all have our vices,” you said, sipping the small glass. It was not a drink necessarily meant for sipping, but you liked to make it last.

A handful of Titus’ rings sat on the booth table from when he’d taken them off to eat. You picked up one of the pieces of jewelry and found that it was surprisingly heavy. It was meant for two fingers, the thick bands tapering to a slight point at the tip of each knuckle.

“Aren’t these illegal?” you said, turning it around in your hand. Titus grinned.

“What do you mean?” he asked coyly.

There was a third loop on the bottom, a wide oval that sat in your palm, giving you some grip. You glanced around to make sure no patrons were within hearing distance, then slipped it on and made a fist, miming a boxing jab. “Brass knuckles? Right? Aren’t these kind of retro?”

“That, my friend, is a gold statement ring.”

“It’s pretty heavy for a ring.”

“Maybe it moonlights as a paperweight.”

You chuckled. “You ever use it? Like actually on someone?”

He leaned back in the dark green velvet seat and sipped his blackberry lemonade. “Do you really want to know? I thought you didn’t like people who beat up bad guys in alleys,” he teased.

“Just wondering if they actually work,” you said, feeling the weight of the ring in your hand. It felt reassuring, the grip in your palm felt like it could do some real damage. “This kid on campus might need a good whack.”

Titus got serious and sat the four legs of his chair back on the ground. He held out a hand and you dutifully slipped the ring off and handed it back.

“Honestly,” he said. “It’s pretty brutal. It doesn’t look like much but it will fuck you up. And not just on the receiving end. You can shatter your wrist holding one wrong. You gotta really straighten out your hand, use your whole arm. It’s more of a threat than anything. If someone thinks I’m gonna pop them in the face with this then they might rethink trying to pick a fight.”

“Yeah, I think I’ll stick with my taser.”

Titus nodded. “Probably a good idea.” He twirled the ring around and held it up, showing you some detail you couldn’t make out.

“What am I looking at?”

“Right on the knuckles here, see that?”

You squinted and bent over your plate, finally seeing a small symbol embossed on each point of the ring.

“Is that, what is that? A ’T’? And a snake?”

“It’s ’T. S.’,” he said. “If I ever do have the misfortune of using these on someone, they won’t forget who did it in a hurry.” He downed the rest of his lemonade. “I’ve really only used them once or twice. It’s more for show, you know, fit the ‘tough bouncer’ look.”

A woman came over to the booth and Titus pocketed the ring in a flash.

“Hi Nicole,” Titus said. “How’s it goin’?”

She flashed you a business-womanly grin. She was dressed fashionably, a look fitting for the club’s manager.

“Hello Titus,” Nicole said. “You’ll be at the door at five, right?”

“Yes, of course. I was just about to head down there in a minute.”

“That’s great, I’m just making sure.” She turned to you and noticed your half-eaten plate of food. “How is everything, darling? Can I get you anything? On the house, of course.”

“Oh, no, everything’s delicious. Thank you! I’m just nervous, can’t eat that much. I’ve got class tonight in a bit, and I haven’t been to school in years, so it’s, you know—”

“Scary,” Titus finished. “School’s hard, always stressful.”

You nodded in agreement.

“Oh, night classes! That’s exciting, what school?” Nicole asked.

“GU.”

“That’s so nice. Well, I hope you have a good first day. And Titus, make it 4:50 if you can, would you please?”

He agreed, and Nicole left the two of you to talk to a table of patrons across the room.

When she was out of earshot, Titus said, “Four fifty? Come on. We aren’t even busy until six.” He shook his head and sighed. Then, after a pause, he picked up his fork and pointed with it at your plate. “Do you want that pie?”

“Go crazy,” you said, and pushed the plate across the booth table. Titus had comped the food, taking it out of his paycheck at the employee discount. As far as you were concerned, it was all his anyway.

“So, what’s this class tonight?”

“It’s this ‘intro to drawing’ course,” you said as you fiddled with your silverware. “I just had to pick something random to fill out my schedule. It’s basic stuff, I think, but it sounded interesting. Professor Wayne something.”

“You know, that actually sounds fun,” he said, then stopped in his tracks. “Wait a minute, did you say ‘Wayne’?”

“Yeah. Why, do you know him?”

“Do I know him?” He let out a quick bark of laughter.

“What? What’s so funny?”

“You really don’t know who he is?”

“No? Should I?” You dug in the recesses of your memory and came up empty-handed.

“Damn, that is so wild.” Titus ran a hand along his close cropped hair. “You’ve been away from Gotham for way too long, girl. The Waynes are old money Gotham, the family’s been around for, like, ever.”

Old money Gotham brought to mind art deco buildings, caviar and expensive wine, limousines with private drivers. Your mind filled with a vague picture of an old man, possibly bald with a beard, wearing an expensive old-fashioned suit and a pocket watch. You couldn’t stand the upper crust types in town, throwing charity galas that only benefitted themselves.

“What, so he’s rich?” you asked.

“Beyond belief. He’s a billionaire, I think.”

You scoffed. “He had me buy all this stuff, like two hundred bucks of supplies on top of tuition. Must be a cheapskate.” You gave the portfolio bag a tap with your foot.

Titus shook his head and downed the rest of his lemonade. “That’s rich types for you.”

“But he teaches at GU? I don’t get it, what would be the point? Some kind of vanity project?”

“No idea.”

“If I had that much money, I wouldn’t do shit. No school, no teaching, just relaxing.”

“You and me both.” Titus checked his phone and saw the time. “Shit, I’ve got to run. Look, tell me how it goes, okay?”

You said goodbye to Titus, lugging your portfolio bag and backpack out the side door of Mora’s. You headed to the nearest subway station and boarded the line headed for Gotham University. Well, you thought, I guess I’ll see what all the hype is about.

Shoutout to @ellesthots for letting me borrow her creation, Mora's. This fic is not related to Fateful but I wanted to include a piece of it since she's inspiring me to write this. Thank you Elle!

Thank you for reading, more coming very soon! Thoughts & comments are welcome and appreciated <3

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