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hyuckiefluff · 3 days ago

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casual pt 2 | mark lee

pairing: idol! mark lee x fem.reader genre: fluff, smut, angst wc: 9.6k summary: you fell for mark lee through blurry facetime calls and late-night voice notes, but when the distance starts causing a strain in the relationship, you board a plane to seoul with nothing but a suitcase and a heart that won’t stop beating for him. content warnings: 18+ explicit sexual content, phone-sex, oral (fem. receiving), protected sex, explicit language, long-distance relationship stress, idol pressures, light alcohol consumption, mentions of food & brief mention of disordered eating habits (skipping meals due to stress), tooth rotting domestic fluff. a/n: here it is finally!! i cannot believe i told myself this would take less time than my hogwarts fics and it ended up taking me LONGER 😭 and it’s not even that long so i was 100% just procrastinating. BUT GUYS. i freaking love mark in this because i literally wrote it the way i imagine a relationship with him would be and like… fawk. i want this life so bad. mark give me one chance juseyoooo. anyways, hope u enjoy <3 also! tiny author suggestion: listen to turning page by sleeping at last during the final scene if you wanna fully immerse yourself.

ps: divider by kodaswrld

Another practice room light flickered out down the hallway, and with it the building finally emptied out. Mark was the last one there again.

He peeled off his in-ears, let them dangle around his neck, and flopped backward onto the studio floor. Sweat slicked the vinyl under his shoulder blades. His hoodie had been abandoned somewhere near the mirrors, but he was still running hot, humming with the choreo that refused to leave his muscles even after twelve straight run-throughs.

His manager would murder him if he was late to call time tomorrow, but his brain was nowhere near sleep. It was too busy spinning in the familiar orbit it had fallen into every night for months: you.

Mark fished his phone out of his joggers and opened the last message he had sent hours ago.

on my way to rehearsal. i think you’re gonna love our new song :)

No reply.

He exhaled through his nose. You were probably not awake yet. The quiet between messages always managed to feel personal after a tiring day like this. He scrolled up anyway, re-reading pieces of your conversation. There was a blurry photo of your family’s cat sitting on a stack of Murakami paperbacks. His own late-night voice memo humming a chorus that didn’t have lyrics yet.

The memory of your laugh shoved its way in, uninvited and perfect. Mark shut his eyes. For a second it was easy to pretend the fluorescent hum overhead was your apartment’s old fridge, that the scuffed practice floor was the couch where you’d sit while you argued about pineapple on pizza during video calls.

Mark opened his eyes before the fantasy got too good, pushed up onto his elbows, and grabbed the half-empty water bottle beside him. As he drank, a few texts from his manager pinged through. Mostly schedule changes, wardrobe notes, and a reminder to ice his knee. He swiped them away and pulled up the blank chat bubble with your name again.

Type something, Mark. Anything.

The rehearsal room clock read 01:39 a.m. That was—what, mid-morning for you? You would probably be getting up, maybe grabbing coffee before heading out to work. He pictured you in that oversized cardigan you loved, eyes squinting at your phone because you’d forgotten to put on your contact lenses again.

The thought kicked his pulse into a sprint.

Before he could think, he started typing.

hey, i can’t sleep. just finished practice.random question: if you could teleport for exactly 10 minutes, where would you go?

Mark stared at the message. Too weird? He was about to unsend it when the typing indicator popped up on your side. His chest cinched.

jiwon says i should pick somewhere romantic so i don’t waste the free trip lol. maybe the han river at sunset? i’ve never been.why, where would you go?

He pictured you on the couch, eyes bright, seriously discussing such a silly question with Jiwon the way he probably would have done with Haechan.

His fingers moved before he could overthink.

wherever you are. ten minutes is enough to steal a hug right?

A second passed, and then the dots appeared again.

bold, lee. i like it.also i’d tackle-hug you so it might be nine minutes of us laughing on the floor, hope that’s okay

Mark’s face broke into an idiotic grin. Sleep was officially lost.

He pushed up, snagged his hoodie, and headed for the door, phone still glowing in his hand while your next bubble popped up.

anyway, go shower before you catch a cold. text me when you’re safe in bed

He stared at the screen, thumb hovering.

deal. goodnight for now ;) p.s. you just gave me lyric ideas. hope you don’t mind being a muse

Mark pocketed the phone, heart drumming a new beat that had nothing to do with choreography, and jogged toward the dorms, already humming the melody you had just sparked to life.

He stepped into the night, sweat chilling under his hoodie, headphones pulled over his ears as the city noise swallowed him up. Seoul at two in the morning felt almost peaceful, all the rush muted, and he could finally hear his own thoughts again which was dangerous territory, but better than silence.

There was a bounce in his step he couldn’t explain, even with his knee twinging and his bones begging for a hot shower. All he could think about was your messages, how you always managed to make him feel like a regular guy, not the name thousands of people screamed at concerts.

By the time he was back at the dorm, the lights were low, but Haechan’s voice filtered down the hall—arguing with Johnny about leftovers or LoL or something equally stupid. He slipped off his shoes, tiptoed past the noise, and ducked into the bathroom before anyone could spot him.

Steam billowed as Mark stood under the shower, letting it pound against tired muscles. He replayed your conversation again, grinning at nothing, mouthing the words he had typed, imagining them as lyrics already.

wherever you are. ten minutes is enough to steal a hug right?

He said it again, quieter, letting the steam swallow the edges. Would he actually do it—show up to your door, wrap you up, laugh until his sides hurt and the world faded out? God, he would.

He toweled off, tossed on some sweatpants, and flopped onto his bed. His phone buzzed just as his head hit the pillow.

i hope you’re actually resting and not writing a sad song about me being halfway across the planet

Mark smirked, typing back.

not sad i promise. i’ll probably finish it tonight #insomnia

Your reply hit after a few seconds.

:( insomnia is beating my ass too.i’m sure it’s gonna be cute tho. i wanna listen

He couldn’t help it when a laugh came out, soft and breathless, afraid to wake the others. He wished he could call you, but you were probably heading to work now.

Still, he opened his voice notes and hummed the chorus that had been haunting him. The words fit better now that you’d given him the missing piece. He knew it was corny, but he didn’t care. This was the part they didn’t see, the part that made him want to risk all the rules, just for a few more minutes like this.

He’d been working on a song for weeks now—sometimes he called it “loser,” sometimes he sang it like “lose her.” It started as a joke lyric, a throwaway, but it kept coming back. The words were different every night, but the chorus always landed on you.

i don’t wanna loseri don’t wanna lose her

He hit send without thinking.

for you. don’t laugh if it sucks.

Seconds passed while Mark stared at the phone. The little read indicator popped up almost immediately.

…i love it(and i’m definitely saving this in my secret folder)

He buried his face in his pillow, his pulse racing.

Johnny’s voice floated in from the hallway, half-annoyed. “Mark! You sleeping or composing another heartbreak song in there?”

He shouted back, “Go to bed, hyung!”

Johnny laughed, the door creaking as he walked away. “Don’t blame me when you’re a zombie tomorrow.”

Mark grinned, pulling the blanket over his head and letting his mind drift back to you. He pictured your smile, the shy way you looked away when you were flustered, that little laugh he wanted to hear in person, not just through a phone speaker.

For the first time in days, Mark actually felt sleepy—in a good way. He let the tiredness take him, already counting down the hours until he could text you again.

Soon enough, both of you fell back into your natural rhythm. With calls coming more often, you were back to sharing every little moment of your day.

Practice had ended hours ago, but the thrum of bass still vibrated in Mark’s bones as he padded into the dorm kitchen for a bottle of water. He thumbed his phone, opened your chat, and hovered over the call button. It was late, but the lingering jet lag plus rehearsals meant he didn’t have a normal sleep cycle anyway. He just wanted to hear your voice for thirty seconds, maybe a minute.

He tapped FaceTime before he could talk himself out of it.

The tone rang twice, three times, then connected.

Steam clouded the camera lens first, followed by a startled gasp. You stood in your bathroom, hair dripping, wrapped in nothing but a white towel knotted above your chest. Water beaded across your collarbones, and you were half-laughing, half-mortified as you fumbled with the phone.

“Mark! Give me a sec—”

His throat closed. “I—I’m so sorry! I didn’t think—I’ll call later—”

“You’re fine, just—” You shifted, the towel slipping a centimeter lower.

Mark’s brain short-circuited. “S—sorry! Talk later!” He hit End so fast his thumb stung, then flopped onto his mattress with a hammering heart.

For a full minute, he stared at the ceiling, willing himself to breathe normally. It didn’t help. The image was branded behind his eyelids: your damp hair, flushed cheeks, a single droplet tracking down the slope of your chest.

Great. Now his pulse was pounding in the wrong place.

He rolled onto his side, pillow over his face, trying to think of choreography counts to distract his brain from sending all the blood to his groin. Instead, all he could hear was the soft gasp you made, all he could see was the towel sliding down—

A frustrated groan slipped out. Fine.

Hand sliding under the waistband of his sweatpants, he let the fantasy take over: you standing there for him, towel loosening under his fingertips, your breath catching the way it did when you laughed too hard. The tension coiled fast—months of late-night calls, that night you spent together, everything he hadn’t been able to touch.

When his hand wrapped around his cock, he imagined it was your lips instead. How warm and soft they’d feel. Your wide eyes looking at him so innocently even as your mouth sucked him off so perfectly. His orgasm came quick, feeling nothing like what he really wanted, but it still ripped a low moan from his throat. He bit the edge of the pillow to muffle it, hips stuttering once then stilling as relief flooded every aching limb.

Breathing hard, Mark wiped a hand across his jaw, suddenly self-conscious. He grabbed tissues, cleaned up, and collapsed on his back, guilt and heat mingling in his chest.

He finally glanced at his phone, about to text an apology, when he noticed the screen was still glowing.

The little green bar at the top still said Call In Progress.

His stomach dropped through the floor.

You were standing frozen in your bathroom, towel clutched under your arms, the phone face-up on your counter where you’d set it in a panic. Mark’s voice echoed from the tiny speaker, followed by a sudden shuffle and a muffled curse. You reached for the screen, intending to end the call, but then you heard it.

The breathy, almost desperate sound of his voice, low and strained, your name a broken whisper under his breath. You went still, barely breathing, cheeks burning as the realization dawned. Oh.

Oh.

You should have ended the call. But you didn’t.

Too enthralled by the idea of sweet, careful, too-polite Mark falling apart on the other end of the line.

You heard a ragged breath, then another.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he whispered.

His voice was low and rough, the kind of tone you’d never heard from him. Needy. Then your name again, this time broken in the middle of a moan.

Your hand flew to your mouth. Oh my god.

He kept going, panting harder now. The way his hips were probably stuttering into his fist, the bed creaking under him—it all played in high-def through your speaker.

“Wanna touch you so bad,” he groaned.

Your entire body was on fire.

When the line finally went quiet, you waited, heart racing. Then, Mark’s face appeared, looking absolutely horrified, eyes wide as he finally realized.

“Oh my god—wait—were you—”

You couldn’t help it as you burst out into nervous laughter, cheeks burning. “Yeah, I…heard all of it.”

His face went so red it was almost purple, both hands flying to cover his eyes. “I’m—I swear I thought I hung up—”

“Don’t worry,” you reassured him with a little smile. “I liked it.”

And with that, you hung up, letting a mortified Mark lose his mind on the other side of the world.

You didn’t directly address that night again, but there was a clear shift in your late night video calls.

They always started the same way: Mark sprawled on his bed, pretending to focus on the story you were telling about work or your idiot neighbor who kept parking in your spot. The truth was that he hadn’t caught a single detail in minutes.

Why? Because you were wearing a tank top that looked like it was designed for a doll, legs pulled up so your shorts barely counted as shorts at all, and every time you stretched, the hem inched just a little higher.

Mark tried. God, he tried to play it cool with a sweet smile, eyes glued to your face like a good boy, but it was a lost cause because your skin was glowing, your hair damp from a late shower. You shifted on the bed, moving closer to the camera. Did you have any idea he was fighting for his life?

“So, anyway, I told my boss that if he wanted to schedule me a third weekend in a row, he’d have to cover my therapy bill.”

Mark blinked, realizing you were waiting for a reply.

“Uh, yeah, absolutely. You should… definitely… do that.”

You grinned. “You didn’t hear a word I said.”

Busted.

Mark coughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry, I—uh, got distracted.”

You leaned in. “By what?”

His cheeks flushed, eyes darting lower, and you just laughed that soft laugh that always made his stomach flip. You knew exactly the effect you had on him and you loved it.

“Nothing. Just… thinking.”

“Tell me.”

“Just stuff.”

“Hmm. Must be important stuff.” You stretched again, and Mark’s ears turned red to the tips.

“Do you ever think about what you’d do if you were here?” you asked suddenly, your voice syrup sweet, teasing but vulnerable too.

Mark’s eyes darkened. He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah, all the time.”

“Show me.”

His breath stuttered. “What?”

“Show me what you’d do.”

You bit your lip, letting the camera slip lower so he could see the line of your thigh, your fingers tracing soft circles at your hip.

“Uhm…” he started shakily, “I’d kiss you first,” he murmured quietly, voice strained, words tumbling free before he could reconsider. “Your neck, then your shoulders. Kiss down your chest.”

Your breath caught audibly. Mark could almost see your pulse jumping at your throat.

“And then?” you whispered.

He swallowed, his throat thick with desire. “Then I’d pull that shirt off. Nice and slow.”

You held his gaze, your fingers sliding up to the thin strap of your camisole. “Like this?” you whispered.

You slipped it off your shoulder, the silk gliding down your arm, teasing every inch of skin. Then the other strap. You pulled the shirt up, exposing more of your breasts, your belly, the delicate curve of your waist. Your bare skin glowed in the blue light of the room.

Mark’s breath hitched. He was transfixed, speechless.

“You said you’d kiss down my neck,” you murmured, your own hand tracing lightly from your throat down between your breasts, mimicking where his lips would be, eyes fluttering at your own touch. “Then lower. Every inch, right?”

Mark nodded, helpless. “Yeah. I’d take my time. Make you feel good.”

You shifted, propping the phone so the angle caught your entire body, head to toe, stretched out over the messy sheets. Your hand glided over your chest, circling your breasts, teasing your nipples until they hardened under your fingers. Mark’s breath came harder, every movement mirrored in his gaze.

That was when he realized he could just tell you his fantasies and you’d follow without question. So he did exactly that.

“Slowly,” he told you, his voice dropping. “Play with your nipples, just like that.”

Your fingers obeyed, pinching and rolling, your hips shifting in response, breathy moans slipping out that went straight to his cock. Mark palmed himself, focused only on you.

“That’s it, baby. Keep going. Tell me how it feels.”

“So good,” you gasped, arching into your own hand, your eyes fluttering as pleasure sparked across your skin slowly.

“Take off your panties. I want to watch you tease yourself.”

You did, trembling a little as your fingers pulled down the thin fabric, your legs parting for him, breath stuttering as you touched yourself just how he’d want.

“Tell me what you feel,” he urged, his voice ragged. “Let me hear you.”

“I’m… wet. So wet, Mark. All for you.” Your hips rocked gently against your hand, every touch performed for him.

He groaned, unable to help it, his own hand working himself inside his sweats. “Good girl. Circle your clit, slowly, just with the tips of your fingers.”

You moaned, your head falling back, thighs tensing under the new sensation. The camera shook, a little unsteady, but still angled perfectly so he could see you spread out, open, desperate for more.

“Go a little faster, baby,” he murmured. “Make yourself feel good for me. Let me see you fall apart.”

You obeyed, your movements turning needy, hips bucking as your pleasure built. “Mark, I—I need you so bad,” you whined, your voice barely holding together.

“You have me,” he promised, rough and loving. “I’m right here. Rub your clit harder. That’s it. Now slide a finger in. Can you do that for me, baby?”

You gasped, doing exactly as he said, your body shuddering. “Oh my god—Mark—”

“Yeah, baby, just like that. Another finger. Stretch yourself for me. God, you look so fucking pretty like this, you have no idea.”

You were a mess now, hips rising off the bed, your hand pumping in and out as your thumb circled your clit, the camera catching everything. Your flushed cheeks, the desperate look in your eyes, the sounds you were making for him.

Mark matched your rhythm, his hand squeezing his cock tighter, his breath coming short. “Don’t stop. I wanna see you cum. I want you to scream my name.”

You were almost there. He could see it in the way your toes curled, your thighs shook, your free hand clutched the sheets. Your eyes found his on the screen, wide and wild.

“Mark—I’m—I’m so close, please—!”

“Let go,” he commanded, his voice rough, eyes burning. “Cum for me. Right now.”

Your body bowed, your mouth falling open in a cry that sounded like his name. He watched you fall apart, every second seared into his memory. It was enough to push him over, his own orgasm crashing through him as he bit back a groan, never looking away from you.

When it was over, you both lay there, spent and shaky, smiling like fools at your screens, still hungry for more.

You broke the silence first, your voice low, sweet, and wrecked. “Same time tomorrow?”

He laughed, warm and breathless, feeling the ache already. “I’ll be there.”

Mark couldn’t stop staring at the coffee in his hands. It wasn’t even the right order—too much sugar, no oat milk—but he didn’t say anything. He just stood there, blank-faced in the middle of the rehearsal room, music still thudding from the speakers while everyone else reset for the next take.

“Hyung.” Haechan clapped him on the back. “You good?”

Mark blinked, coming back to himself. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry.”

“You forgot the second count again,” Doyoung muttered, not unkindly, but with that sharp edge he got when he was worried. “You’ve never messed that part up before.”

“I’m fine,” Mark said automatically. “Just tired.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth either.

He was exhausted, but not from practice. It was from the way every night ended with his phone overheating from video calls, his body tight and unsatisfied, his head spinning with flashes of your voice, your fingers, the way you looked when you whispered, “Do you want me to take this off too?”

He had seen everything. He had heard you moan his name, made you come with his voice alone. But he hadn’t felt you. And it was driving him insane.

He couldn’t smell your shampoo, couldn’t taste your skin, couldn’t bury his face in your neck and fall asleep with your heart beating under his hand. He could only imagine it. And imagining wasn’t enough anymore.

“Mark, focus!” Their manager snapped from across the room, already irritated. “We’ve got a full day ahead and you’re drifting.”

Mark nodded tightly. “Sorry, won’t happen again.”

But it would happen again. It kept happening. On stage, during shoots, during meetings—his attention kept slipping. He was caught texting you behind a prop during a promo shoot. He zoned out completely during wardrobe fitting, didn’t even notice when they tried to put him in Johnny’s too big clothes. Taeyong was the first to pull him aside for real.

“Are you okay?” He asked quietly in the hallway, concern furrowed between his brows.

Mark rubbed the back of his neck, eyes heavy. “Just… dealing with stuff.”

The leader didn’t press, but his next words were too knowing. “Maybe it’s time you saw her.”

Mark’s breath caught.

He hadn’t said anything about what was troubling him, but Taeyong knew. They all knew. His members had heard the late-night calls through thin hotel walls, seen the way he locked himself away after soundcheck, carrying tension in every muscle. It wasn’t subtle anymore.

Later that night, you received a message from a number you didn’t know.

Hello. I’m from Neo Center at SM Entertainment. I hope it’s okay to reach out. It’s about Mark. He’s not doing great.

You sank onto your bed, adrenaline flooding every limb, heart racing so hard it actually hurt. You were used to texting Mark at ungodly hours, but you had never been contacted by his manager before.

is he… okay?what happened?

The reply was almost instant.

He’s been distracted, keeps zoning out during schedules. He seems exhausted too, but it’s different from his regular self. According to the members, he’s been missing meals as well. Management is worried, the members are worried. Honestly, we were hoping you’d have some advice, or…Is there any chance you could see him soon?

You read that twice, your pulse thudding. The fact that Mark was going through a harsh time and you were too far away to do anything was pushing hard against your heart. But going across the world? It didn’t feel real. Just last month, flying across the ocean for a boy would have sounded insane. But right now, with your own chest feeling hollow from missing him, it felt like the only thing that made sense.

You texted Mark, your fingers flying.

are you okay?i just got a weird message from someone at your company. mark, talk to me.please.

There was no answer. He was probably at practice. You called Jiwon.

She picked up on the first ring. “What’s up?”

“I think I need to go to Korea.” Your voice cracked.

“What? Holy shit!” she breathed, “do you want me to help you look at flights?”

You nodded, even though she couldn’t see you. “Yes, please.”

For the next hour, you and Jiwon were hunched over laptops and phone screens, searching for anything—standby tickets, direct flights, last-minute deals. Every option was expensive, inconvenient, barely possible.

But still your hands shook as you clicked purchase on the first flight you could actually afford, your heart leaping and plummeting all at once. You were really doing this.

Jiwon grinned at you. “You’re insane but I’m proud of you.”

You almost laughed, except you were terrified. “I’m not sure if this is brave or just crazy.”

She shrugged. “Sometimes it’s the same thing.”

You checked your phone again, but there was still no answer from Mark.

But it didn’t matter. You were going anyway.

i can get on a plane tomorrow.can someone meet me at the airport?

You texted his manager. The reply was instant and full of gratitude.

Thank you, y/n. We’ll take care of everything.

The alarm blared long before sunrise, and for a panicked second, you couldn’t remember why you had set it so early until your eyes landed on the half-packed suitcase perched at the foot of your bed. Right. Korea. Mark. You bolted upright.

It was ridiculous how fast adrenaline kicked in. You showered on autopilot, tossed two extra outfits into the bag (who knew what you’d be dragged to?), then yanked them back out because the zipper wouldn’t close. You ended up sitting on the lid, knees to chest, wrestling the slider across stubborn teeth.

Jiwon texted a string of blow-kiss emojis and a final “give me updates pls!” before you even left the apartment. She had pledged to babysit and water the already half-dead pothos.

You climbed into the rideshare with a jittery stomach, watching the city streets smear into a watercolor of headlights and neon until the airport lights finally swallowed you whole. The last time you traveled internationally had been with your parents on a winter holiday. Your dad had a color-coded folder for every document and even timed your bathroom breaks. Without his relentless organization this time, the check-in process quickly became a nightmare.

The kiosk spat out your passport on the first scan, the second, the third. Each time making you feel a little more helpless. Without your parents, there was no one to save you but a bleary-eyed agent, who finally waved you over, fixed the problem in twenty seconds, and sent you sprinting for security.

You fumbled every step of TSA. First, you dropped your boarding pass, forgot to remove your laptop, and nearly walked off without your shoes. Somewhere between the metal detector and the end of the conveyor belt, you realized you were actually shaking. Not from fear of flying but from the weight of seeing Mark, touching him, after so long.

At the gate, you collapsed into a plastic chair, clutching your phone. Still no reply from Mark, so to keep from spiraling, you texted his manager.

through security. boarding in 20. i should arrive at around 8 am.

He responded with a thumbs-up and a polite “safe flight, i will meet you at arrivals.”

You got a window seat, a bit cramped, but at least sunrise painted the tarmac a pretty gold. You buckled in, stashed your bag, then stared out at the wing while passengers jostled past. The guy next to you nodded politely, pulled a hoodie over his face, and went comatose. Lucky him.

As the plane taxied, your nerves peaked. You pulled up Mark’s last voice note and let it loop in your earbuds. His voice steadied you better than any deep-breathing app.

The engines roared, the cabin tilted, the city slid away beneath cloud cover. You pressed a palm to the cold window and whispered, “Mark, I’m coming.”

The first hour slipped by in a haze as you made a half-hearted attempt to read a book, but after rereading the same paragraph twice with zero retention, you gave up. Resigned, you tilted your seat back and closed your eyes, somehow managing to drift into a surprisingly comfortable sleep. But somewhere high above the Pacific, turbulence snapped you awake with a sharp jolt. You instinctively clutched the armrest, heart pounding—and then your phone buzzed.

Mark:

just finished rehearsal. sorry i didn’t reply, my phone died. are you awake?miss you like crazy tonight.

A soft smile tugged at your lips as you typed back.

keep an eye out for a surprise. i’m closer than you think.

The three little dots flickered on and off, like he was typing, deleting, then typing again.

Mark: what do you mean???

When the captain finally announced descent, you were hit with a wave of relief so intense you almost laughed and cried at the same time.

Customs felt like purgatory as your rusty Korean tripped over the officer’s questions, your sweaty fingertips smudged the scanner, and jet lag scrambled any coherent thought. The queue crept forward by millimeters, long enough for you to imagine fossilizing right there behind a lady and her kid who kept sticking his tongue out at you.

By the time you retrieved your bags, your phone battery blinked red and a fresh wave of panic swelled as you pictured yourself marooned in this cavernous airport with nothing but anxiety for company.

Then a familiar-looking guy waved a sign bearing your name. Recognition clicked when you remembered him as one of the staffers from the last time you saw Mark. “Y/N? I’m Jiwon,” he said, bowing with effortless grace. You bowed back clumsily.

“This way, please. We’re so glad you made it.” Relief flooded through you as you trailed after him.

The car ride was quiet. You stared out the window, trying to rehearse what you’d say—what you’d do—when you finally saw Mark.

You arrived at the SM building, and it looked so much bigger and more imposing than in the pictures. Jiwon guided you through a warren of gray hallways where muffled music thrummed beyond a set of double doors.

“Wait here,” he whispered. “He’ll be out soon.”

Your pulse hammered everywhere at once. You smoothed your shirt, swiped under your eyes, though it didn’t help the puffiness.

Footsteps approached and then a door swung open. Mark burst through, sweat-damp hair plastered to his forehead, water bottle in hand. He was talking with a tech when his eyes met yours.

His mouth fell open and the bottle slipped, clattering to the floor and rolling away unnoticed. He looked at you with wide eyes and trembling breath—which was exactly how you felt, mirrored back at you.

“Y/N?” It was a croak, disbelief cracked right down the middle.

You tried to answer, but your throat folded in on itself. So you nodded, stepped forward, and watched relief crash over his features like sunlight breaking through a storm.

He crossed the space in three strides, hauling you against him. That familiar cologne and a tinge of sweat overwhelmed you; all of him suddenly real and solid after countless pixelated nights.

His voice was a hushed, broken mantra in your hair. “You’re here. You’re here. You’re really here.”

You melted into his arms and said the only thing that mattered.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“This way,” Mark murmured after a few seconds, his fingers wrapped around your wrist.

You followed him down a narrow hallway. Staff voices echoed somewhere behind you, but he didn’t slow. He pushed open a door marked STANDBY – DO NOT ENTER and pulled you in behind him, locking it with a shaky breath.

Once inside, he cupped your face with both hands like he needed to confirm you were real. His thumbs brushed beneath your eyes, fingertips pressing into your jaw softly. “You came,” he said again, hoarse. “You’re actually here.”

You nodded, hands slipping under his open jacket, feeling the heat of his skin through the soaked t-shirt. “I was told you needed an intervention.”

“You have no idea,” he admitted, laughing breathlessly. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

You reached up, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “So you decided to spiral instead of texting back?”

He groaned. “Don’t call me out when I’m this emotionally compromised.”

You smiled, but your chest ached. “You scared me, Mark.”

His eyes softened. “I know. I’m sorry. I just… I missed you so much, and the calls weren’t enough anymore. I need you. I need—”

You kissed him before he could finish.

Months of longing folded into one desperate press of lips and hands, his mouth opening under yours instinctively. He exhaled your name into the kiss softly. Your fingers tangled in the back of his shirt, tugging him closer, while his hands slid down to your waist.

He walked you backward until the backs of your knees hit the dressing table, then lifted you effortlessly onto the edge. Your legs parted, wrapping around his hips, and he stepped between them, lips never leaving yours.

“How long do we have?” you asked against his mouth.

“Not long enough,” he murmured, kissing along your jaw, down your neck. “But I don’t care. I just need you close.”

You tilted your head to give him access, fingers raking through the damp strands at his nape. His hands moved under your shirt, palms warm and steady against your ribs. “You kept me sane,” he said softly. “Every night.”

Your throat tightened. “I meant it when I said I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“I know.” He kissed you again, slower this time. “And I’m not letting you go now, either.”

His forehead rested against yours, both of you catching your breath, limbs still tangled. It was quiet here—just the sound of your heartbeats finally in the same time zone.

A knock jolted both of you.

“Mark, two minutes!”

He groaned, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. “I have to go.”

You nodded, smoothing his hair, your shirt, anything to make this moment last one second longer. “Go be amazing.”

He lingered by the door. “I’ll see you after?”

“Of course. I’ll be waiting for you.”

He grinned like he was seventeen again, slipped out the door, and left you breathless in a room that still smelled like his skin.

The ride through the city was quieter than you imagined. You expected to have a million things to say, stories to spill, jokes to catch up on, but nerves kept you both a little quiet at first. Mark’s hand found yours in the backseat, his thumb drawing gentle circles over your knuckles. Every now and then, your eyes met and you laughed quietly, overwhelmed by the reality of just being together again.

He pointed out little things as the car moved through Seoul—the café where he liked to write lyrics, the corner store where he got snacks after late practice, the street where he once lost his keys and had to call Haechan at two in the morning. You listened, smiling, letting his voice fill in all the gaps you’d only ever imagined during your calls.

When the car finally pulled up to a nondescript building on a leafy side street, he squeezed your hand once before letting go, glancing around out of habit to check for fans or cameras. Then he waved you through the entrance.

His apartment was nothing like the dorm. It smelled faintly of clean laundry and something familiar you couldn’t name. There were stacks of books on every surface, a guitar leaning against the couch, and a chipped mug with faded writing beside the sink. The windows let in soft city light, making the space feel open and quiet, almost suspended.

“It’s kind of messy,” Mark said, scratching the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “I don’t get to stay here much. Sometimes I just come here to nap or write when things are too loud at the dorm.”

You stepped out of your shoes, smiled at him, and shook your head. “It’s perfect. It feels like you.”

He grinned and shrugged off his jacket, tossing it over a chair. “You want water? Tea? Ramen? I probably have… one of those weird vitamin drinks left, too.”

You laughed softly. “I just want to sit with you for a minute, if that’s okay.”

Mark nodded and followed you into the living room. You both sank onto the couch, sitting close but not quite tangled up yet, knees bumping together.

He glanced at you sideways. “I kept thinking about what I’d say first, you know? But now that you’re here, it’s like… none of it feels big enough.”

You leaned until your shoulders touched, warmth blooming where you met. “You could quote the back of a cereal box and I’d still be happy.”

Mark’s smile curved. “Do you remember that night we talked until sunrise? I don’t think I ever told you, but that was the night I realized I was falling for you. You were going on about constellations and whatnot, and I just kept thinking that there’s no one else I’d rather listen to at three in the morning.”

For a second, you were flooded by this dizzying joy. You had waited for this, wondered about it in the quiet hours, but nothing prepared you for hearing it out loud.

You took his hand, feeling the comfort of his fingers wrapping around yours. “Can I tell you when I fell for you?” you asked, heart pounding.

Mark blinked, a little startled. “I mean, I always thought it was before we even met. You know, with the whole fan thing.”

You shook your head, smiling. “Back then I was dazzled. I admired you, but it was different. I fell for you the day I realized you remembered everything I ever told you… all the little things no one else cared about. My coffee order, the name of my childhood dog, the fact that Tuesdays freak me out because my dad always traveled on Tuesdays when I was a kid. You’d ask about each one with so much interest. That’s when it hit me that I mattered to you. All the tiny details you could have forgotten but you held on to them. That’s when I knew.”

Mark’s eyes widened, soft with wonder. “I—wow. I thought those details were just… basic boyfriend homework.”

He grew quieter, gaze dropping to his hands. “I was anxious, you know,” he admitted, voice thick with honesty. “That this wouldn’t work… that I was losing you. I kept thinking you’d wake up and realize all this was too much.”

You touched his cheek, your thumb brushing the shadow there. “I was scared too. But I’m not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not ever, if you don’t want me to.”

His expression softened, a smile breaking through as he leaned in and kissed your forehead. “Please stay as long as you want. Move in, for all I care.”

You both laughed. For a few minutes, you just sat there together, talking quietly about nothing and everything—the different times he messed up the choreo, tiny disasters in the kitchen, the way you both missed each other in the strangest, smallest ways.

Eventually, Mark shifted closer, one arm wrapping around your shoulders. He pulled you in until your head was tucked under his chin and his hand was smoothing gentle circles on your back. His lips pressed soft kisses to your hair, your temple, your cheek.

“I missed you,” you whispered, letting yourself sink into the feeling.

He hummed, words warm against your skin. “Missed you too. Every single day.”

You pressed your forehead to his, feeling his breath mingle with yours, utterly certain for the first time that you were standing on equal ground. You tilted your head and found his lips. The kiss started unrushed and tender, just the two of you relearning what it meant to be close again. You moved together easily, his hands slipping up to cradle your face, your fingers twisting in his hair.

The moment stretched, deepening into something needier as you shifted, pressing closer, wanting to memorize every bit of him, not just with words but with touch. When Mark finally pulled away, breath short and eyes shining, you saw everything you’d been missing in his expression.

“Come with me,” he whispered, leading you down the hallway to his bedroom.

Mark’s bedroom was quiet aside from your breathing and the muted hum of the city beyond his window. You sat perched on the edge of his mattress, watching as he approached you slowly, his gaze heavy but gentle. When he settled beside you, his knee brushed yours softly.

His eyes held yours, questioning. “You sure you’re okay?”

You smiled a little, nerves fluttering warmly in your stomach. “Yeah. Just nervous, I guess.”

“Me too,” he whispered with a small laugh, the sound soothing your nerves instantly.

He lifted one hand carefully to your cheek, brushing his thumb across your skin. You leaned into his touch instinctively. Your eyes slipped closed when he kissed you, slow and gentle at first. His lips parted yours gradually, and your breath escaped in a sigh that he swallowed eagerly.

You raised your hands to his hair, threading your fingers gently through the strands at the nape of his neck. Mark leaned into your touch, deepening the kiss just slightly, careful not to rush. He was savoring every second of finally having you here, close enough to touch, close enough to taste.

His hands traveled from your jawline to your shoulders, fingertips leaving a trail of warmth as they skimmed your skin. He guided you gently down onto the bed, following until his body hovered carefully above yours.

Mark pulled back for a moment to study your face. The tenderness in his gaze nearly broke your heart. He ducked his head slowly and pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your cheekbone, then lower, just beneath your ear.

Your breath caught as his lips brushed softly against your throat. He paused to press a slow kiss to your pulse point, lingering as your heartbeat quickened beneath his mouth. His lips parted, and you felt the gentle scrape of his teeth followed by the warmth of his tongue soothing the spot. A soft moan slipped from your lips as you arched your neck further, silently begging for more.

He chuckled quietly against your skin, pleased. The sound vibrated down your spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Mark continued his slow path along your collarbone, kissing each inch of exposed skin he found. His hands slid up your sides beneath your shirt, fingertips grazing your ribs gently, reverently.

You lifted your arms to help him remove your shirt, feeling the cool air kiss your bare skin. He tossed the fabric aside carefully before leaning back to look at you. The hunger in his eyes made your pulse race and your skin heat under his gaze.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered softly, almost like a confession.

You tugged gently at his shirt in response. He sat back just enough to pull it over his head, letting it join yours on the floor. His skin was warm as you touched him, tracing your fingers down his chest and across his stomach, memorizing the lines and planes you’d only admired through screens before tonight.

Mark dipped down again, his mouth finding the sensitive hollow between your breasts. Your breath hitched softly, your fingers tightening on his shoulders. He placed gentle kisses along the curve of your breast, deliberately avoiding where you needed him most until you arched upward with a quiet plea.

He finally gave in, lips brushing your nipple softly before taking it gently into his mouth. You gasped softly, your back curving off the mattress. Your fingers gripped his hair tighter as he drew careful circles with his tongue, driving you slowly toward blissful frustration.

He repeated this on the other side, taking his time, his touch patient and unrushed. By the time his lips started to drift downward again, you were trembling softly beneath him, needing more.

His fingers slipped carefully beneath your waistband, tugging your remaining clothes down your hips until you kicked them off completely. Mark paused, sitting back to take in the sight of you, completely bare and vulnerable beneath him. The look on his face—adoration mixed with desire—made your cheeks warm and your heart race even faster.

He lowered himself again, placing soft kisses along your stomach, lingering at your hipbones and leaving careful marks with his mouth. Your fingers threaded through his hair as you tried not to squirm impatiently beneath his touch.

“Mark, please,” you whispered, your voice quiet but needy.

He smiled softly against your skin before finally giving you what you were asking for. His mouth was gentle but insistent, lips and tongue moving carefully, building your pleasure slowly. Your hips shifted beneath him as your breath came quicker, louder, his name escaping your lips in soft gasps and whispered pleas.

He took his time, watching every reaction, listening to every sound you made. You finally shuddered softly beneath him, your thighs trembling against his shoulders as pleasure washed through you.

Mark crawled up your body again, kissing you deeply as your breathing slowly calmed. You felt his warmth pressed against you, skin to skin now, and your heart stuttered gently in your chest.

“Still okay?” he asked softly, his lips brushing your forehead.

“More than okay,” you whispered, pulling him closer. “I want you, Mark.”

He reached for a condom quickly, his movements still gentle as he settled back between your legs. Your eyes met again as he lined himself up, slowly easing forward until your breath caught again and your fingers dug into his shoulders.

He moved slowly at first, letting you adjust. Then his hips rocked into yours steadily. Each thrust was deep and careful, pulling you closer to him, his breath warm against your neck as he held you tightly.

You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper still. Your movements became synchronized, bodies perfectly attuned to each other as you moved toward your shared orgasm.

"So fucking good" he groaned.

Your nails scraped softly down his back, drawing a quiet moan from his throat. He kissed you again as his pace grew faster, more urgent as you both neared the edge. His fingers intertwined with your fingers as he pressed your joined hands into the mattress beside your head.

“Look at me,” he breathed shakily. You did, and the intensity in his gaze finally pushed you over the edge. Your body tightened around him as you whispered his name again, soft and desperate.

He followed moments after, breathing ragged as he clung to you, face pressed into the curve of your neck. For a while afterward neither of you moved, content to remain tangled and breathless, your heartbeats gradually syncing into something slow and peaceful.

Eventually he lifted his head just enough to kiss your lips softly. You smiled into the kiss, fingers brushing his hair away from his face.

“I really love you,” he whispered, lips barely brushing yours.

“I love you, too,” you whispered back, and it felt like the simplest truth in the world.

You woke slowly, and you weren’t sure where you were for a moment, but then you felt the weight of Mark’s arm draped across your waist and his breath warm against the back of your neck.

You shifted carefully, looking over your shoulder. Mark was still asleep, his hair a mess, lips parted in the faintest snore. His face was relaxed in a way you’d never seen before. He looked younger, softer, as if the weight of the world had finally eased for a few hours.

You let yourself watch him for a little while, memorizing the curve of his jaw, the moles on his cheek, the way his fingers flexed gently against your stomach even in sleep. You turned to face him, noses almost touching, and whispered, “Hey. Wake up.”

He mumbled something incoherent, brow creasing as he tightened his hold. “Five more minutes,” he pleaded, voice thick with sleep.

You laughed softly and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “C’mon, you promised me breakfast.”

That got a smile out of him. His eyes blinked open, unfocused at first, but when he saw you he grinned like a kid on Christmas morning. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself.”

Mark leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to your lips. His hand slid up your back, thumb tracing lazy circles. “You’re still here.”

“Where else would I be, silly?” you murmured, letting your forehead rest against his.

You stayed like that for a while, tangled in sheets, trading gentle kisses and sleepy jokes. Eventually, the rumble of Mark’s stomach broke the spell, and you both started laughing.

“Okay, okay,” he said, untangling himself and rolling out of bed. He padded over to his closet, grabbed a t-shirt, and tossed it to you to wear. You slipped it on and it swallowed you whole.

You watched him move around the kitchen, hair still sticking up, humming quietly as he started coffee and pulled out bread and eggs. You leaned against the counter, grinning at how domestic it all felt. Mark caught your eye and winked.

“What?” he said, brandishing a spatula. “Never seen a master chef at work before?”

“Pretty sure you’re known as the worst enemy of eggs.”

“Hey, that was one time.”

You hopped up onto the counter and stole a piece of toast from his plate. He playfully tried to swat your hand away, but you were faster.

You ate on the kitchen floor, backs against the cabinets, plates balanced on your knees. He kept reaching over to tuck your hair behind your ear or to press quick, silly kisses to your shoulder.

When the dishes were rinsed and stacked to dry, Mark stretched, muscles flexing under the thin fabric of his T-shirt.

“Wanna shower?” he asked, his voice still a little husky.

You nodded, happy to follow him down the hall. The bathroom was surprisingly wide, clean white tile, soft towels folded neatly, the scent of his shampoo lingering in the air.

Mark twisted the tap, checking the temperature. He peeled off his shirt first, glancing over his shoulder with a shy grin when he caught you staring. You tugged yours off in response, then stepped under the spray together.

Warm water drummed across your shoulders. Mark’s hands settled at your hips, guiding you under the stream until your hair slicked flat against your neck. He reached for a bottle, squeezed shampoo into his palm, and started working it gently through your hair. His fingers massaged your scalp in slow circles. You closed your eyes, the simple touch turning your knees to jelly.

“Lean back,” he murmured. You did, letting the suds rinse away. When you opened your eyes he was smiling, foam clinging to his own hair like a crooked crown. You laughed and swiped bubbles from his forehead. He tried to retaliate, streaking soap across your nose, so you flicked water at him in defense. The playfulness echoed off tile and glass, louder than it probably should, but neither of you cared.

Mark grabbed body wash next, lathering it between his palms before running his hands over your shoulders, down your arms, across your back. The touch was slow and steady, more patient than the night before. You mirrored him, sliding your soapy palms over his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, head tipping back into the spray.

“Turn around,” you whispered. He did, and you trailed suds across his spine, mapping each vertebra with your fingers. You pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder blade and felt him exhale.

The water started to cool, so Mark reached around you to shut it off. Droplets clung to his lashes while he grabbed a towel for you, another for himself. He patted your hair dry, then wrapped the towel around your shoulders like a cloak before tending to his own. There was no rush. The morning belonged to both of you.

Back in the bedroom, the mid-afternoon sunlight sat warm on the sheets. You dropped onto the edge of the mattress, towel still wrapped snug around you. Mark pulled a clean sweatshirt over his head, then rummaged for one of his spare shirts and a pair of soft shorts for you. He tossed them over with a gentle, “Here, these should fit.”

Once dressed, you crawled to the middle of the bed where he was already propped against the headboard, legs stretched out. You curled into his side, damp hair spreading across his shoulder. He threaded his fingers through the strands, combing lazily while the city hummed beyond the window.

“You know,” he said after a while, “I never thought a quiet morning could feel this big.”

You shifted to look at him. “Big how?”

“Big as in… everything I wanted, but simple too.” His thumb brushed your cheek.

You smiled, letting your eyes drift shut. “Simple sounds perfect.”

Mark pressed a slow kiss to your temple. You breathed him in, warmth and clean laundry and his addictive natural scent.

His fingers were combing lazily through your damp hair when he asked, “Do you have a Seoul bucket list?”

You tilted your head up from where it rested against his chest. “Bucket list?”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning a little. “Stuff you’ve always wanted to do if you ever came here.”

You thought for a moment. “I mean, I always wanted to walk around the Han river.”

“That’s it?” he said, faking offense. “What kind of tourist are you?”

You laughed. “Fine, I also wanted to visit a traditional palace. And maybe try street food from a cart like in the dramas. Oh, and take one of those cheesy photo booth strips. Happy?”

“That’s better,” he said warmly. “Get dressed. I’ll be your tour guide for the day.”

He took you everywhere.

The first stop was the Han river, just before the sun dipped too low. He rented two bikes, insisting on racing you down the path even though his legs were still sore from rehearsal. At one point, he lost control, swerved into the grass, and tumbled off earning a chorus of startled gasps from a family nearby. After making sure he was okay, you laughed until your sides hurt and promised to never let him live it down.

Next, you stopped at a food cart and got odeng, tteokbokki, and a hotteok that was almost too sweet. Mark bought way too much and insisted you both finish it, grinning through powdered sugar and spice.

He took you to Changdeokgung Palace, where you borrowed hanboks and wandered the quiet paths, giggling when Mark kept bowing to strangers like a royal guard. The afternoon was warm but breezy, the light gentle and soft on your faces. Everything felt impossibly light.

Later, he dragged you into a photo booth in Hongdae. You took one serious shot—both of you trying to look hot—and then the rest were silly. Tongues out, bunny ears, noses squished together, a kiss that took you both by surprise because it felt so natural in that moment.

“I’m keeping all of these,” he said afterward, shoving the prints into his wallet.

You nudged his side. “I better be in there for life.”

He looked at you, something soft passing through his eyes. “Deal.”

As the sun dipped lower, Mark brought you back to the Han river because he insisted the view was better at sunset. He was right. Everything was tinted gold, the water shimmering and cool. He bought two convenience store beers, and you sat on the grass sipping and watching the light change.

“I used to come here when things got too loud at the dorm,” he admitted, watching the horizon. “When we debuted, I didn’t know what I was doing.”

You rested your head on his shoulder. “Does it still feel like that sometimes?”

He nodded. “But less, now that you’re here.”

You stayed there long after the sun had set, city lights flickering on around you, breeze tugging at your clothes, his fingers laced tightly with yours.

This wasn’t the Seoul you had imagined. It was better, because he was showing it to you, because you were seeing it together.

Later that night, Mark led you up a narrow stairwell, fingers still laced with yours. You could see how the city stretched out in all directions from there. Seoul glittering below and the Han river in the distance tracing a silver ribbon through the darkness.

He looked at you, a little shy even now, and tugged a tiny Bluetooth speaker from his jacket pocket. “Wait here.”

You watched as he set the speaker on the concrete, fiddled with his phone, and then a familiar melody floated up, soft at first, then swelling. His song. Not the demo you’d heard the other night, but the finished version. His voice was clearer, more confident, full of everything he’d been holding back.

Mark stepped closer, pulled a slightly crumpled Polaroid from his wallet and pressed it into your palm. It was your favorite from the photo booth, both of you making ridiculous faces, happiness written all over your features. Scrawled on the back in his messy handwriting We’ll keep adding frames.

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, gaze serious and gentle all at once. “I wanted you to hear it first. And I want you here for every song, every stupid photo, all of it. Okay?”

You nodded, tears threatening even though you were smiling. “Okay.”

He took your hand and slow-danced you in a tight circle under moonlight, the music washing over you both. You could barely hear the city anymore, just his voice in your ear, singing a promise he’d already made you a hundred different ways.

When the song faded, Mark leaned his forehead to yours. “I don’t want to lose you. And now, I never will.”

#nct x reader #nct dream x reader #nct smut #nct dream fic #mark x reader #mark lee fanfic #mark lee x reader #mark lee x y/n #nct mark smut #nct dream fluff #nct dream smut #mark lee fluff

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cuntyji · 5 months ago

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THE FOOL’S GUIDE TO ROMANCE ౨ৎ GETO SUGURU X READER

synopsis: when a man loves a woman, he might bring her flowers or send a sweet text like 'i want you lol.' but if you’re suguru geto, you let a deck of tarot cards decide your destiny—and promptly shuffle your way into misery. hopelessly in love with you (and equally hopeless at expressing it), geto takes his shot which backfires spectacularly, leaving you heartbroken and him scrambling to fix it. now, armed with charm, determination, and way too many tarot cards, geto is ready to heal your heart. just watch your step—the floor’s basically a tarot card crime scene.

content warnings: female reader, suggestive content (alcohol consumption and mentions of weed), crack and romance, somewhat axed [happy] ending, college setting, geto is into tarot, strangers to lovers, he fell first she fell harder, frat parties and other college nonsense. other characters: choso, yuki, gojo, nanami, shiu, toji.

author's note: all my love to my darling @nkopurin who helped proofread this fic for me 💘💐 and to my lovely @norikuna and @baepsays, this is for you 🙂‍↕️ lovely themed dividers are courtesy of @thecutestgrotto <3

READ ON AO3

when a man loves a woman, he brings her flowers and confesses his love to her. or, if he’s born in the modern world, he might just text her something eloquent like, “hey, i want you lol.” but if you’re suguru geto, you let tarot cards take the wheel—literally.

allow one to explain.

see, geto isn’t exactly an atheist. he believes in higher powers, just unconventional ones. namely, the cheapest tarot deck he impulse-bought during a 2 a.m. existential crisis. initially, he thought it was all nonsense until he pulled a random card one day, and boom—it was the tower. later that week, his microwave exploded.

from then on, he never questioned the cards again.

fast-forward to now: geto has become a full-blown tarot enthusiast. not only does he offer readings for spare cash (because be so for real right now, enlightenment isn’t free), but he also uses the cards to make most of his decisions. thinking of switching shampoo brands? better pull a card. deciding between ramen or sushi for dinner? the hanged man says to wait and order nothing—oops, now he’s just hungry. naturally, he consults the cards for the big things too—like love. and this is where you come in.

he met you at the library. a rom-com-level meet-cute where you helped him pick up the stack of books he’d dropped because he was too busy arguing with a ten of swords card about whether his day was ruined or just mildly inconvenient. from that moment on, you became his muse, his star (literally, he pulled that card the next day and nearly fainted). but here’s the catch: geto doesn’t just pine over you in the normal way. no, no. every interaction with you has to be sanctioned by the cards first.

want to say hi? better shuffle the deck and see if the lovers comes up. want to ask you out? he needs at least the sun for good vibes and the two of cups for confirmation. unfortunately, his last reading told him to “embrace patience” because the hermit popped up—twice.

to his credit, geto is fully committed to this tarot lifestyle. he even gets creative with the interpretations. one time, the cards said he’d encounter a "pig," which he thought meant an actual pet pig was coming his way. turns out, it was just pork belly ramen. but let’s get back to you. every time he sees you, he tries to decipher what the cards are trying to tell him. are you his queen of cups, emotionally available and empathetic? or are you secretly the high priestess, hiding mysteries he’s yet to uncover? (spoiler: you’re just a normal person trying to borrow a book, but he doesn’t know that.)

but let’s take a moment to shift focus from our friendly neighborhood king of wands (that’s geto, by the way, for the tarot illiterate) and zero in on you. because, bless your heart, you’ve got no time for the mystical nonsense of divination.

it’s not that you hate tarot or people who swear by it. it’s just… it’s never worked for you. every time a flower-crown-wearing oracle pops up on your fyp, telling you to “like, comment, and share this reading so the universe will bless you with abundance and good fortune,” you do it. and guess what? the universe does not bless you. no windfall of cash, no twin flame reunion, and absolutely no lucky day on the horizon. instead, you’re stuck in a perpetual cycle of disappointment and thinking, am i cursed? or is this just capitalism?

so, when you bump into a guy muttering about the ten of swords in the college library, the sheer absurdity of the moment almost makes you laugh out loud. you help him pick up his books from the floor (because you’re not a monster), all while internally rolling your eyes. who even takes tarot this seriously? your brain whispers. but hey, it’s not like you’re ever going to see this weirdo again, right?

wrong.

enter the house party. directed by none other than the notorious gojo satoru, who probably pulled the fool for party planning and ran with it. naturally, the entire student body is there, including you, begrudgingly clutching a cup of what is probably alcohol but tastes like regret. you’re halfway through debating whether it’s worth sticking around when you spot him. yes, him. the library lad. and if you thought he was strange before, tonight he’s decked out in what can only be described as a “witchy” fit, complete with crystal necklaces and the kind of rings that scream don’t ask me about my birth chart unless you’re ready for a dissertation.

you’re just about to turn and flee when, of course, he spots you. he lights up like the sun card upright, and you can see the moment he decides to approach. fantastic. this is your life now. “hey,” he says, and you can tell he’s trying to act cool. “do you believe in fate?”

oh, for the love of—

“no,” you deadpan, taking a sip of your regret juice. “but i do believe in bad luck, which is what brought me here tonight.” he laughs, and to your horror, it’s kinda cute. “well, maybe that’s just the wheel of fortune turning. what goes down must come up.”

you raise an eyebrow. “is that tarot-speak for ‘this party sucks’?”

“more like, ‘the spirits sent me here for a reason,’” he replies, holding up a deck of tarot cards like they’re his personal VIP pass. you groan, wondering if this is punishment for every time you ignored those scammy fyp readings. the universe works in mysterious (and frankly annoying) ways.

first off, geto would like to dedicate this evening’s award for “biggest asshole” to his childhood friend and eternal tormentor, gojo satoru, who claimed this was a fancy dress party. yes, fancy dress. not a house party. and like an idiot, geto believed him. hence the ensemble: the crystal necklaces, the dramatic rings, the black turtleneck that screamed “mystical bachelor #1.” he looked like halloween and a witch convention had a messy breakup and he was the collateral damage. and the kicker? the tarot cards stuffed into his bag. because apparently, those were his ticket into this party. gojo had threatened—no, promised—that he’d bar geto from entering his own damn best friend’s party unless he showed up prepared to do discounted tarot readings. because nothing screams “good fortune” like drunken frat boys demanding to know their future while spilling beer on your king of pentacles.

but before geto can fully spiral into regret, he spots you. you, across the room, holding a red solo cup like it’s your last lifeline in a sea of chaos. suddenly, the LED strip lights above seem to beam down like the sun on its brightest spring day, and he’s pretty sure he hears birds chirping (which is actually just gojo’s bose speaker blasting some god-awful remix). in this moment, geto feels something he hasn’t felt in a while: hope.

then he opens his mouth.

“the spirits sent me here for a reason,” he blurts out, voice brimming with… what’s the opposite of confidence? panic? regret? whatever it is, it’s not working.

he sees your eyebrow twitch. not raise—twitch. your eyes dart everywhere but at him, and he feels the metaphorical ten of swords stab his pride, one blade at a time. internally, his brain is screaming: really? “the spirits”? you couldn’t think of anything cooler? oh my god, you’re a loser. loser, loser, loser.

before he can even try to recover from the self-inflicted verbal disaster, the karaoke mic crackles to life, and a familiar voice echoes through the room. “geto suguru, report to the center hall!” gojo’s voice booms, loud and obnoxious. “your clients are waiting, my guy!”

clients? oh no.

geto freezes. you glance at him, your expression hovering somewhere between pity and mild secondhand embarrassment. internally, he’s spiraling: clients!? oh great. perfect. now i get to embarrass myself in front of you and half the drunk population of campus.

“don’t keep us waiting, mr. magician!” gojo cackles, clearly delighted with himself. geto trudges toward the center of the room, tarot cards in hand, sending a silent prayer to the universe: dear spirits, if you’re real, strike gojo down with lightning. or at least make him choke on his stupid mic cord. please. but no lightning comes. only more LED lights and the weight of his own humiliation.

the music screeched to an abrupt halt, cutting off mid-beat to usher in what gojo dramatically called “the immersive experience.”

immersive, my ass, geto thought bitterly, sneaking a glare at his white-haired tormentor. to make matters worse, gojo was now skulking over by the speaker, queuing up redbone by childish gambino, apparently convinced it was the anthem for “spooky tarot vibes.” geto’s fingers itched to throw the nearest ashtray at gojo’s ridiculously smug face but, alas, violence would have to wait. he had a job to do, courtesy of said smug face.

as he settled at the glorified low-rise table-turned-“dias,” he noticed a mix of amused faces, skeptical stares, and outright curiosity from the crowd. and among them, there was you. hovering near the edge, arms crossed, your expression was a mix of intrigue and i’m too cool for this but let’s see what happens anyway. and because geto was both cursed and stupid, he immediately started overthinking: wait, why are you here? are you here to judge me? no, that’s dumb. maybe you’re into tarot. oh god, what if you’re into tarot? does that make us soulmates? focus, suguru.

“first victim—i mean guest, is… nanamiiinnn kenntoooo!” gojo’s voice boomed through the mic, dragging geto out of his internal spiral. and lo and behold, it was nanami himself.

nanami kento, aka mr. ‘i-wear-a-suit-to-class,’ the guy who looked like he’d walked straight out of a finance magazine and into a frat party by accident. the fact that nanami was even here was baffling, but rumor had it he helped budget this whole thing. (which explained the alcohol tasting suspiciously cheap, considering half the budget went into walnuts being served as snacks.) he approached the table like he was heading into a board meeting, eyes sharp, posture straighter than an arrow. the man looked ready to audit geto’s soul.

as nanami sat down for his reading, his usual stoic expression firmly in place, geto shuffled the deck with practiced ease. “to make this as accurate as possible,” geto began, trying to match nanami’s serious tone, “it’s best if you touch the deck briefly. it helps with energy transfer.”

nanami raised a skeptical eyebrow but reached out, his hand hovering over the cards for a moment before he placed two fingers lightly on the top of the deck. the touch was so precise and deliberate that it looked more like he was testing the temperature of a cup of tea than connecting with his fate. geto suppressed a grin. “wow, nanami, really channeling all that emotional investment.”

“i don’t make a habit of emotionally investing in cards,” nanami replied dryly, retracting his hand. “if this reading goes poorly, i’ll hold you accountable, not the deck.”

“well, if the spirits hear that,” geto quipped, starting to lay the cards out, “they’re going to make sure your future includes nothing but overripe bananas and missed train schedules.”

“you’re lucky i don’t believe in spirits,” nanami deadpanned, though his gaze flicked to the first card with the faintest hint of curiosity.

“alright,” geto said, forcing a grin as he shuffled his deck. “what can i do for you? career? love life? deep existential crisis?”

“career,” nanami replied crisply, sitting down on one of the pillows like it was a very uncomfortable chair.

“classic.” geto nodded, laying the deck out for nanami to cut. “alright, the cards are ready to speak. let’s see what the spirits have in store for you.” as he flipped the first card, geto’s brain scrambled to process the sight: three of pentacles. okay, teamwork, collaboration. he could work with this.

“looks like you’re about to enter a new partnership,” geto said, his voice smooth and confident. “something involving… hard work, shared goals… a passion project, maybe?” nanami raised an eyebrow, and for a moment, geto panicked. was this guy about to call him out as a fraud? but then, the second card came up: the empress. geto let out a quiet sigh of relief.

“ah, abundance,” he continued, leaning into his role. “this project? it’s going to bring a lot of growth. creativity, maybe even something related to… food?” he hesitated for a split second before committing. “yeah, i’m seeing something culinary. like a bakery or—”

“a bakery?” nanami interrupted, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly.

geto froze. oh no. did he just completely miss the mark?

“uh… yes, a bakery,” he repeated, trying to sound confident. “does that resonate?”

nanami stared at him for a moment, then nodded. slowly.

“i’ve just started working part-time at a french bakery near campus.”

the room exploded. people started laughing, cheering, and hollering like geto had just predicted the apocalypse. even you, standing at the edge of the crowd, cracked a smile. geto barely kept his jaw from dropping. internally, he was screaming: no fucking way. i pulled that out of my ass. oh my god. the spirits are real. nanami, ever composed, simply stood, nodded once in approval, and walked off like this was just another day in the life of kento “bakery boy” nanami.

as the crowd settled down, geto slumped in his seat, trying to recover. his mind raced: okay, that went better than expected. maybe i can survive this. maybe even impress you. wait, are you impressed? i need to see if you’re impressed. he glanced at you, and there it was—that little amused smile, like you couldn’t believe what you’d just witnessed. and for the first time all night, geto felt like maybe he wasn’t a total loser.

the next poor soul—or menace, really—was shiu kong. and shiu, being no better than any average man, sauntered up to the makeshift “dias” with a cigarette dangling from his lips and promptly dumped all the ash from it onto geto’s carefully shuffled deck. geto froze mid-shuffle, staring down at his now-defiled cards like they’d been personally insulted. internally, he was screaming: did you seriously just ashen my pentacles? oh my god, shiu, i hope the spirits tell you your house will get haunted.

“relax, geto,” shiu drawled, clearly enjoying himself. “it’s just a little ash. adds character.”

“yeah? well, let’s see what the spirits think about your ‘character,’” geto muttered, giving the cards a mournful dust-off before proceeding. the first card flipped: the devil. oh, the irony.

“so,” geto began, deadpan, “looks like you’ve got some… business ventures coming up. something a little… unconventional?” the crowd leaned in, murmuring in anticipation. shiu raised an eyebrow, amused but also intrigued.

geto flipped the second card: the seven of cups.

“choices,” he said, tapping the card for effect. “you’ve got a lot of options ahead of you. but, uh… not all of them are exactly moral. or legal.” the crowd erupted, half in laughter, half in knowing cheers. shiu smirked, leaning back like he was the main character in a crime drama. “huh,” he said, feigning innocence. “well, that’s interesting.”

but when geto flipped the third card—the ace of pentacles—the room lost it. “looks like this… uh, deal is going to be quite lucrative,” geto said, trying to keep a straight face.

the crowd howled, people slapping their knees and hollering like this was the best stand-up routine they’d ever seen. gojo, however, had to be physically restrained by nanami and two others as he lunged at shiu, shouting, “WHERE IS IT, SHIU? TELL ME WHERE THE GREEN GODDESS LIVES!”

shiu simply winked, flicked his cigarette butt into an ashtray (finally), and strolled off the dias like a kingpin leaving his empire.

next up was toji zenin, a man so laid-back and unbothered he might as well have been horizontal. he approached the table with all the grace of a lion stalking prey, cracking his neck as he dropped onto the pillow like he’d been asked to fight someone instead of getting his fortune read. “alright, zenin,” geto said, shuffling the cards. “what do you want to know? career? love life? existential dread?”

“future,” toji replied simply, his deep voice making it sound way cooler than it had any right to.

the first card: the lovers.

“interesting,” geto said, glancing up at toji. “looks like there’s a big relationship in your future. something life-changing.”

toji smirked. “yeah? tell me more.”

geto flipped the second card: the sun.

“oh wow,” geto muttered, mostly to himself. “this relationship is going to bring you a lot of joy. looks like… a family, maybe? marriage?”

the crowd oohed, leaning in closer.

and then came the third card: the tower.

“oh,” geto said, pausing. “uh, okay. so, there might be some… challenges along the way. upheaval. a few bumps in the road.”

toji just shrugged. “i’ll handle it.”

the crowd cheered, someone shouting, “family man!” as toji stood, looking oddly pleased with himself. geto sat back, shaking his head. spirits, give me strength.

just as the crowd began to settle, gojo, ever the dramatic shit-stirrer, snatched the mic again. “ladies and gentlemen, we’ve saved the best for last!” he boomed, pointing a very theatrical finger in your direction.

“YOU! come on down!”

the entire room turned to stare at you, and suddenly, you were the main character in your own personal nightmare. “uh, no thanks,” you called back, waving him off. but gojo was having none of it. “don’t be shy! the spirits are calling for you! geto, back me up here!” geto, caught off guard, looked at you and then back at gojo. “uh…” he started, scratching the back of his neck. you sighed, muttering a quiet curse under your breath as you made your way to the “dias,” your steps heavy with regret. this was going to be great.

as you made your way to the dias, geto felt his life flash before his eyes—not the whole thing, mind you, just the highlights: stumbling across the cheapest tarot deck at 2 a.m. during a sleep-deprived existential crisis, spiraling into a tarot obsession because he accidentally predicted his microwave exploding, and somehow ending up here, in this exact moment, facing you, the literal love of his life, thanks to gojo’s meddling. screw the power of friendship, he thought bitterly. his “friend” was the reason he was sitting cross-legged on a glorified coffee table, dressed like the head of a coven, with his dignity hanging by a single thread.

but then it hit him. wait… can i rig this reading?

the idea was tempting. he could just “interpret” the cards however he wanted. twist the results. make it seem like the spirits themselves were shipping the two of you.

except.

he winced, imagining the sheer karmic hell that would rain down upon him if he tried to scam the spirits. knowing his luck, they’d make him the next hanged man—literally. so, when you finally sat down across from him and asked, casually, for a love reading (a LOVE reading????), geto swallowed hard and prayed to every higher power he could think of that the cards would be merciful.

the first card flipped: the knight of cups.

okay, not bad.

“so,” geto began, trying to sound confident and not like he was screaming internally. “the knight of cups suggests a romantic figure in your life. someone… sensitive, charming, maybe a little dreamy. they could be coming towards you—or they’re already here.” he glanced up at you, hoping for some kind of reaction, but you were too busy looking over at…

wait a second.

you weren’t looking at him. you were looking at… choso.

his heart sank. oh, you have got to be kidding me.

to be fair, he sort of understood the confusion. both he and choso had long dark hair (his sleek and tied back, choso’s styled into two distinct buns that somehow worked), and they were both tall with a quiet, brooding vibe. but choso? really?

before he could process the betrayal, he flipped the second card: the star.

“ah,” he said, forcing himself to focus. “the star indicates hope and inspiration. this person might bring healing into your life. they’re someone who stands out, who you’re drawn to in a special way.” again, your gaze flicked to choso, who was sitting across the room with his arms crossed, looking like a goth prince brooding over an edgar allan poe poem.

dear spirits, are you messing with me on purpose?

and then came the third card: the two of cups.

geto’s hands nearly slipped. oh, come on.

“the two of cups,” he said, clearing his throat. “this is… uh… a card of partnership. mutual feelings. a connection that could grow into something deeper.”

your eyes lit up. “wow, that’s so accurate!”

his heart soared for half a second before you turned to your friend and whispered, not so quietly, “do you think he means choso?”

geto’s soul left his body.

what part of ‘sensitive and charming’ screams choso?! he wanted to yell. okay, sure, the guy had his moments, but choso’s idea of romantic charm was probably something like offering someone his last cup of ramen without saying a word. to make matters worse, choso, sensing the attention, looked up from where he was sitting. his head tilted slightly, a single brow raised in confusion, and—oh, god—he gave you a small nod.

no, no, no, don’t encourage this! geto thought, panicking.

“well,” he said, attempting to recover, “the cards are open to interpretation. sometimes they’re symbolic, pointing to qualities rather than an exact person…”

but you weren’t listening anymore, too busy whispering excitedly to your friend about how much sense this all made. meanwhile, geto sat there, defeated, mentally drafting a resignation letter to the spirits. dear divine forces, i quit. i can’t do this anymore. please find someone else to deal with my romantic disasters. sincerely, suguru geto.

the next morning felt like the world had been retextured to ultra-HD. the sun was shining like it got a promotion, the birds outside your window sounded like they’d formed a symphony orchestra, and even the butter on your toast tasted like it had been hand-churned by angels. why was everything so ridiculously perfect? simple: for once in your life, a tarot reading seemed to have gone your way. your love life, once a barren wasteland of missed connections and unrequited crushes, was now looking up—looking up directly at choso kamo, the brooding star of your medieval and renaissance literature class.

sure, you’d had what the kids these days call a “hallway crush” on choso for a while. the kind of harmless admiration where you’d see him across the hall, brooding next to a window like he was in a gothic novel, and think, huh, i wouldn’t mind being the mysterious backstory to his tragic antihero arc. but a relationship? oh no, that felt too bold. too ambitious.

and yet here you were, butter molecules dissolving on your tongue, entertaining the idea that maybe this could be something real. it’s fate, you thought, smiling to yourself. the cards said so. who am i to argue with the universe?

your mind briefly flickered to last night. specifically to geto, who had looked like someone had popped all four tires on his emotional vehicle. his expression after your reading had been a mix of “i just dropped my ice cream cone” and “my goldfish got flushed before i could say goodbye.”

but that wasn’t your problem, right? he probably just felt left out or jealous that your reading turned out so great. or maybe he was tired from all the readings he had to do. surely it had nothing to do with you personally, right?

…right?

right.

well, no matter. you couldn’t spend your morning thinking about someone you weren’t even going to see again. which is precisely when karma, fate, or the universe—take your pick—decided to slap you across the face with irony.

enter medieval and renaissance literature class.

you strolled into class, head high, already composing your imaginary meet-cute scenario with choso. maybe you’d bond over the syllabus. or he’d compliment your handwriting. or he’d drop a deeply intellectual comment about milton that you’d piggyback off of. but then you stopped dead in your tracks because sitting in your lecture hall, wearing the exact same hair tie he wore at last night’s party, was none other than suguru geto.

oh no.

you blinked a few times, hoping he was just a hallucination brought on by too much optimism at breakfast. but no, there he was, slumped into his seat, looking like a ghost of his usual self. his hair, usually neat and tucked behind his ear, was now lazily hanging in front of his face, and his eyes were half-lidded with exhaustion. he didn’t even bother pulling out his notebook—what was the point when he could barely stay conscious?

since when does he take this class?

you quickly scanned your mental archives. how did i not notice him all semester? was he new? was he a ghost? or worse—was he always here, and you were too busy daydreaming about choso to notice?

you slid into your seat, trying to shrink yourself into invisibility. maybe he wouldn’t see you. maybe he wouldn’t even recognize you. except, of course, the universe wasn’t done laughing at you.

“hey,” came his familiar voice.

you turned your head slowly, like a rusty robot, and there he was, smiling faintly at you like the human embodiment of the “this is fine” meme.

“fancy seeing you here,” he said, his tone a little too casual for someone who probably still wanted to jump out a window over last night.

“uh… yeah. small world,” you replied, giving a very forced, very awkward laugh. meanwhile, in your head: oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, why is he here, why is he smiling, why does he look like he knows something i don’t?

“enjoying the afterglow of your reading?” he asked, raising a tired eyebrow. “sure am,” you said quickly, pretending to scribble something in your notebook. anything to avoid prolonged eye contact. “good,” he said, leaning back.

“because i’ve been thinking about that reading a lot.”

you froze mid-scribble. “oh? really?” you asked, trying to sound casual. emphasis on trying. he sighed, rubbing his temple. “yeah. not your reading, though. all twelve of them. from the party. last night.” you blinked, caught off guard.

“...you did twelve readings?”

“yup.” he let his head fall onto his desk. “i think i aged five years in one night. and gojo was the worst. again.” you couldn’t help but snort at that, some of the awkwardness ebbing away. “what did he ask this time?”

geto turned his head just enough to side-eye you from the desk. “wanted the cards to tell him who’s going to steal his sunglasses next.” you pressed your lips together to suppress a laugh. “did they?”

“it’s nanami.”

that was enough to crack you, and you laughed, loud enough to earn a few curious glances from your classmates. geto’s lips twitched into a small, tired smile. you placed your pen down and tilted your head. “so, is this why you look like you got hit by a train today?”

he groaned, cracking open an energy drink from his bag. “it’s not just the readings. it’s this class, too. pop quiz vibes are strong in the air today.”

oh no. oh no no no.

the silence between you both started to feel heavier. your brain, helpful as ever, decided to go on overdrive again: what now? do i keep talking? does he think i’m weird? why haven’t i noticed him in class before? god i’m the worst—focus, focus, focus!

you glanced at him, and he glanced at you at the same time, which immediately triggered the universal law of awkward eye contact. you both darted your eyes away—him, to the blank notebook page in front of him; you, to the random doodle you’d been half-heartedly scribbling. “so,” he started, clearing his throat, his voice softer now, “what’s today’s lecture about?”

you stared at your notes like they might give you the answer, but all they offered was a series of lines that could maybe pass as a badly drawn cat. “uh… poetry analysis, i think?”

“right. poetry,” he said, nodding like he hadn’t just forgotten the subject of the class he was literally sitting in. he flipped open his notebook, which was suspiciously empty, save for a solitary doodle of a fat cat in the corner. the professor walked in then, saving you both from the growing, almost tangible awkwardness.

you turned forward, suddenly very interested in the lecture, clutching your pen like it was a lifeline. from the corner of your eye, you saw geto doing the same, pretending to focus, though his hand moved so slowly across the page that you were certain he wasn’t writing anything at all.

the silence stretched, and though you were no longer speaking, the air between you was thick with unspoken words and stolen glances. by the time the professor started droning on about rhyme schemes, you were convinced you could hear your own heartbeat echoing in your ears. and yet, there was something oddly comforting in the shared awkwardness. something almost warm. but you didn’t dare look at him again. not yet. not while your face still felt embarrassingly warm.

if the spirits were going to turn geto into the hanged man for tampering with the cards, maybe he should’ve gone ahead and done it. at least then he wouldn’t be sitting here feeling like the hanged man, every second of this medieval and renaissance literature class stretching on like a medieval torture session.

you were right next to him. close enough to tap on the shoulder, whisper a joke about the professor’s outdated slides, or just breathe the same air while he attempted to craft a coherent sentence to get your attention. but no—at this very moment, your eyes were glued to the door, scanning it like a hawk waiting for its prey.

or, in this case, waiting for choso.

oh, choso, with his eternal frown and hair that looked like he shampooed it in the tears of the damned. what was so special about him anyway? geto could brood too. hell, he could brood with tarot cards and deep existential questions about life.

as you continued to ignore him, geto ran through his increasingly desperate options:

act like a monkey and perform an interpretative dance of his love in front of you.

risk incurring the wrath of the spirits by doing some very questionable card tricks.

drop to his knees and just beg you to look at him.

...or—and this was a truly radical thought—he could just talk to you like a normal human being. with great effort, geto willed his hand to raise, aiming to gently tap your shoulder and finally say something. hey, what’s your favorite renaissance play? wanna talk about the tragic themes in marlowe’s works? wanna skip class and—

but before his hand could make contact, the door opened.

and in walked choso.

with yuki tsukumo.

geto’s hand froze mid-air, and his jaw dropped like a drawbridge at a medieval castle. he wasn’t the only one either—your reaction was just as dramatic, except yours was tinged with the sound of your heart shattering into tiny, pulverized shards. shards that were promptly scooped up, shoved into a blender, and liquefied by the sight before you.

because while you were looking at choso, choso was looking at yuki.

and geto? geto was looking at you.

this tragic little love triangle—or maybe square, if you factored in the spirits hovering over geto like disappointed parents—was the tragic renaissance play no one asked for but somehow everyone got.

as yuki giggled at something choso said (giggled??? choso kamo has a sense of humor?), you slumped back in your seat, the light in your eyes dimming faster than the candles in a poorly ventilated cathedral. meanwhile, geto stared at the side of your face, willing his brain to think of something, anything, to say that could somehow salvage this situation.

but all he could think was: what is love?

followed closely by: baby, don’t hurt me.

you wanted to die. not in the "clutching a vial of poison in a tragic shakespearean way" kind of die, but in the "husband went to battle and never came back" kind of die, except your so-called husband wasn’t even yours to begin with. you were in a one-sided relationship so intense it deserved its own jane austen adaptation, except instead of a romantic ending, it seemed like you’d just be crying into your embroidery hoop.

and honestly? you got it. you saw why choso was acting like that around yuki. the guy looked like he’d seen heaven for the first time, smiling at her like she’d just invented fire or something. for choso, whose default setting was somewhere between “terminally annoyed” and “what’s the point of existence,” this was monumental. so, like any reasonable, heartbroken woman, you didn’t turn to another potential suitor for comfort. no, no. you sought out something far more powerful. solace. clarity. divine intervention.

...in the form of tarot cards.

you turned to geto, sitting beside you in all his slightly disheveled glory, and the look in your eyes was nothing short of pleading. you didn’t need to say anything for him to understand. you wanted answers.

"do a reading for me. right now."

your voice was low, but it carried the weight of a thousand broken hearts and at least two adele songs. you probably sounded like a woman on the brink of asking to see the manager of the universe.

geto blinked at you, taken aback. he hadn’t even had a chance to process the spectacle unfolding before you two—choso cracking a smile at yuki, yuki leaning in closer—before you demanded spiritual insight like you were trying to summon the oracle of delphi.

"a reading?" he asked, cautiously, like you’d just asked him to perform surgery on a grape.

"yes, a reading. right now.” you punctuated your words with a look so intense it could’ve melted through the linoleum floors. "i need to know what the spirits have to say about my love life because clearly," you gestured dramatically towards choso and yuki, "i’ve been living in delusion."

you were not joking. in fact, you were about two seconds away from rummaging through geto’s bag yourself to pull out the cards.

geto, to his credit, did his best to keep a straight face, but internally he was screaming. this was not how he imagined getting your attention. where was the romantic small talk? the flirty banter? instead, he was being asked to summon metaphysical clarity in the middle of a lecture hall. “you realize we’re in class, right?” he asked, gesturing towards the professor, who was obliviously droning on about chaucer.

“what’s more important—canterbury tales or my rapidly deteriorating sense of self-worth?” you deadpanned, arms crossed.

he sighed, already regretting his life choices, but reached into his bag anyway. this was going to be a very, very long class. as he shuffled the cards, you leaned in closer, practically vibrating with desperation. geto thought for a second that maybe the spirits would smite him for doing this, but at least he could die knowing he was, in some absurd way, your chosen source of comfort.

the reading became, as irony would have it, your single biggest source of suffering. every time geto pulled out a card, it felt less like a reading for your love life and more like an unwelcome live commentary on choso and yuki’s blossoming connection.

“all right,” geto muttered, flipping over the first card, “three of pentacles. this suggests an opportunity to collaborate or share.”

you nodded eagerly, until your eyes betrayed you and drifted over to the sunlit corner where choso and yuki were seated. and oh, what was that? choso handing her his highlighter? a stabilo one, no less? lending stationery wasn’t just helpful; it was practically a love confession in academic circles.

your stomach dropped. “okay, that’s a fluke. what’s the next one?”

geto hesitated but drew the next card. “uh, ace of cups. could mean new opportunities for emotional connection. an offer, maybe.”

you turned back to look at choso just as yuki reached out and flicked a piece of lint off his sweater. his vintage, thrifted sweater.

your jaw tightened as your sharp eye for fashion immediately clocked every detail of the piece—the carefully worn texture, the faintly faded yet intentional color palette, the hand-stitched hem that was too perfect to be mass-produced. vintage. thrifted. possibly one-of-a-kind.

and there was yuki, just casually touching it like it was some department store clearance item. your fists clenched around your pen as you sat there, practically vibrating with indignation. next to you, geto raised a curious eyebrow. “you okay?” he whispered, leaning in slightly.

“i’m fine,” you replied through gritted teeth, though your gaze was still locked on yuki and the sweater. “it’s just…some people don’t understand the sanctity of vintage clothing.”

geto blinked at you, then at yuki and choso, his expression half-amused, half-confused. “right… the sanctity.” you ignored him, seething quietly as yuki smiled, entirely unaware of the silent judgment radiating in her direction. flicking lint off a thrifted piece? unforgivable.

“all right, one more card,” he said, trying to keep you from spiraling. “the sun. it’s a positive sign. it means there’s hope, clarity—happiness at the end of the road.” you weren’t sure what you expected, but it wasn’t to glance back at choso and yuki basking in literal daylight streaming through the classroom windows.

meanwhile, you and geto were shivering in the poorly heated corner of the room, shrouded in cold shadows, and probably misery.

"well," you muttered, shoving the cards away from you like they were personally responsible for ruining your day. "thanks for nothing, spirits."

“don’t blame the cards!” geto whispered, as if the spirits themselves were about to jump you in the hallway after class.

“oh, i will blame them. i’m blaming all of it—tarot, the universe, my horoscope. even you.” you jabbed a finger at geto. he raised his hands defensively. “me? i’m just the messenger!”

“yeah? well, tell your spirits to pick someone else next time,” you snapped. “preferably someone not already taken.”

you turned back to your notebook, seething quietly, while geto, to his credit, really did try to make it right. he wasn’t about to charge you for what was basically a tarot drive-by, especially not one that seemed to have single handedly ruined your faith in divination, fate, and possibly humanity. as class ended and you bolted for the door, he scrambled to follow, shoving his cards into his bag haphazardly as if they might somehow soften the mess he’d unknowingly made.

“hey, wait! i’m sorry!” he called out, weaving through the crowd of students like a man on a mission—or, more accurately, like a very apologetic cat chasing a laser pointer. you knew you should’ve stopped. you knew he wasn’t at fault—how could he be? he didn’t control the cards, and even if he did, it wasn’t like he made choso and yuki sit under a literal beam of sunshine together like a rom-com poster come to life. but pride is a tricky thing, and yours had dug its claws deep.

“it’s fine,” you muttered through gritted teeth, speeding up to create distance. but geto, persistent and well-meaning as ever, wasn’t giving up. “no, it’s not fine,” he said, keeping pace with you. “i didn’t mean for it to—look, it wasn’t about you. well, it kinda was, but not like—ugh, just let me explain!”

you stopped abruptly, and geto nearly tripped over his own feet to avoid crashing into you. your chest was tight, not from running, but from the mess of feelings swirling around: anger, hurt, and worst of all, embarrassment. you turned to him with a glare sharper than it had any right to be.

“i don’t need an explanation, okay? i get it. it was stupid of me to think it was about me in the first place,” you snapped, and the second the words left your mouth, you regretted them.

geto blinked, taken aback, and for a split second, you caught the way his expression shifted—like he’d been hit with a blow he hadn’t expected. his shoulders sagged slightly, his usual calm demeanor faltering. “that’s not what i meant at all,” he said softly, voice barely audible over the buzz of students passing by.

the pang in your chest deepened, but before you could give it more thought, you turned and hurried away, leaving him standing there in the hallway. you didn’t look back, even though something in you wanted to. pride won again, as it always seemed to. but as you walked off, the image of his expression stayed with you, burned into the back of your mind like a guilty little ghost you couldn’t shake.

later that evening, geto sat at his desk staring at his tarot cards like they were a cheat sheet for life that had suddenly decided to go blank. the spread in front of him was chaotic at best: the tower, the three of swords, the five of cups. if the cards were trying to scream “you fucked up,” they were doing a great job. he sighed, dragging a hand down his face as he considered reshuffling for the fifth time that hour.

but then it hit him—like a very literal sign from above. a chunk of plaster from his dorm ceiling detached and bounced right off his head, leaving him rubbing his scalp and glaring up at the offending crack. “perfect,” he muttered. “thanks, universe. really appreciate the symbolism.”

it was then, mid-reckoning with gravity, that geto realized something important: this was not how tarot worked. it wasn’t a tool for undoing mistakes or bending the will of fate. if higher forces played by human rules, they wouldn’t be higher forces; they’d be coworkers who ignore emails. so, he did what any reasonable person would do when their usual method of problem-solving failed—he decided to reach out to you. to check if you were okay. rejection, even one involving misplaced feelings and stabilo highlighters, was a bitter pill to swallow, and he wanted to make sure you weren’t stewing in it alone.

but then another realization hit him, thankfully not a physical one this time: he didn’t have your number. or your social media. or literally any way to contact you that didn’t involve smoke signals or breaking into your dorm like a lunatic. waiting until tomorrow felt wrong, so he did what any unhinged-but-earnest guy would do.

he opened his email.

geto scrolled through his inbox with the dedication of a scholar deciphering ancient texts. his literature professor had this habit of sending class-wide emails—updates, reminders, existential musings, you name it. surely, somewhere in that chaotic thread, your email address was lurking. “ah, here,” he whispered triumphantly when he found one, squinting at the long list of recipients. his finger hovered over your name as if clicking it would summon you like a genie.

now came the hard part: drafting an email that didn’t sound like a confession of a crime. he typed furiously, deleting sentences almost as fast as he wrote them.

Subject: just checking in hey, i hope this doesn’t come off as weird but i wanted to check if you’re okay after class today. i know things got kind of intense and i just wanted to make sure you’re doing all right. if you need someone to talk to or even rant at i’m here. seriously. sorry if this email is out of the blue but i couldn’t wait till tomorrow to say something. take care, s. geto

he stared at the draft like it might sprout fangs and bite him. “is this too much? not enough? why do i sound like an HR rep?” after a moment of panic and one deep breath, he hit send before he could overthink it further.

leaning back in his chair, he stared at the ceiling (or what was left of it) and muttered, “smooth, geto. real smooth.”

meanwhile, back in the academy award-worthy drama that was your life, you paced the length of your dorm room like the unhinged protagonist of a spy film—except instead of planning a heist, your master plan was not having an emotional breakdown. and frankly, it wasn’t going great.

why was this such a big deal anyway? choso wasn’t the love of your life. you didn’t have pictures of him taped to your wall like a deranged scrapbooker. sure, he had great bone structure and an aesthetic that could front a band no one’s ever heard of, but did he own your heart? no.

so why the hell was rejection stinging like you just got voted off a reality show? oh, right. because it wasn’t just choso. it was the whole concept.

the idea that maybe, just maybe, for once in your life, the stars or the cards or something might give you a break. but nope. no knight in shining armor, no grand declarations of love, just... lint-flicking and stabilo-sharing with someone who wasn’t you.

and, of course, because the universe has a sense of humor, guilt was there to crash the party, too. poor geto. you practically bit his head off in class, and for what? doing his job as the accidental harbinger of bad news? great job, you. what’s next—yelling at the weather? just as you were about to descend into yet another spiral, this time brought to you by regret and self-loathing, your phone pinged obnoxiously loud. you froze mid-pace. that sound? that horrible custom sound you set for college emails? you grabbed your phone like it was a live grenade and squinted at the screen.

from: [email protected] subject: just checking in

your mouth hung open as you stared at the preview. the email equivalent of puppy eyes. of course. because why let the guilt marinate quietly when it can now come with words? opening the email, you read through his message, and something in your chest twisted. he wasn’t even being dramatic. no passive-aggressive digs, no over-apologizing, just... concern. genuine, sweet concern. “ugh,” you muttered, flopping onto your bed as you thought about how to respond without sounding like you were unraveling emotionally. you began typing, deleting, retyping, then deleting again.

Subject: re: just checking in hi, thanks for reaching out. i’ve been better. today was a bit of a mess, but that’s not your fault. i shouldn’t have snapped at you earlier. it was unfair and i’m sorry for taking my frustration out on you. ig i just got caught up in the whole idea of things working out for once yk. and when it didn’t, it stung more than i expected. but seriously i appreciate you checking in. it means a lot. take care, [your name]

you hovered over the send button for a second before hitting it, then tossed your phone onto the bed like it had personally wronged you.

“great,” you muttered to yourself, staring at the ceiling. “now i just look emotionally unstable and like a bitch.” but deep down, there was a strange kind of relief. maybe, just maybe, you hadn’t completely burned the bridge with geto.

maybe life didn’t feel like dolphins and rainbows with symphony by zara larsson playing in the background, but at least you woke up without the overwhelming urge to set your entire life on fire. progress.

you had come to terms with the fact that you weren’t mad about choso being taken. honestly, good for him and yuki—they had the chemistry of two hot protagonists in a slow-burn drama anyway. and hey, you weren’t mad at yourself anymore either. growth, right? but of course, the universe always had one more plot twist up its sleeve.

you walked into the supervised study session later that day, fully expecting to slink into your seat, avoid eye contact with choso and yuki, and pretend you were a background character in your own life. instead, you were greeted with... a display. there, right in front of your usual spot, stood geto with what could only be described as a care package for someone emotionally devastated—or recovering from surgery. maybe both.

a soft, ridiculously fluffy blanket was folded neatly on your desk, next to a neck pillow that looked like it could cure insomnia. there were snacks—chips, cookies, even a little bag of trail mix because apparently, he cared about your protein intake. and drinks, plural, including tea, juice, and water, because hydration was key, obviously. oh, and let’s not forget the vitamin gummies.

vitamin. gummies.

“uh...” you managed, staring at the scene like it might morph into something less... earnest.

“good morning!” geto beamed at you, his expression the human equivalent of a golden retriever wagging its tail. “i, uh, thought you might need a little pick-me-up.”

you blinked. “a little? what, are you preparing me for the apocalypse?”

he laughed, a soft, sheepish sound as he scratched the back of his neck. “just thought it might help. you know, in case yesterday was still... lingering.”

you glanced at the pile of comfort on your desk, then back at geto, who looked so genuine it made your chest ache a little. sure, he could’ve just emailed back with a “glad you’re okay,” but no, he’d gone all in like he was running a wellness retreat. “this is... wow, geto,” you said, unsure whether to laugh or cry. “you really didn’t have to.”

“i know,” he said, his tone almost shy. “but i wanted to.”

and that’s when it hit you. as your eyes flickered to choso, who was scooting his chair closer to yuki with the subtlety of a rom-com lead, your gaze naturally found its way back to geto. the ridiculously awkward, long-haired boy in front of you, who apparently thought vitamin gummies were the solution to all of life’s problems, was now the one pulling at your focus.

ah, drat.

“well,” you said, sitting down and letting yourself sink into the cocoon of comfort he’d assembled, “you better not have used up your entire snack budget on me.”

“nah,” he said with a grin, pulling a pack of tarot cards out of his bag. “besides, i’m saving my budget for these bad boys.” you groaned, but it was accompanied by a smile. yeah, maybe life wasn’t all dolphins and rainbows, but it wasn’t so bad either.

respectfully speaking, geto was shit scared when he got in all that stuff for you. sure, in his mind it had seemed like a good idea—people liked snacks, right? and blankets were universally comforting. vitamin gummies? maybe a little overboard, but hey, health was wealth. but now, watching you actually use the stuff, munching on a strawberry-centered wafer like it was your job, he felt a wave of something dangerously close to relief. you didn’t think he was weird. or at least, not weird enough to ignore free snacks. small victories.

still, the nervous churn in his stomach hadn’t entirely gone away. because what was this, exactly? a gesture of kindness? a peace offering? a declaration of love wrapped in a fleece blanket and stuffed with gummy vitamins? he had no idea. but if this was what it took to see you look this relaxed around him, he’d happily bankrupt himself. and then, just as he was settling into the warm, fuzzy feeling of semi-success, you hit him with the question.

“so,” you said, pausing mid-bite of a wafer, “what got you into tarot in the first place?”

oh no. oh no no no.

he froze, a deer in the headlights of your curiosity. because what was he supposed to say? the truth—that he bought a deck at 2 a.m. because it was on sale and looked cool? that he’d learned most of it from random youtube videos and a couple of moderator banned reddit threads? or should he go full storyteller and spin a wild tale about a mysterious mentor who handed him a deck and told him his destiny was written in the cards? you tilted your head, waiting for an answer, and he realized he couldn’t bullshit this. you didn’t seem like the type to fall for theatrics, and even if you did, he couldn’t bring himself to lie to you.

“uh, okay, so, it’s not, like... that deep,” he began, scratching the back of his neck in the universal gesture of please don’t judge me. “basically, i was scrolling online one night, super late—like, 2 a.m. kinda late—and i saw this tarot deck on sale. it looked cool, so i bought it.”

you raised an eyebrow, and he scrambled to elaborate.

“and then i figured, y’know, i should probably learn how to use it, or else it’d just be, like, fancy cards lying around. so i watched some videos, read some guides... and, uh, here we are.” you stared at him for a moment, wafer halfway to your mouth.

“so, let me get this straight. you became the campus tarot guy because of a 2 a.m. impulse buy?”

“...pretty much, yeah.”

and then you laughed. not a polite chuckle or a restrained giggle, but a full-on laugh that made his chest feel like it was doing somersaults. “oh my god,” you said, shaking your head. “that’s so lame. like, impressively lame.” he grinned, the tension easing out of his shoulders. “yeah, well, lame seems to be working for me so far.” you smirked, popping the rest of the wafer into your mouth. “fair point.” and just like that, the awkwardness melted away. geto might not have had a mind-blowing origin story, but seeing you smile like that? yeah, he didn’t need one.

as time went on, you didn’t even notice how seamlessly geto had woven himself into your life. it wasn’t a dramatic shift—no grand confessions or pivotal moments—but more like the slow, steady filling of spaces you hadn’t realized were empty.

it started with sitting together in every class. at first, it was coincidence—his seat just happened to be free. but then it became routine. he’d drape his bag over the back of the chair next to him, a silent reservation just for you, and you’d slide into it without a second thought.

then came the library sessions. you told yourself it was practical; after all, two heads were better than one when it came to deciphering medieval metaphors. but somewhere along the way, practicality blurred into something else. the quiet companionship of those shared hours, the way you’d nudge his shoulder when he started to doze off, the small, secret smiles exchanged over the tops of textbooks—it all felt intimate. you thought about bringing it up, that the library was where you’d first met, but the idea felt too sentimental, too vulnerable. surely he didn’t remember that tiny detail.

little did you know, geto did remember. it was one of those memories he kept tucked away, revisiting it like a favorite line in a book.

of course, studying with geto came with its quirks. like the way he couldn’t resist pulling out his tarot deck every chance he got.

“do you really think the cards are gonna tell you if you’ll pass this exam?” you’d huff, grabbing the deck from his hands before he could shuffle it. “well, they’ve been right before,” he’d tease, leaning just a little too close as he reached for them.

“maybe if you spent half as much time studying as you do asking the cards, you wouldn’t need to worry about passing.”

he’d laugh, the kind of laugh that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “yeah, but where’s the fun in that?” you’d swat his arm, and he’d pretend to be mortally wounded, clutching at the spot like you’d struck him with a sword. but secretly? that little bit of contact was enough to make his heart race. every single time.

and then there was the way you challenged him—gently, but firmly—to rely less on his cards.

“tarot’s supposed to guide you,” you’d say, flipping through his notes while he doodled idly in the margins. “not run your life.”

he didn’t argue, mostly because you were right. and slowly, he started to take your advice. he still used the cards, of course, but not for every little thing. he began to let the unpredictability of life happen, unfiltered by fate or forewarning. and you know what? it wasn’t all that bad. in fact, it was starting to grow on him—this strange, chaotic, beautiful mess of living. because somewhere in the middle of all the unpredictability was you, and that made it more than worth it.

you know that sinking feeling when you realize your phone is low-key betraying you? yeah, that’s the exact sensation creeping up your spine as you sit cross-legged on your dorm bed, thumb mindlessly scrolling through reels. your current mission: find the perfect meme or video to send to geto. because yes, somewhere between tarot readings and shared library snacks, you two finally exchanged instagram handles. a milestone, honestly. but of course, the universe has other plans.

as you scroll past a cat dancing to eurobeat, your screen flashes with a promoted ad: “astrotalk – find the answers to life here!”

right. because you were definitely talking about astrology out loud earlier. thank you, zuck. just as you’re about to swipe away, your phone does what it does best—it lags. your double tap, meant to like a reel, somehow registers as download app. the ding of success seals your fate.

“oh, for fuck’s sake,” you mutter, staring at the app’s cheerful icon now grinning at you from your home screen. you consider deleting it immediately but curiosity gets the better of you. besides, it’s not like anyone’s here to judge. so you open the app.

bright colors, cheesy taglines, and a cartoon moon with a winking face greet you. honestly, it’s a little cringe, but who cares? the app boasts a free love consultation for first-time users. after that? a steep $45 per reading. capitalism at its finest.

“might as well milk the freebie,” you mumble, tapping through the options.

it asks for your star sign first. easy. you enter it. then it asks for your potential match’s star sign. you blink.

why… why is geto’s sign the first one to pop into your head? you tell yourself it’s because his birthday came up recently, and you remember him casually mentioning he was an aquarius. totally not because you’ve been secretly keeping tabs.

you type it in and hit submit.

the screen takes a moment to load, suspense building as though the app is calculating the mysteries of the universe instead of running a basic algorithm. then, the results flash on the screen:

“YOU AND YOUR PARTNER ARE 90% COMPATIBLE! STRONG BOND POTENTIAL!”

“partner?” you scoff, a little too loudly for the empty room. “calm down, bro. we’re not even… ugh.” but you can’t help the heat creeping up your neck. because why does this feel so validating? like the app just confirmed something you weren’t ready to admit out loud. you toss your phone onto the bed, trying to ignore the way your heart flutters a little. “it’s just an app,” you mutter, flopping back onto your pillow. but as you stare at the ceiling, you can’t stop wondering. 90% compatible, huh? maybe the universe isn’t entirely out to get you.

the party was already in full swing by the time you and geto arrived, the unmistakable thrum of bass-heavy music vibrating through the walls and into your chest. the house, courtesy of everyone’s favorite socialite, gojo satoru, was packed wall to wall with students desperate to blow off steam after a particularly brutal exam season. the air was a heady mix of sweat, cheap booze, and cigarette smoke, oddly comforting in its chaos. fairy lights were strung haphazardly across the ceiling, casting a soft, golden glow over the sea of bodies swaying in time to the music.

as you stepped inside, your senses were immediately overwhelmed. the sticky heat of too many people crammed into one space hit you first, followed by the sharp tang of tequila and the smoky haze from a makeshift smoking area in the corner. the living room-turned-dancefloor was packed with a crowd that was equal parts gyrating and stumbling. “guess we’re really doing this,” you said, glancing at geto, who had already started scanning the room like he was bracing himself for impact.

his expression faltered for a moment before he shrugged. “it’s either this or another night of staring at my tarot cards, and they’re tired of me asking if i’ll pass my exams.” you laughed, shaking your head. “let’s get some drinks before this place gets even worse.”

before you could make it to the kitchen, a whirlwind of energy that could only be gojo grabbed geto by the arm. "hey, suguboo! come join the crew—nanami’s actually drinking tonight. it’s a miracle!" geto shot you a quick, apologetic look before being dragged off toward a cluster of familiar faces gathered near the makeshift DJ setup. you waved him off, muttering a quick "have fun" as you made your way toward the kitchen.

it was just as packed as the rest of the house, though marginally quieter. bottles of every cheap liquor imaginable lined the counters, accompanied by mismatched plastic cups and a suspiciously sticky floor. and that’s when you saw them—choso and yuki.

yuki’s bright smile was the first thing to catch your eye. she had that annoyingly magnetic energy, the kind that made it impossible to dislike her, even if she was spiking your drink to make it strong enough to knock out a small horse. “hey” she greeted, her voice cutting through the noise with ease. “you made it! here, have a drink—trust me, you need it after those exams.” you watched as she poured a generous amount of something clear and suspiciously strong into a cup, topping it off with a splash of what you hoped was juice.

choso stood next to her, his usual brooding aura softened just slightly by the festive atmosphere. he gave you a polite nod, but his attention was mostly on yuki as she handed you the drink. “uh, thanks,” you said, accepting the cup with a wary glance. it smelled potent, but the night was young, and if there was ever a time to throw caution to the wind, it was now.

as you took a sip—too strong, just as you’d expected—you couldn’t help but glance toward the living room, wondering how long it would take for geto to escape gojo’s clutches. something about the night felt charged, like the universe was waiting for something to happen. and for once, you weren’t entirely sure if you were ready for it.

you had barely processed yuki excusing herself to the ladies' room when half a cup of whatever unholy concoction she poured you started working its magic. stars were dancing in your vision, and your internal monologue was a mix of “am i drunk, or is this enlightenment?” and “what if i just lay down on this sticky floor and let the universe take me?” choso, ever the picture of stoic composure, stood by sipping his own drink, completely unaffected. in your infinite drunken wisdom, you decided now was the perfect time to recount the tarot reading debacle to him. because why not relive your most embarrassing moment at a house party with the person who unknowingly kickstarted it all?

“so, ya know,” you started, gesturing dramatically with your cup, “there was this thing that happened with geto's reading. you were there! nodding at me like i’d just won the love lottery or whatever. and i—oh my god, i thought you were into me.” choso blinked, unbothered as ever, though you noticed a faint crease of amusement in his brow. “uh-huh,” he said, taking another sip of his drink.

“yeah! and then i find out,” you continued, pointing at him accusatorily, “that you were actually into yuki, and i was out here thinking i was the main character in this tragic medieval romance novel! turns out, i wasn’t even in the prologue.” choso raised an eyebrow.

“to be fair, it was obvious you and geto would make a good match.”

the words hit you like a brick. you and geto?

“wait,” you said, staring at him like he’d just spoken in tongues. “me and geto? suguru? you’re telling me all that nodding and cryptic behavior was because you thought we’d be a good match?”

he nodded. “you both have this... thing. sensitive, charming, dreamy—”

“don’t,” you cut him off, holding up a finger, the fog in your brain clearing so fast it was dizzying. “don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

“healing,” choso finished anyway, unbothered by your rapidly spiraling state.

you stood there, frozen, the memory of that reading slamming into you like a wrecking ball.

was he sensitive? yes. charming? puppy-eyed charm for days. dreamy? don’t get me started. healing? in the most absurd ways possible. mutual feelings? please, universe, say yes.

“oh my god,” you muttered, dropping your drink on the counter with a thunk. “oh my god.” choso sighed, shaking his head. “you’re really dense, aren’t you? no offense.”

“offense taken!” you snapped, already spinning on your heels. “but also, thanks, i gotta go.”

“what are you—?”

“find him!” you yelled over your shoulder, already weaving through the sweaty bodies on the dance floor like a woman on a mission. behind you, choso sighed dramatically, swirling his drink like he was in a shakespearean tragedy. “'tis true, love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.’”

"stop quoting a midsummer night’s dream!" you shouted back, not even turning around.

you were a woman possessed as you weaved through the chaos of the party, dodging sweaty couples, discarded cups, and one guy inexplicably attempting to juggle shot glasses. where is he? you muttered under your breath, your eyes scanning every corner.

finally, you spotted geto sprawled on a couch in the corner of the room, looking like he was having an existential crisis at a house party—one leg thrown over the armrest, his hair half tied and half rebelliously escaping, his long legs stretched out like he owned the couch, and his expression screamed, "why am i here and how can i leave without offending anyone?" apparently, gojo and the gang had taken off to drunkenly compete in a swim-to-the-other-side-of-the-pool-without-drowning race, and geto, the only one with common sense, had respectfully declined.

your heart did a weird little flip-flop at the sight of him, though whether it was from nerves or the bacardi yuki had spiked your drink with, you couldn’t tell. however, had bigger problems. like the fact that your heart was about to stage a mutiny and jump right out of your chest. how were you even going to start this?

hey, i realized i love you the minute you showed up to class with vitamin gummies for me.or maybe it was when you emailed me, “just checking in” like a gentleman from the 1800s. or maybe it was every time you did something ridiculously thoughtful like it was nothing.

you took a deep breath, but all that came out was, "hey."

geto looked up, blinking at you like he wasn’t sure if you were real or just a figment of his daydreams. "oh. hey."

good start, you thought. very articulate.

you shuffled closer, ignoring the pounding in your chest. "uh, so... how’s the couch treating you?" he blinked again, a small smile tugging at his lips. "better than gojo’s swimming plans, i can tell you that much."

"right, yeah," you laughed awkwardly, standing there like a statue while your brain scrambled to form coherent thoughts. geto tilted his head, a soft chuckle escaping him. "you okay? you look like you’ve seen a ghost—or yuki with another drink for you."

"ha, funny," you said, before blurting out, "actually, i’ve been running around looking for you." his eyes widened slightly, and he sat up straighter, suddenly looking both amused and terrified. "oh? should i be worried?"

"no! no," you said quickly, waving your hands like you were fending off an accusation. "i just... there’s something i need to say, and, uh—look, i swear it’s not the bacardi talking." geto raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "you sure? because venus is in retrograde right now, and it’s messing with everyone’s feelings."

you froze. "wait, what?"

"venus. retrograde," he repeated, gesturing vaguely like that explained everything. "you know, the planet of love and all that? it’s doing its thing, so if this is about some cosmic realization—"

"no!" you interrupted, louder than intended, earning a few glances from nearby partygoers. "this isn’t about venus or renegades or whatever. this is about me. and you."

that got his attention. his smile faltered, and for a moment, he just stared at you, eyes wide, lips parted like he was afraid to speak.

"look," you continued, words tumbling out faster than your brain could process them. "i don’t care if mercury’s in gatorade or saturn’s doing cartwheels—i like you. no, wait, i love you. i love you because you care about things that no one else notices, because you do the kindest things without making a big deal out of it. because you..." you hesitated, your voice softening, "you make life feel... lighter. and if this ruins everything, then fine. but i needed you to know."

poor geto looked like he was experiencing every emotion known to man simultaneously. he let out a shaky laugh, running a hand through his hair. "are you sure you’re not drunk?"

"i love you," you repeated, because apparently, one humiliating confession wasn’t enough. "i mean, who wouldn’t? you’re... you’re geto! you bring vitamin gummies to class, you email me just to check in, and you—you just do these little things like they’re nothing, but they mean everything to me. and i—god, this is so embarrassing. i probably sound insane, don’t i?"

"no," he said quickly, his voice soft but firm. "no, you don’t. i—"

"oh my god," you cut him off, suddenly burying your face in your hands. "this is the bacardi talking. forget i said anything. or—or don’t forget. i don’t know. i’m spiraling, suguru. help."

"hey, hey," he said, leaning forward, his hands hovering awkwardly near yours as if he wanted to comfort you but didn’t want to scare you off. "breathe, okay? it’s fine."

you peeked at him through your fingers. "it is?"

he didn’t say anything at first. instead, he reached out, gently taking your hand in his. "yeah," he said quietly.

"for the record," his lips twitching into the faintest of smiles, "venus retrograde has nothing to do with this. i’ve been in love with you since the first time you helped me with my books in the library."

you blinked. "wait, what?"

"yeah," he repeated, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. "honestly, i’ve been in love with you for ages. i just—i didn’t think you’d feel the same way. you’re kind of out of my league, you know?"

"me? out of your league?" you laughed, the sound a little wobbly but genuine. "geto, you’re literally the human equivalent of a prince. you’re smart, you’re sweet, you’re ridiculously pretty—"

"okay, stop," he said, his face turning pink.

"no, seriously!" you insisted, a grin spreading across your face. "i’m half-convinced you’re not even real sometimes."

"well," he said, finally letting himself laugh, "if i’m not real, then who’s been buying you vitamin gummies and writing you sappy emails?"

"touché," you said, smiling back at him.

"love is a silly thing," he added, smiling softly. "but with you? it’s my favorite thing."

and just like that, your heart found its home.

thank you for reading till the end 🙂‍↕️ this is probably one of the shortest fics i've ever written LOL, the more i look at it the more unsatisfactory it gets.....but erm anyways blame that on the burnout 🕺!! i hope you liked reading this regardless, the concept has been on my mind for a while now ☆⌒(*＾-゜)v as usual, my "which reader are you" quiz has been updated with this fic as well, so be sure to take it and let me know if you got this fic or not! <3

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iqxatlantic · 5 months ago

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" you too ! "

super short head canons of kaiser being a cheater wuh oh (and reader being a giiirlboss <3 but not rlly cus they end up fawking..) yes there's smut so users be aware!! oh, there's some bits of non-con/dub-con btw! oh oh and literally cue "you too" by chase atlantic.

cheater!kaiser who realizes he fucked up big time. "wait — [name]. süße! don't be like that. y'know she's jus' a friend" he tried to convince you.

cheater!kaiser who's getting his ass absolutely roasted right now. "I'm sorry that your father never loved you," you spewed out. literal VENOM. "And you saw your mother on the TV too much, oh. doesn't mean you can do this." you continued.

cheater!kaiser who realized you weren't playing around anymore. you were genuinely done with his shit. hell, he should've known he shouldn't have ended a conversation with "i love you" even though he knew it wasn't true (it ended up being true LOL)

cheater!kaiser who found himself on his knees begging you to stay and you couldn't leave him. "you're all i have!" he'd whimper out. "then go get more from that other bitch you're cheatin' on me with." you'd retort.

cheater!kaiser who's now trying to get physical in hopes to repair things. you couldn't push him off. so all you could do was run that venomous and hurtful mouth of yours that once slid out the sweetest things ever.

cheater!kaiser who'd shut you up by crashing his lips onto yours. he knew it was disgusting but, hey. it works. by the time he pulled away, you were less angry..? "ew, i don't wanna have your side hoe's taste lingering in my mouth." you spat out. god do you ever stop?

cheater!kaiser who has you pinned on the floor as he's pressed up against you the way his lips are pressed against yours. his tongue exploring your mouth like it was your first time together.

cheater!kaiser who has you out of breath, carries you to the bed for some cushioning. he continues his rampage on your sweet lips as his big hands are desperately trying to get your shirt off — in which he ends up ripping the shirt.

cheater!kaiser who just decides he'll buy you a new shirt later continues to cover your delicate skin with harsh markings. you pulled him by the rattails, "you must looooo-ove doing this with the other girls you're sleeping 'round with huh?" you snarled.

cheater!kaiser who shuts your pain-inflicting words n noises with a higher pitch loving tone. his big big fingers were teasing along your folds now.

cheater!kaiser who genuinely cannot get enough of you as you're whining, crying, whimpering, all the above on his fdick or fingers. thrust after thrust, your sweet noises filling the room. were they filled with anger? yea, probably. did he care? na. for your and his pleasure.

cheater!kaiser who can't remember why he cheated in the first place as it hit him like an arrow in the heart, you were just perfect. loving, a bitch as well LOL, puts him in his place... perfection. you were the absolute ideal of a partner in his head.

cheater!kaiser who whispers gently, "give me a second chance, liebe. i'll change" into your ear in which you let out a hefty "more than second now. you havent changed at all" guess he's still oughta fuck the anger out of you.

a/n: omg hi bbys um ive been very freaking busy lately and i've been stacked with lots of drafts... i couldn't rlly get anything out so i was like 'i needa do something" and came up w this im so sorry.. it's like 2 a.m. pls let me slide w this one ughhh im still salty over getting broken up w so shhh... yes this was a somewhat reflection of what happened just minus the sex and stuff bc it wasnt even close... wiasdjsaj i'll get out more soon just trust me... i wanted to like do one for valentines but i couldnt get anything in my head so um i def slacked off also this is all yap YIKESSS but i heart kaiser sosos much omg this wasnt proofread btw also fyi when reader's calling the other woman a hoe, bitch, and other really nasty words its cus she knows that reader was w kaiser ^^

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bangtanbeom · 3 months ago

Text

'*•.¸undeniably yours¸.•*'

୨♡୧ part one / part two / part three / bonus ୨♡୧

pairing: beomgyu x femreader genre: fluff, strangers to friends to ....? , college AU, slow burn summary: you and beomgyu are partnered for a group project, the connection starts off as simple friendship. but as you share quiet moments, unspoken glances, and moments of vulnerability, the lines between friendship and something more begin to blur. w/c: ~4k warnings: not entirely proofread, fluff (might be cringe), an attempt at humor a/n: its been 10 years since i last wrote something (which was on wattpad) and actually published lol so many drafts ;-; so bear with me. i usually don't write fluff, i always leaned more to angst or smut yet here i am. i hope it's a little bit enjoyable <3

it wasn't love at first sight.

there were no sparks flying across the room, no fireworks, no swelling background music with flower petals twirling and glitters shimmering.

just a tuesday morning lecture, and a pair of tired eyes locking briefly across the room before looking back down at a notebook.

"i've assigned the partners already," the professor said, tapping his laptop. "check your emails."

you opened yours with a sigh, not expecting much. then paused.

partner: choi beomgyu

"huh?"

beomgyu? that guy who always sat in the third row by the window? who always wore those oversized hoodies, and had a habit of twirling his pen when he was deep in thought?

beomgyu. that guy with the soft brown eyes and the eternal bedhead. the one who always had a half-smile playing on his lips as your eyes met. you'd shared a few classes before, exchanged nods and awkward hellos in group discussions, but never really talked.

until now.

you agreed to meet at a nearby cafe the next day—neutral territory. the project was due in 15 weeks, and you didn't want to be the partner who slacked off. you arrived first and chose a small table by the window. you heard the soft jingle of the door and looked up just in time to see beomgyu walk in, ruffling his hair and looking around until his eyes landed on you.

he offered you a small wave, walking over with a grin. "hey."

"hey, beomgyu." you returned, sending him a kind smile.

"that's me." he slid into the chair across from you. "sorry if i'm late. i had to rescue my hoodie from my roommate's dog. he thinks it's his now."

you laughed before you could stop yourself. "did you win the battle?"

"barely. this is a peace offering," he said, holding up a slightly crumpled banana milk. "also, i brought you one. it's not coffee, but it's got charm."

you blinked, surprised. "you brought me one?"

"figured i should start off as a decent partner," he said with a casual shrug. "if you hate banana milk, i'll take it back and cry about it later."

"i like it," you chuckled softly and sent him a smile. "thanks."

your first meeting was mostly small talk and note-sharing. beomgyu was surprisingly organized, though he admitted he did most of his work at 2 a.m.

"that's when i'm the most powerful." he said with a mock serious face, earning a laugh from you.

both of you got to work quickly—organizing tasks, dividing responsibilities, setting deadlines. it was professional. efficient. but something about the way beomgyu spoke—soft and easy, laced with dry humor—made you feel oddly comfortable.

he wasn't trying hard. he didn't have to.

but what struck you the most was how easily he listened as much as he talked. he wasn't just nodding along. he remembered things, like how you preferred tea over coffee, or that you hated typing on your laptop without music playing.

by the end of that first meeting, you'd laughed more than you had all week. that was the first moment you realized he wasn't what you expected. not just the class clown or the guy who wore headphones walking down the hallway.

thoughtful, a little odd and disarming in a weirdly comforting way.

the collaboration soon settled into a comfortable rhythm. study sessions alternated between the library, the cafe, and occasionally, each other's homes. each meeting, their conversations began to drift beyond the confines of their project.

both sitting on the floor of beomgyu's living room, while his roommate was away and surrounded by open books and notes, beomgyu strummed his guitar absentmindedly.

"you play?" you asked, nodding towards the instrument.

he glanced up, a sheepish smile on his face. "a little. it's more of a hobby."

"can i hear something?"

he hesitated for a moment, his fingers softly grazing the strings. "alright, but no judging."

you nodded and his fingers danced over the strings, producing a soft melody that filled the room. you watched, captivated by the way he immersed himself in the music. as the final note lingered, you clapped softly.

"wow," you said under your breath, afraid to break the silence. "that was beautiful."

beomgyu's ears turned pink, luckily for him, his hair covered most of his ears. "thanks. it's just something i do to unwind."

"do you write your own songs?"

"sometimes," he admitted. "mostly when i can't sleep."

you leaned forward, intrigued. "i'd love to hear one sometime."

he met your gaze, a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. "maybe one day."

"so, tell me something weird about you." beomgyu said as he was scrolling uninterestedly through his phone.

beomgyu was sitting on the couch, leaning with his back against the arm rest and his feet resting on your lap.

you looked up from your phone, turning your head to him as you raised an eyebrow. "weird how?"

he shrugged casually, putting his phone down, meeting your gaze. "like... you eat cereal with water, or you sing to your houseplants. something unexpected."

you grinned. "okay. i have this very serious superstition that i have to wear mismatched socks on exam days."

beomgyu blinked. "you... what?"

"they bring me luck!" you quickly defended yourself, but couldn't help but laugh a little.

"that's extremely specific. i like it." he said, his fingers touching his chin as he nodded.

"your turn," you challenged.

he thought for a moment. "sometimes i talk to my laundry."

you frowned your eyebrows before you burst out laughing. "your laundry?"

"yeah, like if i'm folding a shirt and it refuses to cooperate, i'll scold them, or just yell at them."

you clutched your stomach, tears forming in the corners of your eyes. "you are—wow." before you could finish your sentence, you began to laugh even harder.

he was now reenacting the scene.

"i'm never looking at laundry the same again." you said, trying to stop yourself from laughing.

beomgyu was effortlessly funny, the kind of person who could make you laugh without even trying. he'd mimic professors, come up with ridiculous nicknames, or read lines from their textbook in dramatic accents just to see you smile.

"wait, you've never watched spirited away?" beomgyu asked one evening, scandalized. "we need to fix that. immediately."

"i just never got around to it," you defended. "you're making it sound like i committed a crime."

"you kind of did." he grinned. "movie night. right now."

you rolled your eyes, but your lips slowly curved into a smile, betraying you. "fine. but i'm picking snacks."

the group project finished early. neither of you mentioned it, but you kept meeting up anyway.

it was the little things that began to chip away at the wall around your heart. the way he'd always wait for you outside class, even when it wasn't necessary.

how he remembered your favorite drink and brought it to study sessions without asking. the way he looked at you when you laughed—like you were something he'd been waiting to see bloom.

and it was how he didn't rush it.

even when your fingers brushed for a second too long, or when you stood closer than necessary, or when the silence stretched a little too comfortable—beomgyu never pushed.

he just let it happen, slowly, unforced, easy.

after a particularly grueling study session, both of you decided to take a break. the city lights shimmered as you wandered through the quiet streets, hands tucked into both of your pockets as the hot summer came to an end and the rainy fall was approaching.

"do you ever feel like you're going through the motions?" beomgyu asked, his breath visible in the cold air.

you glanced at him, surprised by the sudden introspection. "sometimes. university can feel like that. but then there are moments that remind me why i'm here."

"like what?"

you thought for a moment. "like this. walking through the city, just talking. it makes everything feel... real."

he smiled softly. "yeah..."

you walk in silence for a while, the distance between you two narrowing with each step. his shoulder brushed yours once, then again, but neither of you moved away.

you found yourself on beomgyu’s couch as the rain pattered against the window, a classic film playing on the tv. you curled up with a blanket, while beomgyu sat beside you, your shoulders touching.

the room smelled faintly of buttered popcorn and cinnamon tea.

beomgyu had taken over the popcorn bowl, cradling it like some priceless artifact in his lap. he was deeply focused on it. more so than the movie, picking through the pieces like a kid separating marshmallows from cereal.

you arched a brow. "are you seriously removing all the unpopped kernels?"

beomgyu didn't even glance up. "yes. they're a menace. one wrong bite and it's over. i have sensitive molars."

you laughed and shook your head slightly. "you're so dramatic."

"i'm a victim of snack sabotage," he said with a solemn nod. "you wouldn't understand."

he looked up then— eyes shining, lips curled in that typical lazy grin of his—and you blinked, caught off guard by how different he looked like that, handsome even. like summer even though it was raining. like something warm even though the windows fogged with the cold.

you shook your head and grabbed a handful of popcorn from his 'safe pile.'

"thief," he accused, his lips slightly parted as his eyes followed your hand full of his popcorn.

"you owe me for picking the movie," you said casually through a mouthful.

"which, by the way, was way too sad." he responded witty , looking down at his safe pile that was looking much smaller now, a pout growing on his lips.

"hey. you voted for it!" you said defensively.

"i was tricked."

"you literally said—and i quote—'that one has cool vibes.'"

beomgyu gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. "i did not sound like that."

"oh you did."

the laughter bounced around the room like the rain outside, soft and constant. the movie flickered on, mostly forgotten now, serving as a backdrop to something that felt... safe.

beomgyu leaned back on the couch, stretching until his arm rested casually along the back, his fingers inches from your shoulder. not touching. almost.

you pretended to focus on the screen, but you couldn't help but notice how close he was. how normal it felt.

how not-normal that normal felt.

when did it become this easy to be around him? when did he start looking like that?

beomgyu glanced over at you just then, mid-thought, and you caught him. his hand twitched like he might move it closer—then didn't

he grinned instead. "you've got popcorn salt on your cheek."

you blinked. "i do not."

"you do."

you tried wiping your face with the back of your hand.

"nope, other side."

you tried again. he squinted dramatically.

"closer," he teased. "warmer... almost... oh no. now it's smeared."

"seriously?"

he leaned in then, brushing his thumb lightly across your cheekbone. just a second. just enough.

"got it."

you froze. not from the touch, exactly—but from how something about it lodged itself under your ribs and stayed there.

that shouldn't have felt like anything, you told yourself.

but it had.

beomgyu didn't move away immediately. he looked at you, eyes scanning like he was trying to solve a puzzle. like he was trying to read you.

he wasn't smiling anymore, not really. it wasn't serious, but it wasn't just playful anymore.

why do i keep noticing the way she looks at me? why does her laugh sound like something i want to hear first thing in the morning?

that moment hung there—brief, silent, almost something.

the you grabbed a pillow and whacked him, maybe a little too hard.

"okay that was dramatic. you made it a whole moment."

he barked out a laugh, delighted, instantly recovering, his head tilted to the side. "i was being helpful! you're lucky i didn't use a napkin like an old man."

you narrowed your eyes. "you definitely would've done the whole spit-on-the-thumb thing, huh?"

beomgyu gasped. "do i look like a mom at a school drop-off?"

you looked him up and down pointedly. "you do own a cardigan that says otherwise."

he placed a hand to his chest, fake-offended. "that cardigan is a fashion statement."

"it's a threat to society."

he snatched a handful of popcorn and launched a piece at you. it bounced of your blanket.

"you're just jealous," he muttered, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "you wish you looked that cozy."

"i do look cozy," you said smugly, hugging the bowl to your chest now like it was a trophy. "and now this popcorn's mine."

"oh you think i'm gonna let that slide?" he said inching closer.

you tightened your grip. "don't test me."

your eyes locked in mock-serious challenge. then, without warning, beomgyu lunged. both wrestling over the bowl like two kids at a sleepover, laughing so hard, barely holding it together.

limbs tangled, the blanket twisted, and somewhere in the chaos, your hand ended up resting against his chest, and his leg slid beside yours, warm and solid.

both of you froze—not on purpose, but as if something instinctual told you this was different. the laughter trailed off in small, breathless remnants, but neither of you moved right away.

you looked up, realizing how close you were. his hair was a little messy now. he was smiling—but softer. not his usual teasing, lazy grin.

your fingers curled slightly into the fabric of his hoodie before you pulled them back.

beomgyu didn't say anything. he just shifted onto his elbow, resting his head in his hand, watching you as you sat up and set the popcorn down beside the couch.

the room was still. not awkward nor heavy. just full of something unspoken.

you turned towards the screen, tucking your legs underneath you again.

"you're not so bad for a popcorn snob." you said lightly, not looking at him.

"thanks," he replied, his voice softer now. "you're not so bad for a popcorn thief."

the both of you sat in silence again, this time more aware of it. more aware of each other.

it was supposed to be a quick study session. an hour, maybe two. just enough to finalize the concept sketches and finish your part of the layout. you'd done most of the work already—beomgyu had helped a lot more than you expected him to, even stayed up late editing the small mistakes you made when you were too tired to keep your eyes open.

so when he texted you that afternoon—

"you free to review the last presentation slides? i promise i'll bring snacks + my charming presence."

—you'd rolled your eyes and typed short yes.

unfortunately, the rainy season wasn't over yet. today the rain started like a whisper, then turned into a roar.

it poured down so hard, you could barely see the street from your window.

thirty minutes later, he was standing in your doorway,

drenched.

like fully soaked. hair flat. hoodie sticking to his arms. his sneakers squelched when he stepped inside.

he looked half amused, half miserable.

you blinked, your eyes traveling over him from head to toe. "did you walk here?"

beomgyu nodded, blinking rain from his lashes. "i was halfway when the sky opened up."

"why didn't you bring an umbrella?"

"i was trying to be dramatic."

you stared at him.

he smiled sheepishly. "also... i forgot."

you sighed, shaking your head, already turning to grab a towel.

he wasn't planning on getting caught in a storm, but maybe, deep down, he wanted an excuse to stay longer.

the professor gave the class another project, but you both finished it, mostly.

but that wasn't the reason he'd wanted to come over.

he liked your apartment. the plants in teacups. the art prints taped to the walls instead of framed. your weird little snack drawer organized by mood. it all felt warm, like you lived in comfort space, like you weren't trying to impress anyone.

and he liked your company, though he was still figuring out what to do with those thoughts about you that kept popping occasionally.

he liked the way your mind worked. the way you made things feel calm yet entertaining.

so yeah, he walked through the storm. and maybe he didn't care.

"guess i'm stranded." he said as you returned, holding a towel and a worn grey sweatshirt in your arms.

you tossed both at his chest.

"you're lucky i'm nice." you muttered, turning around, back to the living room.

he caught the sweatshirt midair and laughed, peeling off his soaked hoodie. "no, i'm lucky it's you."

you didn't answer him. you didn't want to read too much into it. beomgyu said things like that. he flirted for fun.

but your heart noticed.

he also didn't usually look at you like that.

you tried to ignore the way your heart sped up when he pulled your sweatshirt over his head. it looked better on him than it did on you, of course. and something about seeing him in it made the room feel smaller. closer.

you turned away and focused on making tea.

the rain hadn't stopped. it got heavier.

by that time, you both ended up on the couch under the blankets, the storm had turned the apartment into a little cave—safe, warm, cut off from everything else.

the tea steamed gently on the table. the movie played, but neither of you were paying attention. you sat shoulder to shoulder, legs tucked up, knees barely touching.

and still, you could feel him. every little shift. every glance.

you saw him look at you once. then again. and a third time.

"hey," he said, eyes on the screen, voice barely above a whisper.

you turned your head slightly. "hm?"

"i'm really glad we got partnered together." he said referring to early spring.

he wasn't sure why he said it. but he did.

thump, thump.

you weren't sure why your heart was speaking before your mind could process everything.

maybe for him, it was because the rain softened everything. maybe it was because the blanket was warm and you were warm and something about being near you made everything easier.

but he meant it.

he didn't look at you, his gaze still glued to the tv. still, he felt you turn slightly towards you.

"me too," you said, and there was a smile.

that did something to his chest, a tiny smile growing on his face.

"you know, i used to think you were kind of quiet," he said, trying to keep his tone light. you raised a brow. "but you're actually... kind of weird."

you elbowed him softly. "what... thanks, i guess?"

beomgyu grinned. "no like... you say weird stuff. the thing with your mismatched socks, talking to your plants like they're your babies. your enormous snacks collection based on your mood. but it's cool. it's interesting."

you didn't say anything, more like not knowing what to say. so you just looked at him.

your eyes, soft, kind. more than words ever could.

"your sweatshirt smells like you," he murmured, completely out of nowhere. "like laundry and cinnamon."

your heart flipped.

"that was almost romantic," you teased, pretending to be unbothered by your heart, almost jumping out of your ribcage.

he reached for his tea, brushing your hand in the process. sipping from his mug, his eyebrows dancing. "almost?"

"try harder next time."

he laughed, but his heart stuttered, ‘next time?’ he thought to himself. why did i even say that. hiding his thoughts behind a smile.

from his perspective, you didn't seem to mind, you didn't make it weird. thankfully

the thunder cracked louder now, rattling the windowpane.

you checked the forecast on your phone and frowned. "yeah you're not going anywhere."

beomgyu looked up from where he had flopped dramatically across your couch, his hair still slightly damp and sticking to his forehead.

"tragic," he said, voice dry. "guess i'll have to endure your tea and fluffy blankets a little longer."

you gave him a look. "endure?"

he looked at you with his usual playful grin, hugging a throw pillow like it was a long-lost pet. "okay, luxuriate inn. happy?"

"ecstatic," you said, tossing him a second pillow to the face.

he caught it swiftly and immediately started building a pillow wall between you. "this is for my safety."

"from what?" you asked with a raised eyebrow.

"you. you're feisty when sleep-deprived. remember your mood last week."

"you literally tried to eat expired instant noodles last week."

"and i survived, didn't i?" he said proudly and had a smug smirk on his face.

"barely."

"i am a man of mystery. i live on the edge."

"you live on convenience store snacks." you said and rolled your eyes. you pushed yourself off from the couch and his attention was now on you.

"you want me to grab something to sleep in?" you asked, voice soft with sleep.

he gave you a thumbs up from under the pillow fortress.

you came back with a pajama pants covered in tiny frogs, dropping it on his lap.

beomgyu's eyes lit up as he noticed the frogs. "i bet i'll still look handsome in this." his tone layered with confidence.

you rolled your eyes and shook your head slightly.

"whatever. i'm going to bed." you said after grabbing him a couple more blankets, since it was getting colder.

beomgyu nodded and prepared the couch to a comfortable bed.

"goodnight frog boy," you mumbled as you were walking towards your bedroom.

"goodnight popcorn thief." he said back. he was already laying comfortable, under the blankets and pillows.

the morning sunlight crept through the clouds, pale and hesitant casting a soft glow. the storm had finally passed.

you stirred awake to the faint clink of dishes and the sound of cupboard doors opening and closing.

beomgyu.

you blinked a few times, sitting up slowly. your hair was a wild mess around your face. a yawn escaped from your lips and you pushed yourself up from your bed.

you padded into the kitchen, rubbing your eyes. "what are you doing?"

beomgyu turned around, spoon in his mouth and a box of cereal tucked under his arm like a prized possession. his hair was fluffy now, dry but still unbrushed, sticking up like he'd rolled straight from the couch into the pantry.

he pulled the spoon out and shrugged. "breakfast obviously."

you raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. "you have your own place."

"you don't have plain boring cornflakes," he said, lifting the box of choco rings slightly like it was a trophy. "you have joy."

you sighed, but your lips curved upward. "help yourself, i guess."

"oh i have been," he said with a playful wink, already reaching for a second bowl from the shelf.

the next ten minutes were filled with quiet munching and the soft sound of the morning news on low volume in the background. beomgyu sat across from you at the small kitchen table, still wearing the frog pants you'd given him the night before, like they were the peak of fashion.

"you've got milk on your chin," you said, half-smiling as you pount at him with your spoon.

beomgyu blinked, swiping at the wrong side of his face. you rolled your eyes, leaned over the table and wiped it with the corner of your sleeve.

he froze—just for a second. the kind of pause that hung in the air a beat too long. you felt it too, the sudden silence stretching between you.

"thanks." he said softy, eyes lingering on yours a little longer than usual.

you nodded, quickly looking down at your cereal. the clink of your spoon against the bowl suddenly felt too loud.

after a moment, he leaned back in his chair and tilted his head toward the window. "the sun's finally out," he said, his voice light again. "i was starting to think we'd be stuck in a tragic indie film forever."

you snorted. "you'd love that though."

he smirked. "depends. do i get the girl in the end?"

huh?

you stared at him—just a second too long. an unreadable expression on your face.

but your heart knew what was behind that expression, even if your mind was in denial.

he looked back, like he was trying to read something in your face. then he blinked and grinned, brushing it off like it was a joke. "kidding. unless you think i'd make a good male lead."

his usual teasing tone was evident in his voice.

you laughed, shaking your head. "you'd definitely cry at your own monologue."

"and steal the show," he said, eyebrows dancing, popping the last choco ring into his mouth.

you watched him, the sun catching his hair now, and something soft settled in your chest—warm and confusing.

"what?" he asked, catching your gaze.

"nothing." you said quickly. "just... your hair looks ridiculous."

"you say that like it's not my brand. and it's called trendy." he said and sent you a wink playfully, a light-hearted joke.

but why did my heart take it seriously?

୨♡୧ part one / part two / part three / bonus ୨♡୧

#txt #txt fic #beomgyu fic #beomgyu #beomgyu imagines #txt imagines #beomgyu x reader #beomgyu x female reader #beomgyu x you #tomorrow x together #choi beomgyu #txt x reader #beomgyu au

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