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writesvani · 1 day ago

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down low | 02

boxer! jungkook x collegestudent! reader

SUMMARY: There's no love, there are no fights with Jungkook—just a twisted addiction that keeps you crawling back. You tell yourselves it’s not toxic. After all, you never argue, never get jealous. Just fuck, lie, and slip back into the arms of the people who will never know.

It’s not love.

But it sure as hell isn’t nothing.

friends with benefits au, situationship au

TRIGGER WARNINGS: cheating, drug use (weed), smoking, explicit sexual content, emotionally toxic relationship, manipulation, infidelity (jk and y/n are cheating on their partners with each other), unhealthy coping mechanisms, morally gray behavior, emotional detachment

comment here for the Down Low taglist;

SERIES M. LIST;

— previous chapter // next chapter (pending...)

wc: 4k // date: 25th of April 2025

CHAPTER TWO — Inhaling You, Exhaling Guilt; happy reading my gummies...

AN: hey besties. new “down low” chapter is here and it’s unwell, just like me. this was supposed to be a 15k word monster but i said absolutely not and chopped it into 3 parts—so yeah, this ends on a cliffhanger. no sex yet. i’m sorry. (i’m not.)

BUT the tension? the dynamic? it’s sizzling. they’re one touch away from absolute disaster and i love that for them.

left some easter eggs in there too, so if you catch ‘em, scream at me in the comments or my asks. i’m lurking.

note goal is 600 bc you’re all feral and i believe in peer pressure. hit it and you’ll get part 2 real fast.

read. suffer. tell me your thoughts. love u forever, even while emotionally tormenting you.

The shift is... just another day. The usual crowd of regulars is here, sipping their espressos and making small talk that you would rather skip entirely. The day has been routine too—classes, a quick lunch with Taehyung, then straight into work. It’s all repetitive. It’s boring. And the worst part? You’re counting down the minutes until you can sprint to Jungkook’s apartment the second your shift ends at 10pm. You hate it. You crave it. And Jungkook’s not making it any easier.

Because right now, you're standing there, phone in your clammy hands, staring at a picture he just had to send you. Jungkook, in the middle of his boxing practice, hair messy, tattoos peeking out from his oversized black shirt, a cigarette hanging from his lips like he owns the damn world. He’s standing outside—because Namjoon doesn’t let him smoke inside (honestly, who’s the athlete here?)—but Jungkook looks so fucking good you almost forget where you are.

He knows it too. He knows exactly what he’s doing. That picture isn’t just a tease; it’s a reminder. A reminder that you should be thinking about being in his bed, not focusing on perfecting lattes. But here you are, trying to breathe through the urge to drop everything and run to him.

You can’t focus anymore. Your brain is mush, your hands are clumsy, and the espresso machine might as well be a spaceship for how little you're processing. You accidentally make an espresso instead of a double one for Mark—the sweet old man who comes in daily and tips in coins like it’s 1993. He stares at you like you just insulted his entire bloodline. You apologize, mutter something about being tired, and shuffle back to your station.

But your hands are twitchy. Your eyes dart to your phone every two seconds. Still nothing. Jungkook hasn’t sent anything else—no texts, no pics, no emojis. Just that one, cursed, sinfully sexy picture of him looking like every wrong decision you’ve ever made and wanted to make again.

And now? Now you’re stuck. One hour left of your shift and your brain is spiraling. You’re mentally unwell. Not in a tragic, poetic way. In a feral, "why isn't he texting me back when I clearly need to ride his face into next week" kind of way. You're restless. Desperate. Left alone with your thoughts and an absolutely unhinged amount of need clawing its way through your body like a caffeine-craving demon.

Only your message stares back at you, mocking, lingering, and gnawing at the edges of your sanity. It’s there, like a cruel joke, one that you can’t stop laughing at even though it’s slowly driving you insane.

you: stop teasing me kook

And then, nothing. Not a single reply. Left on read. Just like always.

Jungkook has this game down to a science, doesn't he? The art of push and pull—never fails to leave you dangling on the edge of your patience, teetering on the line between wanting to strangle him and wanting him to do the same to you. You’re on the verge of losing it, fingertips hovering over your phone, waiting for the next message that might never come. He knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s like a power play, a twisted form of control that drives you crazy in ways you can’t even put into words.

Every time you’re about to meet up with him, just when you think you’re close, he disappears. Doesn’t answer. Doesn’t care. Leaves you with nothing but your own burning desire and a game you never agreed to play. It makes you want to scream.

And it makes you want him more.

But despite the shrill, maddening thrill of his little game, there's one thing you're sure of—Jungkook wants it. Wants you. And that’s what makes him predictable. Comfortably so. It’s the only thread of stability in this whole mess. Because no matter how long he leaves you on read, no matter how quiet he goes, as soon as the clock strikes 10PM and your shift ends, like clockwork, your phone pings.

JK: when will u be here?

You smirk, your fingers moving fast.

you: 20 minutes

He waits. Not long. Just enough to keep the suspense alive. Just enough to remind you that he’s still in control.

JK: kk, see u baby

And that’s all it takes. You're spiraling again—but this time, you're sprinting into it willingly.

Jungkook smirks as he opens the door, like he’s been waiting his whole life just to make you roll your eyes. He leans against the frame with that infuriating ease, one hand—the tattooed one—tucked into the pocket of his grey sweats. His hair’s still damp, messy in that way that makes you suspicious he’s doing it on purpose. He smells like wood, citrus, and a hundred bad decisions. His black oversized shirt hangs just right on his frame, clinging to his shoulders, draping like it has no idea it's breaking rules just by existing.

And fuck him. Fuck him for looking that good.

“You’re late,” he drawls, head tilted, eyes dragging down your body like he has all the time in the world.

You raise a brow. “Didn’t you say I should be here until 11pm? It’s only like, half past ten.”

He shrugs, lips curling. “I did say that. But you always come earlier. I know you wanna see me as soon as you can.”

You scoff, pushing past him. “Jesus, Jungkook. Knock it off and let me in.”

He laughs behind you. Slow. Knowing. Dangerous.

You flop down onto his sofa like it’s your own personal throne. There are new pink pillows you don’t recognize. With a lazy smile, you say, “Cute pillows.”

“Thanks, baby. Eunji got them from IKEA the other day.”

You nod, lips curling. “Noted. I should tell Tae—these would totally match his softboy vibes.”

Jungkook drops down beside you, digging into his pocket like he’s searching for treasure. You already know what’s coming. Sure enough, a small greenish bud peeks out from a crumpled tissue.

“Didn’t know we were smoking tonight,” you murmur, eyeing him.

He shrugs, effortlessly picking the bud apart with skilled fingers. The way he moves is distracting. Methodical. Confident. Hot.

You shift in your seat, trying to ignore the tightening in your core.

“When are we not smoking?” he says with a smirk, not looking up.

“True,” you mumble, sinking back into the soft fluff of Eunji’s precious IKEA pillows. Silly girl. She has no idea the kind of things they’re about to witness.

You glance up—and Jungkook is watching you. Of course he is. Eyes hooded, a smirk ghosting his lips, like he’s waiting. Like he’s daring you to say or do something.

Then, slowly—so slowly—his tongue drags across the rolling paper.

He knows what he’s doing. And he does it anyway. On purpose.

You watch, helpless, skin prickling, heat curling low in your stomach. It’s obscene the way he licks it—like it’s not even about the joint anymore, like it’s about you. About this.

And the worst part? You’re not strong enough to look away.

You’ve never been strong when it comes to Jeon Jungkook.

“What?” Jungkook asks, one brow raised as he brings the freshly rolled joint to his lips like it’s second nature.

“Nothing,” you mutter, eyes tracking the flame as it flickers, kissing the end of the joint. He inhales deep, the ember glowing bright red before he exhales slowly, like it’s an artform. Smoke curls out of his mouth in slow, lazy tendrils, and you’re already annoyed at how sexy he looks doing the bare minimum.

He grins — cocky, annoying, knowing — and pats the cushion beside him like he owns the place. Like he owns you. You don’t even hesitate. You shift closer, tucking your legs beneath you, pretending you don’t care that your thigh brushes his.

Jungkook takes another drag, then coughs lightly, voice raspy as he waves off the moment with a half-laugh. “Okay, don’t clown me. This shit’s stronger than I thought.” His eyes squint just slightly, like he’s studying you. “So… uh, how’re your friends? Lena and Bob, right?”

You stare at him flatly. “It’s Lara and Rob. Do you seriously not remember their names after all this time?”

He shrugs like it’s not a big deal, but the smirk playing on his lips tells you he’s doing it on purpose. Just to get a rise out of you. “Close enough. They doing okay?”

You sigh. This is the worst part. The awkward five minutes of half-assed small talk before the inevitable. Before the high kicks in and his hands are on your skin. The two of you always dance around it — pretend like this isn’t transactional, like this isn’t just desire dressed up as casual banter.

“Lara just broke up with her boyfriend,” you say, grabbing the joint from him and taking a slow hit.

Jungkook leans back into the couch, one arm draped along the back of it, watching you. “Oh, the dude who studies Econ?”

You blink at him. “What? No. That was like… two years ago. This one studies Law.”

His mouth drops slightly. “Wait, hold up. Are you telling me we’ve been doing this for two years?”

You don’t say anything at first. Just pass the joint back and exhale a laugh, soft and a little bitter. “Yeah. Way before Taehyung and me.”

He tilts his head. “Shit. I forgot you even dated Kai.”

You chuckle. “Jungkook, we started hooking up way before Kai. Don’t act like you don’t remember.”

He stares at you for a beat, the room quiet except for the faint buzz of the overhead light and the sound of the joint crackling in his hand.

“So,” he says slowly, lips quirking, “what I’m hearing is — you’ve basically cheated on everyone with me.”

There’s something infuriating about how pleased he looks with himself. You raise an eyebrow, snatch the joint from his fingers again and hold it between yours like a crown jewel.

“Wouldn’t you like that,” you say, lips curling into a lazy smile. Smoke drifts out from between your lips. You don’t break eye contact.

His smirk deepens. “I do like it.”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach twists anyway. Because God help you, so do you.

“So, what’s up with you?” you ask, tilting your head as you hold the joint between two fingers, eyes flickering toward his. The smoke rolls from your lips like a sigh, curling into the space between you like a secret.

Jungkook shrugs, leaning back deeper into the couch, his arm brushing yours just barely. “Nothing much. Just chilling. Boxing and all that.”

You hum, eyebrows raising with mild amusement. “Wow. Riveting stuff.”

He shoots you a lazy grin. “You asked.”

“Yeah, and I keep forgetting that you’re emotionally unavailable until at least two joints in.”

He laughs, soft and warm, and it does something to you that you don’t want to look too closely at. You pass the joint back to him and try not to stare at the veins on his hand or the ink decorating his fingers like poetry you were never meant to read.

For someone whose body you know so intimately—every line, every scar, every sound he makes when you kiss the right places—you know next to nothing about his life. And that’s part of the deal. Or maybe the whole deal.

Jungkook takes a drag and blows it out slowly. “What about you?” he asks. “How’s the glamorous life of overworked and underpaid?”

You snort. “The usual. College, work, crying in coffee-scented bathrooms.”

He chuckles again, eyes crinkling, and it hits you how rare it is to see him smile like that when you're not on top of him.

You glance down at your nails, picking at a chipped corner of polish. “Tae and I are going on a small trip next weekend.”

That gets his attention. “Yeah? Where to?”

“Dunno yet. Probably something basic. Mountains or a lake house. Just wanna get out of the city for a bit.”

Jungkook nods slowly, lips parting like he wants to say something more, but he doesn’t. Just lets silence settle between you again.

You don’t push him. You never do.

“This reminds me…” Jungkook says, plucking the joint from your fingers like he owns it—and in moments like these, he kind of does. He leans back, smoke curling around his face like it knows he’s trouble. “Eunji wants me to meet her mom next weekend.”

You scoff, tilting your head. “Damn, dude. How are you gonna survive that?”

He grins around the joint. “Bruh. I’m perfect meet-the-mother material.”

You snort. “Right. Because mothers love tattooed boxers who smell like weed and moral ambiguity.”

“Whatever,” he says, exhaling smoke like it offends him. “You’re such a hater.”

“Not a hater. Just realistic.”

He glances at you, amusement twitching at the corners of his lips. “You think I’m not charming enough?”

You deadpan, “I think you’re more lie-to-your-daughter’s-face material.”

He bursts out laughing, tipping his head back. “Shit, that’s fair.”

You smile, watching him. He’s still hot when he laughs. Annoying, infuriatingly hot.

“But yeah,” he adds, voice dropping a little, “that probably won’t be happening. I’ll have to lie my way out of that one.”

You give him a dry look. “Thank god you’re a good liar.”

He smirks, eyes flickering to yours. “You’d know.”

“God,” you say, eyes fixed on the ceiling, “can you imagine if Eunji actually found out?”

Jungkook exhales a puff of smoke, slow and smug. “She’d kill me. And probably come for you too.”

“She wouldn’t even get the chance. Tae would commit murder first.”

He hums, passing you the joint. “Tae’s scary when he’s mad.”

You take it, inhale deep. “He is indeed. Have you seen his stare? That’s not normal. That’s serial killer energy.”

Jungkook laughs. “Yeah, and yet you still cozy up to him like he’s a weighted blanket.”

“You’re just jealous he takes me on cute brunch dates and actually remembers my birthday.”

“Wow,” he gasps dramatically. “Are you implying I’m not boyfriend material?”

You look him up and down, slow and deliberate. “I’m saying you’re situationship in denial material.”

He bites his lip to hide his grin. “That’s rich coming from you. Miss I’m loyal to my boyfriend except for every time I text you at 2 a.m.”

You groan. “Don’t act like you don’t eat it up.”

“Oh, I do,” he smirks, shifting closer, “especially when you come over all pouty, pretending this isn’t your favorite part of the week.”

You narrow your eyes. “You talk too much.”

“You like it.”

“Unfortunately,” you mutter, flicking ash into the tray.

He leans in, voice soft and cocky, “Bet Tae doesn’t make you squirm with just words.”

You look at him, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Bet Eunji doesn’t know you like being choked a little.”

He raises a brow, but doesn’t deny it. “Touché.”

“And for the record,” you whisper, fingers brushing his thigh, “you’re not boyfriend material. You’re just my favorite craving.”

He grins, low and dangerous. “That’s the sexiest compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

“You know,” Jungkook starts, tapping the ash off the joint, “sometimes I think Eunji likes the idea of me more than she likes me.”

You snort. “Well, you do post thirst traps and quote Nietzsche in your captions. Anyone would fall for the illusion.”

He gasps, mock-offended. “Are you saying I’m a fraud?”

“I’m saying you’re a curated experience.”

“Damn,” he laughs, nudging your thigh with his knee. “And yet here you are, front row, backstage pass, meet and greet.”

You shoot him a look, amused. “I never said I wasn’t a fan.”

He smirks. “You’re more than a fan. You’re the president of the Jungkook is a Bad Idea But God He’s Good in Bed club.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you say, even though your grin is impossible to hide. “I’m vice president, at best.”

“Oh really? Who’s president then?”

You take a long drag, pretending to think. “My vibrator. That one never leaves me on read.”

He laughs so hard he coughs, waving smoke out of his face. “Okay, okay.”

You lean in, eyes gleaming. “Bet Eunji doesn’t make you laugh like this.”

He quiets, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. “She doesn’t make me laugh like this. Or moan like you do.”

You blink, caught off guard. “That was dangerously close to being sweet.”

“Don’t worry,” he teases, eyes dragging down your body, “I’ll say something trashy in two seconds.”

You chuckle. “You always do.”

“Maybe it’s a defense mechanism.”

“Maybe you’re emotionally constipated.”

“Maybe,” he murmurs, watching you, “but you like me better that way, don’t you?”

You don’t answer, but your silence is loud enough. And Jungkook hears every part of it.

He shifts closer. The joint is forgotten now, burning down between his fingers. His eyes drop to your mouth for a second too long, like he’s deciding if it’s worth it. Like kissing you is both a gamble and a given.

“You didn’t answer,” he says, voice lower, teasing, but almost careful.

You tilt your head. “About what?”

“Me being emotionally constipated. You liking me better that way.”

You smirk, but there’s a beat of honesty in your next words. “I don’t like you better that way. I just… like you.”

His gaze flickers—like the words hit somewhere deeper than you meant them to. And for a second, neither of you says anything. The tension isn’t new, but this feels… heavier. Messier.

“You’re dangerous when you say shit like that,” he murmurs.

You smile. “And you’re dangerous when you don’t.”

He drops the joint into the ashtray and leans in like gravity's pulling him toward you. His nose brushes yours. His breath smells like weed and cinnamon gum and something distinctly him.

“Last chance to stop me,” he says, voice so low it vibrates in your chest.

You blink slowly. “Last chance to kiss me before I change my mind.”

He chuckles—just a breath—and then closes the distance. His lips press to yours, soft but certain. There’s no hesitation this time. No teasing. Just warmth and the kind of familiarity that should scare you but doesn’t.

You kiss him back, one hand curling into the front of his shirt, the other finding his jaw. He tilts his head, deepens the kiss, sighs into your mouth like he’s been waiting all day for this exact moment.

And maybe he has.

When you pull back, slightly breathless, his eyes are still on yours. “So…” he whispers, “was that emotionally constipated, or…?”

You grin. “Still very much constipated. But in, like, a hot way.”

He groans. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” you say, tugging him back down, “you’re still kissing me.”

And he is. Again and again.

He kisses you again, but this time it’s messier. His hand slips to the back of your neck, pulling you in like he can’t stand the space between you, like it’s a personal offense. Your mouths crash together, lips sliding, breath hitching. It’s not soft anymore—it’s hungry. The kind of kiss that bruises, that says everything neither of you will ever admit out loud.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, still damp, pulling just hard enough to make him groan into your mouth. He kisses like he fights—like he needs to win, like he needs to ruin you a little just to feel okay again. His tongue grazes your bottom lip and you open for him without thinking, without hesitating.

“Fuck,” he mutters into your mouth, “you taste so good.”

You don’t even respond—you’re too busy climbing into his lap, straddling him like it’s muscle memory. His hands find your hips, gripping hard. Like he’s grounding himself. Like he needs the pressure of your body against his or he’ll fall apart completely.

Your lips are swollen already, your breathing ragged, but neither of you stops. Teeth clash a little, tongues fighting, his hand sliding up under your shirt to find skin. It’s clumsy, intense, addictive. You break the kiss just to catch your breath, only to dive back in like you’re starving for him. Like you’ll die if he’s not kissing you.

“Fuck, baby,” Jungkook groans, lips trailing down to your jaw, your throat. “What are we even doing?”

You pant against his skin, fingers clawing at his shirt. “Being so bad.”

He laughs, breathless, mouth still on your neck. “The best kind.”

And then he kisses you again—hard, deep, messy like a confession neither of you dares to say out loud.

He kisses you like he needs it to breathe. Like it’s not just a kiss—it’s survival.

Your mouths crash again, sloppy and desperate. It’s the kind of kiss that makes your teeth bump and your lips burn, the kind that leaves your head spinning. Jungkook’s hand is cradling your jaw now, thumb brushing your cheek as if that could balance out the chaos happening between your mouths. Spoiler: it can’t.

Your hands are roaming—up his chest, into his hair, pulling him closer when he’s already close enough to melt into. He shifts under you, groaning low in his throat when your hips accidentally roll forward. His fingers dig into your thighs like he’s trying not to lose it.

“Fuck,” he hisses, breaking the kiss just long enough to catch your eyes. His pupils are blown wide, lips red and shiny, jaw clenched like he's trying to get a grip. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Good,” you whisper, yanking him back in.

This time, the kiss is slower—but not softer. It’s a drag of tongues, a teasing nip to his bottom lip, a moan you try to swallow when he licks into your mouth just right. Your nails scrape his neck and he shudders, pulling you tighter against him. Your chest presses flush with his and neither of you can tell where one ends and the other begins.

You don’t know how long it goes on. Minutes? Hours? A lifetime? You’re half in his lap, legs tangled, hair a mess, and breath coming in short, needy gasps. And yet he’s still kissing you like he doesn’t care about oxygen. Like nothing else matters.

And maybe right now, in this twisted little moment where everything is all heat and tongue and hands that won’t stop wandering—you believe him.

He kisses you between sentences—like the conversation is an afterthought, like talking about other people while kissing you is normal. Maybe for you two, it is.

"Does Eunji ever kiss you like this?" you mumble against his lips, barely giving him space to breathe.

He lets out a breathless laugh, teeth grazing your bottom lip before he tugs it. "No. She kisses like she's saying goodbye all the time."

You pause at that, then kiss him again—harder. His hands settle on your waist, dragging you closer.

"And Taehyung?" he whispers into your mouth. "He still hold your hand when you sleep?"

"Sometimes," you pant, mouth brushing the corner of his. "Only when he's not too tired."

Jungkook hums against your skin, mouth trailing down to your jaw, then your neck. "Do you miss it?"

You tilt your head, let him kiss down to your collarbone. "No," you whisper honestly, then pull him back up by the chin to kiss him again. It’s messier now. Hungrier. Your lips glide against each other like you’re both trying to erase the names you just said.

"She makes me breakfast, you know," he murmurs between kisses, "Packs fruit in little containers like a mom."

You lick into his mouth, teeth grazing his tongue just slightly. “You ever think about her when we do this?”

“Only when you’re being mean,” he teases, nipping at your lip. “You?”

"Only when I feel guilty," you admit, then kiss him deeper—because guilt can wait.

His hands are tracing foreign paths under your shirt, his mouth never leaving yours, like he’s punishing you for every moment you spend talking about anyone that isn’t him.

"Fuck," he groans, pressing his forehead to yours, lips still brushing yours with every word. “We’re the worst.”

You kiss him again. “I know.”

But neither of you stop.

taglist part 1: @mochi13 @wobblewobble822 @jkvamp @sunnikthv @kimyishin @asyr97 @pjmname @shesscorpio7 @daarla07 @jeontids @bellefaerie @kissyfacekoo @lily-lilacsky @bammbi-jeon127 @httpjeonlicious @belleilichil @minghaosimp @marrtyaa @septemberskies @yok00k @ioanatodorova @rokshi @b2407 @boommoom @kookienooki @avawants2havefun @bhonbhon @taekritimin123 @oraiseok @thenamesathy @superchamchi88 @lenamercedesworld @candygalx @notsevenwithyou @heesuvk @ahgasegotarmy116 @jeonsinsatiablekitten @saki-gojo @piratekingateez2001 @0-0rot @bangatanily @justbelljust @plusultra0 @softhaes @bangtanily @justbelljust @gguk-lvr @gukkie7 @beomluvrr @iamworldwidehandsome

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drtyelvisfantasy · 3 days ago

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OH, BABY, BABY

CHAPTER TWO

note: Sorry for the long wait. I scrapped the original version of chapter ,2 which I immediately regretted, because it was right around exams, so I barely had time to restart it. Please reblog and like🩵

summary: Rafe is just stressing the poor girl out lol

warnings: emotional abuse, manipulation, distress related to pregnancy, toxic family dynamics, reader doesn't really have authority over her own body :(

Even with all the time that’s passed, not much has really changed. Rafe's still around, but his presence feels exactly the same—distant, somehow. As Margaret’s gotten older, Rafe suggested we move to Florida, said it would be better for her, that she’d have more opportunities, and that it would bring the three of us closer together.

So, we made the move. And while it sounded good in theory, the adjustment was hard. Everything felt unfamiliar, like I was suddenly living someone else’s life. I had to leave my job behind, which wasn’t easy, but Rafe told me not to worry about working—that he had everything handled. He says it’s all under control.

It’s eight in the morning, and the day begins like any other school day. Margaret comes downstairs for breakfast, still rubbing sleep from her eyes. She’s thirteen now—growing up fast, but still so innocent in ways that almost feel too rare for this world. There’s something about her, the way she carries this lightness, this sweetness, that feels untouched by the weight that seems to hang between me and Rafe. Her laughter, her joy—they fill the room in a way that makes the contrast all the more striking. Where she brings warmth and ease, there’s often tension and silence between Rafe and I, a quiet heaviness we can never quite shake.

Margaret sits at the table, quietly eating her breakfast, eyes on her plate. Even though it’s still early, she seems wide awake—calm, collected, like she’s already settled into the rhythm of the day.

“How did you sleep last night?” I ask Margaret.

“I slept fine. Woke up a few times, but nothing major,” she says, already turning her attention back to her food.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I slept the same way,” I reply with a small smile.

She looks up at me, smiling back, then takes another bite. She seems much more interested in finishing her breakfast than talking about sleep.

“Um… I talked to your dad,” I say, a little hesitant.

Margaret pauses mid-bite, her fork hovering in the air as she looks up, suddenly alert. “Yeah? About what?”

“He said he’s planning to spend spring break with us.”

Her whole face lights up, eyes wide and sparkling. “He is? Really?” she says, a big smile spreading across her face. The excitement in her voice is impossible to miss.

I respond with a small nod. Margaret’s excitement becomes more apparent. A wide smile spreading across her face. There’s a sense of joy and anticipation in her eyes as she processes the news.

“You should probably go put your clothes on for school now, I don’t want you to be late.”

Margaret nods and quickly responds to my reminder to get ready. She finishes the last bite of her breakfast, then hops up from the table, already shifting into school mode as she heads off to get ready.

—

While Margaret’s at school, I spend the morning getting the house ready for Rafe’s arrival. I’m in the middle of cleaning when my phone starts ringing. I glance at the screen—it’s Rafe.

His voice comes through the line, a little reserved. “Hey. How are you?”

“I’m good. Margaret’s at school, so I’m just cleaning up,” I say, trying to keep it light.

He lets out a soft chuckle, his tone loosening up a bit. “Cleaning, huh? I’m about to hit the road—it’s gonna be a long-ass drive.”

“Well, be safe,” I reply gently. “Don’t want anything to happen to you.”

Rafe responds in a calm, reassuring voice. “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful. I’ve done this drive plenty of times—I’ll be fine.”

I don’t even bother asking if he’s ever going to leave his wife. I already know how that conversation goes. The same vague answers, the same guilt he throws back at me like I’m the one doing something wrong for even bringing it up.

Rafe’s voice comes through clearly, his tone laced with genuine concern. “How’s the little one doing? Are you feeling any better?”

I rest my hand on my growing baby bump, gently tracing small circles without thinking. “I’m alright... just a little nauseous.”

It wasn’t supposed to happen again. I promised myself I wouldn’t let it. Another pregnancy, another responsibility—I didn’t think I could take that on. But Rafe told me to keep the baby, said he’d handle everything. I’m trying to believe him. I really am. Maybe this time will be different. Maybe it won’t end the way it did last time.

Rafe’s voice stays soft, full of sympathy. “Morning sickness again, huh? Are you taking care of yourself?”

“Yeah... m’tryin’,” I mumble, my voice barely above a whisper.

He pauses for a second, then replies even more gently, “Alright. I’ll let you go. Just rest, okay? I’ll see you in a few hours.”

As I hang up the phone, I sink quietly onto the couch, my thoughts spinning. Worry creeps in, soft but relentless. I can’t help but think about how all of this—my choices, my mistakes—might shape Margaret’s future. I pray she doesn’t follow in my footsteps. That she never has to carry the same kind of weight, or face the same struggles I’ve had to. The fear of history repeating itself—of my past becoming her path—sits heavy on my chest, harder to ignore with every passing day.

—

Margaret walks through the door, her school backpack hanging loosely off one shoulder. She takes a few steps inside before slowing down, her eyes flicking toward me. Even without saying a word, she can feel it—the tension in the air. She’s always been quick to pick up on things, sensitive in ways that catch me off guard. The stress I thought I was hiding so well suddenly feels obvious, hanging in the space between us.

“Oh hey, baby—you’re back,” I say with a smile, trying to sound light as I greet Margaret.

Margaret smiles as she steps further into the house, her backpack sliding off her shoulders. Her voice is bright, her good mood shining through. “Yeah, I’m back. How was your day, Mom?”

“Oh, good... you know, nothing new,” I reply, forcing a small smile.

Margaret nods, still cheerful, the brightness in her voice untouched by the heaviness hanging in the room. She senses it—just a flicker—but she’s still too young, too trusting, to ask. Instead, she speaks casually, like everything’s normal.

“Oh, I’m hungry. Is there anything to eat?”

“Shit, I forgot to cook something—I'm so sorry, honey.”

Margaret catches the guilt on my face before I can even try to hide it. But she just smiles softly, her voice calm and reassuring.

“It’s okay, you don’t need to apologize. Let’s just order something instead.”

“Yeah… um, just take my card and order some pizza,” I say, rubbing my temples.

She nods, no fuss, no questions—just understanding. Then she takes my card and heads into the kitchen to place the order, like it's the most natural thing in the world

—

A couple of hours pass, and Rafe finally arrives. He barely makes it through the door before Margaret is already in his arms.

“Dad! I missed you!” she exclaims, her voice bubbling with excitement.

Rafe chuckles, the sound of her voice clearly softening him. The tension in the house seems to lift just a little.

“I missed you too, little lady,” he says with a warm grin.

Margaret pulls back just enough to look up at him. “Did you get me anything?” she asks, eyes wide with curiosity.

Rafe shoots her a sly smile, his tone playful. “Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. You’ll just have to find out, won’t you?”

Margaret gives her dad a small smile.

“Go grab my bags from the car,” he says,

nodding toward the driveway. “There should be something for you in there.”

Without hesitation, Margaret runs outside, eager to dig through his things, hoping to find a surprise waiting for her.

As she disappears out the door, Rafe’s gaze shifts to me. I step closer, and his eyes lock onto mine. His expression is neutral, unreadable, but there’s something guarded in the way he holds himself. When he speaks, his tone is careful—measured.

He takes a moment to look me over, and I can tell he notices. The way his eyes linger says enough—I’m not as “put together” as he’s used to. No makeup, hair pulled back in a rush, just the bare version of me. Normally, I’d make the effort—especially around him.

I see the flicker of annoyance in his eyes, subtle but familiar. Still, he doesn’t say anything. Not this time. Maybe he knows better than to start something, or maybe he just doesn’t have the energy. Either way, the silence between us says more than words ever could.

“So… um, how was your drive?” I ask, my voice a little uncertain.

Rafe’s reply comes in a neutral tone, but I can tell his thoughts are elsewhere—still caught on the way I look. “It was fine. Just the usual. Traffic was a mess, but I got here in one piece.”

He exhales softly, eyes still scanning me with quiet disapproval. Then, as if trying to shake it off, he clears his throat and walks past me into the kitchen.

The moment he spots the pizza box on the counter, I feel the shift in his energy. I don’t even need to look at him to know what he’s thinking. In his mind, a hot, home-cooked meal should’ve been waiting for him. The box of takeout feels like a personal offense.

He mutters under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear the edge in it.

“Pizza… seriously?”

“I’m sorry—I forgot to cook. It slipped my mind,” I say, my voice heavy with exhaustion.

Rafe’s frustration sharpens. His tone cuts a little deeper than usual. “Forgot to cook, huh? It just slipped your mind?”

“Yeah, it did,” I snap back, my tone matching his, just as sharp.

Before he can say anything else, Margaret walks back in, a little breathless from carrying the bags.

“Just put those in my room, sweetie,” I say quickly, my voice softening as I turn to her, trying to shield her from the tension lingering in the air.

Margaret nods and grabs the bags, heading toward my bedroom without a word. As soon as she disappears down the hallway, Rafe’s eyes snap back to me, lingering again on my disheveled appearance.

I turn to walk away, hoping to escape the moment, but his hand shoots out, gripping my wrist tightly. I freeze. His hold is firm—too firm—and his tone turns sharp, almost biting.

“What’s wrong with you? You look like a hot mess,” he says, his voice low but cutting.

I try to pull away, but the words come out of me before I can stop them, choked by tears rising fast.

“I don’t want to do this,” I whisper, then louder—broken. “I never wanted to get pregnant again.”

Rafe’s expression hardens as my tears begin to fall. There’s no softness in his eyes, no trace of concern. His voice turns cold, detached.

“Save the tears, okay? I don’t care whether you wanted this pregnancy or not. The fact is, it’s happening—whether you like it or not.”

I shake my head, struggling to hold myself together. “You don’t even take me seriously. Why would I want to bring another child into this?”

He scoffs, the sound sharp and dismissive. His tone drips with annoyance, completely void of empathy.

“Oh, don’t start with that bullshit again. I’ve had enough of your emotional breakdowns. It’s been happening a lot lately, and honestly, it’s really starting to piss me off.—“

Rafe’s harsh words are abruptly cut off as Margaret walks into the room. Her eyes widen the moment she sees the tears streaming down my face. The lightness from earlier is gone in an instant, replaced by panic.

“What’s going on?” she asks, her voice trembling with concern as she steps closer.

I quickly pull away from Rafe, wiping at my face. “Nothing, Margaret… just go up to your room and finish your homework, okay?”

But she doesn’t move. She stands frozen, her eyes flicking between the two of us, sensing something deeper—something wrong.

“Are you sure? You’re crying,” she says softly, her voice small but insistent.

“Go upstairs. Now.” Rafe snaps, his tone sharp and unforgiving.

Margaret flinches at his voice, hurt flashing across her face. She hesitates for a beat before turning and quietly walking away, glancing back at me one last time.

Once Margaret disappears upstairs, Rafe’s eyes snap back to me. His expression is tight, a mix of annoyance and exasperation carved into his face.

“Get it together, okay? I can’t deal with your breakdowns right now,” he says, his voice firm and cold.

Without waiting for a response, he turns on his heel and storms off down the hallway. The bedroom door slams shut behind him, the sound echoing through the quiet house.

And just like that, I’m alone—again—standing in the middle of the living room with the weight of everything pressing down on me.

For the first time in my life, I wish I could go back. Back to before I ever met Rafe. Before I ever set foot in that fucking strip club. I wish I’d walked away the moment I found out he was married. I wish I’d had the strength to leave before all of this got so tangled.

There are so many things I wish I’d done differently. But it’s too late now. I’m already in too deep—and there’s no easy way out.

#rafe cameron x reader #rafe x reader #rafe cameron thoughts #rafe imagine #rafe fanfiction #rafe fic #rafe x you #rafe cameron smut #rafe x oc #rafe x y/n #rafe angst #lineman!rafe x stripper!reader #bluecollar!rafe #oh baby baby🍼

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cbeargyu · 24 hours ago

Note

how about childhood friends beomgyu to enemies to lovers 🤗

because of you

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

pairing: beomgyu x fem!reader

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

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

wc: 14,3k

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

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

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

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

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

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

until middle school.

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

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

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

then came the cafeteria incident.

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

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

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

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

he didn’t laugh.

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

and then he turned away.

he... turned away...

that was the moment, you think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he didn’t say anything.

he didn’t need to.

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

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

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

and maybe that’s what hurt the most.

you didn’t hate beomgyu because he was cruel.

you hated him because he used to be kind.

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

you hadn’t seen it coming—university.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

they didn’t push.

they could feel the tension. everyone could.

until that one night—the fraternity party.

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

liar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

chaewon blinked, surprised. soobin leaned in.

you continued, voice steady but colder now.

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

“damn,” yeonjun muttered, the mood shifting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“yeah,” he said. “i did.”

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

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

you scoffed. “you think that excuses it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

soobin stood abruptly. “i need air.”

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

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

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

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

you stared at him, hating how calm he looked.

“and you always knew how to ruin everything.”

you got up before he could answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

yeonjun shrugged. “you made the soup.”

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

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

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

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

“and you didn’t choose her.”

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

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

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

yeonjun raised an eyebrow. “you okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and for once in his life, beomgyu actually listened.

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

and then the years passed.

five of them, to be exact.

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

kang taehyun.

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

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

you believed him.

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

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

you thought you were safe.

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

when he came back, he was distant.

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

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

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

but he shook his head.

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

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

so he left.

and you didn’t try to stop him again.

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

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

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

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

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

you choked.

like, actually choked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“he’ll be there,” you murmured.

“taehyun,” chaewon confirmed quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

you blinked. “what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but taehyun would be there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

you hadn’t expected to see him.

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

he looked expensive.

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

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

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

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

you looked for a ghost. but found a man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

and then there was beomgyu.

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

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

except you.

and even then, you weren’t sure anymore.

a dangerous, fleeting thought slipped past your defenses.

what if i asked him to go with me?

you froze, glass hovering midair.

no. absolutely not. that was ridiculous. crazy.

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

you didn’t want to care.

and yet, you did.

more with every passing second.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you didn’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he nodded slowly. “i remember.”

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

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

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

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

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

you nodded.

“what kind of favor?”

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

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

you gave a weak shrug. “yeah. you.”

“but you—i mean, you hate me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

maybe it was the beginning of something else entirely.

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

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

he was remembering that party.

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

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

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

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

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

you blinked, surprised. “okay?”

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

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

you looked up—and there he was.

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

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

you nodded. “hey.”

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

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

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

his head tilted slightly. “ex?”

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

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

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

he didn’t argue.

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

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

“a couple,” you finished.

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

you froze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

you blinked. “what?”

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

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

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

he nodded slowly. “alright.”

and then, you got to work.

“so, when did we start dating?”

you bit your lip. “six months ago?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

kai’s message was still open.

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

you stared at it for a second, then typed.

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

sent.

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

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

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

you raised an eyebrow. “cozy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“this okay?” you asked quietly.

he nodded once. “yeah. just... warm.”

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

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

you perked up. “you sure?”

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

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

he looked at you, stunned. “no way.”

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

he smirked. “you’re on.”

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

you were both laughing when it happened.

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

neither of you moved.

not right away.

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

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

“sorry,” he whispered, stepping back.

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

“right.” he nodded. “totally normal.”

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

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

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

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

but neither of you looked convinced.

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

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

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

and neither did beomgyu’s.

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

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

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

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

the air stilled.

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

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

you blinked, throat dry. “beomgyu—”

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

his voice cracked, just a little.

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

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

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

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

his shoulders slumped.

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

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

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

he swallowed hard. “thank you.”

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

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

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

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

maybe it wasn’t love.

but it was something.

and it was terrifying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the venue was breathtaking.

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

you were holding hands.

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

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

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

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

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

and there he was.

kang taehyun.

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

he stood up.

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

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

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

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

it landed like a gunshot.

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

your heart slammed into your ribs.

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

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

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

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

taehyun cleared his throat.

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

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

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

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

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

but then he asked.

“how did you two meet?”

and the world froze.

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

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

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

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

he looked at you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you felt like you couldn’t breathe.

taehyun looked like he’d swallowed poison.

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

kang taehyun had always been your greatest heartbreak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your heart stutters.

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

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

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

a choice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

beomgyu notices.

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

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

his lips are warm. confident. too confident.

you shouldn’t like this. but you do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your heart stutters when you glance at him again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

you turn—and of course, it’s taehyun.

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

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

you give him a tight smile. "thanks."

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

you look away.

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

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

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

you inhale, shaky.

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

"you hurt me."

he flinches.

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

he doesn't answer.

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

he opens his mouth, but you cut him off.

“i’m happy with beomgyu.”

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

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

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

your chest aches.

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

taehyun says nothing. the silence stretches.

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

you blink back the burn in your eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

taehyun stiffens. "we're just talking—"

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

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

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

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

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

but you do.

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

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

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

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

he watches you for a moment longer. then nods.

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

the ride home is quiet.

too quiet.

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

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

“gyu,” you say, softly.

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

you turn toward him. “mean what?”

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

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

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

he finally looks at you.

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

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

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

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

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

you don’t move either.

the air between you hums.

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

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

you nod. “i know.”

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

but you’re starting to want to.

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

a pulse.

his name.

beomgyu.

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

you don’t think. you don’t wait.

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

he’s there.

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

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

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

you don’t say anything. you just move.

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

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

his eyes flicker to your lips.

and you kiss him.

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

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

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

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

he leans in again, brushing his nose against yours.

“that i’m not pretending anymore.”

stay next to me push the bad memories aside

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

he’s the first to speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

your heart clenches.

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

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

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

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

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

and then, softly—

“you sure about this?”

his voice is low. careful.

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

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

your heart tightens. “beomgyu—”

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

he finally looks at you.

and god, it hurts.

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

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

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

your chest aches. “beomgyu—”

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

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

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

he leans into your touch, eyes glassy.

“you are sacred,” he breathes.

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

he exhales shakily. “i’m scared.”

“me too.”

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

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

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

he pulls back just enough to kiss your forehead.

“say it again,” he says.

“what?”

“that you choose me.”

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

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

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

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

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

saturday brunch is supposed to be chill.

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

but not today.

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

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

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

yeonjun drops his phone into his mimosa.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you look at beomgyu.

he looks at you.

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

“real real,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

you grin. “i’ll take that bet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and it's because of you.

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reblog-cat · 3 days ago

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You know what, I’ll just get all my theories out at this point. (Thoughts and theories below).

Mud used to work under the angels.

Where did they get that truck to sneak into paradise lost.

Why did mud have an outdated uniform already on hand.

Why does mud know about the garden (or what the place where the angels are is called).

How does mud know Joshua (who works there).

What did mud do when Ken was (presumably) imprisoned in the inferno. Did mud run the mafia while Ken was gone.

If Mud did work for the angels, maybe he was the one who helped Ken escape from the inferno.

I think most of us agree that Ken was imprisoned in the inferno and somewhere in the process of breaking out, he found Mel.

My thoughts on how Ken escaped was that either

1. Mud already worked there and helped Ken escape

2. Mud worked there just to rescue Ken

3. Ken escaped and Mud just so happened to worked there and because Ken’s way of escape

4. Mud quit working there before or after Ken escaped and it is completely irrelevant to Ken’s escape.

There may be more districts.

Pretty sure the focus is just going to be on the gaslight district but I’m already going to consider the potential of more districts just in case because this is earth and I’m fairly certain earth is really big for it to just be the gaslight district.

This is going on the assumption that the gaslight district is a part of earth separate from the inferno and paradise lost but is the place closest to those locations.

Breadhead was made as a friend/siblings/companion for Mel by Ken.

I just think Ken knows a lot more about stuff about the world and potentially magic especially if people are right and Breadhead is a golem.

The giant black hand eye thing at the center is the eye of an angel.

I just have thoughts about the eyes of the angels. Those thoughts being do they have only one eye? Or two eyes and one is just really big?

Not a theory but what would happen if Mel got the mark of the black hand? Have they tried doing that already?

Not a theory. Who is Xenora? Is that the person Ken betrayed? (Assuming Ken was put in the inferno and that is related to the speculation that he betrayed someone.

Not a theory. Who named Mel? Was it Ken or this mysterious Xenora?

Not a theory but are the virtues not allowed to go to the gaslight district?

Not a theory but if they are immortal, do they still have the ability to grow old? Do they have the ability to procreate?

Not a theory. Why do the other immortals look so different from the main cast? Is it just character distinction (red pupils that our main cast have vs the glowing eyes of everyone else) or something else?

Not a theory. Are flies considered livestock?

Not a theory. How is one chosen to work for the angels? More importantly, how does one become a virtue?

#the gaslight district #gaslight district #tgd melancholy #tgd mud #tgd breadhead #tgd ken #tgd diligence #tgd temperance #tgd theory #my writing #the gaslight district spoilers #tgd spoilers #gaslight district spoilers

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lake-snz · 3 days ago

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Could You Zip Me Up? (f)

My friend asks me to come with them to the local outlet mall one April afternoon, and I, needing some new items myself, can’t think of any reason not to go.

After a quick sweep around the storefronts, we choose one to enter. Glancing around, I point my friend in the direction of some dresses in the back. We agree to split up for the time being. I take refuge in the front of the store, searching the racks for anything that catches my eye. I sift through the hangers, careful not to pull anything off in the process. I’m not alone. A worker stands not too far from me, seemingly in their own world, folding a pile of clothing.

I can’t be certain of why. It might be the pollen from being outdoors. It might be the store’s strong perfumes. It might even be a couple particularly dusty shelves. Whatever “it” is, it’s starting to sound my internal sneeze alarm. I sniffle helplessly, wondering to myself what the origins of this mystery tickle might be. The worker looks up from their pile, then back down again. It seems they’re trying not to pry into my obviously exponential struggle, a sentiment I appreciate. The wetness in my nose is beginning to make its way above my upper lip. I wish I had tissues with me, but I have none. I’m not good at preparing for allergy attacks in public; I prefer to believe I can handle even the strongest of itches. Instead of seeking out tissues immediately, I choose to look through a final rack.

Scrubbing under my nostrils, I think over the possibility of letting one fly. It’s tempting, and the mere idea excites my nose instantly. Coming alive and flaring, I allow the itchiness to become the sneeze that it wanted to be all along. With no tissues, I resort to turning my entire body away from the clothing rack. This way, I can coax it along without the stress of the worker watching my face contort with desperation. The tickle reaches its peak while my chest heaves. Hitching, I release the sneeze that was once trapped. Since my nose is already running, the sneeze presents itself in the form of a wet explosion. I catch it in my elbow and use my shirt sleeve to cover the mess of it all.

Now I really need a tissue. Sheepishly turning back toward the worker, I decide to head to the back of the store. Making brief eye contact with them as I pass, I silently thank them for not blessing me. This way, I can imagine they heard nothing at all.

I can only hope my friend is carrying some tissues today. I’m not sure how to tell them that if there’s nothing to blow my nose into, I won’t be able to stop sneezing.

I spot them in the clearance section, hidden behind mountains of clothes. Still sniffling, I decide to touch base on which items they found. My nose can wait. Or so I think to myself, wiping a finger under all the wetness. It doesn’t take long for them to take notice. Finally requesting some tissues, I bury my nose into one and blow. There’s some sort of allergen around, I just know it. Brushing off my sneezes as “unusual,” I try and hide that it’s an allergy attack. Unfortunately, my friend hasn’t seen anything yet.

It’s time to head to the fitting rooms… how will I cope with my insistantly sneezy nose being in such close proximity to a friend?

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rist-ix · 12 hours ago

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Redesigning Aisha's transformation because oh my god

PLEASE rainbow just let her wear green. Thoughts n comparison under cut

My thoughts on rainbow's compulsion to Make Aisha Blue is well known, so I’m not gonna repeat that rant here. But OH MY GOD, if you really HAVE to drill home that her powers are water-based, please at least commit to it. Don’t just paint her cyan and call it a day.

I think what bothers me the most about the outfit is that it feels really incoherent. We've got knee high boots, white socks that go just a couple inches higher than the boots, and then we get some kind of leotard??? With a half open skirt layer that ends well above her shorts, and doesn’t really do anything except flare out her silhouette a little I guess.

It's not a flowy, watery dress, it’s not a sporty look to kick ass in, the only thing really going on here is a couple thicker rim lines to divide the undefined blob of color that is her outfit. The boots look sturdy and kind of mundane, the socks are Just There, the leotard is very busy and undefined, like a 10-year-old's ballet costume.

I'm not really a character designer, but I hang around enough of them that I can kinda tell the patterns are not fulfilling much of a function, nor guiding the eye in a particularly clever way. Her hair feels kind of like an afterthought, just trailing behind her without much fanfare, which I find sad, given Aisha's original iconic wavy locks.

The wings, I’m ignoring. I can only take so much.

To throw in a positive note into my ranting: something the design does do well is center a lot of focus on the torso and head. Since the boots are uniform in color and very smooth, the high density of detail in the leotard and face draws more attention upwards, where all the gesturing and facial expressions are happening. Plus, while the outfit itself is a blob of samy colors, the brightness does make it contrast well with Aisha's skin, so at least the outlines of the outfit are clear and readable. They also make it melt into the background a bit, but that might just be a poor composition choice so im not blaming the character design.

No that ive gotten that out of my system: I'm not gonna pretend I am being any smarter with my redesign. A big weak point is doublessly that the eye is drawn downwards instead of up, and the top is kinda boring and plain. Texturing is not my strong suit.

Here's my thought process behind it:

Green.

Please. Please just give her her color back.

Green means she is still clearly visible, even in blue-toned water, and it contrasts nicely with her pink morphix particles. Green evokes calm ponds, lilypads, feathery algae and tropical lakes. Green is dynamic, fresh, durable, organic. With green as the main color, and pink as the tiny highlight, you have enough room in the color pallete to invest some nice, bright blues for her wings. Harmonic enough to the greens to seem connected, but different enough to pop.

The rest i didn't put a lot thought into, ill admit. I wanted to make her boots beefier in their silhuoette, and i think having these semi-transparent legwarmer looking things would add a nice bit of secondary motion to her step. Trailing after her a little bit, bouncing when she stomps her foot down, and so on and so on. Aisha is sporty, competitive and loves dancing, so I wanted something sleek enough that it wouldn't slow her down, and flowy enough that it would make for good follow-through animations.

The wings are where i put most of the water theme. Dragonfly-wing shaped, because again, PONDS!!! and slightly curved downward to look like cresting waves. Plus, the water coustics to serve as the dividers between those individual fragments in insect wings.

Is this a design that would fit into a winx club reboot? Probably not.

BUT! Is it a design that doesnt make me think of chorine-poisoned swimming pools? fuck yea

#winx club #winx club aisha #winx club layla #winx club reboot #winx club redesign

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asaedw · 1 day ago

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PINKLOCK Chapter 00/Prologue: You Belong Amongst The Best

Please read the author’s note and the characters' information at the end. (wc: 3153)

2025.

It was never a matter of fate. The position of this ball now, where it will land in the next second, and who will be the first to capture it. All of this must be a random selection of the universe. Or so I would have thought before PINKLOCK. Luck is one of the trillion factors that decide who gets to sit atop our corpses. Who gets to hold the treasure.

The ball flies across the field. I position myself, ready to be Queen. Maybe in one of the infinite universes that I exist in, there is a place where I can be chosen.

To the very right of my foot is a familiar warmth. I don’t get to process it or adjust to the nostalgic scent. The ball obeys her every command and falls to her foot like it's submitting. She read all of it. Every little trajectory, every twirl of the ball, and position of the players that I managed to analyze in these ninety minutes, she knew all of it before me. Her eyes darken as we meet once more, years later.

“Didn’t I tell you? You’re worth nothing here.” I want to deny, to reject like I've always done. Now she runs toward the goal after stealing my crown for the hundredth time while I'm frozen in shock. I became too arrogant. I thought I had evolved. Grown. But she always manages to prove me wrong.

And now, it’s my turn to do that.

November 18, 2018.

I wanted to go home while I was already in it. I reminisced about the times when I had a companion. My other half, who one day changed. It was an exhausting day for me. Waking up early to practice because I didn’t want my parents to know. It’s not like they didn’t know that I was playing soccer. They simply didn’t like it when I did. I hadn’t realized this when I was still younger, but now I do. I was meant to be a vessel for their dreams. So I left for the nearby field in the town.

They’re validation was my first reason to play, but soon, it was gone. The spark of excitement I used to feel when I’d score a goal. It had vanished. As soon as my brother was born.

“We have hope.” They’d cry out in bliss at the sight of him. I was eleven, and I was abandoned. I felt worthless.

I continued to play, however. It felt like the only reason I wasn’t a nobody yet was because I had some skill in the game. I would avoid letting them know, still. They didn’t like it when I had even a glimmer of faith in myself.

“You should focus on studying, he’ll be our champion.”

I had to prove myself to them.

The big game was the next day. Since we had moved to Japan when I was ten, I’d been playing here alone ever since. I had Kieymi at one point. She would reassure me, support me. I got too attached, perhaps. One random day, she changed. She grew hateful and even vengeful of me. I never shed a tear at the people who’d bully me. Not even many for the harsh words I’d hear at home. But a part of me died the day she became his way. We were soulmates. Now she’s a faint memory.

Now I stood there in the empty field from dusk till dawn, hearing an echoing cheer and wishing it were real. I would be playing against her the next day, and just the thought of it sent my heart dropping to my stomach. Kick after kick, I would score goals from different ranges and different angles. I practiced unique trajectories, imagining her begging face looking up at me from below. I wanted to crush her. Destroy her. Like she’d done to me.

Maybe that’s what got me to continue playing. The reminder that she’s better than me at something I began four years before her.

As I was panting from exhaustion and envy, I noticed a dark figure somewhere in the corner of the field. It was a woman’s body. She observed me closely. It wasn’t light enough to read her expression. But she looked almost malicious. I approached, and now I realize it could have been stupid of me to do so. She was harmless, however. She handed me a letter quietly and watched me take it. The now rising sun shed light on her glistening eyes.

“My name is Teieri Anri. My dream is to—“I wasn’t willing to hear a speech, so I turned around and hurried home to open the letter. I had a feeling I should keep it a secret, whatever it was. I felt that this ‘Anri Teieri’ was a genuine person, and she radiated the trust and faith I sometimes wished my parents did in me.

Things didn’t go as planned. They never do. My brother was four years old. He didn’t know any better, but I still almost resent him for that day. I was busy helping my mother with chores. Aman could walk at the time, like many four-year-olds. He saw the letter I had foolishly placed in his reach, which he brought out of my room, my comfort, and into what almost always feels like a battlefield.

“Asa, do you want to explain yourself?” My father stood, his arms to his side. He questioned why I had accepted such a letter. They never forced me to stop, but they disliked the idea of me playing professionally. Accepting a letter that was inviting me to play with real players was a sin in their eyes. My mother soon joined and began her rant. Both of their shouts were in a duet as they spat mild threats at me. My ears rang from the noise.

“Shut up!” I yelled, and then I regretted it. Silence filled the room for a brief moment. Each second felt like an escalation towards an impending doom. I trembled, wondering about the consequences of my outburst. Then, with a sharp pull, the letter ripped apart in my father's hand. I swore I felt my heart rip in sync. The two pieces fell onto the floor.

“You will never play Soccer again. It was never for you.” With that, he turned to leave, my mother clicked her tongue. I remember falling to my knees, picking the two pieces up with trembling hands. She left the dining room, where the scene took place. I wondered why the neighbors weren’t outside our house after the noise and looked at the large window. Kieymi stood there, watching closely. I couldn't read her expression. The vulnerability lay in me because I was naked. She saw through me. She fled soon after a brief eye contact.

In that moment, I knew she’d gotten the letter too.

I clenched my fists, gagging at the thought. She left an imprint of her gorgeous fucking almonds for eyes, her expression so stoic it angered me to my core. I locked myself in my room. Planning to isolate myself permanently. This big stage was for Kieymi. Not a loser like me, I thought. I fell to the floor, my head bent like I was praying to some God for the same blessings he’d showered on her. After a good thirty seconds of choking myself till my face went blue, I ran around my room searching for tape. The letter looked fucked taped together. But I’d made up my mind. Obsession always beats talent.

I was going to go to this ‘Pinklock’ and nobody was going to stop me.

Was it an escape? Was it a dream? I don’t know. When I get there, I want to see her again. And I want to shatter every piece of hope or desire that she’s ever had in the palm of my hand. Maybe… it was revenge.

The next morning came quickly. I didn’t get much sleep, like usual. I had packed all of my essentials, including the now pathetic but signed letter the night before. The night that changed everything. I carried my stuffed schoolbag to the window, from where I climbed out. It wasn’t too high to jump, but my legs still needed a little work. My father probably thought it was another day of school. But little did they know, I was gone for good. I did steal a little cash and some food from the fridge.

I ditched the ‘big game’. My priority was now elsewhere. And I knew that Kiyemi was also not about to appear in today’s match either. There was a given time on the letter, which said that if you failed to show up within, you wouldn’t be accepted. Something about ‘lock off.’ It piqued my interest, and I knew I had to explore it. Today, I feel it was the best decision I could have made at the time. It was a catalyst for my career.

My heart raced as I got into the taxi. I felt that I was doing something so wrong. So shameful. But I hushed the angry voices with music. Soon, I was outside a tall building. It was closed, as expected. The time on the letter says 1:00 p.m., and I was there at three in the morning. I waited outside, trying to get some rest on the bench. I fell asleep soon, in fear that I’d wake up dead. There was no turning back now.

“Asa! Asa-chan!” An annoying voice woke me up. The blinding sun was needles in my eyes despite the clouds following up behind. I rubbed my eyes. A light brown-haired girl stood before me, holding my belongings.

“Who the hell are you?” I rose from the hard bench.

“I watched you play in the sports day this year. Also, be a little more polite, would ya’?” Her voice was bratty yet sweet, matching the honey of her hair.

I finally grabbed the bag from her hand.

“It’s about to close, let's hurry.” She dragged me into the building with an arm. “I knew you wouldn’t show up to today's game.”

“I doubt we know each other.” My response was bland. I wasn’t aiming to make new friends.

“Yonago Kita High, right?” I wondered why this person was so excited to see me. “Ah- my name is Hoshino Tori.”

The gigantic doors behind us shut automatically, and I noticed many of us flinch. I looked around. It was an auditorium full of female players. I noticed a brown girl dressed in forest hues, and a young idol with cotton candy for hair. Then I even noticed two dark skinned women standing side by side. Some stares were intense, some were playful. I was dizzy from the earlier sun and now, the mixture of a hundred fragrances in the room.

Then… I saw Kiyemi. I wanted to hide. After what she’d seen last night, I can only expect that she’ll have a lot to tease me for. Her pin-straight, ash-brown hime cut gracefully blew by her sides as she approached me.

“What do you want?” I began. She ran a finger through my bangs, correcting my messy hair. My eye twitched. How could you be so composed? So… okay with yourself and so confident before me despite all you’ve done to me?

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her eyes skimming my features. Her voice was bland, like her expression. She looked as if trying to decode what had changed in me.

“I’m a fucking soccer player, what do you think I’m doing here?”

“Is that so?” Her voice was cold. Nothing like the warmth that once uplifted me. I didn’t grace her with a response.

Tori watched the scene unfold, stepping in. She was blissfully unaware of our past connections. “You wanna be an asshole? Go do it somewhere else, bitch.” She spat out at Kiyemi. She chuckled in response and fled, leaving a pat on my shoulder. I was a bit shocked at the pretty lady spitting such venomous words. But I was okay with it. I traced the place on my shoulder where Kiyemi had just done a moment ago, but then quickly stopped myself.

Then, the lights went out. A lanky man with a jet black bowl cut became prominent on the stage, the blinding spotlight fixated on him. We looked at him curiously. A bunch of gossips were heard before he began to speak.

“And test, test, test. Congratulations and welcome, diamonds in the rough. You are the 300 18 and under strikers who have been chosen due to my arbitrary and biased decision making. And I am Jinpachi Ego, the man who was hired to ensure Japan’s future victory at the World Cup.”

We looked at him like he was insane... Which was our first impression of him, anyway. Hired? By whom and where did the World Cup come from? He continued to speak.

“It’s simple, really. In order to outstrip the rest of the world, Japanese soccer requires just one thing. And that is the birth of a revolutionary striker. I’ll be performing an experiment to turn one of you 300 into the single best striker in the world.” The girls looked around, as if the man on the stage had just grown another head. Did he just say… experiment? We were all equally confused and even a little unsettled by the psychopathic man in front of us.

“Um… sir?” the brown girl in the crowd raised a shy hand, “By ‘experiment’, you mean real training, right? How is your training better than other training camps and team practices? And… who’s paying you?” Good questions, I thought. The man before us now was a freak, after all.

He scratched his bowl cut, “Paying me? Is that all you heard? The JFU will be paying me once a Japanese team wins the World Cup.” He shakes a hand, that money didn’t matter to him, “, and as for what makes my training more reliable than the coaches you’ve been playing with for so long... Let's just say, uh, everything. You will all play a survival style of soccer. Here, it's not just some game, but a battlefield. Your coaches focus only on the physical aspects of the game, whereas your psychology and play style are what truly create your games. I will put you through psychological warfare and break you down mentally. This will restructure you for better playing. Here at Pinklock, you will train in a hyper-modern facility with high-tech and robotic analysis, which you can find nowhere else in this country. Lastly and most importantly, your next games will not depend on your teammates or the power of friendship. But on your EGO. “

We were all suspicious of the man. And yet, we were all intrigued. He continued to speak for three to four minutes about some ‘EGO’ that we lacked. I remember him expressing some pity for the country with statements like, “Is the future of Japan really in your hands?” he looked down at us like we were trash.

“What exactly do you mean by EGO?” a girl with striped hair, who was twirling it around her finger, raised a question, “and how is it a reliable method of securing the World Cup?”

“Hm?” the man was puzzled, he scratched his bowl cut for the hundredth time. “Tell me, why is Japanese soccer still not worthy of a win? No, let me ask you this: What is soccer? Is it about the eleven players working together? The bonds you form? Self-sacrifice? Fighting for your teammates? That kind of thinking is why this country's game has remained weak. I’ll tell you the right answer: soccer is about one thing.” He paused for a brief second, which left us all anticipating his next words: “Scoring more goals than your opponent does.” He shouts out in a frantic scream, which causes us to flinch, his body bending in all sorts of weird ways. We all gasped at the sight of the freak show he was putting on.

I couldn’t help but wonder where this man picked up his ideologies from. And just why did they make so much sense? If all teammates are trying to better each other instead of focusing on creating their own goals, they’ll have minimal and luck-based goals depending on the positioning of players. But if all eleven were self-absorbed ‘egoists’ like this guy wants us to be, we’d create many and potentially legendary goals.

The man then quoted Cristiano Ronaldo, Eric Cantona, and Pele. About their selfishness. I didn’t want to believe him. He was right, but I didn’t want to. It was the opposite of everything I’d ever been taught. It was undeniable. Soccer, at its very core, was about being the one who scores the most goals. Even your teammates are competition.

“You can’t possibly become the best striker unless you’re the biggest egoist. Which is why you’re all here. So I can create a player who has what it takes. Someone to climb on top of 299 corpses. A solitary hero...” he continued. Everyone looked at each other. Some were left with their mouth agape, some frowning.

I felt a sense of disturbing belonging.

Maybe that one thing that put Kiyemi in front of me was this ‘ego’, I thought. Even if she didn’t know or put a label on it yet. Just maybe, if I could achieve something supernatural like she did on that day, I’d be able to demolish her. Surpass her. And that’s why—my foot, without my permission, stepped closer to the stage. The curtains behind him now were raised, and beyond a blinding white, I could not see. It was an unspoken invitation by the madman before us, asking to join him in his fantasies. he smiled like a maniac while he spurted what sounded like idiocy continuously. No one dared to step forward. Yet, I gravitated toward him.

“So what you're saying is...” A familiar voice claws at my nerves. “…Is that only one of us survives at the end?”

I turned to face her once more. Her almonds were now full of anticipation and the same anxiety that was coursing through my veins. I wanted to say nothing and everything to her at the same time. But I only said one, plain warning. I spoke, one last time, yet I knew a hundred more conversations were to come. I ran toward the man, like he was a savior. He did notice me, closest to the gates of what looked like heaven. What could be hell. His eyes widened as he watched me pace towards him, and all I hoped was that what she heard me say last was enough. Enough for her.

“There can't be two bests now, can there... Kiyemi?”

Authors note and characters:-

Pinklock is situated in Japan hence, all characters speak in Japanese but writen in English unless stated otherwise. The first selection will be written in past tense as it falls all the way back to November 18, 2018. It is intended that Bluelock and Pinklock occur in the same universe because after the third selection, Pinklock characters will play against the boys team. The winning team will then play against Japan’s U20. Some characters will be eliminated and some will appear later. You must trust the process. One chapter will be written per month because I am also undergoing finals as I write this. All writing done here is solely by me alone. OCs and their backstory is written by tagged people mostly. Please do not translate, plagiarize or share my work without my permission. All chapters are more that 2k and less that 5k words. You may draw a scene or character but only after permission js granted which you may do in message or ask. Background characters are untagged as they will not have much of a role. I request that all people’s who sent a character tagged below send me their discord username (preferrably in tthe cmnts) so that we may have an open discussion for suggestions and feedback. If you want to add Characters submitted by readers so forth are tagged at the end. I would greatly appreciate if the OCs tagged in this series could reblog my post because that support would motivate me to write further!

🚬 I'm sorry it took a minute, girls, and also I couldn't fit all characters into chapter zero, but don't you guys worry because they will be mentioned when it is your characters' team's turn to play against Asa's. I will try my best to write them all justly and let all of them shine. Also, someone also asked about elimination. if I plan to eliminate a character, I will discuss it with you and justify. I won't do it out of the blue, I love your ocs lol. please enjoy my babes and tell me who's your fav so far.

Find the characters and their rightful owners in my PINKLOCK CHARACTERS post.

@kiyy0mei , @innvmorati , @minlahzz , @feliwnni , @alexiaray , @kacchans-waifu , @jwmiooa , @pinkymangacaps , @cafem3wcuryy , @prettyluvvs-ichi , @plutoplue , @serial-gooner-lain , @hygienic-law , @dollyrins , @onlykaiiisagiz , @t3chn0chan ,

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dessarchive · 1 day ago

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i’ll be cleaning up bottles with you on new year’s day

stolen glances, talks into the night, looking for each other in crowded rooms, hugs that last longer than they should, all the words unspoken, but not so unknown, tucked away love confessions, falling asleep in each others embrace, shared headphones, first kisses, baking and giggling at 3am, late night swimming, love songs, our parents betting on us dating, watching hotel transylvania 100+ times, dreaming of him, memorizing each others smile, being the first person to tell news to each other, good or bad, counting the stars in his eyes, and the creases in his hands.

you and me, forevermore.

jake and i have been inseparable since 2012. we met when he and his family moved next door and my family and i greeted them into the neighborhood. we became friends the next day at school during recess when i asked him to be my friend.

throughout our friendship if anyone wanted to know where we were, we were with each other. it wasn’t out of the ordinary because our parents and siblings were best friends as well. our childhood was filled with tag, playing in the sprinkles, running around the front yard, jumping on the trampoline, blanket forts, hide and seek, campfires, cruises, and sharing snacks…well if we don’t mention the gummy worm incident. our teen years were filled with working at my family’s restaurant on the beach, surfing, family game night, baking and cooking, shopping, sleepovers, cheering each other on during our sport events, forcing him to do face masks and letting me do his makeup, getting ice cream after dinner, and blasting music in my jeep after school.

as months passed after passing our auditions for republic records and moving to los angeles, things changed. not in a duh you’re in a new country and finally on your own, but in a i noticed how jake’s eyes sparkled in the moonlight while we were talking on the beach at 3am and oh shit i might be in love with him way.

all i could think of was him and how i’d memorized the sound of his laugh and how he’d always talk with his hands when explaining something or how he’d get scared at little things and cover his face when he got shy. i kept my feelings to myself because i still needed to process what was happening, but during a sleepover with my friends, reverie and vera, i finally came clean. obviously they wanted me to tell him, but i wasn’t sure, i mean jake and i had been friends for nine years at this point and ruining our friendship by telling him how i felt wasn’t really on my to do list.

on new year’s day, after all of the members and i paraded around in our silly hats and glasses, taking lots of pictures and videos as we yelled happy new year and fireworks lit up the sky, most of the members, besides jake and i, went to bed. we stayed outside watching the fireworks as we talked about our resolutions for the new year, but why not start the new year off with a good prank? i pretended i was getting up to go inside so i reached my hand out to jake making him think i was going to help him up, but when he got up from his chair, i pretended i was going to push him in the freezing cold pool.

the pretending part was thrown out like how i accidentally threw him in the pool and he pulled me in. i thought he’d try to get me back as we stood in the freezing cold water, but after we finished laughing, he kissed me. shocked is an understatement, but after we got out of the pool he asked two questions, both of which i said yes to. the first obviously being if he could be my boyfriend and jumping for joy was hard to resist as i said yes and two was if i wanted a towel…yes boy i’m freezing 🙁!!! when i asked how long he’d felt the same way he told me since 2017…WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME JAKE SIM??????

anyways…we didn’t hide our relationship but we weren’t very private either. fans started speculating things in february of 2022, after i wore a hoodie of his to dance practice. they became more suspicious in march when a paparazzi claimed we were kissing after a date, but didn’t have proof because we ran before they could take a picture. in may, we decided to mess with the fans and wear couples shirts for a week. on the last day, we posted each other on instagram and let everyone know reiyun is for real!!!!!!! was this just a chance for us to show each other off and be down bad publicly? maybe, was it jake’s idea? yes, is it also my apology post to anyone jake and i ever told that we were only friends? yeah 😕

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simon-roy · 1 day ago

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One of the funnest parts of doing a kickstarter (perhaps the only TRULY fun part) is asking online pen-pals if they'd like to contribute to the book. I was very keen on getting something from Tom Kilian - @tkilian on here - who I've followed for ages (and talked with about a couple story ideas, too) to do a piece, and lucky for me, he went WILD on it!

Above is the incredible final piece he cooked up. But below, here is his exhaustive process, in his own words:

When Simon approached me to do a pinup for A STAR CALLED THE SUN I was torn between impending deadlines for other work and the fact that I really wanted to do one. One of my all-time favorite Simon Roy stories, “The Oxpecker and The Elephant,” is appearing in this volume, and I’ve spent years wondering what happened to the two tiny human figures visible among the wreckage at the bottom of the last panel. That, I decided, would be my hook: imagining one of those possible futures where the events of the comic had become an oral history or creation myth for future generations of humans.

I initially had this overly elaborate idea of showing the same story told three different times around three different fires: one of miserable survivors in the comic’s immediate aftermath, one in this world’s equivalent of the Neolithic era, and one involving the ritual dance of a rich and prosperous culture.

First I dashed out a quick thumbnail for the Neolithic cave-painting scene. I figured that this idea was strong enough to stand on its own if I couldn’t make the more complicated idea work or started feeling pinched for time, which ultimately is what happened. I like the concept work that I did for the invented history though!

I started by feeling out some ideas for repeatable motifs that I could pull from the comic. Since I wasn’t drawing anything directly from the book, I still wanted readers to be able to make that visual connection. I also wanted there to be some visual link between the three time periods, and settled on four red dots (for the elephants’ eyes), paired braids (for their main feeler arms/trunks), the triangular “assemblage” symbol, and some kind of draping brood-skin shape that would be associated with motherhood in some way.

You can also see me working out some stuff like “how to abstract that weird spaceship from the opening into a 2-D symbol” and “how many points does a Simon-Roy-style star have?” (it actually varies, but I think the stories set on Altamira all use 4-pointed stars), as well as what materials would be available (leather, bone, something very like wood, probably pigment derived from the planet’s yellow soil).

The local mammal-equivalents don’t seem to have hair, but the ticks at least have quills. The idea of quillwork suggested a Native American inspiration for clothing and decoration, and since the first human settlements would likely have gone up near the shores of the Great Lake that pointed me towards the First Nations people of the Pacific Northwest.

Since the world of the comic appears to be very hot, I tried to communicate the idea of an advancing material culture without leaning on the crutch of “more clothes = more advanced”. My main angle was that in the Later Period the clothing could be more embellished and less practical, to reflect increasing wealth and specialization. Going by the comic, the standard seems to be that you can be totally comfortable in a loincloth, but that my prospective Oxpecker Lake Culture would have inherited the crew’s taboo against women displaying their breasts (the dresses seen here evolved out of the undershirts worn by the female crewmembers in the comic). Dusting red ochre skin dye on the shoulders and hands to mimic the pattern of the crew’s spacesuits then became a way to decorate oneself while still wearing minimal clothing.

I went through several different iterations of a formal shawl or wrap that could symbolically mimic Elephant brood-skin, as well as what they would be used for. I eventually settled on the multi-purpose blanket. Highly detailed to be given as gifts or to form dowries, with the elders draping them about the shoulders of the young in symbolic mimicry of how Elephants nurture their offspring.

Here I started working on ritual masks and costumes for the Later Period ritual dance. The events of the comic are now re-told in ritual dance during yearly solstice festivals. The three Elephants are represented by large, heavy, and expensive costume/puppets, whose fringed shawls (again reminiscent of brood-skin) and tasseled trunks move with the dancer. Each of the three Elephants from the comic would by now have accumulated various symbolic associations, as seen in the masks’ crests (meant to resemble assemblages) and robe decorations.

Settler and Tick masks are less elaborate, allowing the dancers more freedom of movement for athletic displays as they act out the story around the Elephant dancers. The male and female Settler masks are based off of the first two humans to approach an Elephant in the comic, while the War-Maker is based on that one guy with an atlatl. I imagined that in the mythic version of the story the last Tick bargains for its life with the War-Maker, teaching him how to kill his brothers in order to take their possessions.

Really surpassing my brief now, I started thinking about wall art for an Oxpecker tribal leader's grand hall. In a hypothetical 4th Age, new god images are emerging: filling similar roles but less 1-1 in their symbolism, and more work is going into glorifying the accomplishments of the Lake Culture – by this time now only one of several extant human cultures in the region. Notably the ship of the original settlers has been conflated with the boats that the people of the Lake Culture use to traverse the Great Lake. Many people probably believe that the spaceship was a fanciful metaphor. The double triangle, which originally meant "Elephant's Assemblage" is now a generalized one for "Land/Home". Possibly the conflation has religious origins: the visible world is Greatest’s assemblage.

I imagined that by the later period the humans would have spread out from their original home on the lake. Some people would move into the forests as hunter-gatherers (the Elephants appear to eat entire trees in the comic, which would regularly open up large forest clearings that could be exploited for game and fast-growing shrubs), some might have crossed the great lake, and some might build huge towers along Elephant migratory paths where they could latch on, hunt for ticks, and then hop off at the next tower. I like the idea that the Elephants would appreciate these humans, like reef animals visiting a cleaner-fish station, but that other humans would consider them unclean due to their diet of blood (by way of the Ticks, which at this point have been demonized).

Each culture might interpret the "two trunks, four eyes, red shoulders and hands" elements that I'd settled on for the original culture in different ways. Their religion and culture has probably morphed too: does the Lake Culture consider themselves superior, as the original humans? Are the Far Shore traders a Lake Culture splinter group who sailed across the lake, or are they the descendants of a different group of survivors who floated across in the aftermath of the Eviction? Are their weird island castaway cultures descended from a handful of people who floated away on a log at the end of the comic? How long until somebody realizes that megafauna are made of very large quantities of meat and other useful materials? Can Elephant and Man ever learn to communicate, perhaps in some far future Age?

At this point I’d realized that my original idea was much too ambitious and I tried a few layouts to prove it. We can also see some me working out different bonfire building methods and trying to work out a few steps of the ritual dance – a big development here is the idea that the elephant costume heads would be more like a hat rather than a mask to give the dancer added height. I also attached marionette poles to the end of the trunk tassels so they could be used for big, stately gestures in the dance.

The last bits of development went into the dress and appearance of the Stone Age storyteller. I scaled the headdress back to a simpler four reddish stones and four tassels (two long manipulator arms and two short feeder ones). Her dress is a costly garment representing her respected position within the group. It’s made of the skins of several animals and decorated with their bones, quills, and teeth (the ticks have them, it’s gross!), as well as shells from the Great Lake. I hypothesized a Tapir animal – essentially a larger ground-dwelling relative of the Tick – to provide the settlers with meat and hides. This conveniently let me base all the colors and stuff off of the animals in the comic.

Lastly, here is the full set of cave paintings, since in the final image I prioritized atmosphere over legibility. Read from left to right they retell the story of the comic in simplified form. Due to the way I organize my color photoshop painting I wanted this linework on a separate layer from the final drawing, seen below. Huge thanks to the ancient artists of Lascaux Cave for the inspiration!

Huge thanks to Tom Kilian for this post, and all this marvelous world-building - I absolutely love it all! A whole new world, implied through a single piece...

#simon roy #comics #griz grobus #sciencefiction #kickstarter #speculative biology #speculative zoology #crash landing #scifi #tom kilian

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iphyslitterator · 3 days ago

Note

https://www.tumblr.com/iphyslitterator/781529944758091776/fascinating-phenomenon-that-the-buddie-fandom-is?source=share

My theory: the buddie fandom members are more inclined to reject (and even to rebel) against something that they don't agree with (or causes them pain) and are willing to believe in any sign that may indicate that what they want is in fact happening, even if it's against all logic; while the BT fandom members seem more grounded in reality, recognizing what's happening and being able to accept it (which doesn't mean they can't manifest their disagreement), despite the pain said reality may cause.

is this an age thing (buddies skewing younger and BTs skewing older)? a cultural thing (religious background / education / literacy levels)?

I'm intrigued by this.

Yeah, I've been thinking along these lines, i.e. that it's about the dominant modes of reading in each fandom.

The most prominent Buddie shippers believe Buddie's going canon, and that involves a lot of reading between the lines: the show is sending you subtle messages, the signs are obvious to the skilled ("media literate") interpreter, of course they wouldn't spoil things in interviews. The gifset of alleged season 8 foreshadowing for Bobby's return fits right into that - attention and close reading are supposed to reveal the hidden truth.

I love the point about the tendency to reject/rebel against canon, which is linked to an investment in canon: this thing that you want isn't happening onscreen, and that's unacceptable, so therefore it will, it has to (and it's so important for it to happen, there may be no way to convince you that it won't).

Whereas the Bucktommy fandom did the exact opposite in the wake of the breakup: we both accepted canon and distanced ourselves from it. Even as more people got more hopeful for a reconciliation, our main project in the hiatus was to solidify into a fandom that could survive without the show. At the same time - and it wasn't immediately clear this would happen - we started heavily incorporating 8x06 material into our readings. The prevailing characterization of Tommy shifted significantly. We dive deep into their communication issues. We hated the episode, but we decided to take a lot of it at face value and turn it into a "better" story.

To avoid the "grounded in reality" value judgment for a minute, I'd say the Bucktommy fandom leans more pessimistic. Believing in the Buddie long game requires optimism, faith that the show is intentional and patient. Bucktommy fans are more likely to express cynicism about Tim Minear and distrust in the show; taking the text at face value/arguing that the show "isn't subtle," even if accurate, is related to the general post-breakup wariness. (It's also related to having a canon ship - we never had to excavate it, it was happening onscreen.)

Of course the Bucktommy fandom has also already coped with the sudden loss of a beloved character; a lot of us were processing a lot of grief in November, and I think even the people who were clowning early reconciled themselves to the possibility he wouldn't come back. The irony is that we were wrong, and Tommy did return! But the experience still primed a lot of us to start grieving Bobby and coming to terms with his death quickly. (It's also ironic that we're taking the press at face value, but the Peter farewell tour is so much more extensive than the Lou "exit interviews" that believing it seems like the smart/realistic/pessimistic thing to do.)

I'm unwilling to generalize about demographics without hard data, and I think we overinterpret the age thing. There are plenty of younger Bucktommy fans, and plenty of older fans with the reactions or behavior people sneer at as juvenile. I'd tentatively say the fact that many of our most prominent writers are late 30s or older has shaped the fic landscape, and the unusually high percentage of queer men has influenced the culture. But whether this has any bearing on the Bobby alive vs. dead debate, I couldn't say.

#thanks for weighing in!#911 meta #911 discourse #but i am striving to stay neutral

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oddlylovingaddiction · 3 days ago

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What Clark Kent (Superman) as a your yandere would be like…

Tw: Morally bad behaviour and stuff that nobody should do, and if you catch a guy doing this beat him call the cops.

Yandere Clark Kent is probably the best (worst??) yandere because no way are you ever catching his ass.

He definitely fell for you in his civilian form. I think he accidentally saw you committing a single kind act, like let’s say you pet a stray animal, helped an old lady cross the street, comforted a crying child or something else entirely and that’s how he first got hooked. He won’t immediately become a yandere but after a phew months of just being aware of you as a person, his obsession would escalate.

Good thing about Clark is his love for humanity. He will definitely not cross your boundaries. Tell him you don’t like being hugged or kissed a certain way? Done. He’s definitely not one to force you to do what you don’t want. He also won’t isolate you from friends or family instead he chooses to win them over.

However…. He definitely will create situations where you’re required to get close to him. Great example is that he’ll befriend you and then one day, your apartment gets suddenly shut down because turns out the landlord was actually a criminal and when you go to your friends or family to stay with them for a bit while you get your shit together, they all coincidently have reasons they can’t let you stay until the last one your left to turn to is him. During the time you stay with him he’ll definitely turn the charm to the MAX. For example, First thing you wake up to is the smell of cooking in the morning, and he’ll serve you your favourite breakfast but he will act like he had no idea it was your favourite.

He uses super hearing a lot to collect information on your likes and dislikes, also because when he goes to sleep at night he likes to hear your heartbeat as he falls asleep it soothes him. He also uses his powers to protect you from danger, walking home alone in the dark? He’ll eliminate any threat.

When you finally get together, he’ll be the most perfect boyfriend ever. Absolute gentleman. He’ll also be an absolute fool in love, you’ll catch him just occasionally staring at you like you’re the most beautiful sunset. he’ll sometimes randomly grab your hand to kiss it.

I think he’d finally tell you he was Superman when you both are cuddled up in bed. “My love… I have something to confess, but I need you to swear on the moon and stars you won’t tell a soul.” He’d probably say, making you super nervous because it sounds like he committed a murder or something. “I’m Superman.” To which you’d laugh like a maniac. You’d know if your boyfriend was superman right?! Besides your lovely boyfriend couldn’t be— then he steps out of bed and lifts the entire bed up with you on it with one hand. Without struggling.

Shit your boyfriend is superman.

That definitely took some time to process and to talk about your future together, however you ultimately decide to stay with him. Thank god really because if you chose to break up with him… he won’t do anything. he’d just make sure you never date anyone else, Like your newest date suddenly cancelled because of a leak in his house or something that type of thing if you broke up. Cause if you ain’t dating him you dating NO ONE LOL.

Once he tells you he’s superman he’ll definitely propose. But he’ll be superrrr particular about it. Like he’ll measure your finger just right, get your dream ring (screw the cost, if he can’t buy it, he’ll just become a welder and make it for you.), he’ll plan the perfect spot etc.

“I never knew I would fall so deeply in love with someone, to the point where if you were to disappear it would be like the sun had stopped shining. That’s how much I love you, you’re my sun. my dear, will you please marry me?”

Bro starts crying when you say yes like he didn’t expect you to say yes to the most jaw dropping proposal ever. He still picks you up and hugs you gently when you do though…

The wedding is also perfect by the way, he makes sure every step of the way it’s the perfect wedding for the both of you. He’ll make sure nothing is too overwhelming for you and is always agreeable. If something makes you anxious he’ll remind you “I don’t care how the wedding will be as long as I marry you. I’d marry you in the middle of a desert.”

NSFW and mention of pregnancy but it’s short & optional UNDER CUT

By the way for your first night after you get married… save your stamina up. Best advice because he’s showing all his possessive sides, he’ll growl in your ear when putting you into the meanest mating press, “Who’s your husband.” To which you’ll be forced to scream out his name over and over again. He’ll keep fucking you until the sun comes up.

And if you can (and want to duh.) get pregnant do expect to be having to take a phew tests in a phew weeks.

#🩷 ~ short fics || oddlylovingaddiction #x reader #gender neutral reader #reader insert #gn reader #superman x reader #superman x y/n #superman x you #dc blurb #dc x y/n #dc x you #dc x reader #clark kent x reader #clark kent x y/n #clark kent x you #yandere superman #yandere dc

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iwoulddieforher · 1 day ago

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Necessary Sting | Alex Cabot x Casey Novak

rewarding my readers with comfort no hurt after all the stuff I've been putting you through lately. :) everyone say thank you rynn

Essentially: Alex has an off day, and Casey comes over with a sore shoulder from softball playing. nonsexual (..borderline at some points but hey, with a body like Casey's in front of you, what did you expect Alex to do?) body worship. Technically written as a continuation of "Rigid" although it is not at all necessary to read the former before reading this. 4.4k words

It was one of the rare days when Alex didn't have work, and Casey did, and Alex was mildly irritated. Not that she had a break, no, but because usually when she took a day off she plotted it weeks in advance to make sure the time spent off would have some purpose- visit a museum she had wanted to see, make plans with a friend she hadn't seen in a while, invite Olivia over for a home-cooked meal that inevitably turned into takeout after Alex burned the food- some, vague but still some, idea of what to do.

She didn't have anything to do because she had forgotten this day was marked off. It must've been the day for an event her family or bosses wanted her to attend, but after a couple hours of trying to figure out what she was due for, it appeared as though she genuinely had nothing on schedule. A call to her secretary informed her that it was due to some sort of mix-up, and she was free to do whatever she wished, and they’d figure it out.

Alex did not like making plans on short notice. She needed the time to process what she was going to do and in what order she was going to do it in at least a few hours before doing it, and she had no idea what she even wanted to do today, so she did absolutely nothing.

It was irritating, doing nothing. She wanted to spend her time on some halfway-useful purpose.

A call illuminated her dark phone screen and she picked up immediately without registering the caller ID, bored enough that she was fine speaking to genuinely anyone if it provided any amount of entertainment.

“Cabot,” She spoke out of reflex, although this was her personal phone so whoever was calling her most likely was someone she wouldn't need to be so formal with.

“Novak,” a woman’s voice responded, a bit of a snort in her voice as she imitated the clear-cut formal tone that had just been used on her.

“Casey,” and here Casey grinned at the smile so present in Alex’s voice, even though she couldn't see it, “How can I help you?”

“There's a softball match I’m playing in tonight,” Casey told her, “Would you want to come with? I haven't seen you in a while.”

Alex paused, internally debating it in her mind. Yes, she had nothing to do, but if she was honest with herself despite how much she loved watching Casey play, the idea of sitting on those grimey bleachers especially with such little time to mentally prepare herself for it was not ideal. Sometimes she could put up with it, as she had before, but today was not really one of the days she could fight against the urge to be somewhere less … wild.

“You can say no,” her … whatever Casey was to her … said seriously over the phone, “I’m not one of those people who offers things with expectations.”

Alex wished Casey could see the smile that flashed briefly over her face at that comment. It meant a lot to her. She liked when expectations and efforts and intentions were laid out a bit more simply, the people she was raised around where not like that in the slightest. Casey was clear cut in a delicious way. If she liked something she said she didn't, if she didn't she wouldn't, and she wanted her to do something she’d ask, and if she requested something it wasn't a demand.

“I’m not sure I’m in the mood to spectate today,” Alex agreed, but after a quick second decided she did really want to see Casey tonight. “But- would you want to come over, after?”

“I’m game,” she heard a soft chuckle from Casey’s side of the line, “but I’ll be over later, then, I’d need to go home to shower first.”

“Shower here,” Alex said before considering it.

She could feel Casey’s eyebrows raise despite the blocks of bustling New York between the DA’s office and her apartment, feel the way they arched as if Casey was shooting her a look, which she was.

Since the night that had blazed an impression of itself onto Alex’s heart, the moments spent tossing a softball back and forth in an empty stadium, Alex had thought quite a bit about what opportunity might exist within Casey Novak.

Going back to Casey’s apartment, soft hands on her hips when Casey pushed her down to the couch, easily sliding a leg over to recreate the position they had been in on the field, although this time, Alex had let her stay on top.

She’d let her decide how much she wanted to take, because if it was up to Alex to offer, a lot more would have been on the table than what they had done.

But they hadn't done much since then- time was a tricky thing to navigate with the job they worked- so where exactly their relationship lay Alex was not entirely sure.

“Alright,” Casey said, right as Alex was beginning to tug on her fingers from nerves, “Then- I’ll see you at yours, say, eight thirty?”

“Sounds good,” Alex nodded, stealing a deep breath.

“Alex?”

“Yes?”

“What’s your address?”

“Oh,” Alex felt her cheeks color, but she rattled off her place of base hastily and when Casey laughed again before excusing herself and ending the call she was too enthused to be embarrassed.

Her enthusiasm quickly dwindled when she realized she still had another couple hours to wait until Casey’s arrival, and she still didn't have anything to do, so she sighed and sprawled herself over the couch, deciding to simply read up on case law for the sake of having nothing better to do. She had already read most of these transcripts but she’d reread them anyway. One never knew what specific tidbit of information could cause a case to flip on its head, until it happened, or until you remembered something you could use.

The sense of boredom then shifted to anxiety. She wasn't exactly sure what she had initiated. Should she try to cook something, or was ordering okay? Or would Casey grab food with friends before showing up to her's? What were they even doing- watching a movie? But then the question of what movie to pick out ahead of time arose and Alex wasn't sure about Casey’s taste in cinema at all, so that just stressed her out, too.

Eventually, after a lot of staring blankly at her kitchen- it seemed embarrassing to make something simple, but she knew anything more complex she’d run the risk of fucking up- she sighed and decided to text her defeat.

← Takeout okay? I’m behind on groceries

Casey → Oh, you’re feeding me?

Alex blinked slowly at her phone, then placed it on the table with a small huff. What was that supposed to mean? What was Casey expecting? But then again, she had been the one to offer, so- wait, did Casey think this was a hookup? ‘Come over’ had been a vague thing to say.

When she picked her phone up again she realized Casey was sending chain texts, so that wasn't all she had to base a reply off of, and her fears were somewhat alleviated.

Casey → That's sweet of you

Casey → What do you normally get?

← ‘Normally’ I’m only ordering things that are easy to eat so it’s less risky to eat over my laptop and won't ruin if I’m called out in a spur

← What do you prefer?

Casey → If it's alright with you, Chinese? But don't worry about it, I’ll pick it up on my way over. No reason for you to waste money on delivery if I’m on my way around anyway.

← You’re on your bike?

Casey → What did you expect?

Casey → :)

Alex glanced outside. There was still an hour or two of sunlight left, but regardless, she didn't like the idea of Casey being out on her bike alone at night.

But it wasn't her place to interject on that. If Casey wanted a ride Alex could only hope she’d trust her enough to ask- the way she had the first time- but otherwise it was Alex’s job to trust Casey knew what was good for her, and if this was it, then she’d accept it.

← Drive safely. See you soon

With that, her source of entertainment stalled again, so she went back to her articles, sighing idly.

She was now wracked with an equal amount of anticipation and anxiety that she didn't quite know how to focus properly on such a nonemergent cause like case files, so she stood and instead decided to pace idly in her kitchen, trying to decide what wine paired with whatever possible combination of food Casey might bring.

Dishes were in the sink, a nonsense movie was on the screen, and Alex was sitting on the couch trying to pretend she wasn't listening to the water splashing as Casey showered, although that wasn't a particularly devious thing to do regardless.

A bottle of wine had been cracked and it was nearly empty now, sitting like a proud lion on the living room table next to two empty glasses.

Alex was trying very hard to figure out what was happening. Yes, she had invited her over and also told her to shower here, but the expectations for after the shower was- very … nonexistent. Casey had said she wanted to eat quickly while the food was warm and then shower as quick as possible, because she didn't like lounging around in dirty clothes for any longer than necessary, and she had already seemed slightly freaked out about being in Alex’s expensive apartment in clothes she had sweat in. When Alex had complimented the way her hair fell so naturally in the messy ponytail she had pulled faux blonde hair into, Casey had chuckled almost nervously. Hopefully she’d be calmed by the shower, clean clothes, and washed hair.

But now Alex was getting more anxious, and hearing the water run was making her heart pound- not in a bad way- because she couldn't stop … imagining.

Wet hair clinging to her back, her lips parted slightly as water ran down the length of bare skin- no, she couldn't be thinking about that, but it was all she wanted to think about. The muscles on her lithe, agile frame- her pale skin, the rosy tint it must be taking on from warm water.

Her hands, god her wonderful hands, across her own chest- oh, Alex was going to get a nosebleed if she kept thinking about that, feeling her face grow warm from the thought alone. Fuck, fuck. She needed a cigarette.

She cautiously took a pillow and laid it in her lap, digging her fingers into the plush and trying to think of anything else but Casey tilting her head back in the shower, steam clouding the mirror and floating in a haze around her nude form.

“Hey, you.” The woman she had just been fantasizing about chirped, wandering back into the room. Her hair had been towel dried and then brushed through, so still damp and unnaturally straight, although her wavy curls were starting to form at the ends. She had switched into shorts that rode up on her thighs and a shirt that was too large for her, but Alex couldn't tear her eyes away from her face.

“Oh,” Alex cursed herself, the shower must have turned off minutes ago for Casey to already be dry like this, “Nice shower?”

“Yours is considerably bigger than mine,” Casey grinned, rolling her shoulder twice before flopping back on the couch with a groan.

Alex studied her side profile, illuminated from both the dim lighting in the kitchen a ways away and the soft glow from the TV, still paused where they had left off before Casey had excused herself to shower. Her face was rosy and looked deliciously soft, her lips wetted and her hair was absolutely begging for Alex to toy with it. She was still warm from the shower and still radiating the humid comfort gained from it.

Casey rolled her shoulder- the same one- again, and Alex frowned softly, broken out of her inspection.

“Is it bothering you?” She asked, motioning to the shoulder Casey kept trying and failing to stretch out.

“Yeah,” Casey affirmed, closing her eyes and shaking her head softly. “Carrying the bag with all the equipment around did a number on me.”

The throbbing of her body seemed to ripple into her hands, and Alex felt her fingers twitch. She ran her tongue along her suddenly dry lips, her heart starting to beat faster.

“I could try to work it out,” Alex breathed, quiet and tentative, “I’ve been told I’m decent at that kind of thing. All the hunching over textbooks at law school, you know.”

That was over-justification, and she grimaced slightly, but she wanted to touch her so bad- so ridiculously bad- and when the response she was met with was only a gentle scoff at her enthusiasm, Casey was content to settle under her ministrations.

The faux blonde turned, back facing Alex, and the elder woman coaxed her upwards, her thighs bracketing Casey’s body. Casey sighed deeply, relaxing into the space, and Alex felt herself genuinely swooning.

The seconds her hands met Casey’s body she felt herself muffle a moan at the feeling of her- okay, yes, through a shirt but still- in her hands. Holding her felt better than ecstasy, but she had a job to do, so she set about doing it.

Casey was watching the TV half intently, and Alex realized she had unpaused it- her attention was completely fixated on the younger woman now so she wasn't surprised she hadn't seen. She placed her hands evenly on the top of her shoulders and then began to explore her traps gently with her thumbs. The feeling of her body moving under her fingers, the way she could press down and feel the warmth bleed into her, it was all simply too much.

A loose whimper left Casey's throat, higher in pitch than anything Alex had ever heard from her before, and it was followed up with an honest to God moan when Alex’s thumb pressed against a knot of muscles near her spine. Her hand found Alex's thigh and lightly whacked it, landing a series of gentle insistent taps that reminded Alex of a dog’s tail wagging.

“Right there,” Casey gasped, “Fuck, that hurts, but it- keep going, right there.”

Alex smirked to herself, feeling elated and triumphant. She felt like she had won some kind of victory, being able to hold Casey like this.

She kept repeating the same motion, rolling the muscle that had tensed with her thumb, and Casey kept shifting, kept letting small sounds leave with her breathing as she did it. It was utterly intoxicating. It hurt her but it healed simultaneously, the necessary burn to agitate the knotted muscles to smooth back out, leaving her waking up tomorrow without the usual sore.

Her hand snapped down against Alex’s thigh again, harder this time, needing the comfort of some kind of movement to expel the energy the stimulation of an area in pain provided her with, even though it was a good sort of pain. She glanced back apologetically, her hand smoothing along Alex's thigh to take away any sort of a sting her movement had left, but Alex only smiled and pressed her leg a bit closer against Casey’s body. If her tapping made it better, she was more than willing to let Casey slap her hand against her, and regardless, it hadn't hurt at all.

The sting felt almost good, actually, it felt like a reward. She was helping. She was making Casey feel. The sounds felt like a reward, too.

“Wait,” Casey breathed, and Alex drew back, watching Casey sit up.

Alex’s breath caught in her throat and she nearly swooned again- she came considerably closer, she noted, the edges of her vision had gone black just like a vinaigrette- as Casey reached one hand to the center of her back and then in a smooth motion pulled her shirt clean off of her body.

“There,” She said, her tone as triumphant as Alex felt, and settled back in the space she had been in, her body so warm and so deliciously close. There was no time wasted in reconvening her hands with Casey’s body, and now that it was skin on skin, it was even better, more intoxicating.

“God, it hurts,” Casey muttered, her back arching suddenly when Alex forced her thumb against the knot in her trapezius, “But it feels good, I- fuck, don't let me ever volunteer to carry that thing around ever again…”

Alex very selfishly wished Casey would carry that equipment bag every day for the next few years so she’d have the excuse to run her fingers along pale, warmed and softened skin, and soothe the hurt away while listening to the small sounds Casey made as she did so.

She smelled good from the shower, her hair now adorned with the same scent of shampoo as the one Alex used, and something about it made a small ember of possessiveness inside of her purr at the realization. She was all smooth skin, all firm yet sleek muscles, breathy sounds and soft touches. Casey’s hand slid to grip at Alex’s thigh, needing the support, which Alex was happy to let her.

She supposed overworking that one muscle must cause it to burn at some point, so her hands wandered down, exploring her shoulder blades, her lower back. Casey groaned as her hands moved, and Alex felt the way she squirmed the slightest bit against her fingers at some spots.

Alex began categorizing them, making mental notes of where Casey responded the most, where she was more sensitive and where she needed more stimulation before a response. Where she got bored, her body relaxing, and where the feeling caused a spike through her nervous system that caused Alex to wince at the feeling of Casey’s hand clenching down on her thigh. She used them in combination and the gasp Casey released made her abdomen shift comfortably in her stomach.

“That’s all I can reach from here,” She said finally, after the movie had long ended and she had traced every single inch of Casey’s back twice over.

“Then,” a pleasure-drunk Casey muttered, “I guess we change positions? If your hands aren't tired.”

Her hands would never be tired enough to stop before Casey told her to quit.

They switched places, now with Casey on her stomach on the couch, Alex being granted the honor of straddling her thighs so she could dig into the places on the lower back that were previously too awkward to reach. From here, though, Casey couldn't grip her thigh, and although at times it had hurt it had felt meaningful to her. Perhaps they could go back to the former position later, or maybe they could do it again another day.

“Alex,” Casey cried out at one point, and Alex had cooed softly in response. “I felt it,” she affirmed, her thumb tracing a circle around a point where Casey was particularly tense, “I’ve got it, I’ll keep working.”

“I know,” Casey mumbled, her cheek pressed against the couch material, “I just- saying your name feels natural.”

“...then say my name as much as you like,” Alex said softly in response, glad Casey’s eyes were closed so she couldn't be teased about the flush that had spread across her cheeks.

She loved the way Casey was laid out for her, her ability to now admire every inch with no awkwardness, expectations clear. The expectation was to touch as much as she possibly could and she was very, very eager to do so. She let her hands roam freely, symmetrical across the axis of her spine but otherwise unbounded. She traced a line up the rhomboid, from near her arm to her neck, and when Casey squirmed she laughed softly and traced the length of her spine to soothe. She found the spot that had started it all on her neck again and noted the way Casey’s jaw clenched immediately.

“You feel so soft,” Alex whispered, “so perfect.”

“Are you drunk?” The eye that wasn't pressed into the couch blinked open, an eyebrow cocking at her, and Alex glanced over at the almost empty wine bottle with a bit of bashfulness in her expression, but Casey was only teasing.

“Maybe,” she admitted, “But all it's doing is lowering my inhibitions. I’ve always thought you were … I’ve wanted to…”

“You’ve wanted to touch me?” Casey asked, as though she was surprised about it, which Alex thought was rather ridiculous now.

“Obviously.” Alex grumbled, deciding to shut her up by kneading her thumb into one of the spots she had deciphered earlier, and just as she had expected Casey’s eyes squeezed shut and her mouth closed immediately. Alex grinned smugly. When Casey’s eye opened again it was scrunched in a playful glare.

“You have all of me at your disposal, then.” Casey’s voice lowered, huffing softly with amusement at the way Alex stopped breathing when she said that.

“Flip over,” Alex breathed after only a few seconds of hesitation, lifting up on her knees so Casey had the space to writhe onto her back rather than her belly.

Green eyes looked up at her expectantly, and Alex kissed her.

Her hands kept exploring, even though her mouth was preoccupied. Her tongue slid into Casey’s mouth, probing gently and exploring, and her hands did the same on her collarbones, sliding up to smooth over her shoulders again and wrapping her fingers around for a quick, smug second to feel Casey moan into her mouth when the knot was stimulated again.

“Alex,” Casey hissed, and then again more insistently when Alex did it again. Alex laughed, softly, kissing the bridge of her nose and her forehead, agreeably letting her hands travel lower.

The solar plexus was a point at which she knew she could provide the delightful responses she had been basking in, but she wanted to take her time doing so.

Her lips were so plump and so perfect, so soft and so warm. Alex could drown in the way her body was made, in the way she used it when she pressed her hips upward to be closer against Alex’s own, in the way her arms felt tangled around Alex’s shoulders. She kissed her, and then they broke for air and she kissed her again, never wanting to stop.

Eventually she let her go because she could feel the way Casey was panting, her chest rising and falling faster, her face coated in a blush that needed a longer pause. Alex smiled, kissing her jawline, then the space at which her jaw met her ear, making her way down.

Her neck was soft, her pulse fluttering under her skin when Alex bit lightly on her pulse point, and Casey groaned. Alex’s hands slid under her arms to grasp at her shoulders, making room to press her lips against her collarbone, making her way down and across the length of one before lavishing the other with the same attention.

“You touch me as if I’m something fragile,” Casey muttered, and Alex paused.

“I touch you because you're someone special,” she smiled, pressing her cheek against Casey’s skin so she could let Casey see the genuine adoration in blue eyes, “And I want you to feel like you are.”

Something in Casey’s eyebrows twitched, as though it was a necessary pain to hear that. Alex felt her eyes soften, widen slightly before she could disguise the realization, but instead of closing down Casey grasped her by the collar and pulled her up to kiss her again, which Alex more than happily indulged.

“I like it,” Casey whispered to her when they separated a little time later, “I like the way you touch me.”

“Good,” Alex kissed her cheek again, “I want to keep doing it.”

Casey scoffed a soft laugh, arching her back high as if showing off all the skin that was for Alex’s taking. Alex grinned and indulged her in that, too. She picked up where she had left off, kissing trails down the flat of her chest.

Casey had said her entire body was on limits, essentially, Alex had her consent, but she decided tonight was not for sexual conquest, she only wanted to feel, to make warm, to relax. Besides, despite the occasional wriggle or protest from Casey, it seemed like the faux blonde was on the verge of falling asleep, lulled by a combination of intense exercise, food, a warm shower and Alex’s hands into a blissful haze that Alex did not want to interrupt.

Because of that, Alex skipped over her breast, leaving her bra on to admire but not engage with. She traced the faint outlines of Casey’s ribs, and revealed in the contented sigh that Casey made as she did so. She pressed a kiss to Casey’s sternum, right above the place at which the bra cups connected and again once right below it, her hands tightening in grip slightly in a way that she knew would feel good as she slowly slid her hands down to grip at Casey’s waist. Casey groaned again, shifting one way and then the other, as if she wanted to feel the pressure even tighter on both sides. Alex pressed her down and closer and a small huff was elicited, which she smiled at, pressing her lips against the space below the one she had just done.

The TV shut down automatically after receiving no input for long over an hour, so they were bathed in darkness, the backrest of the couch shielding them from the little light the kitchen could shine into the living room. Alex couldn't see her smile anymore but she could feel it which she was utterly content with.

Alex kissed against her upper abdomen, her hands resting comfortably around Casey's waist as she lowered her lips to kiss a line down the linea alba, smoothing her tongue over the soft ridges of Casey’s abs. Casey squirmed, tilting her head back as her hands reached to smooth into Alex's hair.

She smoothed her hands lower, thumbs extending as far as she could while remaining by Casey’s sides, traveling down to grasp at her hips, before gathering at the line of symmetry and then pushing gently back up. Casey’s leg kicked out automatically and Alex grinned triumphantly.

“How do you know how to do this?” Casey’s voice was slightly higher, her tone almost like a loose whine that sounded delicious in the rasp that came with her vocals. “I- I’ve…”

“I know,” Alex pressed a kiss to her navel, and then with a teasing bit of smugness, “I’m very good.”

Casey’s eye roll was noted in feeling even when Alex couldn't see it and she laughed, softly, kissing the small ribbon on the woman's pajama pants before finally raising her head again, stretching her arms over her head to ease some of the tension being hunched over her form had so long had created. It was a necessary kind of soreness, one she was exceptionally proud of.

“You are very good,” she admitted after a pause, and then felt Casey’s hands tugging at the top of her thighs, pulling her slightly off balance and pulling her down against her.

Alex breathed out, slowly, her thirst for Casey’s form satisfied, and Casey kissed her hairline and then began to run her fingers through the silky blonde hair gently.

“Do you want to turn the TV back on?” Alex asked, even as she nuzzled her head gently into the crook of Casey’s neck, a position at which she surely would have no clue what was playing if it was.

“No,” Casey murmured, “I want to stay like this.”

“Mm,” Alex smiled and kissed her neck, her arms settling gently to frame Casey’s face, and she felt her sigh deeply.

“I’ll wake up sore despite all your effort if we fall asleep like this,” Casey smiled, but it was gentle, not a real argument.

“Then I could do it all again tomorrow morning,” Alex responded sleepily, having finally achieved a position at which she was the epitome of comfort. Casey laughed softly, kissed the side of her face, and closed her eyes.

#casey novak #calex #alex cabot #svu #casey novak x alex cabot #law and order svu #law and order special victims unit

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