#maybe a reread of something that's easy

[vvelegrin]

kind of thinking... my main project i've worked on for a long time now has been a 'practice novel' with characters and etc that have been knocking around in here for a very long time. practice novel in that i am giving myself no expectations outside of finishing the damned thing, no obligation to do anything with it, just a proof of concept and a chance to practice the process.

unfortunately, i am terminally worldbuilding-brained. but what that has more practically come out to is that i get stuck in rabbit holes and get overwhelmed by the sheer amount that there is. endless complexity. it's fun! hours are spent on things that will probably not show up anywhere but i like the ideas, and then i don't get any writing done ever lmao.

but i've ended up getting sucked into several fanfiction projects recently and, while i do have to streamline my general workflow (which involves too much of being an overwhelmed freak about everything, but i digress), the compulsion to engage in worldbuilding and the subsequent crippling and ultimately-unproductive obsession is completely eliminated and i can actually write?

I don't know what this Means exactly, apart from the fact that i obviously need to adjust my approach to my original stuff. one piece, but not the whole thing, is that i think i need to do smaller projects. my tentative rule for myself is to make a checklist of worldbuilding concepts that i'd like to flesh out meaningfully, and instead of endless research and notes, i have to write a small piece that incorporates it. or whatever.

anyway that's how i ended up in the throes of a pathologic/ai: the somnium files crossover. what's fun about that is that i'm not the first person to do that crossover!

[techniiciian]

.

[holygroundgone]

dungeon meshi (only ever calling it that) is such a fantastic fucking all rounder, it really feels perfect, in fact it almost feels a little too perfect, it's so good and delicious and frankly uncontroversial and palatable despite the high threshold of tasteful but immense horniness, i truly feel like ryoko kui alchemized pure gold

[hyperfixation-tangentopia]

I think part of why I love doing edits so much is I forget about them. I forget about the process, I forget about the thoughts of what I might've done instead or whatever, I can just forget all that. The process is isolated to the process and the result the result, while still having the positive feelings of the progress fun, if that makes sense.

With drawing and writing, looking at it again isn't to enjoy it, it's to edit or catch mistakes or just because I liked it so how can I do it again. The process is entertwined with the result.

Also, I can't edit my edits after I post them. For the sake of laptop space, I delete them and just keep the Mp4 files. There's nothing to change, so I can't stress about it. It's nice. I think editing helps my writing and helps me feel better about it in the long run, but I was able to absorb my own work without worrying about making it better in the past and that's why I enjoyed it more.

And drawing is a middle ground, except my perfectionist comes through mostly in the process, so I worry less about sharing it honestly.

Anyway. Just some midnight ramblings.

[holygrailcycle]

LONG TIME NO SEE. Dunno if anyone's watching, but recent developments have sparked my brain in a way that I wanted to write down and share, so here I am!!! Buckle up because this goes on a bit.

With the reveal of Our Rage Issues and the conversations that were going on in the comments in this post, I wanted to talk a bit about what we know - what we remember - of our situation. What we have, right now, are these:

The recollection we gained while dealing with Setanta (see above).

The recollection we gained while talking with Draco.

Chapter 2.5, after we drank the Tezcal Pulque with Quetz and Rider.

And of course, our lived experiences during the first Tumblr Holy Grail War.

So, here's the summary:

Once upon a time, we were all individual people. Wizards. Masters. We fought alongside our own Servants in the Lunar Holy Grail War. Then we lost and died. The End.

Except not. Something scooped us, a mass of dead and defeated souls, up, shoved us together, and sent us into the Solar Cell. We summoned Servants, and at some point fell into Rage and dragged them along with us. Lancer managed to get free and nearly killed us, but somehow we wound up sealed instead. The End.

Except not. Somehow we got out, with zero recollection of what had happened before our 'test run' (that was actually trillions of runs). And now we're here, stuck trying to make sense of everything and anything with not an insubstantial amount of people wanting to kill or otherwise neutralize our collective asses.

So to that point, my own theory talk under the cut:

My initial theory was that maybe something during our investigation corrupted us. After all, we were lucid - if confused - in our conversations during 2.5, and Lancer and Archer didn't seem to find that odd, not to mention their own lucidity. But even discounting Lancer's commentary about 'our nature', the fact that we had an Avenger with us in the first place, and an Avenger that looks like the Black Grail on top of it, pokes holes in that theory.

So instead: maybe we were created solely to destroy the Solar Cell. To serve as a Trojan horse to slip in and go off at the most optimal time. It's hard to look at the materials - the fallen souls of the Moon Cell - and think there were good, pure intentions at work. But even if what Lancer was told about us was true, it doesn't mean the speaker's intentions were good or pure.

There's still a nightmare lurking in the core, after all - a nightmare that tore Fragment Avenger apart and shoved them inside for their own ends. And it'd be easy to take advantage of the chaos we were creating for their own ends. To hide themself, and their own plans, by pointing the finger elsewhere.

After all, why waste a perfectly good scapegoat?

[naruto-reread-maxxing]

You’re telling me gaara was able to find kakashi and sasuke but the Anbu couldn’t??? Kishimoto I need to study your brain

[caffeiiine]

i keep seeing aku posts. love my little guy but I am not very happy with where he is plot wise. give him his memory back!!!!!!

[blinkbones]

Minor Detail -- Adania Shibli

Rambling warning. This reading got so mixed in with my current state of mind and feelings + the difficulty of speaking about something related to a heated current issue, it's a whole mess. And probably not a well-worded one. Also I'm ignorant. I hope I don't compound anyone's pain today, and if I do, I am endlessly sorry. Also anyone being dehumanizing in my notes is catching a block.

This book I bought on a whim, against my own rules. My new job has been taking its toll on me and, I don't know, I sort of felt compelled to... do... something...?

It's an awful thing to say, but I've been compartmentalizing a lot. I've been limiting the time that I take to engage with news, because it kept sending me down doom spirals.

But... I still care, yknow. And I guess that's why I picked up a book with such a discomforting blurb even in my aching state -- and how comforting can you get in your writing as a Palestinian author, in the context of the last... century... anyway?

Ok, less about me and more about this book. It's a short, and well-crafted novel, in two parts. In the first half, the reader is put in direct contact with the cold point of view of an Israeli soldier in the few days that lead up to the rape and murder of a young Arab woman. In the second part, decades later, a Palestinian woman seeks to reconstruct the full truth of those events. You don't need me to tell you that this can be a triggering read -- but if you can handle it, it's a good one.

The writing is deceivingly simple in appearance. You will not be stumped by the sentence structures -- but the overall structure of the story itself is complex, interlacing within itself.

There are obvious mirrors to anyone who paid attention in literature classes. The dog's barking echoes like an ominous bell across the two parts. The two main characters (unnamed) both descend into a sort of feverish paranoia.

There are two scenes that I keep going back to in my mind, one from each part.

In part 1, the soldier gets stung by an insect, and his state deteriorates. As he gets more unwell, he becomes more and more meticulous and controlling regarding his environment, obviously unwilling to risk a second incident, all the while growing more and more ill. One night, or day, as he avoids the burning sun, he gets up and smashes every single insect he can find; big spiders, small spiders, even a moth. The text doesn't tell you, but you can guess -- this won't help him at all; he's already sick ; and a moth? What harm could the moth ever inflict upon him? What it reveals is his obsession for control, born out of the fear of one unpleasant but seemingly non-lethal bite, inflicted by a creature who got trapped under his shirt when he slept for the first time in a house that belonged to someone else, that we as readers imagine to be dead or trying to find refuge far away from their old home. You read it and you can't help but think about children, a week ago, yesterday, today, probably right now. Moths as well. Humans treated like insects and all lumped into a bag of "killables".

In part 2, the woman goes to work. She calls it "her new job" but you soon get the sense that she may have been at it for a while. She struggles with the limits of things, where to put them and where they end and if she's the one in charge of drawing the limit or of following its implications. This, in the context of a country whose borders are regularly pushed inward like a booby trap designed to crush its victims, is such a simple sentence, but a terrifying one. Anyway, that's not even the scene. She goes to work. On her way there, she gets stopped by soldiers telling her that the way is blocked, as they are leading an operation to deal with some young people ("terrorists" was the word, I think) holed up in a nearby building. She finds another way to access the building, where she opens the windows so the glass won't break. Soon after, there is an explosion, and the glass doesn't break. She focuses on the dust, which she abhors, because it comes in a cloud and covers her work station and the papers she's working on. It's rough and dry and hard to deal with. Her priority in that moment is to get the dust off of her papers, so that she can keep working. This resonated deeply with me. Even though my situation is, no doubt, much less depressing and much less dangerous than hers, how often have I ignored a horror I can't deal with to focus on the stupid minute details of something I do have some form of impact on? In the text, the narrator worries that this may be difficult to understand, focusing on the dust, when a literal bomb blew up nearby, but I really don't think it is. With the state of things, how they've been and how they've been going, worldwide, locally, continentally, nationally, whatever you want, and how powerless it makes a lot of us feel, I think it's inevitable to focus on what you can actually affect. And she's right, it is so silly, in a way. But maybe it is just a survival strategy as well, and it doesn't mean that one cannot care, or try to have a bigger impact, or be more involved in attempts to change things ; indeed, the woman eventually draws from every resource at her disposal to try something -- maybe "anything", I'm not sure. I mean, I've been giving my opinion and feelings here, but it'd be presumptuous to say that I really understand the author's intent.

On that note, I was hungry for more after I was done reading, so I watched a few interviews. How ironic that Adania Shibli herself got arrested when she visited the same museum her character visits, because they had "never seen a Palestinian woman with a computer". This simple sentence weighs on my mind as well, again not entirely sure why. How ironic, as well, that her award ceremony was postponed in the wake of October 7th. As if her getting her prize was going to deafen Israeli voices (I'm referring to the justification given by the book fair in question). As if this really was a simple mathematical problem, in which pain can only be recognized under one flag at a time. As if recent history showed dominance of Palestine over Israel. As if human pain wasn't universal.

I don't claim to know everything, but the level of bullshit kind of makes me feel insane sometimes. Anyway, please don't try to debate me -- this is only a book review, and I am only a random fuck with basic principles of "I don't like it when people are hurt" and no free time to argue why that's my principle.

[crows-of-buckets]

Yk. I should really bite the bullet at post at least one of my pfwotr fics. I have one that I can post. I should do it (I probably won't)

[maskedbyghost]

For those who were asking for a yearning Simon fic… enjoy, my loves.

You always said it with a laugh or a shrug—“He’ll be fine,” or “He doesn’t get attached.” God, if only you knew. If only you knew the mess you’d made of his head, the way you’d slipped into his bones and made a home there, the way he sat alone in his flat, in the dark, tracing the outline of your name in his mind like a fucking brand.

He’d replay every conversation you two ever had like some lovesick teenager, except he wasn’t a teenager; he was a fully grown man, a soldier no less, and here he was—yearning.

Pathetic. He was pathetic.

He’d think of calling, thumb hovering over your name on his phone, but he’d talk himself out of it every time. You were probably busy. You always were.

And he couldn’t risk hearing you sound distracted or annoyed, couldn’t bear the weight of you asking, “What’s wrong, Simon?” when the only thing wrong was that he missed you like air, and he was too much of a coward to say it.

You’d always been easy with him, bright and teasing, calling him “Riley” in that tone that made his skin tighten, poking at him when he got too serious. And God, he missed that. He missed your voice. He missed the way you’d glance up at him through your lashes when you were pretending not to be flirting. He missed everything.

And it wasn’t like he was subtle about it. Everyone in his unit probably noticed the way he’d check his phone during downtime, the way he’d get quiet after you called, and the way his face would go soft and stupid when he thought no one was watching.

He wasn’t stupid; he knew how he looked. He knew that Price would probably knock his head off if he found out he was falling for someone so hard it made his chest ache.

But it didn’t matter. Because you weren’t his.

And that was the worst part.

He was used to wanting things he couldn’t have—he’d grown up that way, used to pressing himself into the background and pretending he didn’t need or want.

But you? You made it impossible. You made him think, just for a moment, that maybe he could have something soft. Something real. And now he was stuck in this loop of almosts and maybes and if onlys, stuck in the quiet that filled his flat when you weren’t there.

He’d pace sometimes, hand running over the back of his neck, thinking, Just call her. Just tell her. But the words always caught in his throat.

Until tonight.

He was standing in his kitchen, staring at his phone, and he just couldn’t take it anymore. Couldn’t stand the silence, couldn’t stand the weight of his own wanting. So he called.

It rang once. Twice.

Then your voice came through, a little breathless and surprised. “Simon?”

His mouth was dry. “Yeah. Uh. Sorry, I didn’t mean to call so late.”

“No, it’s fine. Are you okay?”

He let out a shaky breath, leaning against the counter. His chest hurt. His whole body felt tight, like he was holding something too big inside him.

“I just—” He stopped, swallowing hard. “I just missed you.”

The silence stretched out between you two until you said softly, “I missed you too, Simon.”

And it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough, of course.

But for the first time in months, he let himself breathe.

He could’ve said more that night; he could’ve let the words fall out, but he’d bitten his tongue so hard he tasted blood. Couldn’t risk scaring you off. Couldn’t risk the silence that might follow if you didn’t feel the same. So he just stood there with the phone pressed to his ear, listening to you breathe, telling himself it was enough.

It wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

Days bled into weeks, and he was no better off. Every time you messaged him—just something stupid, a meme or a “Hey, did you see this?”—he’d feel that sharp sting behind his ribs, that warm pull like gravity.

He’d reread your texts over and over, memorizing them like a man starving for scraps. He’d type a reply, delete it, type it again, hover over send, and then finally hit it with a deep breath. You probably thought he was calm and collected, sitting there on the other side of the screen, when really he was a mess of nerves, thumb trembling, heart hammering so loud it echoed in his ears.

The worst part was seeing you.

When you two met up, it was just casual for you—two friends having a drink, just a quick catch-up. You’d sit across from him in the booth, your legs brushing his under the table like it was nothing, your laugh cutting through the air sharp and clear.

He’d nod along, trying to keep his hands steady, trying to act like his pulse wasn’t racing every time you looked at him. You’d lean in to show him something on your phone, and he’d catch a whiff of your perfume, something soft and warm that made his throat tighten.

And then, just when he thought he might get his shit together, you’d glance up at him with that look, that easy smile, and he’d feel himself unraveling all over again.

He’d catch himself staring at your lips, at the way you tucked your hair behind your ear, at the way you’d brush your fingertips over the rim of your glass like you didn’t even know what you were doing to him. And he’d hate himself for it—hate the way he wanted you, the way he craved something he couldn’t have.

You were so close. So damn close. And yet, you weren’t his.

He’d lie in bed at night, staring up at the ceiling, the dark pressing in around him. He’d picture you, picture the curve of your smile, the warmth of your laugh, and the softness of your skin. He’d imagine what it would feel like to just reach out and pull you into his arms, to bury his face against your neck and breathe you in, to finally, finally let himself have what he wanted.

But he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

So he’d turn over, press his face into the pillow, and will himself to sleep.

The next day, he’d put on his mask again, and he’d text you back like everything was normal, like he wasn’t dying inside. And he’d tell himself that it was enough. That this yearning was all he was ever going to get.

PART 2

-------------------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog

[niennanir]

Listen to your elders

So last week I posted abut the importance of downloading your fic. And then three days later AO3 went down for 24 hours. No one was more weirded out by this than I was. But while y’all were acting like the library at Alexandria was on fire I was reading my download fic and editing chapter eight of Buck, Rogers, and the 21st Century. And also thinking about what I could do to be helpful when the crisis was actually over.

So first off, I’m going to repeat that if you’re going to bookmark a fic, you really need to also download the fic and back it up in a safe place. I just do it automatically now and it’s a good habit to get into.

But let’s talk about some other scenarios. Last October I lost power for over a week after hurricane Ian. Apart from not having internet or A/C I did find plenty to do, I collect books so I had plenty to read, but maybe, unlike me, your favorite comfort reads aren’t sitting on a bookshelf. So let’s do something about that, shall we?

In olden times many long years ago around 1995 we printed off a lot of fic. It was mostly SOP to print a fic you planned to reread and stick it in a three ring binder. And that’s totally valid today too, but you can also make a very nice paperback with a minimum amount of skill and materials.

Let’s start with the download; Go to Ao3 and select your fic, we’ll be working with one of mine. This method works best with one shots, long fic tends to need a more complicated approach. Get yourself an HTML download

Open up the HTML download and select all then copy paste into any word processor. Set the page to landscape and two columns, then change the font to something you find easy to read, this is your book, no judgement. This is all you have to do for layout but I like to play a little bit. I move all the meta, summary, notes to the end and pick out a fun font for the title: 

No time like the present to do a quick proofread. Congratulations, you’ve just created your first typeset. On to the fun part.

Now you’re going to need some materials:  8.5x11in paper ruler one sheet of 12x12 medium card stock (60-80lb) scissors pencil pen or fine tip marker sheet of wax paper white glue two binder clips 2 heavy books or 1 brick butter knife

You’ll also need a printer, if you’re in the US there is almost a 100% chance your local library has a printer you can use if you don’t have your own. None of these materials are expensive and you can literally use cheap copy paper and Elmers glue.

Print your text block, one page per side. Fold the first page in half so that the blank side is inside and the printed side out:

use the butter knife to crease the edge. Repeat on all the sheets. When you’ve finished, stack them up with the raw edge on the left and the folded edge on the right. I used standard copy paper, because you’re only printing on one side there’s no bleed to worry about. Take the text block and line everything up. Use the binder clips to hold the raw edge in place.

Wrap the text block in the wax paper so that the raw edge and binder clips are facing out. I’m going to use my home built book press but you don’t need one, a brick or a couple of books or anything else heavy will work fine.

Once the text block is anchored down, take off he binder clips and get out the glue.

You can use a brush but you don’t need one, smear some glue on that raw edge.

Go make a margarita, watch The Mandalorian, call your mother. Don’t come back for at least an hour

In an hour smear some more glue on there and shift your brick forward so that the whole book is covered. This keeps the paper from warping. While glue part 2 is drying we’ll do the cover. Get out your 12x12 cardstock

Mark the cardstock off at 8.5 inches and cut it. Measure in 5.5 inches from the left and put in a score line with the butter knife (the back edge not the sharp edge)

Carefully fold the score line, this is your front cover. You have some options for the cover title, you can use a cutting machine like a cricut if you have one, you can print out a title on the computer and use carbon paper to transfer the text to the cardstock. I was in a mood so I just freehanded that beoch. Pencil first then in pen.

Take your text block out from under your brick. Line it up against the score mark and mark the second score on the other side of the spine

Fold the score and glue the textblock into the cover at the spine. Once the glue dries up mark the back cover with the pencil and then trim the back cover to fit with your scissors.

Voila:

I’m going to put this baby on the shelf next to the Silmarillion.

The whole process, not counting drying time, took less than an hour.

If you want to make a book of a longer fic, I recommend Renegade Publishing, they have a ton of resources for fan-binders. 

[pohyuck]

where pretend becomes real

lee donghyuck x reader — a variety show marriage. a fake spouse. cameras in your face every day. (5.9k)

• in celebration of our fullsun’s birthday!! this story is inspired by the show we got married, though please note that it may contain some inaccuracies, as it’s not strictly based on the show’s actual format or segments

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

you almost didn’t sign the contract.

the offer had come out of nowhere. an email from your manager, phrased with cautious excitement. 'we got married' was being rebooted after years off air. you’d be one of the main couples, if you agreed.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

you reread the email several times before closing your laptop and calling your best friend. “do i look like i have time to fake a marriage right now?” “you’ve literally been single for two years,” she said flatly. “yeah, but at least that’s authentic.”

the truth was, your agency thought it would be good exposure. and part of you, deep down, was curious. about what it would feel like. to pretend to fall in love. about whether pretending might start to feel real.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

donghyuck said yes because he thought it’d be funny. the managers barely got the words out. “they want you for we got married” he started laughing before they finished. “you’re joking. that’s the show where idols act in love for strangers, right?”

but later that night, lying in bed, he scrolled through old clips of the show. something about the way those couples looked at each other in the last episodes stuck with him.

he could fake chemistry. easy. he’d been doing that for stages and fan signs since he was fifteen.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

the camera lens captured everything.

your nervous fidgeting, the way your eyes darted around the unfamiliar set, the tiny puff of breath you let out when the PD said, “action.”

you weren’t a stranger to the industry, but this was different. this wasn’t acting. this was you, paired with someone you’d never met, pretending to be newlyweds on national television.

and then he walked in.

lee donghyuck. better known to most as haechan—nct’s infamous sunshine with a mischievous streak and a smile that could disarm even the toughest senior idol.

you have seen clips of him before: teasing his members and turning charm into a weapon. and now, he stood in front of you, grinning like he already knew all your secrets.

“oh?” he said, head tilting slightly. “they really blessed me with a pretty wife.” you blinked. “they told me my husband would be cute, but i didn’t expect him to flirt five seconds in.”

he laughed, hand coming up to hide his mouth. “gotta give the fans what they want. don’t worry, i’m not always like this.”

“…actually, i am”

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

the first few shoots were awkward, as expected.

you learned quickly that haechan had no shame in front of the camera. he was a professional flirt, tossing out compliments and jokes with effortless precision. every time you thought you had the upper hand, he’d flip the script.

"you’re not wearing your ring," he pointed out during episode two, eyes flicking to your bare finger as the two of you sat across from each other in a café.

"i forgot," you said, deadpan. "i left it next to the dignity i lost when they made us do couple yoga yesterday." he cracked up, but you caught the flicker of something behind his smile. maybe he hadn’t expected you to match his energy.

after that, it became a rhythm. witty back-and-forths. glances that lingered a second too long. moments that should’ve been harmless, like sharing an umbrella, decorating your "married" apartment, brushing flour off his cheek during a baking segment, but somehow weren’t.

you told yourself it was the cameras. the setting. the editing. they were supposed to make it look romantic.

still, you couldn’t help but notice the way haechan’s teasing softened when the staff weren’t around. how he started remembering the smallest things about you. how, during the fourth shoot, when your heel broke and you stumbled slightly, he caught you with an ease that felt too natural.

he blinked down at you. you blinked up at him.

then someone yelled "cut" and the moment disappeared like smoke.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

it was around episode six when things started to shift.

you were filming a camping trip. just the two of you, a tent, a rented suv, and several production crew members pretending not to exist.

after the marshmallow roasting and scripted couple games, you found yourselves sitting by the fire, wrapped in matching blankets. it was one of those rare lulls where neither of you felt like performing.

"are you always like this?" you asked. he glanced at you. "like what?"

“like you’re constantly trying to win some imaginary flirting competition."

haechan smirked. "would it kill you to admit i’m charming?" "i think the entire population already knows that," you said flatly.

his smile widened. "so you do think i’m charming." you groaned, pulling the blanket over your face. "regret. immediate regret."

but he didn’t tease you further.

instead, he sat in quiet beside you. the fire crackled. you could hear distant rustling, maybe a staff member adjusting the camera angle, but the world felt oddly still.

you peeked out from under the blanket. haechan was watching the flames, his expression unusually unreadable.

"you know," he said after a moment, voice low, "i thought this would be easier."

you turned to him. "what do you mean?"

he didn’t look at you. "i thought i’d be better at pretending."

you didn’t answer. you weren’t sure you could.

because the truth was, you were struggling too.

not because you didn’t like him.

but because maybe you did.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

the next few shoots blurred together.

the couple trip to busan. the matching outfits. the accidental hand-holding that neither of you pulled away from. the unscripted glances. the too-long hugs. the inside jokes that the cameras didn’t catch.

you still called it acting. he still called it fan service.

but the way his hand always found the small of your back? the way you leaned into his shoulder when you were tired between takes?

that wasn’t in the script.

neither was the night he texted you after filming, a message that simply said:

"are you okay? you seemed quiet today."

you stared at it for too long before replying:

"yeah. just tired. thanks."

he didn’t say anything else.

but the next shoot, he brought you your favorite coffee order without asking.

you didn’t thank him. he didn’t mention it. the moment passed quietly, like all the others.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

it happened on an off day. no cameras. no script. just the two of you, killing time between schedules.

your manager had dropped you off early at the company building. haechan’s studio was just a floor above, and somehow you ended up in the practice room together. music played low from the speakers, nothing specific, just some playlist on shuffle. you were stretched out on the wooden floor with a water bottle pressed to your cheek, eyes closed.

"you know you’re allowed to sit on the couch," haechan said, voice light.

"i’m cooling off," you mumbled. "this floor has healing properties. don’t question them."

he laughed, sitting cross-legged beside you, watching as the sunlight through the window caught the edge of your hair.

for a while, neither of you said anything. it was easy, being quiet with you. easier than it should’ve been.

he leaned back on his hands, eyes tracing the outline of your face.

you were still in your casual clothes, makeup faded from earlier, a faint sheen of sweat on your skin from dance practice. there was nothing particularly special about the moment.

you opened one eye, looking at him sideways.

"what?"

"nothing," he said, too quickly.

you sat up a little. not fully, just enough to look at him properly.

"do i have something on my face?"

"no," he said again, quieter this time. "you just... look different when you’re not acting."

you blinked. "we’re not acting most of the time."

"aren’t we?" he asked. and then smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "sometimes i forget what’s real."

you watched him carefully, the air going still between you.

"i don’t think it matters anymore," you said eventually, voice soft. "real or fake. you’re still here."

he looked at you like you’d said something too big. like he hadn’t expected you to cut through him so cleanly.

you turned away after a second, brushing your hair out of your face. he didn’t move.

and that’s when it hit him.

not with fireworks. not with a romantic soundtrack or some grand emotional monologue. just a quiet, breathless awareness that settled into his chest like gravity.

he liked you.

he thought about you even when he didn’t have to. texted you jokes late at night, rehearsed conversations he wanted to have with you while waiting in traffic. his mood shifted depending on whether you smiled at him that day. he’d started looking forward to filming, not because of the exposure or the paycheck, but because it meant he got to stand next to you for a few hours and pretend you were his.

and it wasn’t pretend anymore.

haechan looked down at his hands. his palms were a little sweaty.

he was in trouble.

he stayed quiet after that, afraid that if he opened his mouth, the truth might spill out too fast.

you didn’t notice the way he looked at you after that.

but he did. and he didn’t stop.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

he didn’t flirt as much anymore.

at least, not in the same way.

it was subtle, the way things shifted. haechan still joked, still teased, but his words started landing softer. less edge, more care. the things he used to say to get a reaction out of you—calling you pretty just to see you roll your eyes, leaning too close just to fluster you— were all starting to feel real.

you didn’t notice.

or maybe you did, but refused to mind it.

when you got a sore throat from overworking and showed up to set with a raspy voice, he handed you a warm honey drink without a word. you assumed a staff member gave it to him.

when you forgot your phone charger during an overnight shoot and muttered about your battery dying, he offered you his without hesitation.

"don’t you need it?"

"i can live without my phone for one night," he said, smiling.

when your hands were cold in the middle of winter filming, he tucked one of them into his coat pocket with his.

you laughed. "you’re just doing this for the cameras." "yeah," he said. but he wasn’t looking at the cameras.

you brushed it off. he was haechan. playful, dramatic, full of unnecessary skinship. you’d seen him flirt with microphones, charm auntie fans, do aegyo on command like it was second nature.

so when he started waiting for you after your other schedules, just to walk you out, when he started sending you good morning texts before call time, and good night ones after wrap, when he got weirdly quiet whenever someone on set joked about you two being a real couple, you didn’t think too hard about it.

because thinking too hard would mean acknowledging that it felt different now. that he felt different now.

you told yourself it was still fake. that he was just that good at his job.

you didn’t notice the way his gaze lingered on you when you weren’t looking.

didn’t catch how he started memorizing your moods, your habits, your silences. how he stopped filling every silence with jokes and started letting you be.

you stayed blissfully, stubbornly unaware.

and haechan let you.

because even though he wanted you to see it—even though his feelings were starting to rise up like a tide, impossible to hold back—he was still scared.

scared that if he said it out loud, the spell would break. scared that you didn’t feel it too. scared that you’d laugh, like it was just another punchline.

so instead, he kept showing you in all the quiet ways.

and you, heart fluttering in ways you still refused to name, kept calling it coincidence.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

episode thirteen.

you weren’t nervous, exactly. but you did reapply your lip tint twice in the van on the way over.

the producers had teased a surprise guest for today’s shoot, and variety shows loved nothing more than forced love triangles. you braced for awkward. but you didn’t brace for him.

cha sungwoo.

tall. handsome. charming in that effortless, trained-for-this way. you’d filmed a drama together almost two years ago, and for a brief moment, fans thought the on-screen chemistry might have spilled off-camera. it hadn’t. but the rumors stuck anyway.

"look who it is," sungwoo said as you stepped onto set, voice warm. "didn’t think i’d get to see you again on a fake honeymoon."

you smiled automatically. "long time no see."

beside you, haechan shifted his weight.

he didn’t say anything at first. just watched. his expression was unreadable, but his silence was louder than anything.

finally, he spoke.

"should i be worried?" he asked, light tone cutting sharp beneath the surface. "or is this just good tv?"

"depends," sungwoo said, amused. "are you the jealous type?"

haechan smiled. not the usual, teasing kind—the one that reached his eyes. this one was smaller. flatter.

"only when i have a reason to be."

you laughed, trying to brush it off, but your fingers tightened slightly around the sleeve of your jacket.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

the shoot moved on. it was supposed to be funny and competitive—three of you cooking dinner together like a sitcom setup.

you were chopping vegetables when sungwoo leaned in behind you, his hands brushing yours.

"still bad with a knife?" he said, voice low near your ear.

you didn’t even flinch. "i’ve improved."

but behind you, haechan dropped the spatula he was holding.

you turned. "you okay?"

he bent to pick it up, muttering, "yeah. slipped."

but when he stood again, his eyes didn’t meet yours.

they were still on sungwoo.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

later, the three of you sat at the low table, eating what barely passed as a meal. the cameras were still rolling, but things had turned quiet.

sungwoo was telling a story—something about a late-night shoot and a prank. you were laughing, loose and warm in a way you hadn’t noticed before.

and haechan was watching you.

his chopsticks hung in mid-air. his shoulders tense. his jaw set like he was biting back words.

you looked at him. "what?"

he blinked. "nothing."

you tilted your head. "you’re acting weird."

"just tired."

"you sure?"

he didn’t answer right away. then he leaned in, low voice meant only for you.

"you act like none of this matters," he said quietly.

you stared at him. "what?"

"this." he gestured, vague. "the show. the pretending. him."

you searched his face, unsure if this was part of the bit or something else entirely.

"we’re just filming, haechan."

his eyes didn’t leave yours.

"maybe you are."

the words hung there. suspended between you, fragile and real.

you opened your mouth to respond—but the PD clapped, announcing a break, and the spell broke with it.

haechan stood up without another word and walked off set.

you sat there, blinking, unsure why your chest felt so tight.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

you didn’t call haechan after the shoot.

you almost did. twice.

once, when you got home and dropped your bag on the floor like something was missing.

once more, in the middle of the night, when you were staring at your ceiling and couldn’t stop replaying the way he looked at you before he walked off set.

you didn’t call. you couldn’t.

so instead, you called her. your best friend. the one who knew the before version of you, before the show, before the cameras, before him.

"hey, everything alright?" chiya asked, her voice quiet over the line. soft with sleep but already worried.

"can i come over?"

"always."

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

her apartment was warm. messy in the way homes should be. you sat on the floor wrapped in an old hoodie you’d left there months ago, your fingers curled around a mug of tea neither of you remembered making.

you told her everything. not just about today, but about all of it.

the way filming used to feel like a joke, like a role you could slip into and out of without thinking.

how that changed.

how he changed.

how you changed.

"today… he looked at me like he didn’t recognize me," you said. "like he was hurt, and trying really hard not to be."

she didn’t speak, letting the silence hold space for you.

"and when sungwoo showed up, it felt like the air shifted. like i’d stepped into a room i didn’t belong in anymore."

"because of haechan?" she asked gently.

you nodded.

"he didn’t say much. just… one thing."

"what’d he say?"

you swallowed.

"he said, ‘you act like none of this matters.’"

the words still echoed in your head. they’d been soft, almost careful. like he wasn’t trying to pick a fight. like he was asking you to see him.

"and i didn’t know what to say. because i didn’t know how to tell him that i think it does matter. more than it should. more than i want it to."

your voice shook.

"and i’m scared. i’m scared that maybe this isn’t just acting anymore. not for me."

your best friend moved closer, resting her chin on your shoulder like she used to when you were both teenagers, crying over things that felt too big for your hearts to hold.

"have you ever been in love before?" she asked quietly.

"not like this."

you weren’t even sure it was love. but it was something. something that blossomed slowly, and then all at once, when you weren’t looking.

"he makes me feel like i’m being seen. not the version of me that the cameras want. just... me. and when he looks at me, sometimes i feel like he’s about to say something he doesn’t know how to say."

"and what do you want him to say?"

you paused. the answer hurt to admit.

"that i’m not just imagining it."

your friend reached over, squeezing your hand.

"you’re not," she said. "i don’t even need to meet him to know. you’re not the kind of person who gets confused about this stuff. you’d never fall for someone unless it was real. and it sounds like you already have."

your eyes stung.

"i didn’t mean to."

"you never do."

she pulled you into a hug, and for the first time since you wrapped that scene, you let the weight of it press down on you. not the confusion. not the fear. just the feeling.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

episode fourteen

you weren’t sure how to act around him now.

you told yourself you’d just play it cool. do what you always did: slip into character, smile when you were supposed to, laugh when the producers gave you a cue, go home.

but when you saw haechan waiting on set, leaning against the kitchen counter in the little “home” you’d built together over the past months, sleeves pushed up, hair still damp from styling, something inside you stilled.

he looked up when you walked in.

and then he smiled.

small. real. tired, maybe. but his eyes softened the way they always did when he looked at you.

"hey," he said, voice gentle.

"hey," you replied, and the word felt different in your mouth. too small for how much you’d missed him in just a few days.

he opened his mouth like he was going to say more, but the PD clapped loudly and called for standby.

you both moved into position like professionals.

but you couldn’t stop glancing at him.

and he didn’t look away when you did.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

the day’s concept was domestic bliss.

folding laundry. grocery shopping. making dinner together. things that looked boring on paper but, somehow, felt like the most intimate parts of the fake marriage.

just pretend it’s real, the writer joked before you started rolling.

you wanted to say, it’s getting harder to pretend it’s not.

you were standing beside haechan at the sink, rinsing vegetables, when your fingers brushed under the running water. you flinched slightly.

he didn’t.

his hand stayed against yours just for a second too long.

your heart skipped, and you hated how noticeable it felt. how loud it became in your own chest.

"you okay?" he asked, voice low.

you nodded too quickly. "just cold water."

he didn’t call you out on it. but his eyes didn’t leave yours for a long time.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

after filming, you stayed behind for a bit. the cameras were off, the crew busy packing up equipment. haechan was still in the kitchen, stacking plates to be returned to props.

you didn’t know why you lingered. only that you didn’t want to leave yet.

he looked up, sensing you there.

"you didn’t call," he said quietly.

you froze. "what?"

"after the last shoot. i thought maybe you would. or… maybe i hoped you would."

you opened your mouth. closed it again.

"i didn’t know what to say," you said eventually.

he nodded, like he understood. like he’d expected that.

then, after a long pause

"you don’t have to say anything," he murmured. "but i need you to know… i wasn’t acting. not with that."

you met his eyes. for once, there was no smirk. no sarcasm. nothing playful to hide behind.

just him.

just the truth.

your breath caught in your throat.

but before you could speak, a crew member popped their head in.

"you guys done? we need to lock up soon."

haechan glanced away. the moment passed like a held breath.

he nodded slowly. "yeah. we’re done."

but as you walked out of that little house, your fingers still tingling from the brush of his, you knew something had shifted for good.

you weren’t just playing pretend anymore.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

it was the last shoot before the final week.

the set felt more quiet than usual, like the whole crew was holding their breath. maybe because everyone knew this was the last stretch—the end of the show, the end of pretending.

you and haechan moved through the day’s scenes with practiced ease, but the easy rhythm from before was gone. now, everything between you felt heavy, like invisible strings tugging tighter with every look and every touch.

you were sitting on the couch, pretending to scroll through your phone, but you weren’t really looking at the screen. your eyes kept flicking to haechan, who was sitting beside you, hands folded awkwardly on his lap.

he glanced at you once, then quickly looked away, face unreadable.

the silence between you stretched longer than usual, thick and uncomfortable.

finally, you broke it, voice barely above a whisper.

“are you okay?”

he didn’t answer right away. then, without meeting your eyes, he said, “i’m fine.”

you didn’t believe him.

he shifted in his seat, fingers twitching like he wanted to say more but couldn’t.

the director called “cut,” and the crew buzzed quietly as they reset the next scene, but you and haechan stayed still, caught in a space where neither wanted to cross the line first.

he looked over, voice low, almost rough.

“this… all of this. it’s harder than i thought.”

you swallowed, heart racing.

“yeah.”

“i don’t want it to end,” he said, eyes finally locking with yours.

you felt your breath hitch. everything inside you was screaming to reach out, to tell him you felt the same, but the words stuck.

“me neither,” you whispered.

he gave a small, sad smile.

“what do we do now?”

you looked down, fingers fiddling with the hem of your shirt.

“i don’t know.”

but maybe that was okay.

maybe the not knowing was the start of something real.

the cameras might have been off for the moment, but the space between you was alive with everything you couldn’t say—and everything you both desperately wanted to feel.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

the last day of filming felt like the end of something you weren’t ready to lose.

the set was buzzing with energy, but for you and haechan, it was heavy. heavier than before. the playful teasing, the easy smiles—they were all there, but beneath them was a current you could no longer ignore.

during a break, you found yourselves alone in the quiet corner of the studio. the noise of crew and cameras faded, and suddenly the space between you felt too small.

haechan looked at you. his usual grin gone, replaced by something softer, vulnerable.

“i’ve been a coward,” he said, voice low, almost breaking.

you blinked, heart pounding.

“me too,” you whispered back.

he took a slow breath, stepping closer, hands trembling slightly at his sides.

“i was supposed to be the one who didn’t fall,” he said, “but it’s me. it’s always been me.”

you swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking in.

“why didn’t you say anything?” you asked, voice barely audible.

“because i was scared,” he admitted. “scared you wouldn’t feel the same. scared it was just me.”

your eyes stung. “it’s not just you.”

the silence stretched, thick and full of everything you hadn’t said before.

finally, he reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “can i.. hold you?”

your breath hitched, but you nodded.

as he pulled you close, the world outside the studio ceased to exist.

for the first time, pretending wasn’t enough. this was real.

and somehow, it left you feeling both lucky and appalled.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

the studio emptied quickly, the usual noise fading until you and haechan were left alone. the silence between you felt thick, heavy with everything neither of you had dared to say.

he led you to the rooftop garden, the soft glow of string lights wrapping around the space like a secret only the two of you shared.

you sat close, shoulders brushing, every tiny movement sending sparks you could feel deep under your skin.

his fingers found yours, slow and deliberate, thumb tracing lazy circles on your palm. the warmth of his touch spread, setting fire to nerves you didn’t know you had.

he tilted his head, eyes dark and searching. “you feel it too, right?”

your breath hitched, heart pounding. “i do.”

his hand slid from your palm, fingers grazing your wrist, then up your arm, light as a whisper.

“this,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “this isn’t just for show.”

you swallowed hard, the heat in your chest rising. his gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, daring you to say no.

instead, you leaned in, letting your breath mingle, the space between you crackling with anticipation.

when he finally closed the gap, his kiss was slow, teasing—like he was savoring every second.

his hand cupped your neck, thumb stroking softly, sending shivers down your spine.

you curled into him, the world narrowing to the press of skin on skin, the heat of his breath, the ache building in your chest.

he pulled back just enough to murmur against your lips, “i’ve wanted this for so long.”

your voice barely a whisper, “me too.”

the night wrapped around you, every touch, every glance loaded with a promise neither of you was ready to say out loud.

but both of you knew.

this was only the beginning.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

soft light filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room.

you stirred slowly, the weight of haechan’s arm draped over your waist anchoring you in place.

for a moment, everything was still, the world outside paused, and there was just this—the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back, the quiet rhythm of breath and heartbeat.

you turned your head slightly, catching his profile in the morning light. his eyes were closed, lashes resting softly against his cheeks, peaceful and completely unguarded.

a gentle smile tugged at your lips.

careful not to wake him, you traced lazy circles on his arm, memorizing the feeling of skin beneath your fingertips.

he shifted slightly, murmuring something unintelligible, but didn’t open his eyes.

you let yourself soak in the quiet intimacy, the kind of closeness you hadn’t dared imagine before.

finally, haechan blinked open his eyes, meeting yours with a soft, sleepy smile.

“good morning,” he whispered, voice rough but warm.

“good morning,” you replied, heart fluttering.

he tightened his arm around you just a little, as if afraid you might disappear.

“last night was… real,” he said, voice low, full of something like awe.

you nodded, feeling the same weight of it.

“yeah,” you said softly. “it was.”

for a moment, neither of you spoke, just held onto the fragile newness of what had started between you.

and in the quiet of that morning, everything felt possible.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

the studio was buzzing again, crew rushing, cameras rolling, but for you and haechan, the world felt different.

you caught each other’s eyes across the set more times than you could count, every look loaded with a secret neither dared say out loud.

during a break, haechan slipped beside you, voice low enough that only you could hear.

“you okay?” he asked, thumb brushing lightly over your hand.

you nodded, heart pounding. “yeah. just… tired.”

he gave a small, knowing smile. “me too.”

the silence between you felt full, like an unspoken understanding.

filming felt harder now. not because the scenes were difficult, but because the line between acting and feeling was thinner than ever.

when the director called cut, you both lingered, reluctant to step back into the roles you’d played for so long.

haechan caught your gaze, eyes searching.

“we need to talk,” he said quietly.

your breath hitched.

“about us,” he added, voice softer now.

you nodded, the weight of it settling in your chest.

“after this is over,” you whispered.

“of course,” he agreed.

the cameras might have been rolling again soon, but in that moment, the world outside could wait.

because finally, you were ready to stop pretending.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

the days after filming ended felt like a strange in-between.

you and haechan were no longer pretending, but everything else still felt like uncharted territory.

text messages came more often now, sometimes just a good morning or a meme that made you laugh, other times long, quiet conversations about fears and hopes.

you met up after practice one evening, somewhere quiet—a small café off the main streets where no one knew your names.

he was a little awkward, fumbling with his words like he was nervous all over again.

“i’m not great at this,” he admitted, stirring his coffee.

“neither am i,” you said, smiling softly.

he reached across the table, taking your hand. “guess we’re both beginners.”

some days were easier than others. sometimes, a glance or a touch spoke louder than any words.

other times, the weight of schedules, the constant eyes watching, made it hard to find space just for the two of you.

but slowly, you learned to navigate the new rhythm—stealing moments between rehearsals, quiet calls in the middle of the night, little jokes shared just between you.

there were missteps, too—missed calls, misunderstandings, moments where the fear of losing what you had made you both pull away.

but every time, you found your way back.

because beneath it all was something real, something neither of you wanted to let go.

and as the days turned into weeks, you realized that maybe, just maybe, this was more than just a story.

it was your story.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

it started with a headline.

nothing scandalous, but enough to stir the internet—a fan account posted a blurry photo of you and haechan leaving a café, the caption dripping with speculation.

are they dating for real?

fake marriage turned real?

what does this mean for their agencies?

the messages flooded your phone—some from friends, some from fans, some from strangers.

you stared at the screen, heart pounding.

haechan was beside you, phone in hand, face tight.

“they’re going to spin this into a mess,” he muttered.

you nodded, biting your lip.

it was the first time your private feelings had become public territory, and neither of you knew how to navigate it.

that evening, you met at haechan’s dorm, wanting to face it together.

“what do we do?” you asked, voice trembling.

he took your hands in his, eyes steady and fierce.

“we don’t let rumors define us,” he said. “we keep being honest. with each other, and when we’re ready, with everyone else.”

you swallowed the lump in your throat, feeling the weight of the moment.

“i’m scared,” you admitted. “of losing what we have.”

he pulled you close, forehead resting against yours.

“me too,” he said. “but whatever happens, i’m not walking away.”

in that quiet room, surrounded by the noise of the world outside, you found a promise that felt stronger than any headline.

you weren’t just partners on a show anymore.

you were something real.

and you would face whatever came next—together.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

the room was tense as you and haechan sat across from your agencies. the conversation was careful, cautious, filled with questions you’d both anticipated but dreaded.

“are you sure this isn’t just for publicity?” one manager asked.

“this is real,” haechan said quietly, eyes locked on yours. “we want to take this seriously.”

your own manager nodded slowly, “then we’ll support you. but you need to be prepared for everything.”

the words hung heavy in the air, a mix of relief and new pressure settling over you.

once the meetings ended, you didn’t speak much on the way back. the city lights blurred past the windows, your hands finally finding each other’s in the quiet.

as soon as you stepped inside haechan’s apartment, the tension broke.

he pulled you close, fingers threading through your hair, lips pressing soft and sure against yours.

“no matter what they say,” he murmured between kisses, “this is ours.”

you traced his jawline, heart pounding in your chest.

“ours,” you echoed.

the night wrapped around you, a sanctuary from the world.

in the quiet between heartbeats, you’ve found a place—a fragile world where pretend becomes real.

[lambilegs]

I adore your best friend's older sister! Sevika headcanons, literally been rereading since last night 😫

I had a thought, a little crumb, a little ✨food for thought ✨, but what about Best friend's older sister! Sevika getting jealous. Maybe they aren't together yet and she spots reader getting a lil too cozy with another friend. Or maybe they are together and Sevika is not liking the way reader's coworker is gettin a lil too comfy 👀😤

I've truly thought about this too often lol, sorry for the rambles ♡

best friend's older sister!sevika getting jealous <3

note to anon: BAE DON'T APOLOGIZE THIS IDEA IS SOOOO <33 and omg thank you so so much!! I'm so happy you like it hehe. so, I decided to expand upon the first idea you gave because it's so so good, though I LOVE both. like, thank you so much for sending these thoughts AHHH <33

so, I totally agree with you that best friend's older sister!sevika would definitely be possessive. it's only worsened pre-confession because you're not hers yet, so she doesn't feel like she has much of a right to do anything about it. at least if you guys were together, she could wrap her arm around your waist or kiss your head, something silent to signify to others that you're hers.

but, as much as you two have teased and been pushing and pulling these past few months, that's all it's been. push, pull, push, pull. no confession, no asking out, no dates. and, listen, sevika doesn't mind the long game necessarily -- she knew from the get go that if she was gonna be pursuing you, it'd have to be serious. she wasn't about to get into some vague, unidentified shit with her sister's best friend. not only would her sister kill her for that, but it's not even what she's interested in in the first place. it's easy to talk to you, to trust you. it's easy to want something longterm with you. but, longterm means she needs to put in the work of trusting you. and for her, that takes a while. so, she doesn't mind the long game.

what she does mind, though, is that taking things slow means that in this whole getting-to-know-you phase, she doesn't know exactly where your head is at. if you want something serious, if you're ready for a relationship. she knows she should be asking you these questions, but as much as she hates to admit it, it makes her uncomfortable to think of being so honest about these feelings of hers. and what being honest could potentially lead to, like a pierce into your guys' relationship, whatever the hell it is.

but, goddammit, is it fucking hard to not grab you, drag you to her room and show you exactly how she feels when you're on the living room couch, canoodling up to one of the girls in yours and her sister's friend group. she knows how it is for you guys. no boundaries, endless amounts of teasing, flirting, nasty jokes. but, that doesn't make it any easier to see you nuzzling your head into one of their shoulders, the two of you swapping and laughing hysterically over suggestive comments about leaving the room to do some "private activities."

sevika grits her teeth from where she can hear the conversation, gripping the handle to the fridge hard. she sucks in a sharp breath, shakes her head, and grabs her bottle of water from the side shelf. shutting it close quietly, she makes her way to her bedroom, sock-clad feet heavy against the wood.

when she walks past your group, practically cuddled in the living room, she nods quietly at the group of you guys, feeling her shoulders tense up when you and her make eye contact. your head darts off your friend's shoulder, and she nearly snickers. you really aren't subtle when it comes to paying her attention. and today, she doesn't feel like returning it, her stomach clenched in anger over the unabashed flirting she just overheard.

she's in the middle of tinkering at her desk, tweaking some annoying shit that keeps making a scraping noise every few hours, when a knock comes to her room.

"yeah?" she mutters, trying not to throw the screwdriver right at the wall.

when you poke your head in, she glances at your momentarily before continuing her work. she hates how her stomach flips at your arrival, how she suddenly feels clumsy with the tools under your gaze.

"what?"

you start from where you lean on her doorframe. "I just, um, wanted to check if we're good?"

"just peachy," she huffs out, dragging her wrist past her brow, which is sticky with sweat. "why?"

"well, um..." you trail off, shifting on your feet. "you usually smile or say hi now, and right now, you didn't."

she feels a flash of irrational annoyance. she doesn't like the fact that you can read her so easily, as though you have her constantly under a microscope. she doesn't wanna have to deal with her jealousy, her feelings, but you cornering and confronting her like this doesn't make that easy.

"I'm fine."

she blinks hard at the gears when her bedroom door softly clicks shut.

"no, you're not. sevika, come on, what's wrong?" you trot over to her desk, standing right next to her, shoving your presence into her space. "tell me."

she sighs, her body stiff with embarrassment and irritation at your stubbornness. god, things would be so much easier if you weren't so damn feisty, always snapping back at her. but, at the same time, though she'd never tell you, she can't help but like your persistence.

"do you have to be so damn flirty with all your friends?" she bites, immediately regretting the words as soon as they shoot out. so much for subtlety.

your head jerks back. "that's why you're upset? sevika, I've always flirted with them, you know that. I'm sure you've seen your fair share of it for years now."

"yeah, well, now, it's different." she keeps her eyes locked onto the desk, and when she realizes just how thinly veiled the implication of her words are, she rushes to add, "now, I think it's risky shit. you know, someone could get the wrong idea."

you scoff. "it's been like this for years. no one will get the wrong idea."

she rolls her eyes, grumbling incoherent words. she knows you're right. she's made her own fair share of jokes like that with her buddies, even the ones she wouldn't be caught dead with in any lifetime. and you're right, your little gang has always been like this. but, none of that helps to dampen the burning irritation that grows in her stomach when she sees you being so touchy with someone who isn't her. with someone who may think they have a chance with you, no matter how slim. she doesn't want you to have options, she wants to be the only one you see in that way.

"and I don't want you to get the wrong idea, either."

she freezes at the words, her hand stilling.

you inch in closer and your warm palm rests on her shoulder. she feels something stir inside her at the touch, wishing you'd slide the rest of your hand down her arm. you guys have touched briefly, sure, but it's usually fleeting, teasing. this, though? this is tender, and -- it's intimate. you're trying to reassure her, she can tell. she knows it's a nice thing to do, but a part of her cringes at the fact that her feelings were so badly concealed that you even needed to comfort her at all. she should be better than this.

"I don't see anyone in my group like that, okay?" you pause, and the silence between you two thickens. right before it becomes suffocating to the point of sevika forcing herself to respond, you add, your voice quiet and shaky, "trust me, it's not my friends whose attention I want like that. just one other person... who's close by."

her nostrils flare, her breaths feeling tighter than before. are you saying what she thinks you are?

"okay," she manages to get out.

"okay." your hand slips from her shoulder, and she feels the cold of your absence as you turn to leave. without thinking, her hand flies up, catching yours.

your head whips to her in surprise, eyes wide and curious.

she thumbs at your pulse point, some of her confidence regaining through feeling how it spikes. but, still, there's an undercurrent of discomfort, so she tries to steady her voice before saying, "you know, I have a pretty good shoulder too."

you laugh, ducking your head down. sevika tries not to pull you in closer, coax you to look at her when she talks. "yes, I'm sure you do," you respond, a sarcastic lilt to your voice.

"well, obviously. you're always checking me out when I work out."

you splutter, eyebrows scrunched indignantly. "well, that's because you insist on working out in front of us always! for all I know, maybe you're the one who's into someone in our group."

your voice is mocking, but sevika hears the tremors of it towards the end. are you nervous that she maybe is into someone else but you? or are you hopeful it's you?

you gave her a bit of assurance, so she might as well return the favour.

"maybe there is someone I'm trying to impress. someone who'd maybe notice that more if they weren't always shoving their face in other people's chests."

she can see how your eyes bulge at the semi-confession, your palm slick with sweat in her hand. your mouth flaps open for a few seconds, before shakily saying, "well, you did offer yourself up as a substitute."

her cheeks ache with how hard she's trying not to grin too widely. "don't get too excited."

you wring your hand from her grip, smiling coyly as you reach for her doorknob. "I'll try to contain myself."

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

🔪 3 Plot Twists That Slap (and 1 that should be arrested) 🔪

hello and welcome back to me yelling on main about storytelling crimes. today we are talking about plot twists. specifically: the good, the god-tier, and the why-would-you-do-this-i-trusted-you tier.

let’s go.

✨ The Twist That Reframes Everything ✨ a.k.a. the “wait. WAIT.” twist. This is when you drop a twist that doesn’t just add drama - it recontextualizes the entire story. It makes the reader go back and reread earlier scenes like “was this character ALWAYS sketchy or am I just stupid??” It retroactively changes the emotional weight of everything that’s happened. Suddenly that offhanded comment in chapter three hits like a brick. The romance subplot becomes 500% more tragic. The villain’s motive makes SENSE now. Delicious.

✅ Best used when: the breadcrumbs are subtle but real. The twist shouldn’t come out of nowhere - it should feel inevitable in hindsight. Like Sixth Sense, Knives Out, that one betrayal in your favorite anime you still haven’t recovered from.

2.🧨 The Emotional Betrayal It’s giving: “i would’ve died for you” energy. This is the kind of twist that hurts. You thought they were loyal. You thought they cared. They did care - and still did it anyway. Or they never cared, and now you’re spiraling. This twist slaps because it’s not just about plot, it’s about trust. It stabs the characters AND the reader in the same motion. Bonus points if it’s a slow burn betrayal. Bonus bonus points if the betrayer feels genuinely torn up about it.

✅ Best used when: the reader is emotionally attached. Don’t waste this one on a side character we barely know. Save it for the love interest. The best friend. The mentor figure with dad energy. Make it personal. Make it RUIN lives.

3. 🧊 The “They Were Dead the Whole Time” but Make It Interesting Listen. This one’s risky. It’s a classic for a reason but also easy to flop. But when done well? Haunting. Creepy. Unhinged in a gorgeous way. It doesn’t have to be death either - maybe the character’s been possessed. Or they’re not real. Or the narrator’s memory is lying. The KEY is to not lean too hard on the shock. Lean on the vibes. Give it eeriness. Make it a slow unraveling. Give us dread. Give us melancholy. Give us psychological decay with a side of unreliable narrator.

✅ Best used when: you’re writing something surreal, gothic, speculative, or emotionally weird. This twist isn’t about plot logic, it’s about atmosphere and emotional rot.

🚨 The Twist That Should Be Arrested: “It Was All a Dream” 🚨 I’m sorry but. no. if I read 80k words of someone’s descent into madness just to find out it was their stress dream and now they’re normal again?? I will throw the entire book into a lake. This twist erases tension instead of escalating it. It invalidates everything the reader emotionally invested in. It’s the narrative equivalent of gaslighting. don’t do it. UNLESS - and this is a big unless - you’re doing it with INTENT. Meta intent. Dream-within-a-dream psychological horror intent. If you’re gonna do it, it better haunt me. It better RUIN me. Otherwise? Into the lake.

okay that’s all. go forth and commit plot crimes responsibly. bonus points if you use all three Good Twists in the same story and then look me in the eye like “oh was that too much?”

it wasn’t.

tag me when you emotionally destroy someone with it.

🕯️ download the pack & write something cursed:

[dissociativewriter]

Unnatural Affinity- Part 1

Isekai!Reader x Love and Deepspace

wc: 2.3k

cw: ANGST, depressed reader, allusions to self harm, reader is not MC, reader has a defined personality, I fear you can tell she's a self-insert, eventual contact with all love interests, no guaranteed happy ending

Synopsis: You hadn't been okay mentally. When going to meet your friend for lunch, you suddenly find yourself plunged into the world of Love and Deepspace as a close friend to the main character. Would you be able to find your place in this world not made for you?

author's note: So this is technically based on @ixloom819 ‘s post on affinity levels with an Isekai!Reader, but I made it very angsty and didn’t actually address the affinity levels in this part (we’ll get to it eventually, I swear. Probably in the next part, actually.) Reader has a lot of oddly specific personality bits here and there that are very much just me so uhhh sorry <3 also the song that is consistently referenced is Vienna by Billy Joel (it’s my favorite <3) Also MC is named Em because I saw another creator call her Em Cee so I decided to use that to instead of searching for a new one to use!

Series Masterlist

You rose with a jolt.

You had plans today.

You rolled over, checking the time.

11:30.

Weren’t you supposed to meet at 12:00?

You jumped out of bed, running straight to the bathroom. You would have to forego much of your “get ready” routine if you wanted to be on time. Quickly brushing your teeth, arranging your hair in a way that didn’t look like you just rolled out of bed, throwing on some jeans and a cute top conveniently sitting at the top of your drawer, and you were pretty much ready to go.

You grabbed your tote bag, tossing in your laptop, a journal, your pencil case, an old, heavily annotated copy of Frankenstein you were currently rereading (and trying to ignore your past, somewhat cringy annotations), and a small bag of snacks.

You checked the time again.

11:48.

Not too shabby.

Although getting ready was an easy, albeit rushed task, getting to the cafe you were meeting at on time was an entirely different and much harder issue. Through some stroke of luck, you’d manage to get to the bus station just in time for it to leave. And you found a seat!

Maybe today was going to be a good day. You were certainly due for one, you thought.

You knew why your friend had asked you to meet up, of course. You put your earbuds in, cueing your favorite song.

Slow down, you crazy child. You’re so ambitious for a juvenile. But then, if you’re so smart, then tell me, why are you still so afraid? You let the music wash over you, the soft piano soothing your nerves as you relaxed your shoulders.

She was worried. You didn’t blame her. You hadn’t exactly been the pinnacle of happiness these past few months. Your recent self-imposed isolation probably hadn’t helped with that.

Your hands, resting on your thighs, flexed restlessly. You could almost feel the outline of every single cut you’d made.

No matter what you’d say, no matter how many I’m fine’s you’d muttered, you knew.

That was not what a healthy person did.

You thought of a journal entry you’d written, what seemed so long ago now.

‘I think it is the true human experience to want more than you have. But I don’t think this emptiness is innate in the human experience. The feeling never leaves me, it’s encapsulating. I feel absolutely nothing so completely. I cannot bring myself to care about my passions, my friends, my self.

I don’t think I can handle anything more than the burden that is my existence. My days are filled with distractions and entertainment, and my night are spent mourning lost time. I desperately want something worthwhile, something meaningful. I desperately want an adventure, with romance and risks. How am I supposed to find that in this world?’

It was an entry you’d thought about a lot. A bit melodramatic, sure. You’d probably been reading Sylvia Plath or something before writing it. But there was still truth to it. You told yourself you’d be fine, you’d get better. And the glimmer of hope at the very end of the entry served as a testament to you that it could get better:

‘But then, I guess those distractions were meaningful if they brought me happiness, however temporary. All emotions are temporary, so this should also be. This feeling will leave. And maybe I can have the adventure I dream of, maybe that is the dream of all creatives. Why else would these feelings and this imagination be given to humanity?’

You still didn’t know where these words had come from. It was a blur of existential crises and anxiety attacks and nights spent sobbing. You could understand the logic behind the words, and they’d helped you before. Briefly. But emotion does not bow to logic, and you soon found yourself drowning again.

Slow down, you’re doing fine. You can’t be everything you want to be before your time.

You really couldn’t blame your friend for worrying, you thought as you stepped off the bus. Even though there were glimmers of hope in your otherwise bleak mindset, you knew you needed help on some level. Maybe she could help, maybe she would realize what you were trying to say as the words died in your throat. Maybe she could recognize the storm brewing inside you.

Maybe, for one time in your life, you could feel truly seen.

Now, for the first time since you received that text inviting you out, you were actually looking forward to seeing your friend. What was once dread for an intervention where you’d be forced to dodge your feelings and hide them so as not to be a burden, became excitement as you realized how dearly you had missed your friend.

Isolation was nice for a time, yes. It allowed you to gather your thoughts. But then the thoughts came too fast and too much. Maybe a break from the overwhelming thinking would be nice. Maybe you’d laugh again.

You peeked through the windows of the cafe, and, not spotting your friend, decided to wait outside under the sign.

You sighed, a bit regretful that it’d taken you this long to feel not completely shattered again. You’d lost a lot of time mourning the future you couldn’t have and the past you couldn’t erase, neglecting the present all the while.

Well, it’s time to live in the present, you thought as you shut your eyes, enjoying the cool breeze on your face. It’s time to recognize the beauty of life for what it is.

Maybe happiness wouldn’t be that hard to achieve.

The breeze grew colder, and you let out an involuntary shudder. It was so warm today, you knew the weather was supposed to stay warm, so why was the temperature suddenly dropping?

Your headphones let out a harsh crackle before the sound fizzled out completely. You could still hear the ghost of the lyrics if you listened hard enough.

You’ve got your passion, you’ve got your pride. But don’t you know that only fools are satisfi—

“There you are!” You cracked an eye open. The voice wasn’t familiar, but not unknown either. The girl in front of you smiled bright. “I thought you’d be late. Again.” There was an obvious teasing each to her voice, as if you knew each other.

You didn’t, right?

You looked around at the street around you, startled to realize that it had completely changed. The bus station was gone, the sushi shop across the street replaced with an arcade. The city you were now in was nice. Sleek. The kind of stuff they show in Sci-Fi movies. Oddly familiar, too. You looked up above you, trying to catch a glimpse of the sign hanging above your head.

Destiny Cafe.

Wait.

Destiny Cafe?

You felt your throat tighten. You looked around, more attentive this time, searching for any sign that you were right and this wasn’t just a coincidence. When you caught sight of an Otto-Bot, you knew.

You were in that game. That stupid game you’d downloaded a few months ago out of curiosity. The game you’d spent too many hours in, finding comfort in the words of men who did not exist.

If you really were in Love and Deepspace, would that make you the main character? That’s usually what happens in those Isekai stories, right? Your thoughts whirled before you were brought back by the expectant stare of the girl in front of you. She doesn’t look like Tara or any of MC’s friends, you thought, so who could she be?

You examined her closely. She was almost like you. As if her appearance were a distant echo of your own. But upon closer inspection, you could see: where your eyes had many flecks of colors, hers had only the one. Where your skin had a blemish here and there, a slight change of hue, hers remained consistent. She was too clean, as if there were no substance at all. And that wasn’t even considering her perfect pale skin, or long, sleek black hair. That was when you realized, and a wave of disappointment flowed through you. This was her.

Everything about her seemed so two-dimensional, a constant reminder that this was not a version of you or even an independent person, but the Main Character of an otome game.

This was the figure in all the promotional art.

This was the main character of Love and Deepspace.

Not you.

Her.

After all, why would it be you, when she was standing right next to you?

“Hello? You’re staring off into space. Are you okay?” She waved her hand in front of your eyes. Your gaze snapped to hers. Though her brows were drawn in concern, you weren’t sure you could name a single emotion behind her eyes. “If you’re not feeling well, we can always go home… We don’t have to go out today if you don’t want to. Don’t feel bad for saying you don’t want to just because it’s my first day back here in a few weeks.”

You looked at her, your confusion only growing. How can you figure out what the hell is going on without seeming absolutely insane? “…Sorry, I hit my head really bad earlier this morning, and I’m having trouble remembering things. Could you just give me a quick sum-up of what’s been happening?” It wasn’t perfect, but maybe you could get some answers.

The furrow in her brow deepened. “You… don’t remember?” She suddenly grabbed your arm. “Do you remember my name is Em?!”

So that was her name. “Of course I do!” you chuckled. “Just give me a run-down of the past few months, maybe it will jog my memory.” You smiled, hopefully convincingly.

It seemed to do the trick, because she smiled back before diving into what seemed to be her life story with great enthusiasm. “Well a few months ago, I went to the N109 Zone for that one secret mission, do you remember that? Well anyway I was gone for a few weeks, I spent a lot of time with my friend Skye. I’m pretty sure you meant him, we saw him at that work karaoke party?”

Skye in the N109 Zone. You realized with a start: I’ve met Sylus! At a work party? Surely you’re not a hunter. You realized Em was waiting for your yes or no before continuing, so you gave her a slight nod to go on.

“Right, so, after that I took a few missions with Xavier, helped out Rafayel with bodyguard duties or whatever, and had to go see Zayne for a ton of things because apparently my heart was beating arrhythmically. Turns out I’m fine, just a lot of excitement happened, you know? Anyways, after that I took leave for a few weeks to go to Skyhaven. You remember that, right? I remember I told you a lot cause you were using your access for research to help me out.”

Access for research? What kind of purpose did you serve in this plot line?

“I got in a bit of trouble with the Farspace Fleet, but everything’s fine so don’t worry! And now I’m here to meet up with you ‘cause I missed my roomie!” She gave you a tight hug.

She certainly had a lot of energy, you noted.

So from what you gathered: You were roommates with Em and you both worked at the Hunter’s Association. It seems she’s pretty up-to-date as far as the main plot line goes. That, unfortunately, means you’ll be left in the dark for a lot of future events. You’ll have to go off of only the secrets you know from the game.

You mentally thanked yourself for not neglecting any of the Love Interests. You knew they were all extremely important in the world, and, despite having a favorite, you participated in events and games with all of them. All of their affinities were relatively high, meaning you knew a lot of lore.

That could come in handy.

You were still struggling to realize your importance in this world, though. Surely, if you were this close to the Main Character, you contributed something, right?

Would you be able to find a happy ending in this game?

Em continued jabbering on, mentioning little memories and conversations you two had shared.

You stared at her blankly, unsure of what she was talking about. It certainly sounded like something you would say, or something you would do, but you had no recollection of any of it.

Then, it came to you.

Fragments, at first. Memories of a life that wasn’t quite yours. One somewhat empty. One that seemed hastily added in at the last second. One that didn’t hold importance in a world as vast as this.

An afterthought.

You decided to eat lunch with Em. ‘You’ had apparently promised her a lunch date, after all. You didn’t go into Destiny Cafe, and you weren’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. It almost felt like breaking the fourth wall to go inside, and you were afraid of what you would find when you entered.

Would it feel as empty as Em’s eyes?

You ended up finding a quiet sandwich shop. It was cute, homey, and you could feel yourself settling into a rhythm with Em. While you ate and chatted, attempting to seem casual and familiar in this setting, you watched her closely.

She was almost like an extension of yourself. You could see your own influence, seeping in from your various choices in the game, no matter how small. But she was still her own person.

You would never be her, you realized with a pang in your chest.

Never carry that importance.

So what was left for you?

A secondary character meant to fade into the background.

What fate awaited you?

Had anyone even bothered to weave the strings in the fabric that is your destiny?

comments and reblogs appreciated! <3

masterlist

[k-aemi]

nagi seishiro ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ its not that deep

no warning me thinks, little angst(?), fluff

boyfriend!nagi wouldnt even notice that hes hurting you unintentionally, he wouldnt know how to be a boyfriend, its his first relationship.

youre lying in bed—wrapped in his arms as he plays his games. youre quiet, just scrolling through your photos, at you and nagi. its funny because whenever you took the photos you took ten of them, but when you asked nagi, hed only take one, some of them were even blurry.

"you ever look at these?" holding up the phone so he can see.

"mm... no. i dont like photos of myself." nagi squints, taking a short glance at the photos before returning his attention on his game.

"oh," you say, your lips pressing into a thin line before continuing to scroll. "well, i like to. makes me feel like im part of your life. even when you dont... do much." your chest tightens.

nagi only lets out a hum, its not a yes, not a no. he taps his screen again and you frown. its like he didnt even acknowledge you. you turn his phone face down.

"nagi," you call out his name softly. "when was the last time you said you loved me?" your hands fall on is chest.

he blinks, dumbfounded by your question. his pauses mid-game, before thinking. "i dunno. i thought you already knew."

"thats not the point."

he looks at you—lazy eyes narrowing. "then what is the point?"

you sat up, face serious and eyes lowering. "you never try," your voice raises. "you dont plan dates, you dont say sweet things to me, and you dont notice when im upset unless i say it. i feel like im just here because its easy for you."

nagi slowly sits up too, with a confused expression planted on his face. "that isnt true, youre the only person i let stay like this with me. that means something doesnt it?" he asks genuinely.

"thats not love, just convenience." your chest heavy as you stared at him.

nagis still confused, not understanding the weight of the situation here. "i dont get it, were together. why does it have to be so complicated?" his tone still flat as ever, and it only makes you snap.

"because im not something you can just lie on top of me like a couch and call that love."

silence fills the room with just that, he opens his mouth to say something but nothing ever came. he doesnt know what to do, he was always good with games and goals, not people.

"i didnt mean to make you feel that way."

after that day you didnt want to text him, you wouldnt try if he didnt want to. you waited until he text.

nagi doesnt think nothing of it when you dont bother to text him, he just thinks youre asleep or busy. so hes back to his game.

the next day he still got nothing. you havent posted on your story, or send at least one meme to him. which was weird.

he taps on their last conversation, you left him on read. no message from you. he rereads what he said.

nagi 6:34pm "cool. cya then"

he doesnt see anything wrong, it was a normal response.

nagi on the fourth really thinks about it now. okay maybe you are potentially mad. but about what?

its a hassel to think this hard. did he forget something, say something off? hes scrolling through the old messages and everything looks normal.

your daily "i miss you"s, his lazy response of "same"s. you sending a selfie of yourself, hoping for a "you look pretty" but just a heart reaction and nothing else. hes confused, he always done that, so what changed?

after a week he caves in.

nagi 7:23am "hey"

but there was no reply form you.

two days later with no reply, he texts again.

nagi 1:43am "u good?" "did i do smth?" "tell me."

he just stares at the screen that lit the dark room, delivered. not read.

he doesnt know what to do, youre not responding to him. its quiet in his room. too quiet. and for the first time in a long time, he really cant focus. not on his games, on his phone, anything.

every time he entered in a match hed lose the motivation to just continue, or hed have a losing streak which would make him a bit frustrated.

another couple days later, hes spamming. flat, sort messages, to see if you were still there.

nagi 9:12am "yo" "helloo" "seriously?" "this is annoying." "y arent u saying anything?"

no message, he doesnt send one. he just lies on his bed, pone clutced to his chest, scrolling through old photos of you and him. you smiling, silly faces, and ones of you half asleep.

he misses your voice. he misses you saying things hed never respond to, but always heard. he can only sigh before he closes his eyes.

"if you dont text back soon, i think ill actually go crazy."

its a hassle.

no texts, no calls, no nothing. he doesnt like it, his chest tightens. he just thought of you as moody. but now its like youre gone. he doesnt know what to do, so of course he searches what to do.

"what to do if ur gf ignores u"

top results said: buy her favorite things: "show her youre thinking of her, bring flowers, candy, cute keychains and apologize. communicate with her."

nagi just reads, advice after advice.

"...lame." he sighs, shutting his phone off before putting on his shoes to head out.

hes at your place now. at least carrying five different kinds of snacks you like, your favorite drink, and a cheap bouquet from the grocery store flowers because apparently boyfriends do that.

he looks ridiculous carrying that much stuff in his arms, he doesnt even know how long he stands in front of your door before knocking. he almost walked away twice.

and there you were, hair messy and expression unreadable. you were wearing his hoodie that he had left at your place, way too big on you.

you blink, seeing nagi holding a bunch of...things.

he has to tilt his head to look at you.

"ah. you havent talked to me in weeks. so i brought this." you just stare. the silence is heavy and hes having second thoughts about this.

"... you like these, right?" he mumbles. its still silent.

youre just shocked right now, you didnt even know nagi would take the effort to actually do all this stuff, but considering it took him about two weeks still made you upset.

"i do sei." you give a light smile, face buried in his hoodie.

his eyes widen slightly but wrapping his arms around her slow and firm.

"can you tell me next time?"

"yeah."

"okay," he says. "then ill fix it."

even after that day, he still doesnt understand feelings, but he does understand reactions.

its when youre hanging out with him in his room, laying besides him while he plays games again. you got yourself a new dress and did your makeup the other day and wanted to show him.

"sei look." you showed him the photo of the self-photo selfie you took. "what do you think?!" you say excitedly, you thought you looked really good in this one, like your features were more enhanced with the dress.

he barely glances at it. "looks the same as your other ones." he goes back to his game. he didnt mean it like in a cruel way, he just said it like its a fact.

the second those words leaves his mouth, he can see the way your smile faltered.

"oh. yeah i guess so." you pull your phone back slowly, flipping to the other side. your back facing him now.

he didnt think anything of it at first, he just went back to his game. its been a while since he hasnt heard your voice, usually youre just talking to him about random things you see on the internet or a random story you remembered.

its not until his head perked up from the silent cries and sniffles coming from you. he turns his head to your figure.

"...are you crying?" you only shake your head.

"wait—what did i do..?" he asked with his voice soft, he still didnt even realize what he had done. his chest tightens, the silence was loud. he pauses the game, sitting up with his hand placing on your shoulder, shaking you a bit.

"did i say something wrong?" you wipe your eyes with your sleeves.

"forget it." nagi just stares, its suffocating to see you like this. he thinks hard. was it the photo you were mad about? he didnt know what he had said to make you sad.

he shifts closer to you awkwardly.

"wanna play a game with me?" holding his phone up to your face, only for you to swat his hand away with no response.

"ill let you pick." still nothing. his voice only gets quieter.

"you can have the good controller." still nothing from you. he doesnt know what to do. hes offering games to you, and asking what he did wrong, but youre just not responding.

he limps back on his bed, the bed bounces you and him as he stares at the ceiling. he looks to his side, your back still faces him and he sighs.

he takes his phone out, inches away from his face, completely clueless. he types into the search bar:

"how to be a boyfriend."

he thinks about it before rewording it.

"how to make ur gf not mad anymore"

deleting it once again, finally settling on:

"things boyfriends do in relationships"

and the results are very... overwhelming. dates, compliments, talking. so much talking.

"ask about her day"

"hold her hand"

"hug her out of nowhere"

"tell her shes pretty even if she looks tired."

"...weird." he whispers to himself with a squint.

he scrolls down, reading a few threads, which some of them sound exhausting. he always seemed to notice a common pattern upon them. every single answer had one thing—effort, something the lazy boy very much hated.

without a word he slides an arm around your waist. so casually as if he had always done this. pulling you in close to him while he still reads what to do on his phone with his other hand.

he can feel the way you tensed, but he doesnt say anything.

youre quite confused, hes never done that on his own unless you did it first, so it was surprising for you.

"what...are you doing..?" you tilt your head, but not enough to be met with his eyes.

"hm? nothin'," he says so calmly, as if he didnt just decide to change up his act and finally act like a boyfriend for the first time.

your eyebrows furrowed a bit. "did you want something..?" you face the wall again, theres no way hed do this unless hed want something you thought.

"no." he says bluntly.

"you looked pretty in that photo." he said with barely any emotion, but his voice soft. he settled his phone down to pat your head.

"but i liked the smile you had more when you showed me." he buried his face into your neck, inhaling your scent. your eyes widen, finally turning to him, you felt...like you had butterflies in your stomach for the first time in a while.

when he finally sees your face he gave a light kiss to your cheek.

"next time just say 'that hurt', okay? so i dont have to guess." his face blank again. youre pretty sure that was the first he had ever kissed you without you telling or initiating first.

you just nod slowly, too shy to face him.

nagi is so cute, hope nothing bad happens to him ^///^ I WILL WORK ON REQUESTS NOW SO SORRY

tags ✎: @rinrinniebaby @kaiserpussy