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cbeargyu · 1 day ago

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how about childhood friends beomgyu to enemies to lovers 🤗

because of you

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

pairing: beomgyu x fem!reader

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

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

wc: 14,3k

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

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

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

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

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

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

until middle school.

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

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

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

then came the cafeteria incident.

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

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

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

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

he didn’t laugh.

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

and then he turned away.

he... turned away...

that was the moment, you think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he didn’t say anything.

he didn’t need to.

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

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

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

and maybe that’s what hurt the most.

you didn’t hate beomgyu because he was cruel.

you hated him because he used to be kind.

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

you hadn’t seen it coming—university.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

they didn’t push.

they could feel the tension. everyone could.

until that one night—the fraternity party.

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

liar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

chaewon blinked, surprised. soobin leaned in.

you continued, voice steady but colder now.

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

“damn,” yeonjun muttered, the mood shifting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“yeah,” he said. “i did.”

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

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

you scoffed. “you think that excuses it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

soobin stood abruptly. “i need air.”

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

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

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

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

you stared at him, hating how calm he looked.

“and you always knew how to ruin everything.”

you got up before he could answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

yeonjun shrugged. “you made the soup.”

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

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

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

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

“and you didn’t choose her.”

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

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

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

yeonjun raised an eyebrow. “you okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and for once in his life, beomgyu actually listened.

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

and then the years passed.

five of them, to be exact.

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

kang taehyun.

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

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

you believed him.

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

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

you thought you were safe.

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

when he came back, he was distant.

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

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

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

but he shook his head.

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

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

so he left.

and you didn’t try to stop him again.

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

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

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

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

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

you choked.

like, actually choked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“he’ll be there,” you murmured.

“taehyun,” chaewon confirmed quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

you blinked. “what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but taehyun would be there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

you hadn’t expected to see him.

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

he looked expensive.

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

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

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

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

you looked for a ghost. but found a man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

and then there was beomgyu.

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

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

except you.

and even then, you weren’t sure anymore.

a dangerous, fleeting thought slipped past your defenses.

what if i asked him to go with me?

you froze, glass hovering midair.

no. absolutely not. that was ridiculous. crazy.

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

you didn’t want to care.

and yet, you did.

more with every passing second.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you didn’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he nodded slowly. “i remember.”

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

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

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

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

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

you nodded.

“what kind of favor?”

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

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

you gave a weak shrug. “yeah. you.”

“but you—i mean, you hate me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

maybe it was the beginning of something else entirely.

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

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

he was remembering that party.

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

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

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

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

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

you blinked, surprised. “okay?”

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

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

you looked up—and there he was.

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

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

you nodded. “hey.”

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

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

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

his head tilted slightly. “ex?”

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

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

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

he didn’t argue.

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

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

“a couple,” you finished.

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

you froze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

you blinked. “what?”

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

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

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

he nodded slowly. “alright.”

and then, you got to work.

“so, when did we start dating?”

you bit your lip. “six months ago?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

kai’s message was still open.

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

you stared at it for a second, then typed.

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

sent.

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

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

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

you raised an eyebrow. “cozy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“this okay?” you asked quietly.

he nodded once. “yeah. just... warm.”

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

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

you perked up. “you sure?”

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

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

he looked at you, stunned. “no way.”

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

he smirked. “you’re on.”

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

you were both laughing when it happened.

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

neither of you moved.

not right away.

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

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

“sorry,” he whispered, stepping back.

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

“right.” he nodded. “totally normal.”

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

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

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

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

but neither of you looked convinced.

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

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

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

and neither did beomgyu’s.

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

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

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

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

the air stilled.

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

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

you blinked, throat dry. “beomgyu—”

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

his voice cracked, just a little.

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

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

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

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

his shoulders slumped.

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

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

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

he swallowed hard. “thank you.”

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

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

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

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

maybe it wasn’t love.

but it was something.

and it was terrifying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the venue was breathtaking.

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

you were holding hands.

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

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

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

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

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

and there he was.

kang taehyun.

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

he stood up.

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

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

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

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

it landed like a gunshot.

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

your heart slammed into your ribs.

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

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

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

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

taehyun cleared his throat.

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

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

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

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

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

but then he asked.

“how did you two meet?”

and the world froze.

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

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

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

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

he looked at you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you felt like you couldn’t breathe.

taehyun looked like he’d swallowed poison.

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

kang taehyun had always been your greatest heartbreak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your heart stutters.

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

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

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

a choice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

beomgyu notices.

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

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

his lips are warm. confident. too confident.

you shouldn’t like this. but you do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your heart stutters when you glance at him again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

you turn—and of course, it’s taehyun.

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

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

you give him a tight smile. "thanks."

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

you look away.

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

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

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

you inhale, shaky.

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

"you hurt me."

he flinches.

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

he doesn't answer.

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

he opens his mouth, but you cut him off.

“i’m happy with beomgyu.”

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

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

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

your chest aches.

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

taehyun says nothing. the silence stretches.

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

you blink back the burn in your eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

taehyun stiffens. "we're just talking—"

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

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

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

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

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

but you do.

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

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

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

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

he watches you for a moment longer. then nods.

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

the ride home is quiet.

too quiet.

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

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

“gyu,” you say, softly.

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

you turn toward him. “mean what?”

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

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

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

he finally looks at you.

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

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

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

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

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

you don’t move either.

the air between you hums.

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

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

you nod. “i know.”

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

but you’re starting to want to.

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

a pulse.

his name.

beomgyu.

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

you don’t think. you don’t wait.

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

he’s there.

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

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

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

you don’t say anything. you just move.

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

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

his eyes flicker to your lips.

and you kiss him.

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

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

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

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

he leans in again, brushing his nose against yours.

“that i’m not pretending anymore.”

stay next to me push the bad memories aside

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

he’s the first to speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

your heart clenches.

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

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

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

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

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

and then, softly—

“you sure about this?”

his voice is low. careful.

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

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

your heart tightens. “beomgyu—”

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

he finally looks at you.

and god, it hurts.

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

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

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

your chest aches. “beomgyu—”

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

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

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

he leans into your touch, eyes glassy.

“you are sacred,” he breathes.

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

he exhales shakily. “i’m scared.”

“me too.”

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

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

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

he pulls back just enough to kiss your forehead.

“say it again,” he says.

“what?”

“that you choose me.”

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

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

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

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

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

saturday brunch is supposed to be chill.

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

but not today.

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

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

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

yeonjun drops his phone into his mimosa.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you look at beomgyu.

he looks at you.

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

“real real,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

you grin. “i’ll take that bet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and it's because of you.

132 notes · View notes

chiyokoemilia · 1 day ago

Text

chapters of us | prologue

pairing - architect/carpenter gojo satoru x bookstore owner reader

summary. your love life is as quiet as the shelves of your bookstore. seeking a change, you sign up for a dating app and become captivated by a picture-less/nameless profile—belonging to none other than gojo satoru, a charming architect with a complicated past. your online connection sparks with undeniable chemistry, but you remain unaware that the man you’re drawn to is also your neighbor next door. when he unexpectedly walks into your cozy bookstore, your world shifts. as you navigate feelings for both the mystery man online and the neighbor who feels like a heartbeat away, hidden truths loom over you. can love blossom amid secrets, or will the shadows of your pasts eclipse your stories before it even begins?

word count – 2.26k (i know, it’s really short!)

fic warnings. contains explicit sexual content, guy-next-door, romantic tension, rough sex, age difference (gojo is 32, reader 23), themes of self-doubt, angst, insecurities, heartbreak, and emotional trauma. complicated relationship/pining, alcohol use.

a/n: hi lovebirds! thank you for stumbling across this small liddol corner of the internet. if you couldn’t already tell, i’m sickly obsessed with the man that is gojo satoru and i am unapologetically shameless in that devotion. moving on [...] this just so happens to be my very first fic in years. the last book i wrote was a fictional story in middle school inside a beat-up dollar-store notebook. i recall the feeling of joy running up to my english teacher with a huge smile on my face, sharing with the world how i wrote my very first book. i also remember rummaging through boxes in the storage closet of my garage; I found that very same notebook years later – laughing and cringing at my own writing. although that book is long gone, i hope to find the same joy i found in writing as i did then. and while i cannot guarantee my skills have improved much since, i cannot help but hope you can all find some joy in my work too. here is to new beginnings!! ♡ (author's note continued at the end)

series masterlist | next chapter ->

FLIGHT FROM GERMANY TO JAPAN June 28, 2014 [2 Months Ago]

The cabin is a sea of muted conversations, the quiet clink of glasses, and the steady hum of the engine. Beneath the thin layer of noise, the world outside is nothing but a gray blur, the clouds shifting beneath you like cotton in a needle.

You trace the outline of your boarding pass with the tip of your finger, a subconscious motion that holds more weight than it should. The ink is smudged from where you gripped it too tightly lost in the chaos of your thoughts. Tokyo, Japan. The name seems foreign, yet it carries the weight of all the unanswered questions you’ve been holding within.

But there’s no hope in your chest, no excitement like you’re supposed to feel. Only the hollow thud of your heart against your ribcage, a constant reminder that you’re running.

You should be scared, but fear is something you’ve grown numb to. Fear of the unknown, fear of starting over, fear of facing what you left behind in Germany. It’s easier to let that weight slip down into your stomach and ignore it—at least for now.

Germany had been suffocating. The sterile white of the hospital halls, the incessant beeping of monitors that had once been a comfort but now only reminded you of how long you’d been there. The months that bled into years of quiet waiting, hoping for something that never came. And then there was the betrayal. The friend you had leaned on, the person you trusted who broke you in a way you never saw coming.

You exhale slowly, pushing the thoughts aside, willing the ache to retreat into the hollow space that has become your chest.

Tokyo. New city. New start. You tell yourself that over and over, even though you’re not sure you believe it.

The plane is filled with strangers, none of them more than temporary. You’d resigned yourself to the endless parade of unfamiliar faces, the kind of transient connections that fill the spaces between real ones. You hadn’t expected the woman in 14A to change that.

She sits beside you, her eyes soft but piercing, like she can see right through the layers of distraction you’ve woven around yourself. Her breath is laced with mint, and it almost makes you smile, but you don’t. She leans in slightly, her voice warm, coaxing the air out of your lungs.

“You know,” she begins, her eyes locking onto yours, “sometimes life doesn’t give us what we want because it’s leading us to what we need.”

The words settle into the space between you, uninvited but present.

You don’t know why she says it.

Maybe she’s just trying to fill the silence, or maybe it’s something more.

You don’t respond right away. She keeps talking, as if she can’t feel the distance between you, as if she doesn’t see the armor you’ve draped over yourself.

“Have you ever been to Tokyo?” she asks, her voice shifting in a gentle pitch as if asking about the weather.

“No,” you say, a simple answer, but it feels like too much.

No, I’ve never been. I’ve never had the luxury of going.

Your thoughts are spiraling, but you don’t say any of that.

Not to her.

The plane continues its descent. The world outside the window is fading—Germany swallowed by the clouds and long forgotten, leaving only the unknown in its wake.

Tokyo is closer now, realer somehow, and the weight of it presses down on you.

“Tokyo’s a funny place,” the woman continues, her voice still loud in the near-empty row. “My daughter's husband always says the city feels like it’s meant to reset you. Like it washes away all the bad stuff.”

You wish you could believe her.

You wish you could buy into the idea of a clean slate, the notion that Tokyo could simply erase what’s behind you.

But you know better.

A part of you wonders if anything will ever truly cleanse you.

You look out the window, the faint outline of Tokyo’s skyline emerging from the fog.

There it is—your “fresh start." Your “new beginning.”

But deep down, you can’t shake the nagging thought: Is this really what I need? Or am I just running from what I’ll never be able to outrun?

The plane bumps as it touches the runway, the wheels screeching against the tarmac, and you snap back to the moment.

This is it. You’re here.

The woman continues, unaware of your inner turmoil. “They say it’s a city of second chances.”

You don’t answer. You’re already thinking of your own messy life, and the thought of second chances? It seems nothing short of unattainable.

The woman sighs, content with her unsolicited advice.

You let her words drift in one ear and out the other.

I'm not here to hear about "second chances."

You’re here to escape.

To run from the weight of what you can’t outrun.

She’s still talking when the seatbelt sign dings, the jarring sound reminding you that you have arrived.

The wheels continue to squeal against the runway, and the plane slows, the steady hum of the engines finally coming to an end. The air in the cabin shifts—there’s a soft exhale from everyone on the plane – a collective release – as if the flight itself had been a slow, drawn-out exhalation of everything they’d been holding inside.

But for you? You share no such sentiment. There is no relief in your body.

Just a tight knot in your chest, a mix of anticipation and dread that’s been building up for as long as you can remember.

The woman in 14A is still talking, her voice rising over the thrum of the plane coming to a halt.

You can’t even focus on her anymore. Not with the overwhelming noise inside your own head. Your fingers grip the armrest, the cold plastic biting into your skin, grounding you.

It’s not that you don’t want to hear her.

She’s kind, her presence is even comforting.. in some way.

But you can’t stop thinking about what you’re running from.

Back home, you had been chained to the hospital for so long that the outside world felt like a distant illusion.

You shift in your seat, eyes flicking to the window as the airport draws closer. It feels like a dream you’re not ready to wake up from. There’s an odd sense of unreality that settles over you as the city comes into focus. It almost feels strange to explore beyond the world you had always known.

It’s bright and bustling— nothing like the quiet halls and the incessant ticking of hospital clocks.

But how long will that excitement last?

How long will it take before the weight of your past catches up with you?

The woman in 14A seems to sense the shift in your mood. Her voice softens, as though she’s able to see through the internal war in your head.

“You’re running from something, aren’t you?” she asks, gentle words, but sharp enough to pierce through your distracted mind.

You freeze for a moment. Your throat tightens.

She doesn’t know. She can’t know. But somehow, it feels like she does.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Instead, you turn away, fumbling with your bag, your eyes darting between the window and your lap, anything to avoid the weight of her gaze. But she doesn’t push. She doesn’t demand a confession. She simply waits, her presence a quiet understanding.

The plane finally comes to a full stop, the engines winding down to a soft whirr, and the seatbelt sign flashes on. Your pulse quickens, your heartbeat a steady drum in your ears as the final leg of this journey begins.

Bu-dump, Bu-dump, Bu-dump.

You gather your things mechanically, the weight of your bag too familiar, too burdensome. You stand when the seatbelt sign clicks off, trying to ignore the slight tremor in your hands.

You step into the aisle, the woman in 14A watching you go with a knowing smile tugging at the corners of her lips. You don’t know why, but you feel like she’s seeing something you don’t want to be seen. It unsettles you more than you care to admit.

Tokyo awaits beyond the cabin doors, the city alive with promise. You can feel it in the way the air shifts, the hum of activity waiting for you to dive into it. You have no idea what you’re going to find here. No clue how long it will take to forget the whispers of your past or how long you’ll have before the scars start to show again. You don’t know what you’re hoping for anymore—only that it’s time to move forward into whatever comes next.

ᡣ𐭩 ࣪ ˖⊹ 𝜗𝜚 ࣪𝄞 𝜗𝜚 ⊹˖ ࣪ ᡣ𐭩

The moment you step off the plane, everything is different. There’s no turning back now. You feel it—the tug of the unknown, the weight of all that’s behind you, pressing against your back.

A new city. A new life. But no matter what, you can't shake the feeling in your heart: that nothing feels like it's enough.

You take a deep breath as you step into the crowded terminal, the buzz of voices and the endless flow of bodies a stark contrast to the quiet isolation of the flight. You feel small, almost invisible, a speck in the vast sea of faces.

You continue trudging forward, like you're walking through a fog, each step heavier than the last. The terminal stretches out like a never-ending tunnel. The blur of voices and the mechanical beep of the passport machine melt into a dull hum, and you can barely keep your focus as you reach the scanning station.

You swipe your passport through the machine and it flashes red. The machine’s shrill beep rings in your ears, like some cruel reminder of how your life is met with nothing but obstacles.

A uniformed officer approaches, his eyes cold, unreadable.

"Miss, I’ll need you to come with me,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact, as he motions toward a small room.

Of course. How wonderful.

You nod, your throat dry as dust, not trusting yourself to speak.

You follow him into the quiet room, where he gently places your bag on a table. The metallic click of the zipper fills the space as he opens it, his hands methodically searching through your belongings. Your personal items—nothing special, just the usual mess—are strewn across the table. The fraying notebook, your thick scarf that still smells like the hospital, and that keychain that reminds you of your happiest memory. You can’t help but feel the heat rising to your face when he pulls out a hello-kitty tampon, then your old hoodie— the one you couldn’t bear to leave behind, even if it’s more of a comfort thing than anything else now. It’s embarrassing, but you keep your mouth shut.

"A holiday?" he asks, glancing at you briefly, eyes still focused on your bag.

"No," you stammer, your voice barely a whisper as your fingers curl tightly around your sides.

"Business then?" he presses, his gloved hands pulling out a crumpled receipt from a café you don't even remember visiting.

"No," you reply again, feeling the exhaustion pull at you. "Just... no." You rub your forehead, fighting back the incoming headache and a flood of emotions that threatens to spill over.

"Not business," he repeats, "Well, then, what is it, miss?"

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat refusing to go down.

The weight of his gaze feels like it’s tearing through you, and for a moment, you want to hide, to curl up into a ball and disappear.

But you can’t. You won’t.

"My mother passed away," you finally manage, the words tasting bitter on your tongue.

For a moment, the officer stills, his fingers hovering over a sweater. He looks up at you then—really looks at you—and there’s a brief shift in his expression, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. Something in his gaze softens, just for a second.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says, his voice lowering in a rare note of sympathy. The sincerity in his tone catches you off guard, almost making you want to crumble in front of him. It's strange how something so small—a kindness, a flicker of empathy—can pierce through the numbness, even for a moment.

He hands your passport back to you, then nods toward the door. "You're all set. Welcome to Tokyo."

You’re too dazed to respond, your head spinning. Your body feels like it’s on autopilot as he leads you out of the room and toward the exit. The cool air in the terminal is a stark contrast to the suffocating weight of grief, and you breathe deeply, trying to steady yourself.

When you reach baggage claim, you spot your bags circling around carousel three. You take a deep breath, picking up your two suitcases, the familiar weight of them strangely grounding.

Outside, a taxi waits. The driver doesn’t ask questions as he opens the door for you, only giving you a simple nod. You step inside, grateful for the quiet moment, the solitude of the ride.

“Where to?” he asks, his voice a gentle rumble, still distant but polite.

"Jinbōchō," you say, barely above a whisper, your mind far away from the words you’re speaking.

He nods, sliding your bags into the trunk without a word.

Next thing you know, you’re off, the city lights blurring past in a mix of color and motion.

“Coming back home?” he asks after a while, breaking the silence.

Home?

You exhale slowly, trying to make sense of the question.

What is home anymore?

Your mind drifts, the past and present colliding in a haze.

"Sort of," you murmur, the words escaping before you can stop them.

You’re not sure if it’s the truth.

But for now, it’s all you have.

ᡣ𐭩 ࣪ ˖⊹ 𝜗𝜚 ࣪𝄞 𝜗𝜚 ⊹˖ ࣪ ᡣ𐭩

Raindrops race down the car window, each one stubbornly fighting to stick to the glass. You close your eyes, and the exhaustion from the trip hits you like a wave, pulling you under.

The second your eyes slip shut, memories come rushing back. She’s there—your mom.

You can almost smell the flour and feel the warmth of the kitchen. It’s a lazy Saturday morning, and you’re nine years old, helping her bake while she hums some old song, twirling around with a smile on her face.

It’s one of those memories you’ve kept locked away for years, like a little piece of happiness you’re scared to lose—one that slips further out of reach every day.

You remember how bad it hurt when she left.

Dad tried his best, but nothing could fill that hole she left behind. Nothing could take her place.

You ended up burying yourself in books, getting lost in stories that felt safer than the real world—stories that numbed the pain, even if it's only for a little while.

By the time you were in college, the library had become your second home. You’d spend hours wandering the aisles, soaking up the smell of old books and worn-out pages. It was quiet, safe—like nothing bad could touch you there. It was easier to drown in fiction than to face a world where everything had felt so messed up and broken.

But one morning, without warning, everything changed.

ᡣ𐭩 ࣪ ˖⊹ 𝜗𝜚 ࣪𝄞 𝜗𝜚 ⊹˖ ࣪ ᡣ𐭩

series masterlist | next chapter ->

author's note: well, hello there! thank you for making it to the end of this little teaser to chapters of us. this is meant to be a little prologue. as excited as i was to get right into reader’s fated meeting with gojo, i truly wanted to take my time to establish the scene for the story, a small look into her universe - setting the stage for what is to come. i wanted to write more and im sure you could hardly call this a prologue, but it’s been sitting in my drafts for weeks & its giving me something of a headache just looking at it. is this perhaps.. the fated writers block?! i digress. i thought this was enough of a delay so ill simply share what i have now and write more as i go. i'm truly excited for this story. i have so many plot twists, romance + angst planned but i've honestly been procrastinating getting this out and doubting my work. it's always been a dream of mine to become an author, but for now i'm simply going to enjoy this little hobby of mine and hopefully make some new friends along the way. what are your thoughts so far? can't wait to hear them!

ᰔ taglist: — @madamechrissy @berrylovesmegumiiii @introvertatitsfinest @dark-agate @cheezitcracker @frozenmallows @berrychaivibe @lovelyjkook @seternic @dazailover1900 @jotarohat @httpstoyosi @satorurize @myahfig4 @teatimebeliever @alula394 @flowerpot113 @harryzcherry @emochosoluvr @sylustoru @daydreamingastronauts @winniethepooh-lover @gojoscumslut @achildofaphrodite @sorenflyinn @xixflower @altgojo @moncher-ire @nappingmoon @nanasukii28 @sherrieblossoms @celineko20 @averyjadedemerald @sleepyyammy @fisusaurus (open!)

if you want to be added to the taglist, comment here :) <3

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imaginedreamwrite · 1 day ago

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Hihii!! Can you write John price x a reader who is currently being a surrogate for another couple?

“You need to get out, meet someone.” Laswell’s insistence on dating was heard, understood at its core, but largely ignored.

John Price was a Captain of the SAS.

John Price was a man who had his fair share of women and relationships, and John Price thought he was better than dating. Especially in the modern era when dating seemed so screwed up.

John could meet someone on his own, and he had. In the most random place he could possibly meet someone, he met a woman in the airport.

And she was pregnant.

The roundness of her belly wasn’t the first initial cue that he had spotted, but it was almost impossible to ignore once he had seen it. She was sitting in the back of an overpriced airport coffee shop, a book in front of her and her phone beside her.

He didn’t know what possessed him, what kind of hold this woman had on him without speaking a single word, but John found himself approaching her. He was in his civvies, any trace of him as the captain was gone.

He was just John, just a man who was hoping that he wouldn’t come across as cold when he said hello. Or that he would give you the impression that he was a man who would willingly scam on an innocent pregnant woman in the airport.

He wasn’t Soap.

It started with hello and a slightly awkward start as he introduced himself and you introduced yourself. You were a beautiful woman, pregnancy looked good on you, but even without you were a stunning woman.

“I’m trying to decide whether I need another £13 cup of hot chocolate,” you broke up at silence that had lingered after a lull in the conversation.

“Do it for your babe then,” he had taken the opportunity to sit across from you, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

“Oh, this baby isn’t mine.” You smiled politely, closing your book with a snap. “I’m a surrogate for a same sex couple.”

“Noble of you to do that, surrogacy is vital.” His answer felt short and basic but it made you smile in response as you slid the cup closer to your body.

“Two wives want to be mothers,” you lifted your cup and sipped on the very last bit of your hot chocolate before you set it down again, “very lovely couple actually. She’s American and her wife is British.”

“Yeah? Where from?” John felt himself slighting the conversation with a smile, trying to come across as uncharacteristically like who he was as the captain.

“Windermere,” you relayed the information, only the bare minimum that you were allowed to talk about. “And you?”

“Colchester,” John watched the time carefully, measuring the allotted freedom he had before he had to board the flight and return home.

“You want another?” John asked, motioning to the cup in between your hands. “I’ll buy.”

You looked at the cup with a furrowed brow, your lips pursing slightly. You had waited to respond, allowing yourself to be in deep thought before you had finally shrugged and slid the cup back toward him.

“I better not, I should actually head to the boarding area. Gate 20-” you started to stand, gathering your things in your arms while be remained seating.

“Let me walk you, love. That’s the gate I’m boarding at.” John grabbed your cup and walked it to the return tray by the garbage, setting it down before he looked back toward you.

Laswell wanted him to meet someone, here he was meeting you. A beautiful woman with a smile that could’ve made anyone weak. You were the kind of woman who could bring a man to his knees without trying.

John was positive, absolutely positive, that Laswell would love to hear this—about you, the pregnant woman that John met waiting for a flight.

#john price x reader #captain john price #captain John price x reader

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sometimeslwish · 2 days ago

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I Went too far

Did I think about Sylus when I started writing this? Yes, but then it turned into all of the boys as I kept going. This is for those of us who tend to shut down when we get hurt during arguments and just receed into the comforts of our mind before exploding in a whirlwind of emotions.

I omitted the argument, what he said and was purposely vague about what he does so you guys could insert whichever boy you wished to. I imagine Xavier looks for something to entertain himself, Zayne tries going back to work or preparing some snacks, Rafayel tries to sketch and fails, Sylus starts looking for things to make it up to you and Caleb cooks food.

Word count: 945

Tags: lads boys x reader, gn!reader, self indulgent, angst: hurt/comfort, established relationship, argument, shutting down, crying, reconciliation.

The words leave his mouth, scalding and venomous, and he regrets them the moment they do.

You don't flinch, your eyes don't get teary, you don't mutter a single word, but your posture slumps slightly. Not like that of a wounded person, more like a doll whose strings have been cut. It's jarring to see the emotions leave your eyes as you close up and your walls come up.

You laugh, a little humorless and lifeless sound, hollow and devoid of joy, teasing or even the simmering anger that heeded caution. He loved hearing you laugh, liked seeing the way different emotions impacted it, but this one he hates.

It's nothing like the uncontrollable laugh that would come out by surprise, like the giddy-maniacal giggles whenever you were doing something that would get you in the brand of trouble you liked, or even the unrestrained laughter that came when he did something that was too funny.

This one is cold, emotionless, unnatural.

Not forced– no, he's seen you laugh in discomfort and he's seen you force one when you don't feel like laughing, the former comes strained and the latter comes wet, more often times than not– but not genuine either.

He hates it and he hates being on the receiving end of it even more.

You don't say anything after that, simply nod, lick your lips and turn to leave.

"Wait–" he tries to grab your wrist to stop you, but you've already predicted his movements, pulling away before he can even touch you. It's enough to make him go quiet. He figures it's fair, that he deserves it.

"Don't." The steel in your voice doesn't leave space for protests. You don't turn to look at him when you say, "I'm going for a walk." barely even give him time to say anything else before you grab your coat and keys, and leave.

He doesn't know for how long he stares at the door, fighting everything in him that screams at him to go after you. To apologize and try again, to try and get you to see his perspective, to try and understand yours.

He busies himself after what feels like minutes, preparing for when you come back and you're ready to talk. It's hard, the familiar motions now feel foreign as he tries to keep a clear head, but he powers through, keeps his breathing steady and tries not to spiral as he waits.

He doesn't know how many times he fails and how many times he succeeds, zoning in and out as he thinks about how it went wrong. Replays the conversation over and over in his head, noticing the details his anger didn't let him earlier. He feels more and more defeated as time goes on and stopping the spiraling thoughts becomes a lot harder when the fear of you leaving him forever joins into the mix.

It takes you two hours to come back. Two very dreadful hours where he couldn't stop thinking about you and your safety. Thirty minutes more and he would've thought you encountered a wanderer or had some sort of accident. He's relieved, and the fear subsides a little, but you're still closed off.

You're still quiet when you enter, quiet when you close the door and quiet when you leave your keys on the table. You're guarded, like you're waiting for another pin to drop and he hates it. You don't look at him when he calls your name, but he can see the hurt now; your eyes are swollen and you keep sniffing your nose.

"Please, can we talk?" You sitting beside him on the couch is the only answer he gets. It stings a little, to see you sit so far away when he wants to reach for you, but he'll take what he can get.

Naturally, he's the one to speak first, to apologize and explain things better. He's scared of how you may react to his vulnerability, but he knows it's a risk he'll have to take if he wants you back, if he wants to see the light back in your eyes.

It's impossible to not reach for you when you start crying as he talks, as terrified of your rejection as he might be. His body sighs in relief when you let him pull you closer and hold you, his soul finally relaxes when you hide your face in his neck and cling to him.

He's not proud of the way his voice breaks slightly as he whispers apologies into your temple. How he squeezes you against his body while you cry quietly, like he wants your bodies to melt into one and hide you inside his ribcage.

When the tears run dry, you start to explain your side. You express your distaste for what he said and the impact of his words, following his example of vulnerability. He's so proud and thankful for your honesty but, internally, shame and remorse eat at him.

The rest of the afternoon is a quiet affair, filled with his reassurances and your lingering touches. He slowly makes it up to you in his own way, and he knows you've forgiven him when you give him a soft smile. The light is back in your eyes, even if you look exhausted from the intensity of your emotions, but he'll spend the rest of his life making up for it.

He doesn't want to be the reason you shut down or cry ever again. Doesn't want to hear that laugh, specially not directed at him. He'd rather not trigger this one side of you ever again. He'll do everything posible to avoid it.

Playlist.

#somsplaylist #love and deep space #love and deepspace #l&ds #lads #lnds #lads fanfic #lads fandom #xavier #zayne #rafayel #sylus #caleb #lads xavier #lads zayne #lads rafayel #lads sylus #lads caleb

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walnutcookie · 1 day ago

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i dont consider myself a writer but i wrote a little something and i figured i should share some of my writing sometimes instead of letting it all rot in my notes...

for context, this is about rodger coming to life for the first time !! The lady in front of him is shanon (the handler assigned to babysit these two while they get adjusted to living at gearview) and the two working on toodles are delilah and arthur 👍

and for a liiittle more context, the tos toons were meant to sing songs, so they have voiceboxes. Thats the source of their voices, and from the lines they had already in their voiceboxes thats how they learned to speak other words. could they have just developed voices out of nowhere? probably, but on a whim i thought itd be more interesting to say that they adopted their voices from the voice actors who were hired to sing the songs they had written.

also important to note, the toons have memories of the character theyre meant to be and their friends/family and such, they know english and they know colors and basic stuff about life but they havent actually EXPERIENCED these things. its very different from just knowing what they are

warning for brief mentions of blood and a needle

It spread through his metal body like veins, like vines, a trickle of water, like tentacles.

Internal whirring became purring became a rhythmic huff, the panting of in-animated creatures unfamiliar to breathing.

With his body came a dull sense of awareness; his identity, fuzzy, like a dream. Someone in front of him called his name from a distance. Rodger. (It sounded like deja vu - a term he had yet to learn of.)

A walking dream. A culmination of pure imagination, creativity, and hope, pumped full of a selfishness that made him breathe, a heart that, thump, thump, thumped in his chest and his wrists, not his, but none other than his own.

It was painful to percieve. The colors swirled around him in agonizing shades of yellow and purple and brown, shades he could remember in his mind, overwhelmingly foreign to him.

He grounded himself by staring into the eyes of the person in front of him. Her words, impossibly soft and slow, processed like daggers. Her lips seemed to lag behind her sentences. With patience, she persisted, and prompted him to speak.

From inside the plastic face and metal bone of his head, a voice spoke, hoarse with unfamiliarity. Words he was never programmed to speak came in fragments. "My name is Rodger," came out with ease - he had sung such things before. Or, rather, someone had sung them for him.

She held up six fingers and asked him to speak again. "Six," he attempted, though instead produced a helpless grunt. He tried again. His voice box burned beneath his skin. It wasn't meant to produce those sounds. The lady spoke to him again in an assuring tone that made him wilt with failiure.

It was now that he realized he was sitting, though, exhausted, he made no attempt to stand. He had become aware of a motion to his left, and made the effort to turn his head.

Two people kneeled next to a hunched shape, a lifeless doll, its eyes closed in a way that was not quite like sleeping but not quite dead either. Powered down.

He started at the girl's face for a long, agonizing moment. He processed it, registered it, and a name settled into his voice box.

"Toodles." A single spoken name, cropped out of a song. He could not remember singing with her, nor singing her name, nor singing at all, nor speaking with her, nor anything about her besides her name. And yet, the sight of the slumped doll caused an overwhelming sense of something to flood his senses. He had known her and loved her for what felt like a lifetime. "Toodles," he spoke again, in the same tone, the same note, the same manner, the same recorded voice, like a broken record.

The needle went in through the crook of her neck. He could almost feel it himself. It was a horrifying sight that made his chest tighten and clench.

And then she blinked at him. She looked just as frightened and hurt as he was.

"There is nothing to fear," he wanted to say, with sudden desperation, though all that came out was another stutter of incomprehensible sounds. "You will be just fine." He wanted so badly for his words to reach her. With newfound energy, he reached one arm out, feeling the carpet scratch uncomfortably at his palm, then the other, dragging his weak body, anything to get closer. She was scared.

He didn't get far, but he was close enough to soothe her. He could see it on her face.

"Rodger!" came from the sweetest voice, a clipping from a lyric.

#tower of souls au #my art #tw needle mention #tw needle

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petersasteria · 3 days ago

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Don't Have Much But I Have Love - G Dragon/Kwon Jiyong

Pairing: non-idol!Jiyong x wealthy!fem!reader Summary: all in the title.

A/N: this is for the bigbang april writing challenge! i hope you guys like it. thank you @ldydeath and @wcnderlnds for starting this amazing event! <3

Jiyong knew what he was getting into when he started dating you. He knew he had to prove himself worthy of even being in your space. Of course, your family never approved of him. In fact, you were already betrothed to someone, but when you showed no interest, your parents cancelled it.

Jiyong worked at a small shop his parents owned. They sold cheap school supplies and all the kids loved him because of his kind and welcoming nature. Due to their financial situation, Jiyong never got to finish school. He'd always read books his friends were using in class. Youngbae was always generous in lending him books and Daesung would print worksheets for Jiyong to do at home, so he wasn't left behind. His other friend, Seunghyun, worked part time at a small cafe and Jiyong would tutor him for extra cash. Who could blame him? He wanted to put into use the things he learned and he knew Seunghyun struggled a little bit academically.

In one of his visits, he met you. You were the most gorgeous girl he'd ever seen. When you walked in the cafe, everything was in slow motion and he suddenly felt a light breeze as if he were in a movie. Seunghyun looked at what Jiyong was looking at and chuckled.

"Yeah, I was smitten too." Seunghyun shook his head and nudged his friend playfully. "But please focus. She's always here, anyway."

Jiyong snapped out of it and nodded, "Okay, um, back to the quadratic equation..."

Their study session ended a few minutes later because Seunghyun had to start his shift. Already popular among the baristas and the owner, Jiyong would always receive a free drink and a free pastry that he likes. The owner didn't mind because sometimes, he would get Jiyong to work in the cafe on the weekends as a janitor because they needed extra hands.

Jiyong stayed at the cafe, enjoying his free food when he looked at you again. You were so ethereal; dressed head to toe with designer brands. You were eating alone and Jiyong knew he wanted to be with you. He just didn't know how that'll happen.

Days passed and he was still so hung up on you. He wanted to ask Seunghyun about you, but every time he was going to, he'd suddenly back out and change the topic. On one Saturday, the cafe owner asked Jiyong if he could work for them that day and Jiyong immediately agreed. Jiyong arrived on time and started working immediately. He bussed out tables quickly, swept the floors, mopped, washed the dishes, threw the trash out, and cleaned the restrooms. Just as he was wiping the trays clean, he heard a shriek coming from one of the tables. He quickly set the tray down and went to where it was coming from and was surprised to see it was from your table.

Your friend was freaking out because the drink she was drinking spilled on her. "My dress is ruined!" She cried and you shook your head slightly, wiping down the table with tissues.

"Y/F/N, it'll dry out. You won't even notice." You said calmly. "It happened to me before and I turned out perfectly fine and my dress was fine."

JIyong looked at you in awe. He had never been this close to you before. Your friend glanced at him and said, "Well, don't just stand there. Clean this whole thing up!"

"Sorry." Jiyong wiped down the table and took your friend's glass. You frowned and said, "That's not very nice."

"Yeah, he just stood there and-"

"Not him. You." You looked at her. "You shouldn't speak to anyone like that. You're rich, aren't you? I'm sure you could afford some manners."

Your friend huffed, "Excuse me? Why are you defending him? He's just a janitor."

"That still doesn't give you the right to speak to him that way. He's human." You said casually, taking a sip of your coffee.

If Jiyong wasn't in love with you before, he was now. He had never felt that way before about someone and he did everything he could to be with you.

It took guts for him to ask you out one day when you sat down on your usual table. He had just finished tutoring Seunghyun and he cleared his throat as he stood in front of you. You looked up at him and smiled.

"Hel-"

"Hi! I'm Kwon Ji-yong. I work here part time and I also work for my parents in their school supplies shop. I also tutor my friend, Choi Seung-hyun, before his shift starts at this cafe. I stopped schooling because we couldn't afford it, so now I'm just working a lot of different jobs and gigs."

You stared at him. You didn't know what to say. "I... I respect that."

"Every time I see you, my heart beats a little faster than usual and I get happy every time I see you. You're the reason I want to keep going because... well, I like you. A lot. I'd love to take you out on a date sometime, if that's alright with you." He said nervously.

You smiled and nodded, "You know it takes guts to ask someone out. Of course, I'll go on a date with you!"

That was the happiest day of Jiyong's life. He provided you with everything you wanted and needed. His parents weren't too sure of you at first, but as they got to know you, they started to change their views. Your parents, however, didn't like him at all and they never tried. That's why they betrothed you to some random chaebol that you didn't even like. Jiyong was heartbroken when he found out.

"Why don't they like me?" He cried in your arms. You hated seeing him cry.

"Honestly? They don't like your background."

"My background?" He looked at you with bloodshot eyes and sniffed. You nodded. "What does that mean?"

"It means, they don't like that you didn't finish school, they don't like that you work part time at the cafe, they don't like that you have side gigs just to get by, and they don't like that you're not from a rich family. They do, however, like that you help your parents in their shop because they think that children should help their parents' business." You explained and he nodded slowly.

A moment of silence fell on the two of you. You could only hear Jiyong's sniffles and shaky breathing. You could only rub his back in comfort. You were thankful that you were currently in his room. You didn't want his parents to worry.

"I'll finally do it." He said after a while. He looked at you with a determined look on his face, "I'll finally do it, Y/N."

You tilted your head on the side, "What do you mean?"

"I'll finish my schooling. I mean, that would mean I'd be back in freshman year of high school, but that's okay, right? At least I'll finish it. Then, while doing that, I'll continue my jobs just to get by. I don't want to ask my parents for money. I'll save up too. Then when the time comes, I'll go to college and take a business course and hopefully, I'll get a job at Samsung or something." Jiyong said with perseverance which made you smile.

"I'll be here every step of the way." You smiled.

And you were.

You were there during exam week. You were there when he passed his exams in flying colors. You were there to feed him when budget was tight and he couldn't afford to eat anything. You were there to pick him up from school so he wouldn't be late for his shift at the cafe. You were there when he finally graduated high school and you and his friends were cheering him on. As a special treat, you treated him, his family, and his friends to a meal at an expensive restaurant.

"Thank you for this, Y/N! We didn't expect to be included." Youngbae smiled.

"You're Jiyong's best friends. Of course, you're included! Please keep eating." You smiled as you passed them more food.

Jiyong was looking at you the whole time, smitten and in love. He knew then and there that he wanted to marry you. His only worry? He couldn't afford the lifestyle you were used to. Sometimes, it made him feel shitty every time you buy yourself something new from Chanel or Dior. He wanted to buy those things for you, but he couldn't; not yet. He figured he should start thinking of proposing soon or at least think about living together.

But as he looked at you smiling and laughing with his friends and taking good care of his parents, he knew he won the lottery. He may not be blessed financially, but he was blessed to have you.

Two years have passed since then and you were now living with Jiyong in a tiny apartment. Your parents have already called off the engagement with the chaebol guy and your parents disapproved of you and Jiyong living together. They've already started to like him a little bit because he finally finished high school and he's away at college, but it's not enough. Ever since you told your parents that you'd be living with Jiyong, they only said one thing: "Don't ask us for financial help."

Since then, Jiyong has been trying to make ends meet. You tried to help, but he wouldn't let you. He insisted on being the man of the house and when budget was tight, you'd sell one of your luxury bags just to get by. Jiyong disapproved, but you keep telling him that it'll come back to you, anyway.

You were waiting for Jiyong to come home. He was out looking for jobs at offices so he could get a head start while studying. Today was his birthday and you didn't want him to not celebrate it. Everything was set up. There was cake on the table, all his favorite food were lovingly cooked and prepared by you, you cleaned the entire apartment, you even had streamers hung, and a few balloons were on the ceiling. You already lit up the candles and just as you did, the power went out. You guessed Jiyong forgot to pay the electricity bill.

Jiyong entered the apartment and saw that there was no electricity. "Shit." He mumbled in the dark. "Baby?" He called out.

"I'm here!" You responded with a smile on your face. You were really excited to celebrate his birthday. He followed your voice and saw that your face was illuminated by the candles on his cake. He could even make up the food on the table.

"You did all this for me?" He asked, truly touched by your actions.

"Yeah!" You grinned. "It's your birthday after all."

He forgot it was his birthday. "Thank you." He smiled and gave you a kiss before sitting across from you. "I'm sorry about the elec-"

"Shh, we can figure it out tomorrow. Let's just make this night about you. Happy birthday, honey." You said lovingly as you held his hand on top of the table.

"Thank you." He smiled. Just as he was about to blow the candles, he stopped himself. "We wouldn't have light if I blew the candles."

"Oh, right! Thank god I have a lot of big candles." You exclaimed as you hurriedly grabbed all your candles in the bathroom.

Jiyong laughed as he heard you running around. That's when he knew. He was going to propose that night. He immediately looked around and checked his pockets for any kind of paper. When he found an old receipt in his pocket, he quickly made a ring out of it. By the time you came back, the ring was in his coat pocket and he helped you light the candles and place it at different parts of the apartment.

As soon as you were done, both of you sat down again. You looked at him and smiled, "Make a wish and blow your candles."

"I already have everything I wished for." He smiled at you, making you blush. "Though, I do wish for one more thing."

He closed his eyes and blew his candles. You gently clapped and just as you were about to serve him food, he stopped you.

"Thank you so much for everything, Y/N." He smiled.

"No probl-"

"Please let me finish." He said and you nodded. "I-I've been in love with you since the first time I saw you at that cafe. I always thought you'd end up with Seunghyun because he had a tiny crush on you too, but he said it was just a happy crush, so I pursued you. You're the most amazing woman I've ever met and I'm glad that you're my first girlfriend and I hope that you're my last."

He pulled out the paper ring he made and chuckled lightly, "I don't have much, but I have so much love for you and I promise that one day, this'll be a real diamond ring. For now, this'll have to do. Y/N, my everything, will you marry me?"

You smiled as tears clouded your vision, "The diamonds I have don't compare to this one, Ji. I'd marry you with paper rings over and over again. Yes, I'll marry you!"

He went over to your side and slipped the paper ring on your ring finger as you shared a loving kiss.

"Best birthday ever." He smiled as he mumbled the words on your lips.

A/N: AAAAAH this has been my idea for a long time and I used the writing challenge as an opportunity to write it!

permanent taglist: @redhoodedtoad @billiesiousji @hayd3n8 @sherrayyyyy @nbjch05 @ldydeath @wcnderlnds @infinetlyforgotten @emmiesoverthemoon @breakmeoff @sayugarper @gdinthehouseee

jiyong taglist: @loveesiren @aizshallnotbefound

#k's works #bigbang #g dragon #g dragon x reader #g-dragon x reader #g-dragon #kwon ji yong #kwon ji-yong x reader #kwon ji yong x reader #kwon ji-yong #kwon jiyong #kwon jiyong x reader #gdragon x reader #bigbang x reader #gdragon

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othernightslikethis · 14 hours ago

Text

ARE YOU ENGAGED?

3,9k words

smut

Karina (Aespa) x Male Reader

Hey there, folks, it's been a while. I'm trying out new writing styles, so bear with me! This was supposed to come out on Karina's birthday, but a few things happened that caused quite a delay! That's it

Yuu Jimin.

Your Brother’s Damned Bride.

You didn’t even know who she was when you had her. When your hands gripped that slender waist, when your lips met the smooth curve of her neck, when you buried your balls deep inside her tight cunt in the loo of some upscale club—she was your brother’s fiancée.

But let’s start at the beginning.

Two years ago, you and your older brother had a row that began as something trivial and ended in irreparable damage. No one even remembered the reason—money? Jealousy? Some drunken comment after too much soju?—but the result was you packing your bags and leaving for London without a second glance.Life there wasn’t easy at first. You drowned yourself in work, in parties, in random bodies you couldn’t remember the next morning. It was liberating, but hollow. Your parents called occasionally, but your brother? Complete silence.

Until that bloody invitation arrived.

"We request the pleasure of your company at the wedding of..."

You nearly spat out your coffee reading it. He was getting married. And worse—he wanted you as his best man.

Your first instinct was to ignore it. But something—guilt, maybe, or longing—made you reply "Yes" before you could think twice.Yet returning home wouldn’t be so simple. Your old room no longer existed (now a posh office for your father), and staying in a hotel seemed too depressing. That’s when Hwang Hyun-jin, your brother-from-another-mother since school days, came through with a solution:

"Just crash at mine, yeah? Still got that ugly sofa with your name on it."

On your first night back in Seoul, Hyun-jin already had plans.

"There’s a new place in the city centre—expensive drinks, beautiful people, perfect for forgetting you’re here for a wedding.

"You didn’t resist. And that’s when everything went wrong.

You were on your third whisky when she appeared.

Sitting alone at the bar, wearing a tight black dress that left little to the imagination. Hair dark as ebony, lips painted red, legs that went on forever. She smiled when she caught you staring, and you—drunk, stupid, completely oblivious—didn’t hesitate before approaching.

"Here alone?" you asked, in slightly rusty Korean

.She laughed, the sound low and husky, twisting something in your gut.

"Depends. Are you offering company?"

It was too easy. She leaned into you, her fingers playing with the collar of your shirt, her perfume—sweet with a hint of something forbidden—filling your lungs. When your hand slid along the curve of her waist, she didn’t pull away. On the contrary, she pressed herself even tighter against you.

"You kiss well... for a lost boy," she murmured against your mouth.

You didn’t even process the comment before she tugged your belt and whispered:

"Bathroom. Now."

---

She threw herself into the cubicle like a hurricane of sedition and pent-up desire. Her high heels slipped slightly on the damp bathroom floor as she lunged at you, but it didn’t stop her—her blood-red nails dug into your waist as she shoved you with animal force against the cold wall. You staggered, feeling the hard edge of the toilet press into your thighs, but you didn’t fall. Not when she was there, warm and insistent, smelling of jasmine and lust.

"Someone’s in a hurry," you growled, but any teasing died in your throat when she dropped to her knees with the fluid motion of a geisha, her knees meeting the filthy bathroom floor without hesitation.

Your leather belt creaked as she tugged it free with sharp teeth, the metal buckle clattering against the tiles with a final click. Your zip was down in a blink—you hadn’t even noticed when she’d undone your trousers, but there they were, sliding to your knees, your boxers yanked down with a firm motion from someone who knew exactly what they wanted.

Your cock was already throbbing, swollen with need, the vein pulsing visibly as it met the humid bathroom air. Her eyes dilated like a feline’s before prey—dark pupils swallowing her russet irises as her wet tongue dragged slowly over wine-red lips.

"Fuck," she murmured, her voice a rough whisper as her manicured hands wrapped around your length, measuring, comparing. "You’re… much bigger than him." A low, husky laugh escaped her throat as her thumbs smeared the pre-cum already beading at your tip. "Much."

You almost asked who "him" was, almost questioned why she was here alone in a bar, almost showed a shred of decency. But then she opened that sinful mouth and swallowed you to the hilt in one smooth motion, and all rational thought evaporated.

"Fuuuuck," you moaned, your voice echoing off the cramped bathroom walls as her throat constricted around you. She gagged, eyes watering, but didn’t pull back—instead, she took you deeper, nostrils flaring as she fought her reflex. You could feel every spasm, every clench of that hot, tight throat, and when you looked down, the sight was near pornographic:

Your cock disappearing between her swollen lips, spit dripping from the corners of her mouth, her makeup slightly smudged. And then you saw—she’d hiked up her tight black dress to her waist, revealing nothing underneath. Nothing. Just that perfect body, skin smooth as silk, and that…

"You really are a little slut, aren’t you?" you snarled, fingers tightening in her ebony hair.

"Left home without knickers, knowing you’d spread for someone tonight?"

She answered by pulling back until only your tip remained between her lips, her burning eyes locking onto yours as her right hand slid between her own legs. The sound she made when her fingers found her swollen clit was something between a moan and a stifled laugh.

"I knew… I’d find… a proper cock today," she gasped between slow licks at your head, each word punctuated by a flick of her tongue that made your abs clench. "He… ahhh… he never fucks me like this." Her fingers were now plunging into herself with quick, filthy strokes, the wet sound filling the small space between you. "Never… makes me… feel… like this…"

Doubt hammered at your mind like a distant echo—should I really be doing this?—but every moral thought dissolved the moment your hands fisted in her dark hair, guiding your cock back into that hot, obedient throat.

She didn’t resist. Didn’t pull away.Just opened her eyes and stared up at you, pupils blown with want, as you used her mouth as you pleased. Your hips moved on instinct, slamming against her face with a savage rhythm, each thrust taking her deeper until your balls hit her wet chin.

"Take it, slut. Swallow it all," you growled, fingers tightening in her scalp.

She choked, tears welling, but didn’t stop. Her hands clutched your thighs, nails digging in as if begging for more.

When you finally yanked her back, a thick string of spit still connected her lips to your cock. She gasped, lipstick smeared, face flushed with effort—and yet, she smiled.

It was then that you fixed your eyes on those breasts.

She understood immediately.With a deliberately slow movement, she pulled her dress down, freeing those perfect tits—large, firm, her nipples already hardened with arousal. She swayed them in front of you, letting them slap together, and the moist sound of flesh against flesh nearly made you lose control.

"Come on, big boy," she teased, her voice hoarse from sucking. "I know you want it."

Before you could react, she had already trapped your cock between them, squeezing with perfect pressure. Hot. Soft. A heavenly grip.

You groaned, your abdominal muscles tensing involuntarily as she began moving her body back and forth, rubbing her breasts around your cock like a second cunt.

"This is what you wanted, isn’t it?" she whispered, her lips curling into a filthy smile.

You didn’t answer. You just grabbed her hair again and started thrusting between them, losing yourself in that heat, in that forbidden sensation.

She laughed, low and dirty, as she watched your face twist with pleasure.

"Come. I want to see you cover them."

Your cock pulsed violently between your sweaty bodies, a brutal contraction signalling the inevitable.

"Fucking—" you snarled, but the words were lost in a rough groan as the first thick ropes of cum erupted from your tip, streaking across her perfect face in hot white lines.

She didn’t flinch.

On the contrary—she smiled, those red lips parting as your semen dripped down her cheeks, spilling onto her chin and exposed tits. You were still coming when she wrapped her mouth around the head of your cock, sucking the last spurts with an obscene "glug", her tongue working frantically as she swallowed every drop.

"—Fuck, you came so much..." She laughed breathlessly, wiping the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand before licking her own breasts, devouring every drop that had landed on her skin.

You watched her, still breathing heavily, your cock still throbbing, still hard against your thigh.

She started pulling her dress back up, her breasts returning to the confinement of the fabric, but you grabbed her by the hip and shoved her against the wall again, lifting her leg in one sharp motion.

"Wh—?" She looked confused, until her dark eyes drifted down...And saw.

You were still erect.Her lips parted slightly, her swollen mouth still trembling from the sucking.

"...Bloody hell."

And then—that smile. That catlike smile that knew exactly what it was doing. She bit her lower lip, her fingers rising to grip your neck, nails digging into the back of your skull as she pulled you closer, the heat of her body burning against yours.

"Fuck me then, you bastard."

It was all you needed to hear. You turned her towards the wall, her hands pressing against the cold tiles as you lifted her leg higher, exposing her completely.

"You’re definitely the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen," you growled in her ear, feeling how wet she already was, her entrance pulsing just from the head of your cock pressing against her.

She moaned—a rough, filthy sound—her hips arching back in an obscene invitation.

"And what are you waiting for?"

With a single brutal motion, you filled her to the hilt, feeling her insides clench around you like a hot fist. She cried out, fingers scratching the tiles, her head thrown back as you started fucking her with anger, with desire, with the sheer need to mark her as yours.

The sounds she made now were uncontrollable—loud moans, slurred words. You shoved her hard against the bathroom wall, your body moulded against hers as your cock drove in and out with a rhythm that made her hips slam against you. She was so wet that the slick sound of the two of you echoed in the cramped bathroom, each thrust filthier than the last. If anyone was outside, they’d hear just how loud you were.

"Like that, fuck—! Harder!" she screamed, her voice a mix of command and plea, her nails raking down your back through your shirt. You obeyed.

Grabbing her hair, you yanked it back, arching her spine as you kept fucking her mercilessly. Her tits bounced with each impact, her hard nipples dragging against the cold tile.

"Just like—! Ah, fuck!" She moaned loudly, her body trembling around yours. "You—you’re fucking me so good—"

That’s when you felt it—her tightening even more. Her inner muscles squeezing around your cock as if trying to suck every inch deeper.

"Gonna come for me, you slut?" you snarled in her ear, teeth sinking into her neck as you picked up the pace.

She didn’t answer—just screamed, a raw, animal sound, her body convulsing in pure ecstasy as another orgasm ripped through her. You felt your cum dripping down your thighs, her pussy so drenched it overflowed with every thrust.

But you didn’t stop.

"You think it’s over?" you whispered, your voice rough with lust. "You think I’ll let you leave this bathroom without filling you up again?"

She turned her head to face you, eyes glazed, lips swollen and red like crushed cherries.

"Don’t stop," she ordered, her voice a mix of defiance and submission. "Fuck me until I forget my own name.

"You spun her roughly against the wall, her black dress now hitched at her waist, her breasts perfectly exposed—large, heavy, with dark pink nipples so hard they looked like gemstones. Your fingers dug into the soft flesh, squeezing tightly as your cock plunged back into that already ruined cunt.

"AH! FUCK! YES!" she screamed, her voice echoing in the tiny bathroom as you buried yourself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

Her tits jerked violently with each slam, hitting the wall with a wet "smack", her skin reddening from the friction. You could see the veins beneath her delicate skin, how her nipples puckered with every thrust.

"These tits are mine now," you growled, squeezing hard until she moaned, your fingers leaving red marks on her perfect flesh.

She was so wet that cum and her own fluids dripped down her thighs, pooling on the floor in obscene puddles. The smell of sex and cheap perfume filled the air, intoxicating.You yanked her hair back, forcing her into a dramatic arch as you sped up, your balls slapping against her clit with a filthy "slap-slap-slap".

"COME AGAIN, BITCH," you commanded, spitting down her back before licking the salt from her skin.

She obeyed like a bitch in heat—her body convulsed, her cunt clenching around your cock like a hot fist, her tits shaking as fresh streams of fluid trickled out.

You couldn’t hold back—with an animalistic snarl, you hilted yourself and unloaded your second load deep inside, spurting so hard you felt the hot liquid leaking down her thighs.She collapsed against the wall, completely ruined, her breasts now marked red, her makeup smeared, her lips swollen.

"We... need... to stop..." she whimpered, even as her legs trembled uncontrollably.

You smirked, your cock still throbbing between you.

"Who said we’re done?"

You didn’t know where you found the stamina, but your hips kept slamming into her with an animal rhythm, wet skin making a lewd sound with every impact.

"He... ah!... he never filled me like this..."

Your cock twitched violently inside her at those words. You gripped her waist harder, fingers sinking into soft flesh as you picked up the pace. Raising your hand, the bathroom filled with the sound of spanks. You loved watching her arse jiggle and redden with each slap.

"Never?" you snarled, spitting on the back of her neck before licking a salty trail up to her shoulder.She shook her head frantically, her tits swinging like sweat-soaked pendulums. "Never... never... never..." Each word was a hoarse moan, synced with your brutal thrusts.

You pulled her hair forward, forcing her to look down and watch your cock plunging in and out of her. "Look how you’re taking my cock, slut."

She saw—her red, swollen cunt stretching around every inch of your length, her plump lips clinging to you with each withdrawal. "Fuck... you... stretch me so wide..."

Your heavy balls slapped against her clit with every thrust, the wet sound maddening. You saw in the reflection how her eyes rolled back when you hit that spot inside her.

"Does he make you scream like this too?" You didn’t even know who the poor bastard was, but you taunted her, hammering exactly where it made her fingers claw at the tiles.

"NO! NO! FUCK, NO!" she screamed, her body quivering like a leaf in the wind. "Only you... only you... OH, GOD!"

Her tits bounced violently, her nipples so sensitive that she pinched them between her own fingers, moaning louder with each tweak.

You felt the heat building again, your cock swelling even thicker inside her. "I’m going to fill you again," you warned, teeth sinking into her shoulder. "Until it’s dripping down your legs at the altar."

She came instantly, a hot gush coating your cock as her womb pulsed uncontrollably. "YES! FILL ME! FILL THIS SLUT UP!"

It was enough to make you explode—with a snarl, you hilted yourself and pumped what must’ve been your second or third load deep inside (you’d lost count by now). So hard that you felt the hot liquid leaking down her thighs immediately.

She slumped against the wall, completely ruined, her breasts marked red and bitten, her makeup smudged, her lips swollen from screaming.

"That was definitely good, but I need to go, stud," she whimpered, even as her legs shook uncontrollably.

And you were already spent, pulling out of her, watching the sheer amount of cum you’d dumped inside her leak out. She brought her fingers to her well-used cunt, rubbing gently as if gathering your seed, then brought them to her lips.

"Mmm... delicious."

---

The daylight stabbed into the room like a knife, and you could barely open your eyes. Every ray of sunshine felt like a needle piercing your brain. Your mouth was dry, with the metallic aftertaste of a hangover and regret. When you finally managed to focus your vision, there was Hyunjin, standing beside the sofa, holding a steaming cup of coffee with that mischievous grin you knew so well.

"Good morning, gorgeous," he sang, sarcastic. "Or rather, good afternoon. You look like you’ve been run over by an elephant.

"You groaned, trying to sit up, but the world spun violently. Your hands trembled as you held the cup, and the smell of coffee, which would normally be comforting, now felt like a direct assault on your churning stomach.

"Bloody hell..." you grumbled, rubbing your eyes with your knuckles as if you could wipe away the pain.

Hyunjin flopped onto the sofa beside you, jostling the cushions in a way that made your stomach turn over.

"So, shall we talk about last night?" he asked, that glint of malicious curiosity in his eyes. "Because you came home saying some… interesting things."

Your heart stopped for a second. Fragments of the previous night came back in torturous flashes—the packed nightclub, the deafening music, the shots that had seemed like a brilliant idea at the time. And her. Dark hair, a dangerous smile, a wedding ring glinting on her finger.

"Oh, no..." you murmured, covering your face with your hands.

Hyunjin laughed, a bright, cheerful sound that should be illegal for anyone in your condition. "Ah, so it’s true! You actually hooked up with a girl who’s taken!"

"I didn’t know!" you protested, but even your own voice sounded guilty.

"Sure, sure," he replied, sarcastic, shaking his head. "And I believe in fairies. But relax, your drunken charm probably convinced her never to tell you her name, right?"

You threw a cushion at him, but he dodged with a laugh, grabbing your arm in a suffocating hug.

"If you die—and at this rate, I wouldn’t be surprised—I’m taking your PS5, your flat in London, and your sneaker collection. Deal?"

That line came with the fakest, sweetest smile he could muster—the one that made people forgive any rubbish he said. You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help a half-smile.

"Keep dreaming," you muttered, shoving him lightly.

Hyunjin just laughed again, releasing you and stretching out on the sofa like a satisfied cat. "Just saying... if her boyfriend shows up with a baseball bat, I’m pretending I don’t know you."

You threw another cushion, but this time he caught it and hugged it, lying on his side to stare at you with pure amusement.

"The guilt’s eating at you, isn’t it?" It was. It really was. But you’d never admit it out loud. Instead, you buried your face in the sofa and let out a long groan while Hyunjin laughed—loud, merciless, and thoroughly pleased with the chaos your life had become.

---

The air felt heavier in front of that house. You stood frozen on the pavement, your fingers gripping the straps of your rucksack so tightly your knuckles turned white.

It had been years since you’d last set foot there. Did they still remember your face? You weren’t the same person anymore—not the scruffy teenager who spent nights glued to the computer, fuelled by energy drinks and instant noodles. Adulthood had reshaped you: strict diet, gym routines, skincare regimens. But none of that mattered now.

With a heavy sigh, you stepped forward and rang the doorbell. The sound echoed inside the house, and your heart raced as if it might explode.

"Just a moment!" a woman’s voice called from within.And then the door opened.It was her.

She was there. The girl from last night.Without the heavy club makeup, without the dim bar lights masking her features. Just her, her skin slightly creased from sleep, her eyes still heavy. Beautiful. Horribly familiar.

"Ah... s-sorry," your voice came out in fragments, syllables shattering like glass—"I think I’ve got the wrong house.

"Your fingers tingled. Breakfast threatened to come back up. You were already stepping back when another voice cut through the air:

"Babe? Who is it?"

Your brother.Your body reacted before your brain could—a wave of heat surged from your chest to your ears. You knew he was engaged. Of course, that was why you’d returned to Korea. Now, your brain made the connection.

And there he was, in pyjamas, his hand resting on her shoulder. The way she leaned slightly into him… it was intimate. Natural.

"Bloody hell!" Your brother stepped forward, eyes wide. "You vanish for years and just show up like this?!"

Your throat tightened. You could feel sweat trickling down your back. The girl—your brother’s fiancée, his bloody fiancée—frowned. You saw the exact moment she recognised you:

First, a vague flicker of familiarity.

Then, her eyes tracing your face.

Finally, the shock. Her hand flew to her mouth.

"Wait…" Her voice was barely a whisper, "last night at… at the…"

Your brother looked between the two of you. His grin faltered, shifting into confusion, then something darker.

"Last night where?"

The silence hung like a brick. You could hear the ticking of the hallway clock. Somewhere in the house, a tap dripped.

"At… at the restaurant!" you blurted, your voice three octaves higher than usual. "I saw you! At that place we used to go to as kids! Alone! And I thought, ‘Wow, she’s gorgeous,’ and… and…"

Her hand tightened on your brother’s arm. Her eyes glistened—with panic? With anger?

"That’s right," she cut in, too quickly. "I mentioned it to you later, remember, love? That annoying customer who wouldn’t stop calling the waiter?"

Your brother hesitated. You saw his jaw tense—that same tic he’d always had when processing lies.

"Right…" he drew the word out, eyes fixed on you. "Then why are you acting so weird?"

"Jet lag," you muttered, fingers twisting behind your back. "Flight was rubbish. Think I’ll… go buy fags. Or throw myself under a bus. Either works."

Your brother opened his mouth to reply when she intervened:

"Love, leave him, he looks half-dead. D’you want coffee, at least?"

Your brother just laughed and pulled away from her, crushing you in a bear hug.

"Missed you, mate!"

#Karina #x male reader #x male y/n #smut #karina smut #karina x reader #karina x you

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wandaslittlelove · 9 hours ago

Note

hii!! could I please ask for a jealous agatha harkness x gf! reader — like, reader is young and has a seductive aura and angelic beauty, because of that everyone turns their heads when she enters anywhere, however, agatha begins to notice the not-so-so-discreet looks and even compliments of men and women and becomes insecure and a little uncomfortable with that new feeling. even in the coven, alice and jen have heart eyes when they look at the reader, but she is oblivious to all this, since she has always received compliments since she was a child. but one day, things escalate and agatha starts a fight, but the reader starts to get more and more nervous that turns in a panic attack, afraid that agatha will break up with her. In the end agatha assumes her jealousy and her insecurity of being left behind by someone of the same age as reader. angst with comfort.

thank you so much, I’ll adore anything you write, I know that 🫶 stay well

When Your Grey

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Reader Warnings: Angst/fluff, panic attacks, insecurity

It started out small. The weird feeling in Agatha’s chest. It first started at a cafe. The cashier had looked at you with a blush on their face as they rang up your order. At that Agatha had simply put a possessive hand on your back. She thought nothing of it. She knew you loved her. She knew you wanted only her.

The next time was in a bar. You, Agatha, Jen, Alice, and Lilia all sat at a table. You pressed into Agatha’s side as you laughed at something Alice had said. Agatha’s hands made small soothing movements on your thigh under the table as she smiled. Suddenly a man that couldn’t be older than the legal drinking age came up to the table. His posture was confident and he had a smug look on his face as he approached. You all turned to look at him but he only acknowledged you. Agatha’s grip on your thigh tightened and she could feel that feeling in her chest again as he asked you if he could buy you a drink. She watched as you politely declined but the feeling in her chest remained. She hardly spoke to you for the rest of the night and wouldn’t engage with any of the other coven members.

After that the feeling only got worse. Her possessiveness turned into doubt. Why would you be with her when you could have someone younger? Someone your age. It was no secret that Agatha was older than you. No secret that you were on the younger side and everyone around could see. Agatha kept telling herself that it was fine. That you loved her but doubt is like a parasit. It worms its way into your brain until it takes over. Until it’s all you can think about. It controls every thought. Every action. The day that the feeling grew too big was a normal coven meeting.

You all sat in the living room. Everyone tells stories. In Front of you all sat numerous books that had been abandoned about an hour ago when you decided to take a break from teaching each other. Agatha sat in her chair and you sat on the floor in between her legs. It was one of your favorite places to sit. Not because it made her feel superior but because she would run her hands through her hair and you could still take notes. Agatha tapped your shoulder and you looked up at her. Without words she motioned for you to move and you did. Standing Agatha made her way to the kitchen to get everyone some more drinks. While she did that you decided to head to the restroom. One Agatha’s way back she froze in the doorway as she heard Jen talking.

“I mean I really don’t understand it. She’s so young and Agatha…well Agatha’s older. Plus she’s definitely way too pretty for Agatha. I would have loved to get my hands on her first.” Agatha’s fist clenched around the drinks. Setting them down she made her way back into the living room and kicked everyone out. They looked at her confused but left nonetheless. For a moment Agatha just stood there. Her hands clenched at her sides as the feeling in her chest grew. The doubt in her mind screams. When you come back you look around the room confused.

“Did they leave already?” Your question was curious as you moved to pick up the books left on the floor. “Jen was supposed to teach me that healing potion” Agatha stood silent for a moment before scoffing.

“Maybe you should go with her then.” She says coldly. She doesn’t move from her spot. Not as you look up at her with a furrow in your brows.

“What? Why would I go with her?” Agatha’s hands clench harder. Her nails are digging into her skin and starting to leave marks.

“Oh don’t pretend you don’t know. You would just love to go to her huh? Just love to be hers. Or maybe you’d like to be the cafe’’s cashier. Or the guys and girls at the bars. How about someone your own age?” Agatha’s voice raises. You can almost see steam rising from her. She refuses to meet your eyes. Instead glaring at the ground like it personally offended her.

“Agatha what are you even talking about” You try to step towards her but she steps away. Hurt blooms in your chest. You don’t understand what’s happening. “Did something happen?”

“You know what better yet I’ll just go give them your number. Tell them how happy you would be with someone your age.” You frown at Agatha’s words. You go to speak but she beats you to it. “You’d like that wouldn’t you? To not be with some old hag.” You look at her in shock. The hurt bubbling up more. You push it down though. You know Agatha. While she can be mean she would never intentionally be mean to you. She loves you. Plus you know her signs. You can see the way her hands dig into her skin. The way her shoulders are stiff. The way she tries to hold back tears. You step towards her again. Holding your hands out. Something you did when she got overwhelmed. This time she doesn’t move away but still refuses to look at you.

Your hands softly rest on her cheeks as you pull her eyes up to yours. Her hands tremble as she slowly unclenches them and rests them on your waist. She holds onto you as if you’d disappear. Like if she let go you’d walk away.

“Agatha, tell me what's going on. Why are you saying all of this? You know I love you. Only you.” Her grip tightens slightly.

“It's just. It seems like everyone wants you. Jen was saying you should be with someone younger. That i'm too old” Your jaw clenches at her words. Jen had always not been a fan of Agatha. Always trying to one up her as if everything was a competition. You place a small kiss on Agatha’s lips. You don’t comment on the way she whimpers as you pull away. You pull her to her chair and sit her down. Once she’s seated you get on your knees on the floor and press kisses to her thighs. It wasn’t anything sexual. Just something that helped calm her when she was insecure.

“My love. No one else matters. I don’t want them. I don’t want someone younger. I want you. My beautiful witch wife. You could be grey and wrinkled and I'd still want you.” She says nothing and the silence starts to get to you. She hasn’t moved.Hasn’t spoken. Instead she just stares. You don’t know when it happens but eventually you're the one pulling away. Your breath grows uneven as she refuses to reach for you. Tears gather in your eyes as she stands. You start to think the worst. Was she breaking up with you? Was she leaving?

Your breathing becomes more panicked and you start shaking. Agatha doesn’t notice until a choked sob escapes your lips. The second it does her eyes are on you immediately. She kneels in front of you and calls your name but you can’t hear it. Everything sounds fuzzy. The room is blurring as tears cloud your vision. She was going to leave. She doesn’t want you anymore.

Agatha reaches out towards you and pulls you into her lap. She rocks you gently as tears of her own fall from her eyes.

“Breath Baby. Deep breaths. I'm here. I'm here. I'm so sorry” She continues to whisper reassurances until your breathing has calmed and your sobs turn into soft hiccups. “I love you. Im sorry” Her hands run through your hair as her tears soak into your shirt. You both grip onto each other. Trying to anchor on another. Eventually you pull away to look at her.

“I only want you” You hiccup and she nods.

“I know, baby. I know” She pulls your face back into her neck as she continues to rock you. You both stay like that for a while until she eventually lifts you and carries you to bed. She tucks you into her side and holds you tightly. You both had a lot to talk about in the morning. But you knew everything would be okay.

#agatha harkness x reader #agatha all along #agatha harkness x fem reader #agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha harkness x you #agatha harkness x female reader #agatha x reader #agatha x you #agatha harkness imagine #agatha harkness #agatha harkness x y/n

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llamaqueenprompt · 2 days ago

Text

Let Me In

Characters: Charles Leclerc, Reader

Not Requested

Word Count: 1.5k

Inspiration: “I never meant to hurt you.”

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Monaco had always been different. Everyone knew that. Y/n knew it.

There a special weight to it, not just because it was Charles’ hoem race, but because it was the race. The one everyone grew up watching. The one and only race he always wanted to win. The one that never loved him back.

And this year was no exception.

It started well enough. He had qualified second. The car, for some miracle, had pace. The air buzzed with a fragile optimism that maybe, maybe this was the year it would finally all come together.

But it wasn’t.

A slow pit stop. A lapse of judgment on a strategy. Had ruined the race. Two positions lost in the blink of an eye. And there it was again, the image that haunted Y/n more times than it should: Charles stepping out of the car, jaw clenched, eyes cold, body exhausted, not just from the race, but from the so called curse.

She was waiting for him in the paddock. Just outside the farage, but far away from the curious eyes. Her credentials hung from her neck, her fingers clutched around them to keep herself from fidgeting.

And then she saw him.

Helmet off, hair plastered down with sweat. He didn’t even stop by the team, just kept on walking, ignoring every call from everyone.

Including hers.

“Charles,” she said soflty, stepping forward, instinct taking over.

He looked past her.

Not at her.

Past her.

Like she wasn’t there at all.

She froze, the air knocked out of her lugs as he walked right by, disappearing into the back of the garage with the door shutting behind him.

Without him looking back.

Someone nearby whispered,”Ouch.” breaking her out of her state.

She turned and walked away before the rest of the heartbreak could become someone else’s paddock gossip.

By the time she got home, a storm had rolled in. The weather matching her insides

The apartament felt cold, hollow. Like the silence had been waiting for her.

Y/n paced for a while. Sat. Stood again. Repeat this motion time and time again. Tried to eat something. Gave up on eating. Turned on the tv. Turned it off. And every time her phone buzzed, she checked it, hoping it was him.

It never was.

Not a single message. Not even a read receipt on the one she sent: “Text me when you’re done. Please. I love you.”

She stood at the window and watched the rain slide down the glass. Waiting. Waiting for something.

The door finally opened just past midnight.

Charles stepped in like a man carrying the weight of the world. His shoulders slumped, race bag dangling from one hand. His expression hadn’t changed, he still looked detached, drained, heartbroken… stormy.

“You’re late,” Y/n said without turning around from her place in front of the window.

He closed the door behind him. “I stayed at the garage.”

She nodded slowly, arms wrapped around herself. “Of course you did.”

He paused. “I didn’t want to come back like that.”

She turned, fully facing him now. “Like what? Frustrated? Angry? Or guilty?”

He met her eyes then, just briefly, but we quickly look at the ground again.

“Just let it go, Y/n. Please.”

“No.” Her voice was sharp now, all the hurt that she had been feeling for hours, bubbling to the surface. “No, I’m not letting it go this time. You can’t keep doing this.”

“Doing what?” he snapped. “Having a bad race?”

“No!” Her voice cracked. “Shutting me out like I’m some stranger who doesn’t get to exist when things go wrong for you.”

Charles ran a hand through his damp hair, pacing slightly. “I’m exhausted. Can we not do this right now?”

She stepped forward, eyes blazing. “You ignored me. In front of the whole paddock. You looked right through me like I wasn’t even there. Do you know how that felt?”

Silence. Heavy. Sharp.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said finally.

Y/n laughed bitterly, wiping a tear that escaped without her permission. “You didn’t mean to. That’s your answer?”

“I was…” He stopped himself, jaw flexing. “I was trying to hold it together.”

Y/n’s eyes softened, the anger turning into something softer, something raw and aching.

“You don’t have to hold it together alone, Charles,” she said gently- “I’m here for you.”

He blinked, like the words surprised him. Like he hadn’t heard them in that way before, not without strings, not without pity. Just…love. Quiet, patiente love.

“I mean it,” she continued, stepping closer. “You don’t have to go through this by yourself. Whatever this is, losing, failing, breaking. You don’t have to carry it alone, I’ll be here to help you.”

His breath caught, shallow in his chest. “But it’s ugly, Y/n. It’s heavy. I don’t know how to let someone hold that without dropping it.”

She looked at him for a long moment, then slowly reached for his hand. “Then let me try. Because I’m not scared of your mess. But I do am scared of you shutting me out until there’s nothing left of us.”

Her fingers laced with his, gently but firmly, grounding him.

“I know how much Monaco means to you,” she said. “And I know it hurts. But you can’t keep locking that pain in… and pretending I’m not part of your life when it gets too hard.”

Charles’s eyes fell shut, his jaw trembling.

“I hate that I failed again,” he whispered. “In front of everyone. In front of my family. My friends. You. Every year, I tell myself I’ll finally get it right and I just… don’t. It’s like the circuit is cursed for me.”

Y/n squeezed his hand. “It’s not cursed. It’s just life. It’s cruel sometimes. It kicks you when you’re already down. But you don’t have to face it like you’re the only one fighting.”

He opened his eyes slowly, and for the first time that night, he looked tired. Not just physically, but soul-deep tired. Like he’d been carrying this weight for too long, and finally someone was offering to take some of it.

“You make it sound so simple,” he murmured.

“It’s not,” she said, a soft smile tugging at the corner of her mouth despite the tears in her eyes. “But it’s worth it. You’re worth it.”

Charles let out a shaky, uneven, vulnerable breath.

“I don’t know how to be that open,” he admitted. “I’m good at pretending I’m okay. At pushing through. At keeping everything buried under control. But I’m terrible at letting people see the cracks.”

“Well, then it’s a good thing I already know they’re there,” she whispered. “You don’t scare me, Char. Not like that. Not ever. You’re not too much for me.”

He didn’t speak right away. His thumb moved slowly across the back of her hand, eyes fixed on the motion like he was trying to memorize the moment. Her presence. The calm she brought into his chaos.

“I think… sometimes I convince myself that if I let people in, they’ll leave the second they see what’s really inside.”

Y/n’s chest ached. “And sometimes, they don’t. Sometimes they stay.”

His gaze flicked up to hers, and something unspoken passed between them, something fragile and true.

She reached up and brushed her fingers along his jaw, the stubble rough beneath her touch. “I’m staying, Charles. Even when it’s hard. Especially then.”

He didn’t say anything. He just stepped into her arms and held her like she was the only thing tethering him to the ground.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into her shoulder. “For today. For the paddock. For walking past you like you didn’t matter. You matter more than anything.”

“I know,” she said softly, her voice thick with emotion. “I just needed to hear you say it.”

“I’ll say it every day, if that’s what it takes.”

She pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. “It’s not about what you say, Charles. It’s about letting me in. Let me see the real you, even when you’re losing. Especially when you’re losing.”

His throat worked as he nodded. “Okay. I’ll try.”

“Good.” She wiped a tear from under his eye with her thumb. “We don’t have to be perfect. We just have to be real.”

Charles leaned forward then, forehead pressed to hers, and they stood there in the quiet, the soft patter of rain against the windows the only sound between them.

For the first time that night, the silence didn’t feel empty.

It felt safe.

#charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc fic #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclers imagine #f1 #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic

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golddustwomanwins · 2 days ago

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i would die for pastor!Patrick yesss

BLEED FOR ME, BATHE ME IN YOUR SINS UNTIL THERE IS NOTHING LEFT OF YOU

I tried to write this as fast as I could to get it out of my system and don’t let it sit so long in my drafts that I stop writing it. (Like many other unfortunate ones). This is poorly edited but I still wanted to post it.

Pastor Patrick Zweig x Reader

18+

If there was one thing Patrick liked about his job, it was helping those poor souls along in life. Seeing young girls come into his sanctuary, teary eyed and flushed, mascara streaks running down their cheeks, made something dark thrill inside him.

It fed him and kept him full, watching them squirm in their seat, opposite him. The only thing separating him from his prey was the large oak table, clock ticking in the corner.

It made him almost vibrate, sitting in the confessional, barely able to see the person he was talking to, confessing their deepest darkest secrets, their sins, to him. It flooded his veins with warm satisfaction how only a few words of him could lift the darkness from their shoulders, how with a twist of his tongue the people were relieved.

Ohh, the power. He craved it like an addict, showering in the feeling of being purely devoted, needed by everyone.

And sometimes it wasn’t only words that he gave. And if his hand slid between creamy thighs until they trembled, sucked at necks until they keened, thrusted hard until the wooden bench creaked and the sinner was drenched.

Sometimes he liked to imagine them bleeding their sins out of their bodies, gushing around him and drowning him in their misery.

Reverend Zweig was widely liked. Especially among the younger visitors. It was how your parents had heard of him, thinking about how he was your last salvation. The only thing that could pull you from the depths of your horrors.

You didn’t want to go. They had to force you, gripping your arms until slow blue petals blossomed on your skin, until your voice gave out, until your eyes turned hazy, the needle injecting the poison that made you go still.

Reverend Zweig didn’t do private lessons. His masses were open for everyone interested but that was as far as he went. So instead of approaching him directly, your mother ushered you inside the hollow halls of the church, gargoyles with horrific grimaces staring back at you, bearing their teeth as they watched the sinners walk past.

You sat down in the last row, away from prying eyes. Your motions seemed almost robotic, white dress brushing your ankles like a veil. Your mother sat beside you, clutching the fat crucifix dangling from her splotchy neck.

Reverend Zweig was standing on the pedestal, soft voice booming through the space, echoing and caressing the crevices running in the slab of stone. Your eyes zeroed in on his face, the crooked nose, full cheeks and pointy lips.

There was not the slightest tremor in the low cadence of his voice. Not a doubt that what he said wasn’t law. His tongue darted out, wetting his plump bottom lip and you titled your head. It seemed that your mother’s plan was bound to fail.

After Reverend Patrick finished his sermon, he disappeared into the back to his office like he always did, none the wiser as your mother grabbed your wrist, rushing after him.

“Reverend Zweig!” Your mother called out desperately. Pathetically. Didn’t she understand that there was no way changing you? That you were born a sinner, form the fruit of darkness that had slithered into your mothers heart for one night?

She had to be trying to fix her mistake, to make up for the way she swayed from the lords path. Your presence reminded her every day of her error, like a brandmark eating away at her skin, scarring her body for everyone to see.

Reverend Zweig turned surprised, a slow smile splayed on his lips. “I don’t do private consultation today, M’am, why don’t you come back on Friday?”

“I wouldn’t come to you if it wasn’t a matter of life and death,” she said and you had to refrain yourself from snorting. Her hand was still gripping your wrist, the pain reminding you that you were still alive.

“We drove eight hours to see you,” your mother pressed and Patrick’s eyes flickered to your form for the first time. His eyes wandered down to the grip your mother had on your wrist.

He blindly grabbed behind him, opening the door to his office without diverting his eyes from you.

“Well, then come in, would you.”

The chair beneath you was old and creaky, it dug in your tailbone as you listened to your mother explain your situation. Patrick listened to her intently, hands clasped in his lap and you fascinatedly watched the veins run past his knuckles, pulsing slightly.

There was a grandfather clock in the left corner, ticking away. A wall full of painted ugly men, judgement and disgust shining in their eyes as they watched you.

You shifted in your seat, drawing Reverend Zweig’s eyes back to you.

“I fear a condition like that requires one on one sessions,” he offered slowly. Your mother nodded eagerly.

“Whatever it takes, Reverend, we are open to try. You are our only chance.”

This time you did snort, drawing Patrick’s left brow up.

“Ignore her,” your mother waved you off, ever the optimist. You refrained from telling her that ignoring you or your problem never seemed to be a good idea.

“I would need to see your daughter at least once a week,” Patrick mentioned, his thumb drawing over a curios gold ring on his pinky. “Considering the time you spent driving here that might not be possible.”

He raised one hand to scratch at the slight stubble on his jaw, the scratching sound making goosebumps rise on your flesh. You felt yourself lean closer but your mother was quicker. Her hand shot out, pushing you back in your seat.

“That will be no problem. But I have to warn you, she is no easy case. Don’t let her fool you,” she was talking about you like you weren’t in the room with them. Sometimes you wondered if you did exist. If this soulless case inhabiting you was only that. A case. A pretty little glass vitrine, carrying a bleeding heart inside for everyone to see.

“There will be no problem. I am happy to help,” a slow smile spread onto the Reverend’s lips. Your mother didn’t mention that there were countless before who had tried. Who were optimistic and trusted in the lords power to heal you. They all failed. Their blood was drained, their semen spent.

It was decided then. Your mother would drop you off every Friday, dressed in a long white camise, corset beneath that no man could untangle. She braided your waves out of your face, not a speck of makeup tainting your skin. She kept your silhouette boxy, like a sack, your whole being bathed in gray.

Usually, Patrick liked to pick out his victims himself but he was curious. What did you do, that made every servant of god gave up before? Would he be able to break you? To use you in and make you follow his rules.

First, he’d let you sit in his plush leather chair, your figure sinking into the cushions.

“What now?” You looked up at him, braid slipping past your shoulders. His fingers ran over the various leather bound books in the dark wooden bookshelf. Veins ran through his hands as if tempting you. You watched his fingers caress the spines with utter devotion until they came to rest on a special edition.

With a soft murmur, he picked the heavy book out and placed it in front of you. The Bible was glancing back at you in gold foliage. Patrick placed an empty notebook and a pen in front of you. He flipped open to a certain page and looked at you expectantly.

“What?” You snorted. “You want me to copy it.”

“Unless you have anything better to do?” He asked, arching a brow.

“But that’s going to take hours!” You protested. He glanced at the grandfather clock. “Well, then you better get started if you want to be out here before dinner.”

You twitched in your seat, holding yourself back. Your teeth ground against each other but you turned back to the paper and started writing.

It turned into a routine. Patrick would let you into his office every Friday at noon and had you start copying psalms for hours. He’d walk around the confined space, the only sound heard the ticking of the clock and the soft ruffle of his clothes.

Sometimes you’d peek out of the corner of your eye to see him stop in front of the windows, staring down at the courtyard, hands clasped on his back. You’d like to watch the sliver of skin between his jaw and collar, it looked soft and vulnerable.

But Reverend Patrick was anything but. Sometimes you wondered if he found joy in torturing you. That this whole exercise was only a ruse to see you suffer There was always a smirk resting on his lips, a slight t upward tilt to the corner of his mouth. It made you furious.

It was on a lone Friday evening, it was already past dinner time, the sky was dark in the windows of Reverend Patrick’s office. He had fired up some candles—there was no electricity in his office—the fire flickering along the room and throwing shadows all around you.

It felt like they were watching you, waiting for you to fail and pounce. Reverend Patrick was sitting in a seat, legs crossed as he leafed through a book. By the speed of the turning pages you doubted he was actually reading. Your hand had been cramping for quite some time now and the corset was making it hard to breathe.

You were itchy and hot and tired. You huffed, throwing the pen down. The thud echoed around the space but Patrick didn’t look up from his page as he said, “you’re not finished.”

“So what if I’m not? This is stupid anyway, how is this going to get rid of it?” You huffed.

The Reverend shut his book and looked at you, eyes alight by the flames of the candles. You didn’t back down, watching him defiantly.

“There is no ‘it’. That is the first thing my predecessors did wrong,” Patrick stood up, circling the oak desk and leaned against it, his thigh brushing your arm. He crossed his arms as he looked down at you.

“This blight, your Mother is talking off, is not something that’s poisoning you or inside of you. It is you.”

You arched a brow. “And writing psalms over and over is going to make me pure again?”

“It’s making you remember,” he said. “Gods word is law.”

You huffed again. You lay your forehead against the cold oak and Patrick watched your hair brush aside, revealing the delicate skin of the back of your neck.

“I am not trying to get rid of something inside you,” Patrick spoke.

“No, you’re just trying to make me sprain my wrist.”

He huffed a quiet laugh before his hand found your shoulder. You turned your face, cheek squished against the table as you looked up at him.

“Whenever you feel the desire come up, how do you make it go away?” Patrick asked you.

Oh. So he was like all the others. He would fail too. Curiosity always killed the cat.

“I don’t think you want to know, Reverend.”

“I am asking you,” Patrick said. “And you’re going to answer.”

You straightened in your seat, making his hand shift from your shoulder to the back of your neck. His fingers wrapped around the sides, not asserting pressure, only staying. Steady. In power.

“I touch myself,” you whispered, big wide eyes glancing up at him. The flames threw devilish shadows on your lush face.

“Where?” He asked.

You looked at him, thinking that he was joking. Most of them had turned away at this point already. Fleeing the devilish woman that lured men into the eternal depths of the devil.

But Patrick stayed. Patrick watched you, hand steady on your neck. He squeezed slightly and showed you to go on.

Your hand wandered to your chest, rounding your breasts. “Here,” you whispered.

He watched your hand wander over the curves of your belly and rest on your core. “And here.”

Patrick nodded as if you just passed a test.

“Lean back,” he told you but before you could move his hand moved to your clavicles and exerted pressure.

“What your mother and everyone else doesn’t understand is that it isn’t a curse. It is a blessing. And you have found me. Fell right into my arms like god intended it,” his hand tugged at the strings of your dress, making it fall open and reveal the corset.

His brows shot up in surprise and you flushed.

“She makes me wear it, says no man is able to untangle it.”

Patrick chuckled quietly. “Is she aware that I can fuck you with the corset on?”

You almost flinched at his words, breath turning shallow. His eyes took you in for a moment, completely at his mercy. How beautiful you looked.

Patrick brushed the skirt of the dress aside. “Huh,” soft cotton panties. He wondered why your mother didn’t make you wear some torture contraption but you had to relief yourself some way.

Suddenly, he turned away from you and you watching him pick up a small dagger that was usually handled to open his mail. With a soft groan he slipped his finger between the corset and your skin eliciting a surprised squeal from your lips.

The blade was cold as it pressed against you for a moment, before Patrick dragged it down, corset breaking easily.

“No man, huh,” Patrick mumbled before shoving the corset aside. “Look at you,” he breathed.

His hand reached forward tugging at one of your perky nipples making you arch into his touch. “Oh, such a responsive, little thing.”

He twirled it between his fingers, reveling in the sounds slipping past your mouth. When you closed your eyes he reprimanded you. “Eyes on me.”

Your eyes flew open wide, pupils blown like the devilish little thing you were.

“Spread your thighs,” you followed his instructions making him step in between them. His hands grabbed the rests of the chair as he slowly leaned down.

“You’re a gift, sweetheart, they just didn’t know it yet,” he let a dollop of spit fall from his lips and connect with your tits, making you moan, hips arching up and searching for friction.

“You’re being so good for me,” he spread the saliva along your skin, purposely avoiding your nipples. You whined at the sensation, fire burning in your insides and setting you alight.

“Written all those words and still here you are, probably drenched for me,” he smirked. “Should we check?”

He slipped his hand downward, fingertips still wet and leaving a trail along your tummy. When he reached the ugly cotton panties he teared them off with one tug.

You gasped in surprise, flushing slightly now that you were completely bared to him.

Patrick groaned at the look in front of him, cock tightening against his slacks rapidly. His eyes took in your glistening folds, and he slowly slipped a finger through your wetness.

“Oh,” you twitched at the sensation and Patrick looked up at you. “No one touched you before, huh?”

You bit your lip to refrain from moaning until you tasted blood. “Just—Just me.”

“Hmm,” Patrick hummed satisfied. His fingers slipped on their own until he pushed one inside you, the soft squelch making you hide your face in embarrassment.

“Don’t hide from me, pretty girl,” Patrick murmured and you peaked down at him. “There you are.”

And then he did something no one ever did. He lowered his lips to your cunt, his tongue darting out to taste you.

“What—oh godd—nh-what are you doing?” You quickly grabbed his curls to pull his face back. His nose and chin were glistening with your arousal and you shivered at the look.

At the look in his eyes you immediately let go of his hair and he smirked.

“Lay back. Don’t move.”

And then he devoured you. He didn’t just kiss you, didn’t just lap his tongue at you, adding two fingers that pumped inside of you. He worshipped you.

The hard lapping of his tongue created the perfect pressure and got you tipping over the edge in just a few moments. Your thighs trembled, closing around Patrick’s head and making him groan into your cunt, tongue still working.

“Oh god—“ you choked, trying to get him to stop but he didn’t. Driving you towards overstimulation and soft whines and your soft pleas.

“Please don’t—I can’t.”

“You can,” he huffed against you. “Give me one more.”

He started to curl his fingers this time, hitting a spot inside you that made you cry out, eyes squeezing shut, whole body convulsing.

When little shocks made your body twitch he eased up slowly, pulling his fingers from your wet cunt. He looked up at you with dark eyes, as he slowly got up you shivered again. The way he looked over you, his shadow far above his head on the ceiling made you twitch.

For a moment you wondered if he was devil sent but he couldn’t be. Not if he was so skilled at relieving you off the fire inside your soul.

With deft hands he started to unbuckle his slacks, eyes still on your body, offered to him on an altar. He took his long, hard cock in his hand, pumping slightly as he watched you. Patrick’s fingers still glistened from being inside you, wetness spreading over his long cock.

“Get up,” yet again his arm moved around your waist lifting you up before you could move yourself.

Patrick sat down in the chair, hard cock slapping up against his black dress shirt. He tugged you into his lap roughly, dress fanning around you both like a veil. His hands gripped your hips bruisingly as he positioned you right over him.

His eyes found yours before he slowly let you sink down on him. You moaned slightly, back arching and pushing your tits out at him like an offer. Patrick ignored it, his sole focus on the way his cock was buried deep inside you.

“Move,” he ordered and with his help you slowly got up before sinking down on him again. Patrick groaned at the sight but he refrained from moving.

Your hands went to your tits and squeezed yourself if he didn’t care to do it. Patrick set an agonizingly slow rhythm, pulling you up and down on his cock. His grip grew harder and harder, the sound of skin slapping, echoing around you. Harsh breaths fell from his lips, the highs of his cheeks flushed with exertion.

“Look at you,” he huffed. “Taking me in to the hilt.”

You cried out as his thumb drove over your clit.

“Like you were made for me. Your body moulded to fit mine.”

He grunted again, your wet mess spreading all over his pelvis, wetting the dark curls of his. “Making a whole mess,” he grunted and slowly stared to rut into you every time you pushed back down.

“Oh,” you sighed. “Oh fuck, Reverend—“

“Don’t—don’t call me that—“ Patrick grunted, a shiver running down his spine at the sounds you made.

“I think I’m gonna—“ you moaned.

“You cumming again?” He spurted you on, hips driving rapidly up. Sinful, wet sounds echoed around the room, your tits bouncing with every thrust as Patrick pounded up into you.

“Ahh—fuck I’m—I’m,”

“You can let go, sweetheart, right there with you,” he grunted and when your walls started to squeeze around him, he fucked up into you hard and fast. Sitting up, he pressed his face into your chest as he groaned long and hard.

“Fuckk—heaven sent—godd, you’re so good to me,” he groaned as his hot semen spilled inside you, running out immediately after and pooling at his pelvis.

His hands were still at your hips as he breathed shallowly against your chest, pressing a gentle kiss against your ribs. He shuddered slightly and you didn’t know if you should comfort him or not. Another burst of cum spilled inside you.

Thankfully, he made the decision himself, looking up at you for a moment as if you ruined him. Then he lifted you off his softening cock, cleaned up while you got redressed, corset in pieces, panties long gone.

Patrick’s back was turned to you as he zipped up his slacks.

“I will see you next week for our next session.”

You wished for him to turn around a last time and look at you. He didn’t. So you turned with trembling knees and left his office, not noticing how he slipped your tattered panties into the pocket of his pants. After all, he failed to fix you too. But maybe you didn’t need fixing all along, you just needed him.

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