Nocturnal Games | Kim Lip
Alternative Title: Forgotten Moments Between Two Liars.
It's Complicated AU - It really is.
Warnings/Tags: misfit reader, Jungeun is student council president and popular, reader's best friend is into Jungeun, so it's complicated. Underage clubbing, drinking and smoking (though it would be legal where I'm from). Injuries and mentions of fights, implied driving under the influence, brief mentions of supernatural elements, everything is a mess and reader might not be a good friend.
Premise: What should've been a night out with your friends treads on to some interesting ground when miss student president needs a ride home.
Wordcount: 5.1K
Genre: Fluff(?), Angst (?) it's a mixed bag.
Vibes/Songs: Les (Childish Gambino), Right Here (Chase Atlantic), After Dark (Mr. Kitty), What You Need (The Weeknd), Call Out My Name (The Weeknd) and Friends (Chase Atlantic)*
*I prefer slowed + reverb for that song in particular.
"Come on, I'll take you back to the dorm."
You hadn't planned to drive, hell you even offered to sober drive instead of Karina…
"You're not taking Karina instead?"
Everything is a mess– Swept in the hailing afterthought of a night out with your friends.
You lost Mingi, found him with Miyeon, a drunken smile plastered on his lips.
Tried hanging out with Seungcheol before he was all over Karina's sister.
That's without even thinking about Ryujin and Hyunji–Your fingers ghost over your brow pinching the bridge of your nose.
"Because I don't want Karina to find out about my bike and I know you can keep a secret."
It's the beleaguered sigh that slowly pulls its way from your lips with a creaking crawl that reminds you, despite it all, that you do trust her.
It's hard to miss the flare of her perfect white teeth as they paint her smirk— or the slight wince that twitches across her busted lip.
It's fresh, vibrant compared to the darkened flecks that orbit her eye and dust against her cheek.
Barely noticeable, hidden against waves of practised skill and brush to everyone except you.
It isn't her usual style, and you can't help but wonder why you know that.
Instinct.
Anger simmers in her eyes and her nostrils flare, "you don't want to check me over and make sure I'm really me like Mateo?"
You've had the distinct luxury (or misfortune?) of clashing blades with sword masters and other entities.
Yet, nothing quite matches the restrained fury or venom that licks at her voice like a barbed knife.
Your best friend's paranoia wasn't entirely unfounded, after all he'd gotten to know the imposter rather… intimately.
Still, now wasn't the time to linger on the past, not underneath the whining hum of fluorescent tube lights awash in a seedy medical clinic.
You throw your hands up, your eyes catching against familiar shoes, "I know it’s you since you still have my shoes."
She’d taken to them like a fish to water compared to her usual heels, that clacked against the ground with the echo of her mother— Who wears heels to a ghost investigation?—
There's an exaggerated flare to the roll of her eyes, a flicker of a tender, cool, cocky smile. “You’re not getting them back you know?"
It's nice to see the sizzle behind her eyes, the unsnuffable flame despite tonight's best efforts.
Sheis getting awfully comfortable though, a familiarity that you can't quite understand, but maybe, just maybe it's because it's been a long night.
Still, you hadn't expected to run into her tonight. Thursday and Friday had been tough days for her - auditioning on next to no sleep and nearly turning into a monster during the attack at the school.
… Man, it's only been a week since you've started this gig.
Your eyes roll like flecks of sand between your fingers, a tired sigh trembles across your lips.
“I know.”
She's eager, that's the only thing you can note as she pounds back drink after drink like the thumping bass line that hangs thick in Zorro's.
Making up for lost time like Karina before her.
You shouldn’t point out how similar they can be, the flash of Crash's eyes kills the idea before it can even leave your tongue.
They mix like oil and water.
It's weird the way you can pick out the notes of alcohol on her breath– even from this distance. The fruity tang of a Wumpa Shake to the smooth glide of a Super Slide.
Again, she's getting way too comfortable knowing that you're the one who has to drive her back to the dorm.
Is this how Karina feels whenever you call her at some god forsaken hour?
… You should be nicer to her.
Though part of you loathes the idea of being alone with her especially in your current state.
Caesar would give you no mercy if something were to transpire between you and his girlfriend.
"You know I could talk to her about it," there's a softness to her otherwise beady eyes, as liquor flows through her lips. There's a dainty elegance to the way her lips purse, her fingers dance across her straw eliciting a soft mixing stir of her drink.
All it was missing was a small umbrella really, though as you notice the collecting pile on the bar… Crash probably gave up on the decorative element.
Still, part of you winces at the way she's able to peek past the curtain of your mind for but the briefest moments.
It was probably best she didn't look too deep.
"Huh?" is all you can manage, a whispered echo despite your best intentions.
She clings tight to your words, able to parse them with a gentle ease even in the eves of overstimulating neon lights and alcohol-induced haze.
Maybe that was just you?
She smiles, the kind that feels reserved just for you, the real you. It's odd to feel vulnerable underneath layers of lies, jokes, countless personas and more lies.
An innumerable legion at this point– It's the only way to keep up with your father.
"She's into you B" That's the real sticking point isn't it? The way your middle initial peels off tongue, the way it scintillates with a knowing edge.
A reminder that she knows you more than you remember.
But you know her too, somehow.
The flicker flames of a smirk is but smoke and mirrors against the solemn glint in her eyes.
"We should get you home, Yeji's probably worried about you."
It doesn't quite click right… At least not straight away, though you could, should blame the poison in your own veins for that one.
Her hazel warmth nestled against your back, her arms wrapped around your waist with an almost desperate tightness.
Though you're probably making that last part up, too much media does rot the brain after all. Still the student council president being into the weird kid is an interesting bit of brain rot.
Yet as you peer down at the familiar leather jacket keeping her warm, it's easy to admit that the delinquent, president trope is a lot better.
If only your best friend was smoother.
Yet it's that very poison that slushes through your skin, dampening the cold edge of the night air that bites against your skin.
You're drunk driving.
Your bike obeys you as you pull over, there’s a steadiness unlike the darkened edges of your vision, as your brain basically stumbles against itself as you park.
Kickstand, that's your first thought held underneath the amber glow of a street light, the only other witness to the crime that is the two of you.
Your feet grit against loose specks of gravel and asphalt.
"What's wrong with you?"
So many, many things. Your fingers fight through your own unfamiliar jacket snatching at an equally unfamiliar vice.
Cigarettes.
It'd be weird to cross that line in front of her– Part of you wants to assume she's a goody two-shoes like her title implies but you know better unlike Mateo.
It's not his fault, he's the new kid.
Even if you didn't, liquor still clings to her breath as she peers up at you with a clocked eyebrow.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Somehow… impossibly so, your voice is softer than you expect, the expletive a mere garnish on top of the sentence.
"What do you mean?" Her head tilts to the side, her eyes soft and glassy against the amber hue of the street light and the soft glow of the moon that barely peeks through it all.
Your finger bounces against your brow as your cigarette rests against your lips. "I'm drunk, Jungeun… Like really drunk-"
And you're worried. Worried for her of all people, worried what her mother would think, it clings and trembles against your breath and down your fingers.
Maybe that was the first crack in your porcelain mask, a persona you don't even remember adopting.
You pull at your lighter and ignite, maybe the smoke can fill the gaps in it all?
It's a disgruntled huff that leaves your lips first, quickly replaced with an intake of cigarette smoke and nicotine, it buzzes and dances against the alcohol in your veins, bouncing with a vibrant easing joy.
A slow release as smoke drifts and sails through the air, you can see why Mateo enjoys it.
Her hands are soft against yours, looping two fingers around your pinky.
"I trust you."
There's something unspoken in the slow drift in her voice, something you can't quite pluck out. It's firm and resolute, familiar like the crest of sunshine against your skin, yet foreign like memories from another life.
It's warm, the fluttering feeling in your chest. She doesn't know better, doesn't know the things you know.
Pure blind faith in you.
After all, how could she know about your bike being some freak science project from one of the sci fi movies your mother loves so much?
There's that glint in her eye, the kind that cuts through the softness with an analytical edge.
"Your driving does seem a bit mechanical though."
Another flared smirk, cocky and daring, pleased with another peak behind the curtains.
You scoff, painting the crisp night air with plumes of smoke.
The moment is gone, if it was ever there.
Forget anything that lingers in your chest, any nestled embers that threaten to ignite against even just a spark, just the idea she has a soft spot for you.
Why would she hangout with you of all people anyway?
You shelter yourself with a cocky smirk, the weapon of choice for your persona of the night, a facsimile of when you used to be popular with some inspiration from how Mateo can seem.
At least on first glance.
"How are you and Mateo?"
There's a flicker in her eye, that's a loaded question and part of you can't help but feel a ripple of joy. Still, you of all people can pick apart the evidence, the slight click of her tongue, the briefest tug of a frown at the corner of her lips.
Yet, you still lie, like you don't know the twisting corridors of her brain intimately.
"I figured he was doing well since you guys looked like you had a decent conversation at Zorro's…” You gesture at the jacket with your stick of cancer. “Hell, you're even wearing his jacket."
It's odd though, the instinctual way you can peel back her persona and all her would be lies.
Even if you don't have proof.
Though, that's what lends credence to the word instinct after all.
There's a roll of her eyes and a pointed swivel.
You fight back the chuckle that buckles against your lips as she almost shrinks into his leather jacket.
"He's… got a lot to make up for."
It's hard to keep up with all the whispering ghosts, the strained emotions that dance through her eyes under the amber flicker of the street light.
But there's one that sticks out the most, as it dances to and fro.
Hurt, it glimmers as moonlight pierces through amber hues. A lake forgotten with time.
"There's only so long before he gives up… Like everyone else." There's a deep breath, it racks against stressed pain like the sharp edge of a knife. "Plus, I told him I have feelings for someone else."
There's a look of recognition as she looks up at you, nestled in layered warmth. It's another crack in your veneer as you fight so desperately to hold the mask tight.
It's a weird dance, to hold a mask as a shield, as your instincts bleed against your mind.
You have no proof, but you know who.
"Surely, he's still willing to put in the effort… Even if the cards are stacked against him."
Still the mask crumbles slowly against the ebb and flow of empathy. He wouldn't be the first to give up at the first sign of difficulty after all, that much even you remember.
Despite everything between the two of you… She deserves the effort.
But he wouldn't, you're sure of it. After all, he still fights tooth and nail against Caesar whenever he's in a mood.
Only the soft after midnight breeze crests the silence between the two of you, liquor clings tights against you with a warm embrace, a magnanimous shield.
It's easy to catch the question on the edge of her lips, still it's hard to tell if it's a sharpened blade or a humble gift.
It's the soft click of her tongue that pulls it back, it's a flared brow that spurs it forward like a rampant beast.
"Figured out who made you chocolate for Valentine's day?"
It's an afterthought compared to your newfound responsibility.
"Nope."
Not definitively at least, more just gut feelings and wishful thinking.
"Not even just a little bit curious?"
It's hard to pick apart her expression as it's dyed under amber hues, a raised eyebrow and a glint of curiosity. Her lips tighten ever so slightly, rolling to one side in a roiling wave.
"Miss Esperanza gave me a list of suspects," there's a flash of intrigue, drawn to the pulse of your gossip.
It's hard to ignore the way you feel the air practically sizzle when she strays close to you, hanging on to your silence, hungry and eager.
If there was one thing that kept Angelview High going it was gossip. Still you couldn't deny the feeling of joy that plucked at the edge of your brain, to coax her with gossip… just to snip it away.
"...But I haven't had the time to look into it, not with the attack that happened yesterday."
There's a flare of annoyance, as her eyebrow twitches, calculating if you were even worth hanging out with before her mind trails off, lost in thought.
There's an odd vacancy in her eyes, like trying to peer through a fog during a stormy night.
"... Yesterday?" Her eyebrows tighten, her voice nothing but a troubled, shivering whisper.
It's cold you realise, you're not drunk enough to ignore that even in the whispering dark as instinct takes hold. It makes it all the much harder to ignore the warmth you feel cresting up your hand and into your chest as you hold her hand in yours.
You take another drag of your cigarette, placing a trinket in her palm; small, in the shape of a bat. It's edgy, vampiric even, a complete tonal clash against the student council, drama club queen you'd grown to know or remember in your case.
But it is hers nonetheless, it's soft, the way the fog dissipates from her eyes, replaced with a soft tender bloom.
Her shoulders loosen, melting away waves of tight tension as she releases a soft sigh.
She's… different in that moment, your mind clings to the word iridescent as if that could truly describe even a semblance of it all.
But it doesn't, it can't after all.
How can one word even articulate the way her smile drifts between the soft moonlight glow and the warmth of nestled amber streetlight.
Her eyes shift from the trinket to you, it's a soft invisible pull as laughter trickles from her lips.
It's weird, but in a good way. The kind of way that makes you smile unconsciously in her presence and part of you wants to hate it.
But it feels natural.
Instinctual.
Real.
Her laughter fades, slumbering into a soft smile - wistful and melancholic as her eyes linger once again on the trinket.
"Man, this is either gonna be really sad or really funny." Her grip tightens against it as if it would turn to sand if she didn't.
It's easy to get lost in her eyes as she returns her gaze to you, gone is the frenetic tension, enveloped in a patient warmth.
A bonfire on a cold night.
"What do you mean?" It's a stupid question, you can feel that. It's a familiar pluck at the back of your brain, still the words leave all the same.
She smiles softly, a tender hug to hold the moment, her eyes linger even as her head tilts to the side.
You don't know why, but it reminds you of sunflowers and yesteryears, crested with the dew of forgotten, child-like promises.
"You know the rules of the game, I…" Her eyebrows knit together. "She won't remember what we talk about, not when you take the trinket back."
And you have to, those are the rules.
There's an unexplainable smoothness to the way she shuffles next to you using your bike as a makeshift bench.
You hate the way you trace every movement, every moment as her eyes drift up towards the moon.
A joke comes to mind, Karina said it best.
"Is this where you tell me, the moon is beautiful isn't it?"
It's warm in those moments, the way she turns back to you a smile, so deep and sincere you can see it in her eyes.
Still it does nothing against the turmoil in your chest, the warmth of the sun suffocating against thick storm clouds.
It's wrong, you remind yourself.
It's wrong to share these intimate quiet moments, to feel the bloom of something more in your chest.
To feel so effortlessly yourself…
To feel safe.
After all, Mateo has expressed his interest in her and you could see it, you really could.
You stoked the flames in his chest, pushed him towards her… Because you believed in him.
Even in spite of those brief moments at the observatory–You gave him the right nudges here and there, your best attempts to keep him on the best track.
Your grip tightens against your cigarette, against the worn leather seat of your bike.
The delinquent and the student council president is a better story. You could imagine the drift of cigarette smoke past his lips slowly twisting through hers.
"Why?" It cuts like a knife through it all, you fight against the bile that threatens your throat.
You take a drag, feign ignorance against the thoughts that cloud your mind, cock an eyebrow.
"Why, what?"
There's a softened, slightly folded frown pressed into the corner of her lips.
"Why would he think it's actually me?"
It's a hard fight, fought tooth and nail, to not join up in arms, to denounce him as another stupid hopefu-
"I think…" Your lips purse, tightening against the little knot of anxiety caught in your throat, finger bouncing against your brow as plumes of smoke drift slowly through the cold crisp air.
"It's not about thinking she was you, but wanting her to be."
You hate the way she gazes at you, takes in every word with those soft moonlit eyes. The way it tightens that knot in your throat with every passing glance.
Still, she scoffs, rolls her eyes at the idea.
"So you're saying you don't like the idea of the bad boy and the goody two shoes?"
It's that glimmer in her eyes that tells you it's all for show, an exaggerated performance just for you, as her arms cross and her eyes roll, a huff at the edge of her lips.
"What makes it so good huh?" Her voice whines like the crinkling of foil, still it plucks the right notes to write the beginnings of a smile on your face.
Try as you might to hide it with another drag of a cigarette. You nearly choke on fumes embattled on the edge of laughter.
"Well," it's hard to articulate against the bubbling bloom in your veins held under her gaze.
Corruption isn't the word you want to use, but it's close enough, the right fuel to ignite a fire.
"It's about rubbing off on each other, really." You offer a scuffed smirk, scraped by the huff of a thought against plumes of smoke. "It's the peak of opposites attract isn't it?"
You hold the cigarette aloft between two fingers, smoke drifts and flows through the night air, hot orange burns against the ashy tip.
A torch by any other name.
"I guess the cigarette signifies the point of no return."
Her head lists to the side peering past the cigarette, it's hard to fight the focus she pulls from you; her soft eyes, entrancing and safe.
Maybe that's what scares you, more than the unknown, more than being wrong.
It's being right.
Again, it's just instinctual.
She holds her hand out, a smile playing against her teeth.
"Pass it here."
It's odd, really it is. The confident ease in which her grip ghosts over your own, the way she plucks the vice away against her own lips.
It's hard to ignore the way your jaw slackens ever so slightly, surprised at her sheer audacity, too used to a dance of lies and shielded personas.
It's irresistible and you hate it—for arguably the millionth time—the way she smiles so genuinely that it reaches her eyes. It's oddly endearing the way she shifts under your gaze, akin to trying different poses in a photo booth.
It's natural the way a smile creeps slowly on to your lips.
There's a cheeky, calculated glint in her eye.
She flashes a smile, taking a slow drag of the cigarette. Plumes of smoke drift past her lips before buffeting you in the face with a focused assault… Or at least it would've been.
She's nothing but sputtering coughs as smoke parts her lips in choked spurts. Her face contorts and twists ever so slightly.
It takes everything in you not to laugh. You're thankful for the diversion, a shield against the lingering glow in your chest or even worse the sinking disgust.
You really shouldn't be entertaining this moment, not with the object of his affection. It takes everything to reel it back, to take back the line cast on it's own whims.
Still it's hard to ignore the devilish spark in your own chest, the one that revels in all the illicit secrecy.
To feel special.
Your palm caresses her back, rubbing against his leather jacket, coaxing out equals waves of sputtering coughs and gut wrenching guilt.
She turns back to you, face scrunched in the disgust you can only feel for yourself, the torch of betrayal lingers in her hands offered back to you.
"That shit is so fucking gross," her beautiful eyes still catch the edges of a disgusted wince.
It shatters guilt like glass, she can't be into you.
Not after that.
Your mask slowly crawls back together, cocky smirk and all.
"It's an acquired taste."
It really isn't; anything to burn the stress and guilt away from your brain. You cock an eyebrow, tilt your head to the side as you take another drag.
You feel the ghost of her lips, the tang of intoxication mixed with sunflowers and the sweetness of… Ring Pops?
Childlike promises.
Plumes of smoke, hover and whisper through the air; a moment to spare.
"You know she's gonna question why she smells like smoke."
There's a glint of teeth, enamoured and fun. Carefree and expeditious, it is certainly welcome compared to her usual tense and stressed nature.
But you're the one who has to pick the pieces.
She tugs at the collar of her jacket, his jacket—blood seeps from your chest at another twist of the knife—she sniffs at it but you already have the answer.
"Right, right."
You can't help the slight frown that presses into your lips, your eyes trace the moon and the stars.
Anything besides the ethereal sight next to you or the bloody twisted crime scene in your chest.
Her thumb runs over the top of your hand, pressed against the seat of your bike.
"Come on, I gotta have some fun in her stead," she smiles that soft gentle smile, the one that articulates the swell of lips with a preening touch.
You relish in her soft touch, you do… Part of you thinks you always have, no matter how foreign and distant the concept.
Equal measures warmth and disgust.
You roll your eyes, play up your role.
"Alright then," another drag, the final one before it's discarded, forgotten into the night. "Make things interesting."
It's that subtle almost knowing click, the kind that registers on an instinctual level.
She smiles with a knowing caress against your hand.
It stings when she pulls away, finger bouncing against her bottom lip as she paces, eyes adrift in thoughts against the moon.
There's a subtle dance to it all.
"What if I told you, you survive in a zombie apocalypse?" Mirth dances in her eyes, as you can't help but latch on to the thought.
Because duh, of you would.
So of course you don't notice the small cursive joy that bounces on her lips when you smile, when pride echoes into your posture.
Nor do you notice the flecks of sadness.
You're too caught in it all, you don't even notice how bone cold your hands are in the fleeting echoes of laughter.
"I'm sure you don't want to spend these moments talking about work of all things."
It's the swell of her cheeks caught at the mercy of her smile that tells you, convinces you of sickly delusions.
She enjoys it, the way you see through her.
She's confident in spite of it, that's what you li—don't entertain the thought, the knife is in your hand after all.
"She's gonna hate this." There's a pause, echoed only by the stir of cars through distant empty streets.
It's a devious hook with only the most intoxicating of bait.
You fall, hook, line and sinker as you push off your bike, caught in her orbit under amber hues.
There's no cigarette smoke to keep you safe, to obfuscate it all.
"She's gonna deny it, she'll lie until she dies but…" She smiles, pure and wholesomely real. The truth, a secret for just the two of you caught in this moment.
After the dust settles.
A secret just for you.
"She's the one who made the chocolates."
The knife in your chest twists and snaps at the behest of your own lies and propaganda,This is all for her, all for some sick joke that she won't even remember come dawn. To give her what she so desperately wants and craves.
Her lips quiver, caught idle in your silence as her words struggle to form.
"Like I said, it'll either be really sad or really funny."
There's crisp sobering solemness to her words, even as you taste the alcohol on her breath.
Still you can pluck out the embers in her eyes, through the gloss of shimmering glass. The nestled warmth of something else.
She smirks, it's barely passable in the waves of turbulent emotion that washes through the air.
A memory comes to mind, firm and sturdy. It's weird to be so close to her, to have her soft gaze focused on you.
It's unlike the moment at the observatory; an earthquake and broken heels cast in dim tunnel lights.
You thought nothing of the subsequent fall or her trapped bated breath underneath you.
It sparks at your brain, threatening to ignite it all. The way her hair fell in lusciously decadent waves against the floor, bathed in ivory light. You still remember those precious moments held locked against her gaze, the flare of surprise that burned across her eyes.
You remember the way her face twisted away from you, spurred by your comment.
After all, who wears heels to an investigation?
Only now do you realise it, the nervous cherry dusting across her cheek in those painted fleeting moments, only now can you trace the beauty—
Don't think about it.
“You know she’s gonna push you towards Karina.”
But it's hard not to, not when you can pick out each individual eyelash that flutters with every blink or the way her breath hitches ever so slightly when you pull away.
For your own sanity… But it's already too late for you, the devilish whispers in your brain echo to and fro with an egotistic cockiness that's intoxicating.
You nearly fish out another cigarette under the stress of it all, but you know the role you have to play… for her sake.
"Is that what you want?"
There's a soft glower to her caught against frayed streetlights. She cocks an eyebrow in spite of it all, "Me?"
Her voice saunters softly through the air, your last chance. To be a good friend, to continue to be a good friend.
No amount of twisted reasoning or lies would amount to anything less than betrayal of the most sickening kind.
Betrayal of the heart.
"Be honest and you might get a prize."
It's hard to ignore the way the power gets to your head, the illicit betrayal, the taboo of it all as you stray close to her. Your fingers play against the pockets of Mateo's jacket.
It's made all the more intoxicating in the bristling cold, the way she shrinks underneath the weight of it all even with all of her confidence she is still just a girl in love.
She feigns it all the same.
"It would be funny."
Still she isn't strong enough, eyes shifting away from yours under suffocating silence.
"Look me in the eye."
A deep breath, a quiver of her lips and a snap of focus. There’s something inherently soft and vulnerable held in the cloisters of her eyes, a shimmering crystalline prison.
"I…" the undeniable shake to her voice makes your heart sink past the bile that builds in your throat.
Your hands pluck at hers, pulling them from their nestled warm burrows, guiding them towards the skin just above the hem of your shirt.
It's instinctual, a gut reaction to her hesitance.
Her touch is warm, yearningly hungry, yearningly desperate. It's a blessing against the cold grip of the night, you almost lean in unconsciously.
Despite the way her breath paints the air with an alcoholic brush, despite the way nicotine buzzes through the caverns in your mind. There's nothing inherently Sensual about the way her grip tightens ever so slightly, the way she bites her lips caught in the throes of the thought.
It's a quiet, reassuring comfort.
There's a resolute strength as she looks up at you, her voice still an uneven shaky quiver.
"You have my heart, always have," she laughs, the brief short kind, where it's almost just an exhale almost like recollecting a forgotten joke. "Ever since we were kids and…"
Her hands twist and scrunch against the cloth of your shirt, peering defiantly up at you, the smallest smile etched into her lips.
"You always will."
You can't help but smile despite the pit in your stomach.
"It's too bad you hate the taste of cigarette smoke."
Her smile blooms deeper, fervently so, plucking at the fragments of confidence forgotten at the wayside.
"I don't think I'll mind this time."
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