part 1

So, here’s the bottom line: you never meant for any of this to happen. Hand to God. Er - alright, whatever, maybe you shouldn’t be dragging God into any of this, considering-

“Christ, you’re so fucking wet.” 

-okay, you’re pretty much in the least holy position possible. 

The lighting in the bathroom’s dangerously dim, but if anyone were to walk in, there’d be no mistaking it: the scent of sex, the needy, desperate whines, the way Kang Seulgi’s got you on the counter with two fingers driving into your cunt, laughing as you drip down her wrist, embarrassingly soaked. The media would have a fucking field day. Your careers would be permanently ruined. And yet-

“Shut up,” you’re choking out. “Shut up, shut up, just fuck me-”

“Baby.” Seulgi tuts. Her fingers stall. “Ask nicely.” 

You know what she wants. And - unfortunately, humiliatingly - it happens to be the exact same thing you want. 

Your eyes squeeze shut. “Mommy-”

Beside you, her phone starts to ring. 

Seulgi stops cold with her fingers still buried in you at the sight of the name flashing across the screen. The picture, too: Seulgi, grinning widely, with her arms thrown around an unbelievably gorgeous dark-haired woman. Smile demure. Not a hair out of place. Looking like she’s straight off the movie sets she frequents, made-up and meticulously styled. 

“Oh, wow,” you say, strangled, breathless. Derisive, at the contact: capitalized, first and last. As detached and businesslike as she could possibly get. “Your contact name for her is just Bae Irene?” 

“That’s her name, isn’t it?” 

It quite literally isn’t, but you’ll let that one slide. “Unsentimental much?” 

“You think so?” A harsh thrust to your cunt. You buckle at the movement, gasping, clutching the lip of the bathroom counter. Seulgi’s smirk is murderously sharp, eyebrows twitching upwards. It’s a good thing one of you is finding this funny.

“Seulgi-” 

“Enlighten me then, sweetheart.” She leans in close. Timbre of her voice like gunfire, like she knows she’s about to deliver a fatal blow. “What was your contact name for her when you dated her?” 

And that’s something that should be digging up graves, unearthing corpses: there’s the coffin, there’s your past relationship haunting you, there’s the residual remorse like Catholic guilt. There’s the fact that she’s got a girl at home and you’re casting yourself as the other woman just by letting her touch you. There’s Seulgi’s other hand wrapping around your throat, just as her fingers curl deep inside your cunt - and every ghost in the room packs up and goes home. They know a foregone conclusion when they see one.

You can’t talk. You’re back to whining pathetically, pussy clenching around her fingers. “That’s what I thought,” husks Seulgi, maniacally victorious, and lets Irene’s call go to voicemail. 

“Mommy, mommy, mommy-”

Fine, God can get the fuck out of here. Yeah, Seulgi’s your ex-girlfriend’s current girlfriend, and now she’s making you cum harder than you ever have. The holy spirit’s just gonna have to make his peace with that. We all make mistakes. It’s so human. Seriously, come on: it’s not like you’ll make this one ever again. 

Well, probably. 

-

For context, a month and a half ago, you just had the worst breakup of your life. 

-

There’s no real need to recap the gory details, play back a previously-on to catch an audience up. Really, all you have to know is this:

“I don’t understand why you’re doing this.” 

It’s late September. Sky clear and cloudless through your windows. The day ironically gorgeous around you, like it’s taunting you. And Irene stands in your doorway with her hands balled into bloodless fists by her side, the expression on her face never wavering.

“It’s just not working,” she repeats, like that means anything. Like it’s rehearsed, inflection practiced and pristine. “And-” A breath, regulating. “I feel like it hasn’t been working for a while.” 

Here’s where you’re at: reeling through a shock to the system. It’s you, adrift in the center of the sea, fatally unmoored; you and no map and no way home, facing down the last two years of your life in the resolute line of Irene’s mouth. All your words shipwrecked; any fight you have left chained to stones and sinking. You, alone.

“For a while?” you get out, sounding very small. 

Irene’s lashes flutter fast, a miniscule crack in her composure. Then, like it takes a Herculean effort for her voice not to shake: “I’m sorry.” 

And just like that - cut to black, let the credits roll, force the audience out of their seats; pack up the rest of Irene’s clothes and let her take them, leave like she was never there. No warning, no explanation. Just like that, it’s over. 

-

The news’ll hit the press by the end of October. It’ll make the rounds throughout social media, pictures of you and her together, award-winning actresses, looking so happy and in love that you’ll feel like throwing up. There’ll be conspiracy theories, headlines claiming to know exactly where it went wrong; fans mourning melodramatically, hashtags and trending topics. Someone will talk about it and it’ll rip all the same wounds right open. It’ll break your heart on loop. It’ll be horrible. 

And in any other life, if you’d just left it alone after that, you would’ve gotten out of it all completely unscathed. 

See, it’s all about the narrative. You as the designated victim in your story; she broke up with you, and you’d be able to thrive off the sympathy from that forever. Themes of love and loss, healing and recovery, forgiveness and starting fresh. And one day - in some sort of neat little epilogue, wrapping up loose ends - you’d be able to meet up with Irene again and laugh about the old times, and you’d be so benevolent, accepting apologies; she’d take the blame, and smile, and wish you the best. Leave you as the heroine, with your perfect happy ending. Time healing all wounds, as they say - what a tale, what a message; critics would’ve praised the life lessons taught, call it coming-of-age, honest and raw and real. But instead-

Well, instead, you’ve got no other story to tell but this. You figure it’s as good a place to start as any. 

-

It’s a month and a half after Irene breaks up with you, but she somehow manages to send you into complete and utter insanity all over again. It’s a talent, but she’s always had a lot of those. Here’s how it really begins:

“I actually have a new lease on life,” you say, over the phone on a Friday, lazing on your couch. “I’m actually feeling so optimistic right now.”

The feeling’s warranted, you’re thinking. It’s a perfect, peaceful day. You’re in between projects; you don’t start filming again until January. It’s a much-needed break, and you’re taking full advantage of it. 

“That’s amazing,” says your best friend, sounding like she means it. “That’s so, so great. So - uh - if that’s the case, I do have some… news for you.” 

To her credit, she takes it upon herself to soften the blow, at first. Gives a comprehensive recap of the celebrity rumors going around lately, dances around it with the best of them. First there’s all that baseless (and biased, you’re pretty sure) gossip about Park Sooyoung’s fiancé being a cheater, there’s the usual scandal around Ahn Yujin, there’s that conspiracy theory about Im Nayeon and her secret boyfriend-

“That’s her shirt. ”

And there’s one very specific rumor about your ex-girlfriend and Kang fucking Seulgi. 

“Look, it’s…” Your best friend is peering down at your phone screen with the single worst poker face you’ve ever seen. Then again, she’s not the actress between the two of you. “It’s probably not even that serious. It’s, um. Yeah, it’s probably nothing.” A cautious peek out of the corner of her eye. “It might not even be Irene’s, right?” 

“Wendy.” 

Wendy draws back at your tone, then immediately pats your shoulder gingerly like you’re a particularly prickly feral animal. “Dude, I’m trying to be consoling here.” 

She’s doing a shit job at it, but even if she wasn’t, it wouldn’t matter. You’d be losing your mind either way. 

Because when Wendy first got you on the phone while she was on the way to your place, filling you in on the goings-on of your rich and famous peers - right, she told you, like an afterthought, people are saying there’s something between she-who-must-not-be-named and Kang Seulgi, but that’s ridiculous, that’s obviously not happening, isn’t that so funny - and you’d laughed along, too, disbelieving. It’s been a month and a half, you thought. Kang Seulgi’s not even Irene’s type. Earlier this year you’d seen one of Seulgi’s smash hit blockbuster flicks with Irene and the only thing Irene said about Seulgi’s performance was a semi-scathing critique about the way her face looked when she was crying. It’s nothing. It’s-