feminine intution | gojo satoru x you
⟡ fluff, parasocial reader, inspired by drop dead by olivia <3 | 2.6k
You’re staring.
You’re staring because he’s standing outside the lecture hall, white hair catching the early fall sun like something out of a purple shampoo commercial. He’s laughing at something the boy beside him said, head thrown back, completely not self-conscious about just how loud he is. Half the quad looks over at him; he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
But oh, you notice.
Rei appears at your elbow with two iced matchas and follows your gaze.
“Oh,” she says simply, as if she had unfolded your exact thoughts that have occupied your head in the last 2 minutes, “absolutely not.”
“What? I didn’t say anything.”
“Pshh. You didn’t have to.” She pushes your drink into your hand and loops her arm through yours, pulling you firmly in the opposite direction. “Come on, we’re gonna be late again.”
You let her pull you. But you look back at him, just a teeny glance, and he’s still laughing. You look back again. The sun is still doing that thing to his hair, and you should’ve listened to Rei... absolutely not.
His name, you learn from scouring the internet, LinkedIn pages, and a lot of embarrassing research (a Myriad of student organizations and Instagram mutuals), is Satoru Gojo. He’s a second year, like you, but in the physics department. He has an unreasonable number of followers for a college student. He once won a regional swimming tournament at eighteen, and there are photos. Lots of photos.
A person with dignity would share none of this with their friends, but because you have none, you share all of this with your friends.
Not long after, the group chat is buzzing about your parasocial relationship with Satoru. Aya sends a screenshot of him from the university’s physics department website.
aya: your future husband looks confused in this photo
you: he is NOT my future husband.
…
you: yet
The group chat is then filled with wedding ring and at least 10 kissing emojis.
You put your phone down on your bed and try to study for the exam you have tomorrow. But you have no self-control, and pick it back up thirty seconds later.
To preface, you’re minding your own business, sitting in the back corner of the 4th floor in the library. Your headphones are in, and your notes are spread sporadically across the table.
You were minding your business until he sat down across from you. Satoru Gojo is so close that when you glance up from your screen, you are looking directly at him. He’s got a yellow pad open and squinting at whatever problem he’s trying to solve.
He never looks up. You spend the next thirty minutes reading the same page of your textbook, you barely pick up your pen to write notes, and if you did, they are completely illegible.
To your dismay, he leaves before you do, yellow pad tucked under his arm, but on his way out, he glances over at you and gives you a friendly nod... and then he’s gone.
You text the group chat immediately.
you: i need you guys to know that i am not okay
You spent the entire winter break convincing yourself you’re over Satoru Gojo. Pining over a man for a whole semester when he doesn’t even know your name is useless. He’s just a person… A very tall person with a handsome face and an unfair laugh, and definitely not an angel… A person.
You’ve been back on campus for the spring semester for only four hours before you see him crossing the quad with a latte in each hand, handing one to the boy next to him, all while telling a story that makes the entire group around him laugh. He’s wearing a black puffer, sunglasses perched on his head despite the gloomy January sky, and he looks so unreal that you’re paranoid you made him up-
You walk directly into a trash can.
It makes an embarrassingly loud noise that makes a few people look over. You keep walking.
You are not over it.
It’s snowing lightly, but the kind that doesn’t stick. You’re in line at the convenience store on campus, holding a cup of instant ramen when he walks in.
You become extremely interested in the nutrition label on the cup. Sodium content, fascinating. The fat content? Riveting.
You hear him line up behind you. You are so normal. You are going to be so normal about this, so normal that you’re going to keep reading the ingredients list on a cup ramen at 11 oclock at night.
“Those are good,” he says.
You look up. Satoru Gojo is pointing at the cup in your hands, and he’s also apparently talking to you.
“Yeah.” You croak.
“Spicy miso,” he says, nodding, “good choice. The beef one is depressing.”
You let out a sound that might be a laugh, you’re unsure right now. He smiles, then the line moves, and you pay and leave before your face can betray the feelings you’ve had for him for the last six months.
You stand outside in the cold, under the snow, and pull your phone out.
you: he talked to me
you: 12 words
you: im going to hurl
aya: TWELVE????? oh we’re framing this
The campus bar closes at eleven. You know this because post-exam celebrations have been here enough times for you to memorize the way the lights get a little brighter at around 10:45, the owner’s subtle cue that it’s time to start wrapping up.
But the corner booth still has your friends piled into it, Rei’s pink cheeks and happy on her birthday, Sora giggling at Suzu belting the song playing over the speakers, and the table scattered with empty glasses and crumpled napkins.
You’re unsure when he got here.
Aya spots him first; she always does. It’s her superpower, you think. She essentially gives you warning signals not to do something embarrassing. This time, she kicks you under the table without saying anything. You look up.
Satoru Gojo is at the same bar as you are, with a few people you don’t recognize, a half-finished beer in front of him, leaning on one elbow and talking with the confidence of someone who has never once felt out of place in their life.
Someone says something funny, and he tips his head back, laughing, and the bar lights catch the white of his hair and the line of his throat just like it did back in the early fall.
You’ve thought about this way too many times. In a joking way, a fun way, the way you text the group chat about him and make it into something light, poking at your own parasocial tendencies. But sitting here right now, watching Satoru Gojo exist from across the bar at 10:40 a tonight, it doesn’t feel like a joke.
“You okay?” Rei asks quietly beside you.
“Y-Yeah.” You hum.
She follows your gaze and doesn’t say anything, which is somehow worse than if she said her usual, absolutely not.
You look away. Then you look back. To your dismay, he’s still there. He’s still going to be there until the lights completely turn on and the servers start collecting cups, but you’re going to sit in this booth and do absolutely nothing about it, which is exactly what you’ve been doing for the whole school year, and that is fine. You are fine. That was always the plan.
The song overhead starts to play something older and slow, and you hear him even from the other end of the bar, starting to sing along. He has always been unselfconsciously himself, from obnoxiously laughing in the quad, nodding at you in the library, and making small talk about cup ramen. Satoru Gojo has never apologized for being himself.
Aya leans over. “You should go say something.”
“I did once. We talked about ramen.”
“Babe.” She looks at you with an expression that is both fond and sad. “That is not the same thing.”
“I know.”
She doesn’t push. She fills your shot glass instead, Sora starts a new story, your booth gets loud again, and for a moment you’re back in it, laughing at something, leaning into the warmth of your friends, forgetting all about Satoru Gojo.
The bar gets louder after the last round of drinks is called. Someone in the back booth cheers, Sora knocks over a glass (it thankfully doesn't break), and Rei's birthday sash ends up around her neck like a scarf.
It’s the type of loud that makes you feel invisible. It makes you slip out of the booth quietly to get air.
The bar door swings shut behind you, and suddenly the sound of the music is muffled, the street is cold and dark, and you let out a long breath, watching it fog up in front of you.
You feel your phone buzz in your pocket.
aya: GO TALK TO HIMMM
aya: NOWWWWW
The door opens again behind you. You don’t look up; you assume it’s Suzu or a stranger needing air. But then they stop next to you and lean back against the wall the same way you are, and you can’t help yourself from looking over.
Satoru Gojo.
He’s got his black puffer on now, hands in his pockets, looking straight ahead. He’s looking out at the street, squinting slightly at nothing in particular, like he also just needed a second, like maybe he also felt invisible.
You put your phone away. For a moment, neither of you says anything. The bar noise bleeds faintly through the door, and somewhere down the block, someone is laughing.
"Needed air?" he asks, still looking at the street.
"Something like that."
He nods like that's a reasonable answer. "Fun night in there."
"Yeah." You glance over at him. "Your friends seem fun."
He turns his head then, just slightly, enough to look at you from the corner of his eyes. "You know who I am."
It isn't a question. Your face goes warm despite the chill.
"Campus is small," you say, which is kinda true, and also not really an answer.
Something shifts in his expression. “How small?"
"Don't make it weird."
"I'm not making it anything." But his voice has that rhythm to it now. "I noticed you, too, you know. In the library."
You look at him then, because you can't not. "The library..."
"You had your headphones in. You were highlighting everything on the page." A pause. "I don't think you were actually reading anything."
Your mouth opens. Then closes. "I was reading-."
"Sure."
"I was."
He's fully smiling now, and you are going to combust on this sidewalk, right here, outside this bar, in front of everyone. The door swings open behind you, and a group spills out, loud and laughing, popping the bubble of quiet you've both been standing in.
You both shift slightly apart without meaning to. And then Aya's head appears in the doorway, her eyes finding you immediately.
"We're heading out," she says. "Rei's calling it."
You look back at him. He's watching you with his hands still in his pockets.
"I'll see you," you say.
"Yeah," he says, quietly. "You will."
You follow Aya inside. She grabs your arm the second the door closes and makes a sound directly into your shoulder.
"I know," you say.
"DO YOU?" she hisses.
Things happen after that night. Small things.
He texts you (you still aren't entirely sure of how he got your number, and when you asked him, he just said, I asked around like that was a completely normal thing). The texts are causal, nothing things, observations, and the occasional questions. But they come at odd hours, and he responds fast, always, and you've stopped pretending that it doesn't mean anything.
He finds you in the library again. Same table, same corner. But this time, he sits next to you. You spend two hours not really studying. He steals your highlighter and doesn't give it back, you don't complain.
Aya asks almost daily if you've told him.
You haven’t.
You’re at the same bar, the one that closes at 11. Two months later, a different birthday, but the same corner booth, and the same low lighting.
Satoru invited you. He texted four days ago.
satoru: suguru's bday friday, you should come
satoru: invite your friends too!
You'd stared at the text long enough that Aya took your phone and typed we'll be there before you could overthink it. You've been equal parts grateful and furious with her since.
The two tables pushed together hold everyone easily, his friends folding into yours. Suguru is being roasted every twenty minutes. Rei has already swapped jackets with someone she met an hour ago. Aya and Suzu complain about a class they have together.
Satoru is beside you again. He talks to everyone, laughs loudly at the table, but he keeps coming back to you between all of it, small whispers, things meant only for you.
By 10:30, the table has spread itself around the bar, Suguru pulled toward the birthday shots, Aya deep in conversation with someone you don't know, Rei on the dance floor, and it's just you and Satoru in the corner, and it's just been the two of you for long enough now that it doesn't feel awkward. It feels like the most natural arrangement in the world, which is its own kind of terrifying.
It's almost 11. The lights haven't gone bright yet, but the energy in the bar has lowered. You slip away from the booth toward the back of the bar, and the line for the bathroom is longer than it should be for a Tuesday night. You join it nonetheless, checking your phone, and thirty seconds later, someone slots in behind you.
You don't have to look to know.
"You're following me," you say, without looking up.
"I also have to use the bathroom," Satoru says, unbothered.
You look up at him over your shoulder. The hallway is narrow, which means he's closer than he would be anywhere else, which means you are suddenly extremely aware of the exact (or lack of) distance between you.
"Hi," he says.
"Hi," you say back.
His eyes stay on yours, and there is absolutely nothing casual about the way he's looking at you right now, and you should say it... right now. You've seen his face a hundred times. You have tattooed it to your memory, in stolen glances, in your peripheral vision, in the glow of a physics department webpage you visited way too many times for someone who doesn't take physics.
Up close, in the narrow red-lit hallway, he is genuinely unfair. The angles of his face make you feel lightheaded. His jaw, the line of his throat, all of it lands on your heart like a bomb.
You are so down bad. You have been so down bad since the first time you saw him. You are down bad in the bathroom line of the only bar open on campus on a Tuesday, and he is looking at you like that, and you think, with the last functional part of your brain... say it.
"Satoru-"
"I know," he interrupts.
And then he kisses you.
His hand finds your jaw, and he kisses you like he's been working up to it for longer than tonight. When he pulls back, you're pressed between him and the wall, and you can't quite remember how that happened.
"You could have said something," you manage.
The corner of his mouth lifts. "So could you."
You’re going to drop dead... you think.
author's note: sorry for disappearing, the trajectory of my life changed but my obsession for satoru hasn't.
idk how the story flowed? i dont like it. i had another idea but i guess i'll use it somewhere else haha
itoshi sae- the hot soccer captain of his school, who happens to also be winning the ‘idgaf’ war. call him the nonchalant final boss if you want but you didn't hate him. in the same time, you wouldn't exactly like him
so how did you both end up stuck in the locker room?
here’s a little setting for you! yes you!
you, being a prominent member of the school journaling team, was asked to get some insights from the soccer star. striking up a conversation with him was already hard, how would you push questions on him? you weren't exactly sure but you had to do it, your team depended on you
clipboard pushed to your chest, you knock on the locker room and surprise surprise, the man of the hour opens it. he doesn’t say anything, tilting his head at you and waited for you to start the conversation or else he would send you out of the room
“do you mind sharing a few words about your match today? it would help our club with the weekly new-”
“come in,” sae sighs and you were this close to smacking your clipboard on him but hey, you’re going to be the mature one here
“brilliant game itoshi,” you complimented and took a seat on the bench facing him
he puts a towel around his neck and grabs the bottle nearby, taking a sip as if pissing you off on purpose. “tell me something i don’t know”
“how did you feel when playing today? you didn't let the opponent school score a single point!,” you mention in awe while seeing the scored jotted down
“how did you expect me to feel?,” sae turned the question to you
you raise your eyebrow at his words because last time you checked, you were the one asking the questions. “excuse me?”
sae sighs and puts his bottle down before throwing in the most generic answer. the dry conversation went back and forth, and your polite meter was going to crash if you stayed any longer.
the star didn't give much of a newsworthy answer but you knew his fanclub would eat it up, allowing your club to rise in school. sae’s answers were short and simple and that was easy to write- a win for you!
“alright,” you click your pen with a somewhat content smile. “i got everything i need. thank you for your time itoshi”
“sure”
you get up, dusting your uniform a bit before heading to the door but.. why was it locked? you twist the doorknob but it wouldn't open no matter how much force you put
“well would you look at that,” sae gets up and tosses his damped towel on the bench
you turn over to look at him, a little annoyed at the place you both were now ‘stuck in’. definitely wasn't something planned- who said that?? no no! you both, by pure ‘coincidence’ were locked in. it's not like he paid shidou to put a chair to block the door for an hour. and he definitely did not force your club to send you to interview him
nah, that would be very lukewarm of him
“so,” sae points to your clipboard. “let’s continue”
@yveswon-zz - do not copy or translate without permission
“kei, do you ever think about how strange it is that we've never fought?” you ask, limbs tangled with his as you cuddle on his bed.
it’s 10:03 PM and you’re doing your best to fight against the chilling, icy atmosphere of tsukishima’s room. for some reason, he likes to sleep like a vampire.
“do you want to?” he offers with an arm wrapped around your shoulders. tsukki doesn’t even open his eyes when he responds, too sleepy to entertain another one of your late night overthinking sessions.
“no,” you say calmly, “but we’ve been together for 7 months. we must either be like, the greatest couple of all time or the exact opposite.”
you feel his chest rise and deflate against your head as he lets an overly dramatic sigh.
you knew tsukishima kei wasn’t one for pda. hell, it was one of the things you loved about him. he knew how to make you feel loved without having to scream it to the world.
like that one time on one of your first dates, when you had accidentally fallen asleep on the soft grass of the park while waiting for his weekend practice to end. you woke up with a hand massaging your scalp.
“how long have you been waiting there?” you giggle, rising from your slumber as you rub your eyes awake. he pulls away, casually avoiding your gaze. “why didn’t you wake me?”
kei only shrugs, “you looked peaceful.”
or that other time you got sick for a week and couldn’t make it to school, so he immediately visited you as soon as you got better and brought his backpack with him.
“i got two copies of all the homeworks due next week, so you don’t have to ask the teachers for them.” he unpacks his notes and fishes out two pens from his bag before turning to you. “come, i’ll teach you everything you missed.”
your teachers praised you for how responsible you were, and told you how much they appreciated that you took the initiative to study.
yeah, you totally did that.
or like right now, and all the other nights you’ve spent at his place. because unbeknownst to you, tsukishima kei sets up his bedroom every single time you visit. he tidies up, cleaning even spots that you would never think to look at. but most importantly, and tsukishima knows this routine by heart, he turns the a/c to the highest setting so you’d be forced to cuddle against him underneath his sheets.
“the former,” is all replies with, and you scoff, rolling your eyes.
“but seriously though. how lucky are we to never have fought even after seven months.”
tsukki sighs again, before reluctantly revealing, “we don’t fight because i make it a point to always agree with you.”
you’re taken aback by his words, sitting up slightly as you look him in the eyes, though his are still closed as he tries to focus on sleeping.
“...huh?”
“idiot,” he teases. maybe he thinks calling you names will cover up for how unbelievably sweet he’s being right now, “why would i want to argue with you?” he shifts, trying to subtly move his face away so you don’t see him fully.
“but i can’t always have my way, you know. a relationship should be 50/50, right?”
“not ours.” he presses your head back against his chest, and you hear his heartbeat fasten a little. “you’re the boss.”
BONUS: “and you’ve never paid in your life anyway. you don’t believe in that 50/50 bullshit.” “hey!” “i don’t even know what your wallet looks like.”
synopsis: you’re a skilled pickpocket who unknowingly steals from hongjoong, the ruthless mafia leader. the next thing you know, you’re dragged into the mafia world.
warnings: blood-shed, violence, panic attack, kissing, cliche stuff like yk the dress and heels thing (forgive me)
word count: 16.4k
[series masterlist]
—The crowd moves like a river, thick with tourists and businessmen, all too absorbed in their own lives to notice you. Perfect. You slip through the bodies with practiced ease, brushing against a man in a suit just lightly enough to slip your fingers into his coat pocket. Your touch is quick, ghostlike. By the time he takes another step, his wallet is yours.
You don’t stop walking. Rule number one: never stop. Casually, you slip the wallet into your jacket and veer into a side alley. Only then do you let yourself exhale. Flipping it open, you scan the contents—credit cards, an ID, a few hundred in cash. Easy. Routine.
The thrill is always the same, a sharp rush that hums under your skin.
But you’re not done.
You step back onto the main street, eyes scanning for the next mark. That’s when you spot him.
A man stands near a sleek black car, phone pressed to his ear. His suit isn’t just expensive—it’s power wrapped in fabric. The kind of power that turns heads, that makes people step out of the way without thinking. His dark eyes flicker up, sharp and unreadable, before dismissing everything around him. He’s focused on the call.
A passing group provides perfect cover. You slip in close, your shoulder barely brushing his as your fingers work. The weight of the wallet slides into your palm so smoothly it almost feels too easy. Your heart pounds, but your face remains impassive as you keep walking, melting into the sea of people.
It takes fifteen minutes before you check your prize.
You’re perched on the steps of an old building, half-hidden in the shadows, when you pull out the wallet. It’s heavier than most. Your fingers flip it open, expecting cash, cards—maybe something extra.
What you find instead makes your blood run cold.
Black leather. Minimalist. Inside, an ID stares back at you. The name is one you’ve only ever heard in hushed whispers, in stories told between thieves who knew better than to try their luck.
Kim Hongjoong.
You don’t need to read the rest. Your fingers are already shaking. The emblem on the card is enough—a symbol of the underworld, of power beyond money. A name that commands fear.
You just stole from the most dangerous man in the city.
Your pulse is hammering now, cold dread settling in your stomach like a stone. You’re good—one of the best—but even you know there are lines you don’t cross. Kim Hongjoong isn’t just another rich bastard flashing wealth like a target on his back. He’s the kind of man who has people dragged off the streets for less than this.
And you just made yourself his problem.
Your first instinct is to return it. Just slip back through the crowd, drop it at his feet, walk away before he even notices. It wouldn’t undo what you did, but maybe—just maybe—it’d buy you a few extra seconds of life.
Before you could turn around and fix your mistake, you hear footsteps. Not the usual aimless shuffle of the street.
"She must’ve gone this way."
A voice, low and sharp, cutting through the noise of the city.
"Spread out. Don’t let her slip past."
"Hyung said not to make a mess. Just get her."
They’re already looking for you. Your pulse spiked, your body moving before your mind could catch up. Without hesitation, you tossed the wallet onto a rusted barrel near the alley’s entrance and bolted.
Your feet hit the ground hard as you sprinted down the alley, boots skidding slightly against the damp pavement. A pipe jutted out from the wall ahead—low enough to grab. Without breaking stride, you jumped, gripping it tight, muscles straining as you hoisted yourself up. You swung over, landing on a fire escape, the metal groaning under your weight.
A second later, footsteps thundered into the alley you’d just been in.
"Fuck—where did she go?"
"Check the sides. She couldn't have—"
"Up there!"
Shit.
You climbed the fire escape two steps at a time, your breath coming in sharp exhales. The city stretched out before you as you reached the roof, neon lights bleeding into the night sky. No time to admire the view. You took off, your legs burning as you sprinted across the rooftop.
Behind you, the sound of pursuit. Metal rattling. Footsteps heavy against concrete. They were following. You could hear their curses, the way they moved with precision.
You leaped to the next building without hesitation. The drop between them was sharp, an alley yawning below, but you barely felt it. Your hands hit the edge, fingers scraping as you pulled yourself up. The moment your feet touched the rooftop, you ran again, weaving between rusted vents and old signs, each movement instinctual, each decision made in the space of a heartbeat.
Another gap ahead. Wider this time. You forced your legs to push harder, faster. The city blurred, wind cutting against your skin as you jumped.
Your foot barely caught the ledge. You scrambled, fingers digging into the rough surface.
"She's over there!"
Damn it. They were still behind you. But you had distance. You could still make it—
A gunshot rang out.
Your body reacted before your mind did, dropping low just as a bullet sparked against the metal vent beside you. They weren’t aiming to kill. Not yet. A warning shot. A reminder that you were running out of time.
You had to get off the rooftops. Fast.
You spotted a lower building to your left, a stack of crates leading down. Without a second thought, you veered off course, sliding down the side, your boots landing hard against the wood before jumping to the next level. The moment you hit the ground, you took off into the maze of alleyways.
The streets twisted and turned, shadows stretching long under flickering streetlights. You weaved through them, ducking behind dumpsters, slipping between narrow gaps between buildings. The sound of pursuit never faded. Heavy footsteps. Low voices barking orders. They weren’t giving up.
You turned a sharp corner, only to halt. A figure stood in your path.
The dim light barely illuminated him, but you saw the way he stood—calm, patient. Not out of breath like you were. He had been waiting for you.
Dyed red hair, catching the faint glow of the streetlamp. You couldn’t see his face in the shadows, but it didn’t matter. The way he held himself told you everything you needed to know. He worked for him.
Your body reacted before you could think. You spun on your heel, ready to bolt in the other direction—
But then another figure emerged from the darkness.
He was tall, dark hair tousled from the chase, sharp eyes burning with something dangerous. His presence was heavier, more imposing, like a wall of sheer force. The way he carried himself was different—broader shoulders, longer strides. Even standing still, he looked like he was hunting.
Your instincts screamed at you to move, to fight, to do anything but stand there like a deer caught in headlights. You turned sharply, ready to try your luck past the first man, but the second you stepped forward—
Something struck the side of your head, and the world tilted. Your vision blurred, the edges darkening. You barely registered the way your knees buckled, the sensation of the cold pavement meeting your skin. The last thing you heard was the sound of footsteps drawing closer, then darkness.
—The first thing you felt was the ache. A deep, pulsing pain at the side of your head, radiating down your neck. The second thing you felt was cold—metal biting into your wrists, the sharp edge of a chair digging into your back.
You blinked. The world came back in pieces. Dim lighting. A concrete room. A single table in front of you, sleek and empty except for a glass of water placed just within reach. Your hands—chained. Thick metal cuffs locked around your wrists, fastened to the table.
Panic clawed at your chest, but you forced it down.
Then, the door creaks open. Slow, deliberate footsteps echoed through the room. You knew who it was before you even looked up.
Kim Hongjoong.
He walked in like he owned the air in the room, like the walls themselves bent to his presence. Sharp suit, rings glinting under the dim light. He didn’t sit right away. Instead, he leaned against the table, tilting his head slightly as he studied you.
"You gave my men a bit of a workout," he said casually.
You didn’t answer. He sighed, almost amused, and finally lowered himself into the chair across from you. He moved slowly—not out of laziness, but control. Like a man who knew he had all the time in the world.
"You know who I am," he continued, tapping his fingers against the table. "That makes this easier. Saves me the trouble of introductions."
He exhaled through his nose, noticing you were quiet, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. "Smart. You’re not talking. That’s good. Means you’re thinking."
Your fingers curled slightly against the cuffs, but you didn’t break eye contact. Don’t let him see weakness. Don’t give him anything.
Hongjoong leaned forward. The scent of expensive cologne and something darker—gunpowder, blood, smoke—lingered around him.
"You stole from me," he said. "You ran. You made my men chase you. So tell me—why shouldn’t I put a bullet in your head right now?"
He said it so easily. Like he was asking what was for dinner. Like your life was just another business decision.
When you didn’t answer, he hummed lightly, dragging his fingers across the table. A small, absent-minded movement, as if he were thinking of a hundred different ways to break you.
"You’re not dead yet," he continued, tilting his head slightly. "That means I see value in you."
You forced yourself to hold his gaze. "And if I don’t want to be of value to you?"
A slow smile spread across his lips. "Then you’ll be of value to the bottom of the Han River."
A chill ran down your spine. There was no malice in his voice. No anger. He meant every word.
Hongjoong exhaled, leaning back in his chair. "I’ll give you some advice," he said. "People who sit in that chair? The ones who talk too much usually end up screaming. The ones who talk too little?" He tilted his head. "Well. They usually don’t get a second chance."
His fingers tapped against the metal cuff on your wrist. "But you?" His voice dropped lower, softer.. "You’re different, aren’t you?"
He let the words settle, watching you. Then, he leaned back, exhaling like this was all just mildly inconvenient for him. "So. Let’s get to the point."
"You’re good," he said. "Too good to waste. That little stunt you pulled? Impressive. Cost me time, men, resources." He shook his head slightly, clicking his tongue. "Which means you owe me."
You have two choices," he continued, completely unfazed. "You work for me."
He smirked. "Or I put you in the ground."
The words hung in the air, heavy, suffocating. You barely heard the faint drip of water somewhere in the distance.
"And before you think about the third option," he added, smiling slightly, "let me remind you. No one gets away from me. You run? I’ll find you. You fight? You won’t win."
You swallowed, fingers flexing slightly against the cuffs. His eyes darkened, amusement flickering into something colder.
"I don’t need an answer now," he murmured, standing up. "I’ll let you think about it."
He moved to the door, pausing just long enough to glance back over his shoulder.
"But don’t take too long, sweetheart."
And then he was gone, leaving you alone in the cold, empty room—with the weight of your own inevitable decision.
You stared at the metal cuffs around your wrists, the skin beneath them raw from how tightly they were fastened. The cold from the table seeped into your bones, and despite how still you were sitting, your pulse hadn’t slowed since Hongjoong walked out that door.
There were no cameras you could see, but you weren’t stupid enough to think they’d leave you completely unwatched. They were waiting. Letting you stew in your own thoughts. Letting you understand exactly how trapped you were.
You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to think, to plan.
Escaping was impossible.
You didn’t know where you were, didn’t know how many people were guarding the place, didn’t even know if you were still in the same part of the city. Even if by some miracle you managed to slip out, Hongjoong made it painfully clear—you wouldn’t get away.
He had an army. Resources. Eyes everywhere.
And you?
You had bruises, a throbbing headache, and a death sentence hanging over your head.
You could try running anyway. Disappear. Change your name. Burn your fingerprints off if you had to. But men like Hongjoong? They didn’t forget. Didn’t forgive. They would hunt you down, and when they find you—because they would—it wouldn’t be pretty.
Which left two options.
Option one. You refused. You died. Simple.
Option two? You worked for him.
Got tangled in the very world you spent your whole life avoiding.
The underworld didn’t let people walk away. The only way out was a body bag. Once you were in, you belonged to them. No freedom. No future. Just the slow, inevitable march toward a violent end.
You didn’t want to die. Not today, at least.
And that meant—
The door opened again.
Hongjoong stepped back into the room, looking exactly the same—untouched, unfazed, as if the last conversation had been nothing more than a casual business deal.
He sighed, stretching slightly as he sat back down across from you. "I was hoping you’d try to run," he mused. "Would’ve been fun to chase you again."
You didn’t rise to the bait. His lips twitched, amused. "Nothing? You’re no fun, sweetheart."
The word was drenched in sarcasm, and yet the way it rolled off his tongue made your skin prickle.
He leaned forward, resting his elbow against the table. "Have you made up your mind, or are we going to sit here all night?"
Your throat felt dry. Your fingers curled against the cuffs, nails pressing into your palms.
You knew what you had to say. You just hated saying it.
You swallowed once, then forced yourself to give a small nod.
He smiled. "Smart girl."
He stood, moving around the table, and you tensed instinctively as he reached for the cuffs. The metal clicked, and just like that, you were free.
Hongjoong stepped back, slipping his hands into his pockets.
"Welcome to the family, darling,"
—The meeting room was too fancy.
Dark oak table, expensive leather chairs, dim lighting that cast long shadows along the walls. It wasn’t what you expected from a place run by men who could kill without blinking. It looked more like a CEO’s office than a mafia hideout.
But the tension? The tension gave it away.
You could feel it the moment you stepped inside. Eight men sat around the table, and the moment they saw you, everything shifted.
Seonghwa leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his sharp eyes flicking over you like he was trying to read something between the lines. San and Wooyoung, sitting side by side, exchanged looks before Wooyoung smirked and muttered something under his breath. Yunho was drumming his fingers against the table absently, but his eyes weren’t relaxed.
Mingi, the one who knocked you out, was watching you with an unreadable look, while Jongho’s gaze was sharp, suspicious. He wasn’t even trying to hide the fact that he didn’t trust you.
And then there was Yeosang. Sitting off to the side, legs crossed, scrolling through an iPad like he couldn’t care less if you lived or died.
Hongjoong strolled past you, heading straight for the head of the table. "Relax, boys," he said casually. "If I thought she was a threat, she’d already be dead."
"She’s still a thief," Jongho muttered, arms crossed. "I don’t trust her."
"Same," San added, though his tone was more amused than serious. "What’s stopping her from running the second we let her out?"
"Us," Hongjoong said simply.
You didn’t miss the way a few of them smirked at that.
Right. Running wasn’t an option.
Hongjoong settled into his chair, fingers tapping against the table. "I want to see what she’s really capable of," he said. "A test, if you will."
"The casino job," he continued, glancing around at the others. "She’ll do it alone."
The reaction was immediate. Wooyoung laughed. "You’re joking."
"You can’t be serious," Jongho muttered, eyes narrowing.
Seonghwa raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. Yunho just exhaled, shaking his head slightly.
"She’ll have backup," Hongjoong said smoothly. "We’ll be watching. But I want to see how she handles herself."
Yeosang didn’t even look up from his iPad. "If she screws up, I’m not covering for her."
"I don’t expect you to," Hongjoong replied, unimpressed.
You crossed your arms, trying to ignore the way they were talking about you like you weren’t even there.
"What exactly do you want me to do?" you finally asked.
Hongjoong’s lips curled into a smirk. "Steal something for me."
Of course.
"A casino in the city has something I want. A small USB drive—valuable information on it." He leaned forward slightly. "It’s kept in a private security room, heavily guarded. But I have a feeling you’ll figure something out."
"Try to pull anything," he added, "and you won’t make it out of the casino’s parking lot. Understood, sweetheart?"
You exhaled through your nose. "Crystal clear."
—The inside of the van was dimly lit, the glow from multiple screens casting an eerie blue hue over the space. You sat in one of the chairs, back straight, fingers tapping idly against your thigh as Yeosang secured an earpiece for you.
"Try not to break it," he said handing it to you.
Behind you, Yeosang settled back into his seat, eyes flicking over the monitors like he couldn’t be less interested in what was happening in real life. Meanwhile, Hongjoong stood near the front, buttoning up his suit jacket, adjusting the cuffs like he wasn’t about to send you straight into the lion’s den.
"Listen carefully," he said, his voice smooth but firm. "For you to get inside the security room, you’ll need a passkey." He met your gaze, eyes sharp. "Only the personal bodyguard of the casino’s owner, Seojun, carries one. That means you’ll need to wait for Seojun to arrive—then get close enough to his guard to lift it."
"Once you have it, you’ll head to Seojun’s private office. The drive will be in his safe—somewhere behind the bar shelf. We don’t know the code, but we do know he’s a cocky bastard who keeps it written somewhere in the room."
Hongjoong straightened his tie. "Get the drive. Get out. Simple."
You scoffed. "Not as simple as you make it sound."
He smirked. "No. But I trust you’ll manage, sweetheart."
You exhaled, shifting slightly in your seat. The black dress they’d given you clung to your skin, sleek and elegant—perfect for a casino setting. Terrible for escaping.
"If you expect me to run in this," you muttered, tugging at the fabric slightly, "you should’ve given me a proper dress."
Hongjoong chuckled. "I think you'll manage, darling."
Easy for him to say.
A small beep echoed through the van as Yeosang pressed something on his tablet. "Alright, we’ve got eyes inside," he said lazily. "Seojun isn’t here yet, but the others are already in position."
Hongjoong nodded, then turned to you. "Time to go."
You took one last deep breath before stepping out of the van.
The casino loomed ahead—bright lights, luxury cars pulling up to the entrance, security stationed at every door. You slipped in smoothly, moving with the kind of ease that only came from experience. The moment you crossed the threshold, the noise hit—laughter, the chime of slot machines, the low murmur of expensive deals being made.
Mingi and Yunho near the bar, pretending to be absorbed in their drinks. Wooyoung at a poker table, laughing too loudly at something San had said. Jongho standing near the entrance, arms crossed, watching.
You were in. Now, all you had to do was get the job done.
—You had been winning.
That was the real tragedy here.
The game wasn’t even interesting anymore, but the rush of flipping the right card, the glint of irritation in the dealer’s eyes—it was fun. And you were raking in chips like you were born for this.
Then, just as you were about to go all in, Hongjoong’s voice crackled in your ear.
"Seojun just arrived. You’re up, sweetheart."
You sighed, tapping your fingers against the pile of chips in front of you. "Damn shame. I was on a roll."
The dealer looked at you expectantly, waiting for you to play your turn. You flashed him a lazy smile. No use getting greedy.
With calculated ease, you leaned back in your chair, letting your eyes drift toward the entrance.
Seojun strolled inside like he owned the place—which, technically, he did. A sharp navy-blue suit, rings glinting under the casino lights, an arrogant smirk plastered across his face. But your attention wasn’t on him.
It was on the man walking beside him.
Broad shoulders. Black suit. Cold expression. The personal bodyguard. And more importantly, the passkey clipped discreetly to his belt.
Simple in design, barely noticeable if you weren’t looking for it. But you were.
"Try not to drool," Wooyoung’s voice cut in through the earpiece, amused.
You didn’t miss a beat. "Try not to cry when I outdo you, pretty boy."
Mingi’s low chuckle hummed through the comms. Wooyoung scoffed. "Yeah, yeah, just hurry up and do your thing."
You smirked, but your attention stayed on your target.
Seojun was already moving toward the VIP section, his guard following like a shadow. You pushed back from the table, grabbing your winnings, and made your way toward the bar instead.
The moment Seojun stopped to greet another guest, you moved.
One of the waitresses passed by, carrying a tray of expensive cocktails. You bumped into her—just slightly—just enough to send one of the glasses tipping. She gasped, catching it before it spilled completely, but the motion sent her staggering right into the bodyguard.
A sharp inhale as cold liquid spilled down his sleeve. He turned, annoyed, swiping at his jacket as the waitress flustered out apologies.
You moved then. A step forward. A brush of fingers. The passkey slipped free from his belt and into your sleeve in less than two seconds.
A slow smirk tugged at your lips. "Passkey secured," you murmured under your breath, already making your way toward the back.
"Show-off," Wooyoung muttered.
—The office was too clean. Rich mahogany desk, sleek leather chairs, an expensive globe that definitely had some hidden contraption inside. But your focus wasn’t on any of that. Your focus was on the safe.
It was exactly where Hongjoong said it would be—behind the bar shelf. A high-tech model, sleek steel, keypad glowing in the dim light. You crouched in front of it, exhaling slowly.
"Alright," you muttered to yourself, scanning the room. "If I were an arrogant bastard, where would I hide my secrets?"
You started with the desk—flipping through papers, checking drawers. Then the liquor shelf—bottles arranged in obnoxiously perfect symmetry. Nothing
You clenched your jaw, heart pounding a little faster. You didn’t have time for this.
"Hurry it up," Hongjoong’s voice crackled in your ear.
"Yeah, I totally wasn’t planning on taking my time and sipping some whiskey while I’m at it," you snapped back. You could hear Wooyoung laughing in the background.
Then, just as frustration was starting to creep in, your eyes landed on a small, glass plaque on the desk.
Seojun’s name, etched in gold. You picked it up, flipping it over and there it was. A small, handwritten note, barely noticeable.
7482.
You grinned. Idiot.
Moving quickly, you punched in the numbers, the safe letting out a soft click as it unlocked. You pulled it open, snatching the small USB drive from inside.
Done. Easy.
Then, Footsteps. Right outside the door.
Your stomach dropped. "Shit," you whispered.
"What?" Hongjoong’s voice came sharp through the earpiece.
"You said the guards weren’t supposed to check this floor for another two hours."
A groan. "They weren’t."
"Then tell me why they’re right outside the damn door?"
Then Jongho’s voice, cursing. "Where the hell is Mingi?"
Seonghwa gritted his teeth, "Gambling."
You almost choked. "You have got to be kidding me."
"Are we even surprised?" Wooyoung said, voice dripping with amusement. "I told you not to bring him to the casino. He always gets distracted."
"Shut up and get her out of there," Yunho muttered.
You weren’t listening anymore. The voices outside were getting closer.
Your eyes darted across the room, searching—anything. And then—
A window.
You ran towards it, pushing it open, cold air immediately slamming against your skin. The city lights stretched out below, cars honking, the distant murmur of life continuing completely unaware that you were about to risk breaking your neck.
Clutching the USB drive in one hand, you gripped the edge of the window, stepping onto the thin ledge. The wind was brutal, cutting through the fabric of your dress. Your heels scraped against the ledge as you tried to steady yourself—you stumbled, catching yourself at the last second.
A series of very creative curses spilled from your lips.
Yunho scoffed. "Never heard anyone swear this much before."
San’s voice, slightly amused. "Where are you?"
You took a shaky breath, gripping the pillar beside you as your balance wavered.
"One step away from death."
—The team was already waiting by the van, gathered in a loose semicircle under the dim glow of the streetlights. The tension was thick, but not because they were worried. But because they were arguing.
"I told you—don’t bring Mingi to the casino."
"Okay, but in my defense—"
"There is no defense!" Seonghwa snapped, arms crossed, looking dangerously close to smacking Mingi upside the head. "You were supposed to be watching for security! Not—not placing bets on a damn poker table!"
Mingi shrugged, completely unbothered. "I was winning."
"You—!" Seonghwa inhaled sharply, turning away like he needed a moment to pray for patience.
Wooyoung, meanwhile, was losing it. Laughing so hard he had to lean against Yunho for support. "You were right, hyung. This is why we don’t bring him here."
"Like watching a child," Jongho muttered, shaking his head.
Yeosang, who had been silently scrolling through his iPad the entire time, finally looked up. "Where is she?"
"Maybe she sold us," San suggested, only half-joking.
Jongho scoffed. "Or maybe she got caught."
"Or maybe she died," Wooyoung added, grinning like it was the funniest thing in the world.
Jongho tilted his head, considering. "Honestly, I’d prefer that over the first option."
"Wow, thanks," came a hoarse voice from behind them.
All eight of them turned in perfect sync.
There you were, leaning heavily against a metal pipe, completely disheveled. Hair a mess, dress wrinkled, breathing like you just ran a marathon.
Hongjoong blinked. "What the hell happened to you?"
You glared, lifting your hand. The USB drive dangled between your fingers. "I got the damn drive," you said, voice dry. "And almost died in the process, by the way. In case anyone cares."
"Nope," Jongho said immediately.
"Not really," Wooyoung added, smirking.
You rolled your eyes, shoving the drive into Hongjoong’s hand. "Next time, if you’re gonna send me on a mission, don’t let the walking skyscraper near a poker table."
"Hey," Mingi muttered. "It was a good game."
Hongjoong turned the USB over between his fingers, watching the way the dim light reflected off its smooth surface. He looked too pleased with himself, like he was holding a winning card no one else had seen.
You were still catching your breath when he finally spoke. "You know," he mused, voice casual, "this drive is useless."
Your heartbeat, still erratic from your near-death stunt, stumbled. "What?"
Hongjoong smirked, tapping the USB against his palm. "There’s nothing in it. It was a test."
Your body stiffened, exhaustion momentarily forgotten. A test? Your fingers curled at your sides as you processed.
The impossible ease of this mission. The predictable guard patterns. The fact that Hongjoong never seemed remotely concerned, even when you almost got caught.
"You’re telling me," you said slowly, voice colder than before, "that I just risked my life… for a test?"
Hongjoong gave a small tilt of his head, eyes gleaming with amusement. "The casino belongs to us. Seojun works for me."
You felt stupid. A slow, creeping anger slithered into your chest. How did you not see it? It made sense. Too much sense.
"Don’t look so shocked," Yeosang muttered from behind his iPad, not even bothering to look up. "It was necessary."
"Yeah," Wooyoung chimed in, arms crossed, grinning. "We had to make sure you wouldn’t run or sell us out the second you got the chance."
Jongho let out a short laugh. "Would’ve been funny if she tried, though."
San shook his head, smirking. "Nah. She’s not that dumb."
"You sure?" Yunho teased. "She did almost break her neck back there."
A sharp, burning frustration coiled in your stomach. You wanted to lash out, to snap something reckless—but you bit down on your tongue.
They were still the men who kidnapped you.
But at the same time… you couldn’t exactly blame them. It was smart. If you had been in their position, you might’ve done the same thing.
"You all suck," you muttered, narrowing your eyes.
Wooyoung grinned. "On the bright side, you’re not dead."
You inhaled slowly, forcing yourself to calm down.
"You got anything else planned for me?" you asked, voice clipped.
Hongjoong just smirked, slipping the USB into his pocket. "We’ll see."
With those two words, the conversation was over. The others started piling into the van, still amused by your reaction. You, on the other hand, were doing your best not to show just how embarrassed you were.
Without a word, you headed straight for the first seat—the one nearest to the door but furthest from them.
The van was huge, almost a mini-bus, with rows of seats stretching all the way to the back where the seven men sprawled comfortably. Too comfortably. Meanwhile, you sank into your seat, arms crossed, staring out the window like it personally offended you.
The van started moving.
Streetlights blurred past as you glared outside, jaw clenched. You still couldn’t believe it.
A damn test.
Every risk, every second of near-death, the whole mission—just one elaborate way to see if you’d run. And the worst part? It made sense. You were angry at them, but you were even angrier at yourself for not seeing it sooner.
A small scoff broke your thoughts.
You turned slightly—just enough to see Hongjoong leaning over the seat beside you, arms folded against the backrest, smirking.
"You look pissed," he mused.
"You don’t say," you muttered.
He chuckled, but instead of replying, he reached into his pocket and pulled something out.
Antiseptic cream.
You blinked at it before realizing—your palms. You hadn’t even noticed, but the skin was scraped raw, a painful souvenir from your little stunt on the pipes.
You hesitated, but then snatched the tube from him without a word.
Hongjoong didn’t move. Just stayed there, watching as you carefully applied the cream, the slight sting making you wince.
Finally, he spoke. "You handled yourself well tonight."
You scoffed. "Yeah, because I love almost dying for no reason."
Hongjoong hummed, clearly amused. "Don’t be so dramatic, sweetheart."
You didn’t dignify that with a response.
Instead, you finished applying the cream, shoving the cap back on a little too aggressively before tossing it back to him. He caught it easily, rolling it between his fingers.
Just when you thought he was finally going to leave you alone, you saw him shrug off his suit jacket.
You barely had time to process it before he threw it at you. You blinked, staring down at the expensive black fabric now draped over your lap.
"You’re shivering," he said simply, pushing himself off the seat.
"I’m—" You stopped. Okay, fine. Maybe you were cold. The dress you were given was meant to look nice, not keep you warm.
Still, you rolled your eyes. "What, suddenly feeling generous?"
Hongjoong just smirked. "Don’t get used to it."
And with that, he turned, heading back to the others.
You exhaled, glancing down at the jacket in your hands. It smelled like cologne and gunpowder.
For a second, you considered leaving it there. But then you sighed and pulled it on, letting the warmth sink into your skin.
—The first thing you noticed when you woke up was the silence.
For a split second, you forgot where you were. The bed beneath you was too soft, the air too still, the faint scent of expensive cologne and leather lingering in the sheets. Your eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the dim morning light filtering through the heavy curtains. The room was unfamiliar—but not in a way that made you panic.
Right. Hongjoong had given you a room.
Now that you were technically part of the team, you weren’t stuck in a cell anymore. The room wasn’t extravagant, but compared to some of the places you’d slept in before—abandoned buildings, dirty motel rooms, street corners when things got bad—it was more than enough. A clean bed, fresh clothes, a door that locked from the inside. That was already more than you ever had.
But your moment of peace didn’t last long.
A loud knock on the door made your body jolt into high alert, your instincts snapping back into place. Before you could even sit up properly, the door swung open.
"Wake up," a voice said flatly.
You blinked. Yeosang stood in the doorway, looking as unbothered as ever, one hand gripping an iPad, the other resting against the doorframe. His expression was unreadable, sharp eyes scanning you like he was making sure you were still alive.
"Excuse me?" you muttered, voice rough from sleep.
He raised an eyebrow. "Hongjoong says to meet him at the practice arena. I’m just the messenger."
You frowned, trying to push yourself up, still groggy. "The practice what now?"
Yeosang sighed, clearly already over this conversation. "Training grounds, whatever you want to call it. Get up. He’s waiting."
With that, he turned on his heel and walked off, not bothering to make sure you followed..
You groaned, running a hand through your hair before dragging yourself out of bed. If you had any hope of keeping up with these people, you couldn’t afford to waste time.
Fifteen minutes later, you found yourself stepping into what could only be described as a personal fight club.
The underground practice arena was bigger than you expected—high ceilings, concrete walls, various training equipment scattered throughout. A boxing ring sat in the center, but what caught your attention was the man standing near the weights, rolling his shoulders as he adjusted the wraps on his hands.
Hongjoong.
He wasn’t in his usual expensive suits today. Instead, he wore a loose black tank top and sweatpants, his toned arms on full display. He looked relaxed.
His gaze flicked up when he heard you approach, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "Took you long enough."
You folded your arms, giving him a look. "I wasn’t exactly expecting an early morning brawl."
He chuckled, motioning for you to step closer. "You’re going to need to learn how to fight properly. Pickpocketing and running won’t always save you."
You huffed but stepped forward anyway. "I do know how to fight."
"Sure," Hongjoong mused, tilting his head. "But I want to see it for myself."
He gestured toward the ring, and you sighed, stepping inside. The second you did, the atmosphere shifted. It was just the two of you now.
"You think you can take me?" he asked, rolling his shoulders.
You smirked. "I think I can surprise you."
"Then try."
Your feet barely made a sound as you closed the distance, aiming straight for his ribs with a sharp jab. But Hongjoong wasn’t just fast—he was anticipating you. He sidestepped smoothly, barely shifting his weight before he was behind you.
"Too slow," he muttered.
You spun around, adjusting your stance. Fine. If speed wouldn’t work, you’d try something else.
This time, you faked a punch, using the momentum to aim a kick at his side instead. It almost landed—but Hongjoong caught your ankle with ease, his grip firm but not crushing.
"Clever," he mused, tilting his head. "But predictable."
He shoved your leg away, throwing you off balance. You barely caught yourself before hitting the mat, breath coming a little faster now. But you weren’t done.
Your fist shot toward his jaw, only for him to duck effortlessly, his body moving like he had all the time in the world. And then—before you could react—his foot hooked behind your ankle, and your world tilted.
A sharp thud echoed as your back hit the mat.
You barely had time to process before Hongjoong was on top of you, pinning you down with one knee pressing against your thigh, hands gripping your wrists. His face hovered dangerously close, eyes glinting with something between amusement and control.
"Not bad," he murmured. "But not good enough."
You swallowed hard, refusing to look away. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
He smirked, clearly enjoying this.
"You rely too much on speed," he continued, voice unhurried, as if he wasn’t holding you down effortlessly. "And instinct. It works on amateurs. But against someone trained?" His grip tightened slightly before he let go. "It’ll get you killed."
The second he released you, you rolled onto your feet, muscles aching from the fall. You expected him to gloat, but instead, he simply dusted off his hands, tilting his head slightly.
"You want to learn?"
You hesitated for only a second before giving a small nod.
"Good."
He grabbed your wrist, yanking you forward. You barely had time to react before your chest nearly collided with his, breath hitching at the sudden proximity. His grip was firm, but not crushing. Guiding. Before you could flinch away, he spun you around, pressing your back to his chest, his arms looping over yours in a controlled lock.
"Lesson one," he murmured, his breath ghosting against your ear. "Control."
Your muscles tensed on instinct. His hold wasn’t painful, but you couldn’t move. Every shift of your body pressed you further against him, the heat of his skin impossibly close through the thin fabric of your clothes.
"Getting caught in a hold like this means you’re already losing."
You swallowed hard, fingers twitching at your sides.
"Now," he continued, voice almost amused, "let’s see if you can get out."
You clenched your jaw, shifting your weight, trying to maneuver an escape. But Hongjoong’s grip was calculated—his arms tightening just enough whenever you tried to break free.
"Struggling won’t work," he murmured, his lips close enough that you felt every syllable. "Use their hold against them."
Instead of fighting his grip head-on, you shifted your stance, leaning into him rather than away. It was enough to make his weight shift, just barely—and in that split second, you twisted, slipping out of his grasp.
You stumbled back, chest rising and falling as you turned to face him.
Hongjoong just smirked. "Better."
You barely had time to catch your breath before he moved again.
This time, he came at you directly, his palm pressing against your shoulder to push you off balance. You caught yourself before falling, swiping at his legs in retaliation—but he jumped back smoothly, anticipating you again.
"Too slow," he taunted.
Your frustration flared, and you lunged again—only for him to catch your wrist mid-motion.
Before you knew it, he had twisted your arm behind your back, pressing you forward until your chest nearly touched the mat. His hand rested just above your hip, keeping you trapped in place, while the other held your arm firmly in position.
"You're fast," he murmured, low, almost mocking. "But you let yourself get frustrated. That’s a weakness."
You glared at the floor, lips parting slightly as you exhaled sharply through your nose. He was right. And that irritated you even more.
But before you could retaliate, Hongjoong suddenly let go. The second his grip loosened, you spun around—expecting him to step back.
He didn’t and you were suddenly too close. Your chest almost brushed his as you stopped abruptly, your breath catching in the tight space between you. His dark eyes locked onto yours, sharp and unreadable.
Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke.
Hongjoong wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t laughing. He was just watching you, his gaze dark and steady, his breathing even. He was close. Too close. The weight of his body was warm, grounding, a sharp contrast to the chill of the gym air against your sweat-damp skin. Every small movement made you aware of just how little space there was between you.
You weren’t sure how long you stood like that—seconds, maybe longer.
"Get some rest," he murmured, stepping back. "We’ll try again tomorrow."
—The night was quiet—too quiet. Missions like these never went as planned, but tonight, something felt off from the start.
You stood with the others in the shadows of an abandoned warehouse, the air thick with gasoline and metal. The plan was simple: retrieve a shipment that belonged to them but had been stolen by a rival gang. Get in, grab it, and get out. No unnecessary bloodshed.
At least, that’s what you thought.
"Keep your comms open," Hongjoong murmured, adjusting the sleeves of his black jacket as he surveyed the surroundings. His voice was calm, but you’d been around him long enough to recognize when he was on edge.
Seonghwa was the first to move, his steps silent as he disappeared into the shadows. Yeosang stood beside you, scrolling through something on his damn iPad, completely unbothered. Jongho checked his gun, casting you a skeptical glance.
"Try not to mess this up, darling," Wooyoung teased through the earpiece, earning himself a smack from San.
You rolled your eyes, adjusting the hidden blade strapped to your thigh. You didn’t need weapons. Your hands were fast enough. But something told you tonight might be different.
Then, just as Yunho signaled that the coast was clear, everything went to hell.
Gunfire. Loud, sharp, and too close.
"Fucking hell," Mingi cursed, diving behind a stack of crates as bullets rained down on you. The rival gang had been waiting. You had walked straight into a trap.
"Get down!" Hongjoong barked, shoving you behind a metal container as more bullets whizzed past. The others were already fighting back—Jongho and Seonghwa taking out enemies one by one with brutal efficiency.
You could handle yourself in a fight. You had to. Years of surviving on the streets made you quick on your feet, a ghost when you needed to be. You weaved through the chaos, using your knife to disable anyone who got too close.
But then you saw him.
A man—one of the rival gang members—cornering Yunho, gun raised. You moved before you thought.
You ran, tackling the man before he could pull the trigger. The impact sent both of you crashing to the ground. Your knife was against his throat in an instant.
The man’s eyes were wide, terrified. His breathing was ragged, a silent plea forming on his lips. Kill him. That’s what Hongjoong would expect. That’s what everyone would expect.
But you couldn’t.
Your grip faltered. The hesitation lasted a second too long.
Pain exploded in your side as the man’s fist collided with your ribs, knocking the air out of your lungs. You stumbled, hand flying to your waist—he had a knife. You barely had time to react before he was on you again, and suddenly, you weren’t the one in control anymore.
A gunshot rang out. You flinched, but the bullet wasn’t meant for you.
The man collapsed, a clean shot to his skull. Hongjoong stood behind him, gun still raised.
Your chest heaved as you stared at the body, your mind racing.
Hongjoong’s jaw was tight as he grabbed your wrist, yanking you to your feet. His grip was bruising, fingers digging into your skin as he dragged you away from the fight.
"Move," he snapped, shoving you toward the exit.
The others were still fighting, but Hongjoong didn’t care. His priority was getting you the hell out of there.
The second you were inside the van, you ripped your wrist from his grip.
"What the fuck was that?" you spat, eyes burning with anger. The rest of the boys filed in behind you, panting, bruised, but alive. Wooyoung took the driver's seat, starting the engine.
Hongjoong turned to you, and for the first time since you met him, he looked furious.
"You hesitated," he said, voice dangerously low.
"I’m not a fucking killer," you snapped back, still breathing hard.
Hongjoong let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "You think this is a joke?"
"I think you knew exactly what I was before you forced me into this mess," you shot back. "I’m a thief. I don’t kill people."
"You almost died," he growled, stepping closer. "Because you hesitated."
"It’s my problem," you hissed.
He was in front of you now, too close, his eyes dark with something unreadable.
"You," he said, voice like a blade against your throat, "are my problem."
"You don’t get to choose which parts of this life you accept," he continued, voice softer now but no less threatening. "If you’re with us, you do what’s necessary. Or you die."
You clenched your jaw. "I won’t cross that line."
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his dark hair. Then, he chuckled—not amused, but something else.
"Then you better get faster, sweetheart," he murmured, his breath ghosting over your skin. "Because next time, I might not be there to save you."
—The second the van stopped, you shoved the door open and jumped out first, ignoring the weight of their stares burning into your back. You could still feel Hongjoong’s words curling around your throat like a noose. You’re my problem.
No, I’m your damn thief.
Your boots hit the pavement harder than necessary as you stormed inside the building. The hallway was dim, only a few overhead lights buzzing faintly, casting long shadows against the walls. You barely registered the familiar space—just another reminder that you were here now. Trapped.
You reached your room, pushing the door open with too much force, and slammed it shut behind you.
Your breath was still ragged as you sat down on the bed, palms pressing into your thighs. The adrenaline was wearing off now, leaving behind the weight of what had just happened.
You swallowed hard, fingers gripping the sheets as you tried to steady yourself. But no matter how many deep breaths you took, it didn’t erase the fact that you had frozen. That in this world, hesitation got you killed.
Somewhere in the distance, a door slammed shut.
Hongjoong.
Probably in his office, brooding like the dramatic bastard he was. You weren’t surprised. He was pissed, and for once, so were you.
A knock at your door snapped you out of your thoughts.
You didn’t answer. You weren’t in the mood. Didn’t matter. The door creaked open anyway.
Yunho.
Unlike the others, he didn’t lean against the frame with a smirk or crack a joke to lighten the mood. He simply walked in, calm and steady, shutting the door behind him before crossing the room and leaning against the dresser.
"You okay?"
You scoffed. "Do I look okay?"
Yunho didn’t react to the bite in your tone. He just crossed his arms, watching you for a moment before sighing.
"You’re lucky to be alive."
You let out a bitter laugh. "Yeah, thanks to Hongjoong’s great aim."
Yunho tilted his head slightly, as if debating what to say next. Then, he pushed off the dresser and sat down beside you on the bed.
"You know he cares about you, right?"
You rolled your eyes. "He cares that he’d lose his best thief."
Yunho huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. "Maybe. But that’s not all."
Silence stretched between you. You refused to look at him, eyes trained on the floor, on your hands—anything but the truth in his words.
Yunho sighed again, running a hand through his hair. "Look. I get it. I know what it’s like, the first time you hesitate." He paused. "The first time you have to make that choice."
You swallowed, fingers tightening around the fabric of your pants.
"I don’t want to make that choice."
Yunho let that sit for a moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. "You will."
You turned to look at him now, finally meeting his eyes.
"Because if you don’t," he continued, "you won’t survive here."
The words sat heavy in your chest.
"Just… think about it," Yunho murmured, standing up.
He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. "You’re good at what you do," he said, turning back to you. "But Hongjoong won’t always be there to save you."
Then, without another word, he left.
You sat there for a long time, staring at the closed door, feeling the weight of everything settle on your shoulders.
—The room was dimly lit, the only source of light coming from the desk lamp casting sharp shadows against the walls. A half-empty glass of whiskey sat beside Hongjoong’s hand, his fingers tapping against the polished wood in a slow, irritated rhythm. His jacket was discarded over the chair, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he leaned back, jaw clenched.
Seonghwa stood near the door, arms crossed. Unlike the others, he didn’t hesitate before speaking.
"You’re being too hard on her."
Hongjoong exhaled through his nose, not even looking up. "No, I’m being realistic."
"You’re being an ass."
That finally made Hongjoong glance up. His dark eyes glinted under the light, amusement flickering for a second before fading just as fast. "She hesitated, Hwa. Almost got herself killed. Almost got us killed."
Seonghwa sighed, stepping further into the room. "She’s not a soldier, Hongjoong. She’s a thief."
"And thieves who hesitate get caught. Or worse." Hongjoong’s voice was sharp, the words laced with frustration. He picked up his glass, swirling the amber liquid before taking a slow sip. "She needs to learn."
"She is learning." Seonghwa’s voice was firm, unyielding. "But you don’t train someone by throwing them into the deep end and getting mad when they drown."
Hongjoong didn’t respond right away, but the way his fingers gripped the glass just a little tighter didn’t go unnoticed.
"She’s not ready," Seonghwa continued, softer this time. "You and I both know that."
Hongjoong sighed, tilting his head back slightly, eyes closing for a moment before he finally set the glass down with a dull clink. "And what? I go easy on her?" He scoffed. "That’ll get her killed even faster."
"She’s strong."
"She’s stubborn."
Seonghwa gave him a pointed look. "So are you."
Hongjoong let out a dry chuckle, rubbing his temple. "She pisses me off."
Seonghwa smirked slightly. "Because she doesn’t bend to your will?"
Hongjoong opened his mouth, then shut it, glaring at the floor like it personally offended him.
Seonghwa sighed, finally taking a seat across from him. His voice was quieter now. "You saw what happened today. She couldn’t do it. And I don’t think it was just fear. That’s not who she is."
"And that’s exactly why she won’t survive here," Hongjoong muttered.
Seonghwa tilted his head. "Or maybe that’s why she will."
Hongjoong let those words hang between them, the weight of them settling in his chest. He didn’t respond, just reached for his glass again, taking another slow sip.
Seonghwa stood up. "Just… ease up a little." Hongjoong didn’t look at him.
"Why do you care so much?" Seonghwa pressed.
"I care about all of you." His voice was firm, immediate.
Seonghwa scoffed, shaking his head. "That’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it." He took a step forward, eyes locking onto Hongjoong’s. "You don’t react like this with any of us. When one of us messes up, you get mad, sure, but not like this."
Hongjoong’s hands clenched at his sides, his shoulders squared, his expression unreadable.
Seonghwa took that as his cue to leave. But just as he reached the door, Hongjoong spoke again, voice quieter this time. "She needs to understand that hesitation is the difference between life and death."
Seonghwa glanced over his shoulder. "She will." A small pause. "But don’t push her to the point she stops trusting us altogether."
Then, without another word, he walked out, leaving Hongjoong alone with his thoughts.
—The knock on your door was sharp, deliberate—the kind that didn’t wait for an invitation. You barely had time to roll over in bed and groan before the door swung open, revealing Hongjoong standing in the doorway, arms crossed. His expression was unreadable, but you could still feel the weight of last night’s argument lingering between you.
"Get up," he said flatly.
You buried your face in your pillow. "Go away."
"You’re not getting a choice in this, sweetheart."
Your muscles tensed. You hated that nickname. It was never sweet—always mocking, always sarcastic. You sat up with a scowl, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. "What do you want?"
Hongjoong leaned against the doorframe, the dim morning light casting shadows across his face. "If you refuse to kill, fine," he said. "But you need to learn how to shoot."
You frowned. "I have a knife."
His brow arched. "And if someone has a gun?"
You clenched your jaw. You hated that he had a point.
"Five minutes," he said before turning on his heel and walking off. Like he already knew you’d follow.
The shooting range was at the edge of the compound, hidden beneath an old warehouse that looked abandoned from the outside but was anything but. The space smelled of gunpowder and metal, the walls lined with various weapons. Hongjoong stood beside the table, checking the ammo in the pistol before sliding the magazine into place with a practiced ease.
You stood stiffly beside him, arms crossed, still annoyed that he’d dragged you here.
He handed you the gun, his fingers brushing against yours briefly. "You ever shot before?"
You snorted. "Do I look like someone who’s shot before?"
His lips twitched. "No. But it’d be nice if you surprised me for once."
You rolled your eyes and took the gun, but the second you raised it, he let out a sharp exhale.
"Wrong," he muttered. Then, before you could react, he was behind you.
You stiffened as his hands settled over yours, guiding your grip. He was warm—too warm. His voice was low near your ear, calm but firm.
"Loosen your shoulders," he said. His fingers ran along your arms, adjusting your stance. "You’re too stiff. You won’t hit shit like that."
Your jaw tightened, but you followed his lead. "Feet apart," he continued, nudging your foot slightly with his. "Bend your knees a little."
You exhaled slowly, adjusting yourself.
Hongjoong hummed in approval, his hands lingering a second too long before he finally stepped back. "Better," he said. "Now aim."
You lifted the gun again, trying to focus on the target ahead, but the weight of his stare was distracting.
"Relax your grip," he murmured. You adjusted your hold.
"Pull the trigger gently. Don’t jerk it."
You inhaled, bracing yourself before squeezing the trigger. The shot rang out, echoing through the range.
You missed. You groaned, lowering the gun.
Hongjoong clicked his tongue, stepping forward again. Too close again. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, adjusting your aim. You could feel his breath against your cheek.
Your eyes flickered to his, only to realize he was already looking at you.
The space between you was barely there, his hand still over yours. The world outside the shooting range felt like it didn’t exist. For a split second, neither of you spoke.
Then, just as quickly as it happened, Hongjoong cleared his throat and stepped back. "Try again," he said, voice carefully neutral.
You swallowed, gripping the gun a little tighter.
The shot rang out. This time, you hit the target.
Hongjoong smirked. "See? You might not be useless after all."
You glared at him. "Careful. I’m armed now."
He chuckled, crossing his arms as he leaned against the table. "You’re still a long way from being dangerous, sweetheart."
You scowled. But when you turned back to the target, your hands weren’t shaking anymore.
—The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. You sat at the far end of the long conference table, arms crossed, staring at the blueprint of a luxurious penthouse sprawled across the surface. Another mission. Another mess you were being dragged into. The rest of the team was already gathered, some leaning against the walls, others sitting lazily in their chairs.
Hongjoong stood at the head of the table, sleeves rolled up, rings glinting under the low lighting. "We need the ledger," he started, tapping his finger against the blueprint. "It’s in Kang Jisoo’s private office. Second floor, past security, locked behind a biometric safe."
You frowned. "That sounds impossible."
"It is," Yeosang muttered, scrolling through his tablet like he couldn’t be bothered to be here. "Which is why you two are going in as his guests."
You blinked. "Who’s ‘you two’?"
Hongjoong didn’t even look up. "You and me."
"Wait, wait, wait," Wooyoung cut in, barely holding back a grin. "You’re telling me she and Hongjoong are going undercover as a couple?"
Your stomach twisted. "No way."
"You don’t have a choice," Hongjoong said smoothly, finally looking up at you. "Kang Jisoo only trusts couples. He has a soft spot for rich, in-love guests with money to burn. Any solo operatives would immediately raise suspicion."
San whistled, leaning back in his chair. "This is gonna be fun."
You ignored him, focusing on Hongjoong. "There has to be another way."
"There isn’t."
You gritted your teeth, heart pounding in frustration. This was the worst idea imaginable. You barely trusted Hongjoong, and now you were supposed to pretend to be some lovestruck couple?
Wooyoung nudged Seonghwa. "Oh, this is gonna be hilarious."
Seonghwa shot him a warning look. "Stay focused."
Ignoring the others, Hongjoong pushed a sleek black envelope across the table toward you. "Inside are the details. Our identities, our backstory, and everything Kang Jisoo needs to believe we’re the real deal."
You hesitated before picking it up. Your new name was printed neatly on the first page. Below it, in elegant cursive—‘Spouse: Kim Hongjoong.’
You wanted to burn it.
"How long do we have before we go in?" you asked tightly.
"Three days," Jongho said, arms crossed as he leaned against the table. "Enough time to get your story straight and make sure neither of you slip up."
You exhaled through your nose. "This is a terrible idea."
Hongjoong smirked. "It’s an effective one."
Across the room, Yunho sighed. "Try not to kill each other before the mission starts, yeah?"
No promises.
—You sat stiffly on the couch, flipping through the file in your hands for what felt like the hundredth time. Across from you, Hongjoong lounged in an armchair, legs crossed, looking completely at ease. Of course he was. He wasn’t the one about to get grilled like a schoolkid cramming for an exam.
The others were scattered around the room, some leaning against the walls, others perched on furniture, all of them way too excited about this.
"Alright, lovebirds," Wooyoung grinned, spinning a pen between his fingers. "Let’s see how believable this marriage is."
You groaned. "This is ridiculous."
"Ridiculous would be getting caught because you don’t know your own husband’s birthday," Yeosang muttered, still scrolling through his tablet.
You scowled at him, then flipped to the section labeled ‘Personal Details’. You were supposed to be married to Hongjoong for three years. Met at a gallery in Paris. He proposed on a yacht. All the details were laid out, but they felt foreign—like wearing someone else’s skin.
"Let’s start easy," Yunho said. "What’s your anniversary?"
You glanced down at the file. "April 14th."
Hongjoong hummed. "Good. Where did we go for our honeymoon?"
"Maldives," you answered smoothly.
Jongho leaned forward. "What’s his favorite drink?"
You paused. Shit. You had skimmed that part, assuming it wouldn’t come up.
Seonghwa sighed. "If you don’t even know that, how are you supposed to convince Kang Jisoo that you’re in love?"
You clenched your jaw, taking a wild guess. "Whiskey?"
"Wrong," Hongjoong said, tilting his head. "Negroni."
You glared at him. "Who even drinks that?"
"I do," he said smugly.
Wooyoung snorted. "This is gonna be a disaster."
"Alright," Seonghwa finally cut in, probably to save you from having a mental breakdown. "We should wrap this up. But you two need to get better at this. You slip up once, and the whole operation goes to hell."
"You memorized everything already, didn’t you?" you asked, narrowing your eyes at Hongjoong.
He merely smirked, tapping his temple. "I don’t like losing."
You swore under your breath. This was going to be a long mission.
—The morning of the mission, you were rudely awakened by a sharp knock on your door. You groaned, turning over in bed, pretending you hadn’t heard it. Maybe if you ignored it long enough, whoever it was would go away.
No such luck.
A second later, the door creaked open, and Seonghwa’s voice cut through the quiet. “Get up.”
You cracked open an eye to glare at him, only to groan again when you saw the bundle in his arms. A neatly folded, expensive-looking gown draped over his forearm.
“Oh, hell no.” You sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “I am not wearing that.”
Seonghwa raised an unimpressed brow, stepping further into the room. “You’re infiltrating a high-profile event as Hongjoong’s fiancée. What did you expect? Jeans and a hoodie?”
“That would be ideal.”
Seonghwa sighed, tossing the dress onto the bed beside you. “You have twenty minutes to get ready.”
You scowled. “And if I don’t?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Then I’ll let Wooyoung come in here and dress you himself.”
You visibly shuddered at the thought. Wooyoung was many things—loud, irritating, way too smug for his own good—but above all, he was shameless. The last thing you needed was for him to burst into your room, waving around a curling iron and critiquing your ‘lack of class.’
“Fine,” you muttered, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. “But if I break an ankle in this thing, I’m haunting all of you.”
Seonghwa just smirked. “I’d like to see you try.”
The dress Seonghwa had given you was beautiful, sure—but it was also ridiculously difficult to put on. The deep emerald silk hugged your body perfectly, the slit high enough to allow movement but still elegant. The problem? The damn zipper.
You had been wrestling with it for the past five minutes, twisting your arms at unnatural angles, but it wouldn’t budge past the middle of your back. And, of course, in a house full of trained mafia members, none of them were exactly the kind of people you’d casually ask for help zipping up a dress.
You let out a sigh, debating if you could maybe just leave it halfway up when the door suddenly swung open without warning.
"You're taking forever," Hongjoong's voice came lazily as he stepped in, fixing his sleeve. "The car's ready, and—"
He stopped mid-sentence. You froze too, your bare back exposed to him as you stood in front of the mirror. Your hands instinctively gripped the front of the dress as if that would help, your breath catching in your throat.
His gaze locked onto yours through the reflection, his movements stilling completely. For a moment, neither of you spoke.
His tie matched your dress. You noticed it then, how the color blended perfectly, how intentional it felt.
Hongjoong’s jaw tightened slightly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. His hands, usually so confident and sure, were unmoving at his sides.
You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady. "Zip me up?"
For the first time, he hesitated. Then, as if snapping himself out of it, he stepped forward. His approach was slow, almost cautious. The heat of his presence behind you made your spine stiffen, every nerve hyperaware of how close he was.
His fingers brushed your shoulder lightly as he reached forward, gathering your hair and sweeping it over one side. His touch was gentle—so unlike the Hongjoong you were used to. No calculated moves, no teasing smirk. Just a quiet, deliberate action.
You shivered, though you weren’t sure if it was from the chill or the sudden proximity.
He caught that. His lips quirked up for just a second before he reached for the zipper.
His knuckles skimmed against your spine as he pulled it up, the touch feather-light but enough to send an unfamiliar heat crawling up your neck. You kept your gaze locked onto the mirror, watching as his eyes followed the path of the zipper, his face unreadable.
When he reached the top, he didn’t step away immediately. His fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary before he finally let go.
"You’re done," he murmured, voice lower than usual.
You released a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.
Hongjoong met your eyes in the mirror again, something unreadable flickering behind his usual sharp gaze. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and walked out, leaving you standing there, heart hammering in your chest.
—The van was gone. Instead, a sleek black car sat waiting in the driveway, its polished surface gleaming under the dim streetlights. Hongjoong stood beside it, leaning against the passenger door, one hand tucked into his pocket while the other toyed absentmindedly with his cufflinks.
"You take longer than I expected," he mused as you approached, opening the car door for you.
You didn't respond, still reeling from the moment in the room just minutes ago. Instead, you slid into the passenger seat, smoothing the fabric of your dress as you adjusted yourself. Hongjoong walked around to the driver's side, settling in with a practiced ease before starting the car.
The engine purred to life, and with a smooth motion, he pulled out onto the road.
The silence stretched between you, tense and unspoken. You kept your gaze fixed on the window, watching the city blur past in streaks of neon lights and dark alleys. The entire drive had an eerie stillness to it—something about being in a car alone with Hongjoong made the air feel heavier, charged in a way you couldn’t explain.
After a few minutes, he finally broke the silence. "Nervous?" His voice was casual, but there was an edge to it.
You turned to look at him, expression neutral. "Should I be?"
He let out a quiet chuckle, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel. "You tell me."
You rolled your eyes and went back to staring outside. The drive stretched on, the atmosphere shifting between charged silence and occasional glances from Hongjoong that you pretended not to notice.
At a red light, he leaned back in his seat, tilting his head toward you. "This is your first mission as part of the team. And your first time playing the role of my lover." His lips curled into a smirk. "Try not to look so disgusted by the idea."
You scoffed, crossing your arms. "I’d rather not think about it at all."
His smirk deepened. "You're a terrible liar."
You didn’t have a response to that, mostly because he wasn’t wrong. The idea of pretending to be his lover wasn’t the worst thing in the world, but admitting that was out of the question.
The car slowed as you approached the mansion’s long, winding driveway, the wrought-iron gates parting as if they had been expecting you. You took a deep breath, straightening your posture as the reality of the mission settled in.
"Just follow my lead," Hongjoong murmured, his voice lower now, more serious. "And don’t forget—we’re supposed to be madly in love."
You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. "I’ll try not to die from the excitement."
He just chuckled under his breath, pulling the car up to the grand entrance. "Welcome to the show, sweetheart."
The mansion loomed ahead, bathed in golden light that spilled from the massive chandeliers inside. The grand entrance was framed by towering marble pillars, and beyond the open doors, the warm glow of crystal chandeliers reflected off polished floors.
Couples dressed in the finest attire flowed effortlessly into the event, their laughter and hushed conversations blending into the soft melody of a live orchestra. The scent of expensive perfume and aged whiskey filled the air, wrapping around you like a second skin.
The second the car came to a stop, a valet stepped forward, bowing slightly before Hongjoong flicked the keys in his direction. "Don’t scratch it," he said smoothly, barely sparing the man a glance. The valet nodded, quickly taking the car and pulling away.
As you stepped out, the cool night air hit you, making you shiver slightly. The dress Seonghwa had picked was stunning, but practical? Not in the slightest. The slit ran high, teasing too much with each step, and the fabric clung in all the right ways, but the biting chill didn’t care about aesthetics.
Hongjoong rounded the car and came to stand beside you, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves before extending his arm. "Shall we?"
You hesitated for half a second before slipping your hand into the crook of his arm, fingers grazing the smooth fabric of his suit jacket. It was meant to be a simple gesture, something natural for a couple walking into an event like this. But the second your hand settled, he pulled you closer—so close you stumbled, your heel catching on the stone pavement.
Before you could react, Hongjoong steadied you with a firm grip, his other hand coming up to press lightly against your waist. Your noses nearly brushed, his breath warm against your skin as he leaned in ever so slightly.
"It has to look real," he whispered, his lips barely moving.
Your breath hitched, and for a second, neither of you moved. His eyes flickered over your face, sharp and unreadable, but something about the way he held you there made the world blur around you. The murmuring voices, the distant clinking of champagne glasses—it all faded.
You forced yourself to exhale, nodding slightly. "Right. Real."
His lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, but close. Then, with a final squeeze to your waist, he pulled away just enough to lead you forward.
Hongjoong’s grip on your arm remained steady, guiding you through the sea of people with practiced ease. He belonged here—he moved like someone who knew he was untouchable, every step controlled, every glance carrying weight.
You, on the other hand, were hyper-aware of everything. The way the air buzzed with hidden agendas. The way eyes lingered a second too long. And most importantly, the way Hongjoong's fingers pressed lightly against your waist, keeping you grounded in a room full of sharks.
"You’re doing fine," he murmured near your ear, his voice low enough that no one else could hear. "Just smile, sweetheart. Pretend you like me a little."
You let out a breathy scoff, tilting your head up at him just slightly. "That’s pushing it."
He only chuckled, his lips curving into that infuriating smirk. "Fake it better, then."
Before you could roll your eyes, before you could even think of a sharp response, his arm slid away from yours—only to wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The movement was smooth, natural, as if he had done it a thousand times before. And maybe he had, just not with you.
Your breath hitched for a fraction of a second, and you knew he noticed. Of course, he did. His fingers pressed lightly into the fabric of your dress, the warmth of his palm seeping into your skin. He was claiming you in the most effortless way, a silent announcement to the room that you were his for the night. His date, his partner, his distraction—whatever story they wanted to believe, Hongjoong was letting them.
The shift in attention was immediate. People who had been subtly watching before were now openly glancing in your direction, curious murmurs hidden behind crystal champagne flutes. Some eyes lingered with interest, others with suspicion.
"Relax," Hongjoong murmured, his voice a soft hum against your ear. "You’re supposed to enjoy this."
Enjoy? The sheer audacity of him. But you knew better than to stiffen under the weight of so many watchful eyes. So, you did what you had to. You leaned in, just slightly, tilting your head toward him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"You're having way too much fun with this," you whispered back, your voice light, teasing, the way you imagined a woman in love would sound.
His thumb brushed against your waist, a barely-there touch, but enough to make your skin prickle. "If you’re going to play a role, sweetheart, you might as well play it well."
You smiled, a slow, knowing smile, tilting your chin up to look at him as if he had just whispered something sweet and not borderline condescending. The act was seamless, almost effortless, but it was still just that—an act.
"Lucky for you, I always play my roles well."
The words were meant to be smug, but Hongjoong only grinned, the kind of grin that said, we’ll see about that.
Hongjoong chuckled, amused, before taking a slow sip of his own drink. His eyes scanned the room, and you followed his gaze, recognizing the moment his expression sharpened ever so slightly. A man, mid-fifties, sharply dressed in a navy suit, was making his way toward you both.
Kang Jisoo. The owner of the estate. The man you were here to steal from.
Your fingers instinctively tightened around the delicate glass in your hand, but you kept your expression relaxed, the same way Hongjoong did. His grip around your waist subtly shifted, his fingers pressing slightly firmer against your hip, almost like a silent command to stay still, stay calm.
"Captain," Jisoo greeted, his tone light, casual, but there was a sharpness in his eyes that said he didn’t trust easily. He looked at you next, his gaze dragging over you like he was trying to figure something out.
Hongjoong smiled easily, a practiced smirk that barely reached his eyes. "Jisoo, I was wondering when you’d find me."
Jisoo let out a small chuckle, but his eyes never left yours. "And who’s this?"
"This," Hongjoong said smoothly, "is my darling."
You barely had a second to react before he turned toward you, his arm still securely wrapped around you as he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. The touch was fleeting, but his breath lingered near your skin, warm, steady. A silent warning. Play along.
You exhaled slowly, schooling your features into something softer, something lovestruck, and turned your gaze to Jisoo. "I’ve heard a lot about you, Kang Jisoo," you said, voice smooth, perfectly polite. "My husband speaks highly of you."
Jisoo hummed, tilting his head slightly. "Is that so?" His tone was mild, but you could see the gears turning in his head. Suspicion.
Your pulse quickened, but you didn’t let it show. Instead, you took a risk. One that might make or break the illusion.
You turned to Hongjoong, resting your hand lightly against his chest, your fingers grazing the fabric of his suit. Then, before you could second-guess it, you leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
It was brief, barely a touch, but when you pulled back, you caught the flicker of surprise in Hongjoong’s usually unreadable eyes.
Jisoo watched closely, eyes narrowing ever so slightly.
Hongjoong, to his credit, recovered fast. His grip on you tightened slightly, his hand sliding up your waist to rest just beneath your ribs. His smirk returned, this time more genuine.
Jisoo studied the two of you for a moment longer before nodding slowly, as if deciding to let it go. "Well, I hope you both enjoy the evening."
Hongjoong gave a short nod. "We will."
Jisoo walked away, but even as he disappeared into the crowd, you could feel the tension in Hongjoong’s posture. You glanced up at him, searching his expression.
"You didn’t have to do that," he murmured, low enough that only you could hear.
You tilted your head slightly, feigning innocence. "Do what?"
His smirk returned, but this time, it was slower, more calculated. "You’ll pay for that later, sweetheart."
—The grand ballroom was alive with the hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the soft melody of a string quartet. But your mind was elsewhere—focused on the second-floor office, hidden past layers of security and surveillance.
Hongjoong’s fingers barely brushed yours as he subtly tugged you toward the far end of the room, away from the main crowd. It was seamless, the way he maneuvered you both, weaving through guests like this was just another stroll at a gala.
As you neared the hallway leading toward the restricted area, his voice was low in your ear. “Cameras shift every ten seconds. We take the blind spot and move when the waiter passes. Act natural.”
You nodded slightly, fingers brushing the stem of your glass. Just two lovers sneaking off for a moment alone. Nothing suspicious.
The moment the waiter moved past, you both stepped into the hallway, slipping behind a curtain leading to the back corridors. The noise of the party dulled instantly, replaced by the soft hum of the security system.
"Left," Hongjoong whispered, leading the way down the hall. The lights here were dimmer, meant only for staff, but it worked in your favor.
The door to Jisoo’s private office was at the end of the hall, a sleek black panel with a biometric scanner. Hongjoong pulled out a small device from his jacket, attaching it to the scanner’s side. A small light flickered red, working its magic to bypass the system.
“You always this prepared?” you murmured, glancing at him.
His lips twitched. “You have no idea, sweetheart.”
A soft beep signaled the override, and the lock clicked open. Hongjoong pushed the door inward, stepping inside first, scanning the room before letting you follow.
The office was pristine—dark wood, leather, and a massive window overlooking the estate. But your focus was on the safe built into the wall behind the desk.
“Time’s ticking,” Hongjoong muttered, already moving toward it.
You kneeled, fingers brushing over the keypad. Biometric lock. You knew this already. That was why Hongjoong had procured a fingerprint mold beforehand. He handed it to you silently, eyes scanning the door as you pressed the gel-like material onto the scanner.
For a second, nothing happened. Then, the lock clicked open.
You exhaled, reaching in for the file, fingers closing around the thick folder. Just as you turned to Hongjoong—
Footsteps.
Your head snapped up. Hongjoong’s gaze darkened, sharp and alert. The hallway outside. Close. Too close.
Hongjoong grabbed your wrist and yanked you toward the corner of the room, where a barely-there gap between the bookshelf and the wall created the smallest possible hiding space. Before you could protest, he pulled you in, pressing both of you into the tight space.
You froze, barely daring to breathe. Hongjoong’s body was flush against yours, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm while your own heart pounded wildly. His arm curled around your waist, anchoring you against him, his fingers pressing firmly into the small of your back.
A flashlight beam swept across the room.
Hongjoong’s other hand moved—slow, deliberate. His fingertips ghosted over your lips, a silent command to stay quiet.
Your breathing hitched, eyes flickering up to meet his. Even in the dim light, you could see the sharp angles of his face, the way his gaze locked onto yours, unwavering. His lips parted slightly, like he was about to say something, but he didn't.
For a moment, neither of you moved. The only sound was the soft hum of the security radio crackling from the guard outside.
Then, the light receded. The door shut again.
You swallowed, suddenly acutely aware of how close you still were. Hongjoong’s fingers hadn’t moved from your waist. His breath was warm against your cheek, his hand still lightly brushing your lips.
Slowly, you reached up, wrapping your fingers around his wrist, gently pulling his hand away.
“We should go,” you whispered.
His eyes lingered on yours for a second longer before he finally stepped back, exhaling softly. “Yeah.”
You turned, pushing down whatever lingering feeling had settled in your chest, and crept toward the door. The hallway was clear now, the guards seemingly moving along with their patrol. You exhaled slowly, trying to steady your nerves.
But as soon as you both stepped out, the sharp click of a safety being turned off made your blood run cold.
“Move, and I shoot.”
A guard stood at the far end of the hall, gun raised, finger hovering over the trigger. His eyes flickered between you and Hongjoong, narrowing with suspicion.
“Hands up,” he ordered.
Hongjoong, always smooth, barely even hesitated before lifting his hands slightly, his expression one of careful indifference. You followed suit, though your mind was already racing.
Hongjoong’s voice was eerily calm when he spoke. “Let’s not do anything rash. You don’t want to shoot. We don’t want to die. Let’s just talk—”
“Shut up.” The guard stepped forward, grip tightening around the gun. “I know who you are.”
Shit.
Hongjoong shifted slightly, positioning himself in front of you just the tiniest bit. The guard noticed. His lips curled.
“She’s important, huh?” he mused, taking another step closer. His gun tilted slightly, no longer pointed at Hongjoong’s chest but at yours. “I bet the boss would love to have a chat with her.”
You stiffened seeing Hongjoong’s jaw clenched. In the second that the guard’s attention was more on you, Hongjoong moved.
A sharp step forward, a twist of his wrist—his hand slammed into the guard’s arm, knocking the gun downward just as the trigger was pulled. A deafening crack echoed through the hallway as the bullet buried itself into the floor.
Then all hell broke loose.
Hongjoong was fast, but the guard was strong. They struggled, limbs tangling as Hongjoong fought for control of the weapon. Another shot fired into the ceiling. The sound was so loud in the enclosed space that your ears rang.
Your mind screamed at you to move, to do something—
But then it happened. The guard got the upper hand, twisting Hongjoong’s arm back with a sickening force. Hongjoong let out a sharp, pained grunt, his knees nearly buckling. The gun was turning, tilting—pointed right at him.
Before you could think, your fingers curled around the knife strapped to your thigh. One step forward. A swift, desperate movement. The blade slid between his ribs with no resistance.
The guard froze. His mouth opened—silent, stunned. Then, with a ragged exhale, he crumpled to the floor.
Dead.
The knife was still clutched in your trembling fingers, warm and slick. Blood coated your hands, thick and dark, staining your skin. It dripped onto the floor, pooling beneath the man who just seconds ago had been alive.
Hongjoong turned to you, rubbing his wrist, wincing slightly. But the moment he saw your expression—saw the way you were shaking, your eyes wide, horrified—he stepped closer.
“Hey—”
“I—I killed him.” Your voice was barely a whisper, strangled.
Hongjoong reached for you, but you stumbled back. Your breaths came in short, shallow gasps. Too fast. The walls felt like they were closing in. The blood—it was everywhere. On your fingers, under your nails. You couldn’t breathe.
“Sweetheart, look at me,” Hongjoong said, his tone gentler now, softer. He grabbed your wrist, firm but careful. “Breathe.”
Your chest rose and fell rapidly, heart slamming against your ribs. You couldn’t stop looking at the body.
“I didn’t—I don’t—I don’t kill people,” you choked out.
“I know.” His voice was steady, unwavering. “You had to. It was him or us.”
You shook your head, still gasping, still shaking. “I—I can’t—”
Hongjoong cursed under his breath, then did the only thing he could think of—he grabbed both sides of your face, forcing you to look at him.
“Breathe,” he ordered. “Focus on me.”
His thumbs brushed over your cheeks, grounding you. His touch was warm, real. Not cold like the body behind you. His gaze was sharp, but not unkind.
“Listen to my voice,” he murmured. “You’re okay. You’re here. With me.”
You tried to match your breathing to his, tried to drown out the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your ears. Slowly, the panic ebbed, just enough for your vision to clear, for your lungs to expand again.
Hongjoong let out a breath of his own, relieved, but his hands didn’t move from your face. “We have to go,” he said. “Now.”
You nodded weakly, still unsteady.
He let go, stepping back only to pull off his jacket. He grabbed one of your hands, rubbing the blood off with the sleeve before slipping the coat over your shoulders, covering the rest of it.
“You’re okay,” he said again, quieter this time.
You didn’t believe it.
But you let him pull you away.
—Hongjoong didn’t waste a second. The moment you were steady enough to move, he grabbed your wrist and led you away from the body, his grip firm but not rough. His pace was quick, urgent, his eyes flickering around the hallway to make sure no one else had heard the gunshots or the fight. The mansion was still alive with music and laughter, but it wouldn’t be long before someone noticed the missing guard.
You barely processed anything as he guided you down the stairs, through the corridors, and out the side entrance. Your mind was still reeling, stuck on the image of the blood on your hands, the weight of the knife, the feeling of it piercing flesh.
Hongjoong’s voice cut through your spiraling thoughts. “We’re almost there.”
The sleek black car sat at the far end of the driveway, out of the main view of the entrance. He didn’t let go of you, only releasing your wrist for a second to yank open the back door and toss the stolen file onto the seat. Then he turned back to you, his eyes flicking down, assessing.
“Get in,” he said, softer than before.
You didn’t argue, slipping into the passenger seat on autopilot. The moment the door shut, Hongjoong rounded the car, climbing in behind the wheel. Without hesitation, he started the engine, maneuvering out of the driveway with practiced ease, keeping his movements smooth, natural—like nothing had happened.
The mansion disappeared into the night behind you, but you barely noticed.
Your hands were still shaking. They rested on your knees, but the tremors wouldn’t stop, even as you tried to clench them into fists.
Hongjoong noticed immediately. His eyes flicked toward you before returning to the road, but then, without a word, his right hand reached over, covering yours. His palm was warm, steady, a grounding contrast to your trembling fingers.
For a while, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the soft hum of the tires against the road, the occasional streetlight casting fleeting glows into the car.
“You did what you had to do,” he finally murmured, thumb absently brushing against your knuckles. “You saved me.”
Your throat felt tight, like something heavy was lodged there, something impossible to swallow. You didn’t respond, just stared at the way his fingers curled over yours, keeping you tethered.
Hongjoong sighed, rubbing his thumb in slow circles, as if coaxing you out of your daze. “You’re gonna be okay.”
You weren’t sure if you believed him. The weight of what you had done sat heavy in your chest, suffocating, pressing down on your ribs like a vice. Your hands were still stained, phantom blood lingering even after Hongjoong had wiped them clean with a cloth he found in the car. The scent of it clung to your skin, metallic and sickly sweet.
You didn’t even realize when the mansion came into view. The headlights cut through the dark, illuminating the grand entrance as the car rolled to a smooth stop.
The moment the engine shut off, you reached for the door, pushing it open with shaking fingers. You just needed to get inside—to your room. To scrub your hands raw, to tear off the dress that now felt suffocating against your skin, to forget the feeling of the knife plunging into flesh.
As the mansion doors swung open, you barely registered the group waiting inside. The others were all there—standing in the living room, their faces unreadable. Some looked concerned, others wary. Their postures stiffened when they saw you, their eyes flicking between you and Hongjoong, as if trying to gauge the situation.
Seonghwa was the first to rise fully from his seat, brows furrowing as he stepped forward. "What happened—"
You stormed past them, heels clicking sharply against the marble floors, the weight of Hongjoong’s jacket slipping off one shoulder. The room felt too bright, too open. You needed to get out of there.
Hongjoong didn’t stop you. But you could feel his eyes on your back as you disappeared down the hall.
—The door slammed shut behind you, rattling in its frame. You barely noticed. Your fingers trembled as you reached behind you, dragging the zipper of the dress down with jerky, uneven movements. It slipped off your shoulders, pooling at your feet in a heap of expensive fabric. You stepped out of it, barely feeling the cold air against your skin, barely feeling anything at all.
The bathroom was silent except for your shallow breathing as you turned the shower knob, watching as water cascaded down, steam curling into the air. You stepped under it without hesitation, letting the scorching heat sting your skin, letting it scald away the remnants of tonight.
Blood.
It wasn’t there anymore—you had scrubbed it off in the car, had wiped it away—but you could still see it, feel it, seeping into your skin, under your nails, staining you in a way you weren’t sure would ever fade. Your chest felt tight, the memory flashing behind your eyes like a cruel replay. The blade sinking in, the way his body jerked, the sound—God, the sound.
You pressed your forehead against the tiled wall, eyes squeezing shut. You weren’t supposed to do that. That wasn’t who you were. You were a thief, not a murderer. But when you saw him coming for Hongjoong, when you saw the gun raised, the look in his eyes, you hadn’t thought. You had just… moved.
You saved him.
It hit you all at once, the truth settling in like a weight pressing on your chest. If you hadn’t acted, Hongjoong would have been the one on the floor. Not breathing. Not alive.
You inhaled shakily, letting the realization crash over you.
You killed someone.
But you saved him.
The water poured over you, washing away everything but the one thing you couldn’t shake.
The fact that, if you had to, you would do it again.
—Hongjoong had been thinking about your reaction the whole drive back. He had seen fear before—lived in it, caused it—but the way it had taken over your face tonight, the way your hands had shaken, the way your breath had come out in sharp, broken gasps, was different. It wasn’t fear of dying. It wasn’t fear of pain. It was fear of what you had done. Of yourself.
You didn’t belong in his world.
The thought sat heavy in his chest, unwanted, undeniable. He had always known it—always known you were different, that you weren’t built for this life the way he and the others were. But seeing it tonight, seeing the horror in your eyes as you looked down at your own hands, had made something twist inside him.
He didn’t like it.
You looked better when you were scowling at him, rolling your eyes, throwing some sarcastic remark his way. You looked better when you were annoyed, when you were pushing back, when you weren’t afraid of him or anything else. But tonight, you had looked small. Shaken. Quiet.
And Hongjoong hated that.
With a sigh, he found himself outside your door, hesitating for only a second before knocking.
No response. He knocked again, a little firmer this time. When there was still no answer, he opened the door, stepping inside carefully.
You were sitting on the bed, your legs pulled up slightly, hair damp and clinging to your skin. Your face was still flushed from the heat of the shower, but your eyes… your eyes looked hollow. Distant.
Hongjoong exhaled softly, leaning against the doorframe.
He really, really didn’t like seeing you like this.
For the first time in weeks, Hongjoong felt something close to regret settle in his chest. He had done this to you. He had taken you from whatever life you had, dragged you into this world, forced you to play a game you never signed up for. And for weeks, he had justified it—told himself you’d be fine, that you were strong, that you were smart. That you’d adapt.
But tonight had proved what he had been denying since the day he forced you into this life.
You weren’t meant to be here.
You weren’t a killer.
You weren’t like him.
Hongjoong had seen you fight, had seen you steal, had seen you navigate situations with quick thinking and sharp words. But he had never seen you with blood on your hands. He had never seen your face shatter the way it did tonight, never seen you look so lost, so utterly destroyed by what you had done. And he had been the one to put you in that position.
He forced a breath out, running a hand through his hair. “You should go.”
Your head snapped up, eyes wide, brows furrowing. “What?”
“You should leave,” he repeated, his voice quieter this time. “Go back to your life. Before all of this.”
You stared at him like he had lost his mind. “Are you serious?”
Hongjoong’s jaw clenched. “Dead serious.”
You exhaled sharply, standing up so fast the bed creaked beneath you. “So that’s it? You just decide I don’t belong here, and suddenly I have to go?”
His expression hardened. “You don’t belong here.”
“Oh, really?” You scoffed, crossing your arms. “That’s funny, considering you didn’t seem to give a shit about that when you kidnapped me.”
His stomach twisted. He didn’t have a defense for that.
You took a step closer, your voice rising. “You forced me into this. You made me a part of this world. And now that I actually did something that saved your life, you decide it’s too much for me?”
His eyes snapped to yours. “You shouldn’t have had to do that.”
“But I did,” you shot back. “And I would do it again.”
Something in his chest cracked. Hongjoong shook his head, looking away. “This isn’t you. You’re not like us. You—”
“Stop telling me what I am and what I’m not,” you interrupted, stepping even closer. “I don’t care if I’m not like you. I don’t care if I don’t belong here. You don’t get to make this choice for me.”
Hongjoong let out a humorless laugh. “You think this is a choice? You think you can just keep pretending this won’t change you?” His voice rose, frustration bleeding through. “You killed someone tonight.”
“I know what I did,” you snapped, your voice breaking slightly.
He ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. “And I don’t want you to have to do it again.”
And then you whispered, “Why do you care so much?” He froze. You stared at him, searching his face. “Why does it matter so much to you?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again, something desperate flashing in his eyes. He looked away, breathing heavily.
“Hongjoong,” you said quietly.
His entire body tensed. It was the first time you had ever said his name. No sarcasm, no mocking tone. Just his name. And it undid him completely.
His head snapped up, eyes locking onto yours. He swallowed hard, chest rising and falling rapidly, like he was trying to hold something back.
But then you asked again, softer this time. “Why do you care so much?”
“Because I fucking love you!”
The words ripped out of him, raw and unfiltered, as if they had been clawing at his throat for weeks, waiting to escape.
Your breath hitched, your eyes widening. Hongjoong’s own expression was wild—like he couldn’t believe he had said it either. But he didn’t take it back. He just stared at you, breathing hard, waiting for you to say something, to do anything.
You reached for him, hands trembling slightly as they cupped his face. He stiffened at first, but then melted into your touch, his lips parting slightly.
“You’re an idiot,” you whispered, voice breaking. “But I would do it again. For you.”
His hands came up, covering yours, his eyes dark and unreadable. “You shouldn’t have to.”
“But I would.”
Hongjoong exhaled shakily, his forehead pressing against yours. And then, in the silence, in the lingering tension of everything that had been said, you kissed him.
Hongjoong groaned softly against your lips, his hands sliding down to your waist, pulling you flush against him. Your fingers tangled in his hair, gripping tight, anchoring yourself to the moment.
When you finally pulled away, breathless, he pressed one last lingering kiss against your lips before murmuring,
࿐ Nerdjo who subconsciously draws little sketches of you through out his notes and assignments. Frowning at his little creations along his paper when turning it in. (“Ah- uhm wait I forgot to erase something.”)
He never erases the pretty ones.
Nerdjo who calls out your friends as they’re talking behind your back. (“If she’s dumb she’d still be hanging out with you.”)
Nerdjo who sighs when you stick your hand in his snack bag, giggling when you expect him to scold you.
He pushes the bag closer to you.
Nerdjo moping as he finally washes the fabric you’ve left your scent on.
Nerdjo whose eyes widen when you correct an answer on his paper, unsure how to respond to the flush reaching his cheeks as he pushes his glasses up.
Nerdjo who leans over during free period, watching you use social apps he’s never heard of. (“what’s..a tumblr?”)
He was even more intrigued when you hid your phone screen but he brushed it off.
Nerdjo who’s heart flutters as he hears you slip a DnD reference to your friends, silently giggling at the joke your friends raised eyebrows to.
Nerdjo who’s unfazed as ever as you hand him your phone to show him the pigtails and kawaii hairclips you’ve ruined his ghostly hair with.
“Hate em.”
(He wore them the rest of the day.)
Nerdjo who chokes up when his neighbor, Megumi shows up asking who’s the girl taking up their Pokémon trading time. (“since when did girls like you?”)
Nerdjo letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, as he stood behind you, helping you put on a necklace you definitely could’ve put on yourself.
Immediately turning his head to anything else in the room as you ask him if it looks good, the amulet sitting right inbetween your cleavage. (“Yeah- yea.”) (“you didn’t even look.”)
perfect liars — blue lock, profootballer!itoshi sae x idol!reader, fake dating, alcohol mention, one shot, 4.5k-ish words
"You're really bad at this."
There's laughter hidden in your voice, a smirk teasing at the edge of your lips. He's been around you often enough now that he can catch that particular glimmer in your eye that means you're amused. At his expense. Again.
Itoshi Sae knows he's not infallible — he may be called a genius, but that's for the soccer field. Still, it grates — he's not bad at relationships, it's just that this one is fake.
"You're going to get scolded by your manager again," Sae says blandly. You pay him no mind, looping your arm around his and pressing your fingers into his bicep before tugging you both forward to survey the display of jewelry.
"And you're going to violate the contract," you say cheerfully, reaching for a pair of earrings with summer ocean gems. Your voice is lilting, musical, the familiar syllables of home standing out starkly against the murmurs of Spanish all around you. "What do you think?"
"You don't care what I think."
You snort, and it's the first crack in your picture perfect facade he's seen all day. "True, but c'mon, Itoshi, at least act like you enjoy my company."
Right. Sae pretends to spare another precious second looking at the earrings before smoothly sliding his card over to the attendant. You bat your eyelashes up at him, still clinging to his arm. "Thanks, loverboy."
His chest clenches uncomfortably. Sae knows you're making fun of him, but there isn't much he can do about it. For the sake of his career — and yours — the show must go on.
You tuck the earrings into your purse and he holds a hand out for you at the door, suppressing a tiny flare of victory when you flash him an approving lift of your eyebrows. For someone whose face is constantly plastered on giant billboards and magnified through close ups on tv, you know how to downplay everything, looking like just another girl on these not-so-secret "dates". Still pretty and charming, but with none of the star power that turns heads and captivates stadiums.
This is what you're counting on as the two of you return to the peaceful, sleepy streets of a smaller shopping district way outside the city, and the reason Sae isn't wearing a hat to hide his bright red brown hair.
"Exposure, but not too much," his manager had said. "Be seen, but not mobbed."
"Where should we go next?" you ask, squeezing his hand. "The shop attendant just snuck a photo of us, by the way. Lean down like you're going to whisper in my ear."
Sae raises an eyebrow. "Don't kiss my cheek again."
He leans close enough for his lips to brush your ear, which would be more than enough for the camera you're both playing for — but then he murmurs, low, just for you, "Are you wearing my cologne?"
He's rewarded with another crack in your mask — heat radiates from your cheeks as you blush. You lower your lashes and avoid his gaze like you're shy, but he catches it again. That glimmer in your eye.
"It fits my image," you say. "And it smells nice."
Sae lets you tug him down the street once you deem your fake photo op accomplished, depending on your sense for these things to take the lead. He's never cared about his image to the public unless it gets in the way of his chances to play professional football, which is the only reason he signed that contract with you in the first place.
Cold. Rude. Unmarketable.
None of that mattered until his professional football team decided it did, and then his manager was scrambling to find a solution and somehow Sae ended up with you.
You — an idol with a reputation for making waves. Far from being the nation's sweetheart, but famous enough. Your label leaped at the chance to get you a foothold in the international market, and Sae's manager agreed as a way to spike his popularity rankings high enough to offset his attitude.
Privately, though, Sae has a feeling he just pissed off the wrong people in management.
"You have practice tomorrow, Itoshi?" you ask. Your hand is still tucked into the crook of his arm. It does something strange to his insides, seeing your fingers wrapped around his jacket, but he puts that thought away for later.
"Yes."
"Hmm," you hum, "and have your teammates mentioned me at all?"
Sae raises an eyebrow and says dryly, "Planning on ditching me already? And here I thought we were in love."
You laugh and stick a little closer to his side. "I only have eyes for you, Itoshi, don't worry. No, I was just asking because I think you need some props. We don't want anyone getting suspicious!"
"Props," he repeats. "We already changed our phone screens. What more is there?"
"You know… like, you should keep one of my hair ties on your wrist," you suggest, "or you can 'accidentally' have my makeup bag in your gym bag. Oh! I know — how do you feel about marks?"
Sae just looks at you. "Marks."
"Yeah," you grin up at him impishly, and Sae sees a glimmer of why you're so beloved on variety shows. "Don't you want proof? That you fuck?"
"You're just horny."
You laugh out loud at that. "Well, it's not like I can sleep with anyone else while we're together," you say, "but no, I just think it'd be good proof that we're really together. You're supposed to be attractive, right? That means I'd definitely jump your bones at some point."
Sae doesn't deem that with a response.
You drop the topic, but Sae can tell you're still thinking about it. Every step feels weighted, heavy. He can feel every brush of your body against his arm as you tug and nudge him around the town, until the considerable weight of his attention is narrowed down to the places where your body presses against his own.
"Here." You fish out a bucket hat from your purse and hold it out to him. "Your disguise for sneaking into my hotel room."
"I don't need to prove anything to my teammates," Sae says. You slip the hat onto his head and adjust it for a moment, apparently ignorant of any sense for personal space. He catches a whiff of your scent — his scent — and his gut clenches weirdly. "They're the ones who should be proving themselves to me if they want to receive my passes."
"This isn't about football," you murmur, rolling your eyes. "This is about sending a message."
Whatever. Sae watches as you pull on a bucket hat as well and pause in front of a storefront window to check your reflection. "Isn't the point to be recognized?"
"Not really," you hum, sliding your hand into his and lacing your fingers together naturally. "It would be good for your teammates to talk, but we don't actually need sleazy hotel pap pics."
You don't do anything in particular to hide your faces or linked hands as you take him back to your hotel and up to your room, probably banking on the fact that the city is busy enough to hide what's in plain sight. Sae flexes his fingers when you drop his hand to shut the door.
"Take off your shirt," you say. Sae looks at you. "You can take off your shoes, too, if it'll make you more comfortable. This shouldn't take that long, though."
"Should I be offended?" Sae shrugs off his jacket and hangs it up. The clink of the hanger is loud in the silence of your room.
"You never answered my question," you say, fingering the hem of his shirt. Your eyes are liquid depths in the sunset painting the room. "Are you okay with this?"
It's for your careers, isn't it? Sae doesn't know what he would do without football. "Yes."
You tug at his shirt and he pulls it off, drops it on your bed along with the hat. "Oh, you are hot," you murmur. Sae tucks away his smirk.
He must not do a very good job of it, because you grin up at him and it's teasing and you're nudging him back until his knees hit the mattress. He sits and plants his hands behind him, watching you. "Do you do this often?"
"Nope," you reply cheerfully. Sae waits. You climb onto his lap. "Are you ticklish?"
"You would like that, wouldn't you."
You laugh a bit under your breath, dipping down to brush your lips along the sensitive skin of his neck. Sensitive — Sae's used to full body tackles and skinship due to the nature of the game, but it's different with you in his arms like this. Like — this, with your hands resting on his back, your hair tickling his cheek. Your waist soft beneath his hand as he reaches out to stabilize you.
You're hovering above his lap, apparently a little more conscious of personal space now, but then you press your lips to his collarbone and he hisses low.
"Sorry," you murmur, lips still close enough to brush skin, "did I hurt you?"
"No," he says curtly.
Sae holds still as you hum and begin to worry at his neck, alternating between kissing and sucking, nipping here and there and licking soothingly as you work your way down. You pay special attention to the slope of his shoulder where it meets his collarbone, your nails digging lightly into the muscles of his back as you sink lower.
Heat blooms embarrassingly beneath your touch, tendrils zipping quietly along his nerves as he clenches his jaw shut. You don't seem to notice, settling firmly into his lap with a sigh that makes his blood burn.
"I'm gonna scratch your back a bit," you warn, and Sae can't help but tense as you drag your nails down his bare back.
He keeps his tone cool and unaffected when you lift your head to meet his eye. Arousal drips through his veins, heats up his skin. "Are we done yet?"
Your gaze drops to his neck and shoulders and your head tilts critically. It's not cute, but you're warm and soft and sitting directly on his crotch. Sae is — apparently — a weaker man than he thought. "Should I do the other side, too, or do you think you would've flipped me over by now?"
Brazen. Sae slides his hand from your waist to your thigh. "If we were doing this," he says evenly, "we would still be in the foyer."
"Oh."
It's silent for a breath. You blink up at him slowly, and then a smile dawns, dazzling and bright in the light of the setting sun. "So you do think I'm hot," you say smugly.
Sae narrows his eyes. "Don't be stupid."
You're being very warm and distracting. "Let me leave a few more marks on your back, and then you can get out of here."
By the time you're satisfied with your handiwork, you've added a few more hickeys to his chest, bright and blooming, and the lines along his back burn pleasantly with every shift of his muscles. It doesn't take you long, but it feels endless, time stretching out like taffy.
Sae watches you impassively as you lean back in his lap. The movement brings your hips directly against his dick, and he knows you can feel him. He's hard. You're — so warm. You could grind against his cock and bring both of you to dizzying heights with a simple shift of your hips.
But you just smile and pat his chest — tap tap.
"Will you tell me how your teammates react?" you ask, climbing off his lap and dislodging his hand resting on your thigh.
"Maybe," Sae says. He pulls his shirt back on and you hold out the bucket hat. He takes it, deliberately brushing his fingers along yours, just to watch you shiver. "If you're good."
Sae isn't sure what you expected, but you text him after practice the next day with a selfie and a few question marks in a row.
He leaves you on read.
Sae's teammates stare when he takes his shirt off, and a few whistles pierce the locker room chatter. He pays them no mind, gathering up his things for the shower, but Oliver slings an arm over his shoulders before he can get very far.
"Don't tell me your idol girlfriend is actually a hellcat," Oliver says. "Isn't that against the rules? Her image is so…"
"Get off me," Sae says. Oliver always knows how to push his buttons, though Sae will never admit it.
Oliver drops his arm and flashes him a cheeky grin. "You should bring her out with us this weekend," he says, "I can help you show her a good time."
Sae rolls his eyes. "She already has me."
It shouldn't bother him, but the casual comment digs under his skin and sticks. He's witnessed Oliver's track record, the endless revolving door of girls and guys. It doesn't feel right to picture you in that lineup. Not that Sae cares — but your image would probably take a hit. And that wouldn't be good for him.
Sae washes off with a bit more force than necessary, something pleased curling in his gut with every subtle aching reminder of you in his lap just a day ago. Sae isn't a virgin, but it's been a long time, and his half hard cock seems to agree that perhaps it's been a little too long.
You've sent him another photo by the time he finishes moisturizing and pulling on clothes. This time it's a close up of your hand. You're flipping off the camera.
If he softens at his phone, that's just for him to know.
Sae: Not very patient, are we?
You: did you know you have read receipts on?
Sae: Yes.
You: i just wanna know the results of my handiwork. throw me a bone, itoshi
Sae: They noticed.
You don't have read receipts, so he has no way of knowing if you simply got pulled away or if you think the conversation is now over.
It digs at him, prods at his attention even as he leaves the locker room and Oliver's reissued invitation fades into a distant memory. Sae goes about his business, drinks his post practice protein shake and ignores his phone.
He knows you have work, even in another country — dance practice and vocal lessons and language homework. He knows your schedule is grueling and unglamorous, a high price to pay for fifteen minutes of fame.
But you normally message him back.
He's always been the one who's left you hanging. You have a tendency to shoot off messages like you don't have a brain-to-thumbs filter, sending texts back to back with abandon, though Sae's noticed it's mostly empty filler. He wonders if you've figured out that he's picked up on it, and if that's why you stopped.
You are a lot more observant than anyone else gives you credit for, but it's interesting to pick you apart. Sae keeps his phone turned face down.
He lets it vibrate the first time, barely glancing up from some tape he's watching, but by the third vibration he gets up to see if it's you.
You: why's your teammate inviting me to clubs on insta?
You: i have an image, itoshi!!
You: it looks fun tho………. i should be at the club………..
You: should i be at the club?? nobody here would recognize me, right?
Sae frowns and hits the "call" button before he can stop himself.
"Hi, babe," you sound cheerful, but there's a thread of exhaustion buried deep that makes Sae's frown deepen. "Is it weird that I've never been to the club?"
"They're overrated," he says flatly. "Your manager would kill you."
It's silent for a moment. In the background, Sae picks up the squeak of shoes against hardwood, the repetitive stomp and slide of dance practice going on without you.
"There are easier ways to get rid of me," you finally murmur. Your sigh echoes down the line. It takes you another moment, but then you add, "Haven't you wondered why my company's dating ban doesn't apply to me?"
Sae's vision snaps back into focus and he blinks down at his countertop. "You're the only idol they have with cross-cultural appeal."
You laugh quietly, and Sae closes his eyes. It's easier to hear your voice this way. "I'm beloved enough that they need me to self-implode. Wanna help, Itoshi?"
The club lights pulse and shimmer with the beat, loud and drowning. Sae watches you dance and cradles a cup to his chest, leans back against the wall as if it doesn't bother him one bit that you're swaying to the music with his teammate.
Oliver, to his credit, keeps his hands to respectable parts of your body. Only touches your bare shoulder or the lightest graze of your hip. Just enough to keep you in his space and others out.
Sae would respect that, normally. Would even appreciate it, if he hadn't taken the shots Oliver ordered for the three of you earlier.
But you're wearing some impossible slip of fabric and every flash of light cutting through the machine generated fog gives Sae an image of you burned into the back of his eyelids.
"Wanna help, Itoshi?"
"You want me to keep you from crashing and burning?"
"I want you to make it real."
Sae feels your hand slide up his chest and opens his eyes to meet yours. The light makes you look shimmery around the edges, softer than usual, a little hazy. You smell like his cologne.
"I want you to destroy me, Itoshi."
You take a sip from his cup of water before setting it aside, your other hand still flat on his chest. Sae doubts you can feel the rapid beat of his heart when the music rattles his bones, but he leans close anyway, tilts your chin up with one finger and kisses you.
The club disappears as your mouth opens beneath his, a sigh, a silent invitation. Sae dips in, tastes the refreshing coolness from his drink lingering in your mouth, and then your fingers clench his shirt and everything goes hot.
Everything boils down to this, to you. Sae knows people think he's cold, but you're gasping into his mouth and he's sliding his tongue between your teeth and you're kissing him back, wet and filthy and — and you're in public, shit.
The broken sound you make when he pulls back makes his dick throb concerningly in his pants and — when did he get so hard? Sae shakes his head slightly, meets your blown pupils with a hiss, holds you a tiny bit closer. Just to keep you upright, to keep this impossible outfit from exposing any more of your skin to everyone in the club.
"Is it 'cause I wasn't good?" you ask, breathless. Sae aches. "Why'd you leave me on read? How d'you want me? How can I be good for you?"
"I was just busy," Sae murmurs. He runs his fingers up your back, watches you shiver. "They were… impressed. Oliver called you a hellcat."
"And I'm good?" you press.
Sae dips down to kiss you again, spinning the two of you around so his back can be your shield. You cling to his shoulders and it makes him dizzy, makes him kiss you deeper, like you're really his girlfriend.
"I-Itoshi, you've been holding out on me," you gasp accusingly. Your fingers tangle in his hair and he groans into your cheek. Presses a kiss there, and then moves to the soft spot just below your ear. "I should've asked you to destroy me sooner."
Right. Sae pulls back but keeps you pinned against the wall, still close enough that he can feel every soft curve of you pressing against him. "Are you done with the club?"
There's that glimmer in your eye. Or maybe it's just the club lights reflecting every color under the sun in your irises — but it draws him in and he kisses you again, lingering at your lips. Far too soft for what you're asking, but you seem tipsy enough that this can be just for him.
Sae takes a small step back, tucks you into his side, scans the club for the quickest path to the exit. Oliver catches his eye across the crowded floor and tilts his head in question. Sae nods.
He ignores the knowing grin Oliver tosses his way.
You're quiet and — pliant, on the ride back to his apartment. Sae lets you hide kisses along the column of his neck in the taxi, corners you in the elevator ride up with only a huff of amusement when you blink up at him innocently.
"You smell good," you murmur. It's a feeble excuse for the soft brush of your lips on his skin, but he lets you do as you wish. It makes it easier for him to guide you into his cold apartment, to lock the door behind you and to kneel at your feet.
"Here," he says. A hand around your ankle, cradling the delicate bone. The clasps of your heels loosen and he slides them off, sets your bare feet into a pair of house slippers. You hold onto his shoulders as if you need help balancing.
"Itoshi…"
Sae grips your bare calf with an exhale and looks up. "Can you walk to the bathroom?"
You blink down at him, pouting even as you trace a pattern idly along his cheekbone. "You want me to take my makeup off before we fuck?"
Sae's pants are tight. You slide your fingers into his hair and tug lightly. He grunts. "We need to sleep."
"I thought you said you'd help destroy me," you murmur. Sae rises and scoops you up in one smooth motion, smirking to himself when you yelp and throw your arms around his neck. The house slippers fly off your feet with your flailing, but Sae just looks at you. "Itoshi!"
"We went to the club," he reminds you. It takes no effort at all for him to carry you to the bathroom. He sets you on the counter and shuffles around in a drawer. "Here."
You wipe your makeup off and brush your teeth obligingly, not even questioning why he has a spare toothbrush or makeup wipes available. Sae grunts when you wrap your legs around his waist like a koala, but he carries you to the bed without question.
He knows you can feel him — still hard — against your warmth, so it doesn't surprise him when you refuse to let go. Sae drops you onto the bed and his grip on your thighs gets stronger, fingers digging in to the soft muscles there. "Will you sleep in these clothes?"
You shake your head, pouting up at him prettily. "Undress me?"
"Do you let all of your fake boyfriends do this?" Sae asks idly, fingering the straps of your outfit.
"You know you're my first and only fake boyfriend." Even tipsy, you roll your eyes at him.
Sae snorts. It is far too easy to peel your clothes off, though you're loose limbed and only barely cooperating. Sae has to resist brushing his lips along each new inch of bare skin revealed to him, and it doesn't help that you watch his every move with that fucking glimmer in your eye.
You reach for him once you're in nothing but your panties, fingers tugging at the belt loops of his pants. Sae huffs and the sound is too fond even to his own slightly inebriated ears, so he draws the blankets up over your body and steps away before you can drag him in.
"Aren't you coming to bed?" you ask.
"I need to wash up. Go to sleep, you little troublemaker."
You're fast asleep by the time he finishes up, breaths coming out even and slow. Sae watches you for a moment. His apartment is small for a player of his status, but he's never seen a need for a guest bedroom because he never has guests.
Sae wakes up to an empty apartment. Daylight filters in and hits his living room couch from an angle he's never seen before. He blinks up at the ceiling and listens to the silence.
His front door opens and shuts.
"Itoshi," you sing-song. "Are you still on the couch? Can I sit with you?"
You're cradling a paper bag and a tray of takeout cups, and you sit before he has a chance to fully move out of your way. "That shirt is too big for you," he says blankly.
"You can put your head here if you're still tired," you say cheerfully, patting at your lap. Sae eyes the pants you're wearing — stolen from his closet, rolled up at the bottom, cinched to your waist with a belt — and then sighs and lies back down. You grin at him.
"When did you wake up?" he asks. You take a sip of your drink and set his cup to the side for later. "You could have woken me."
"You were sleeping so peacefully," you say. The paper bag rustles as you reach in to break off a piece of pastry. "Besides, you didn't even touch me last night, and I was so defenseless. I thought maybe you were giving up on that part of the plan. So I didn't want to bother you."
"I'm not giving up," Sae says, blinking up at you slowly. The morning light makes you glow. "But I won't take advantage of you while you're drunk."
"I wanted you to," you say matter-of-factly. "I thought you said if we were doing this, we wouldn't make it past the foyer. I got all the way to your bed, Itoshi."
Sae frowns. "Do we actually need to fuck in order to destroy you?"
"It'll make you a better actor," you say casually. Sae catches your eye and you wink. "You're so stiff with me all the time my own group mates asked if it was real."
That makes him bristle, but he just clenches his jaw. You pop another bit of pastry into your mouth. "Is this part of your plan, then?"
"My agency thinks ruining my image will let them wipe their hands of me," you sigh and kick your feet a little. "The international market is different, though. I need something scandalous to keep me relevant. That's why I need you to destroy me… but you kind of suck at acting, Itoshi."
This relationship is fake. It's fake. Sae can be good at relationships. Girls have fallen for him many times. He knows he's attractive, and the evidence is clear that he could easily get a girlfriend any time he wants — even if he's never had time for one before. Still, it can't possibly be that difficult.
He reaches up and laces his fingers with yours. "Fine. I'll make the world believe we're in love."
neighbour!kuroo who offers you to stay with him until you've found a new apartment — a small part of him hopes he doesn't seem too eager, another small one wondering if being so close to your ex is going to end up hurting you, but the biggest part of him really hopes that you'll say yes regardless.
who thinks that kenma would snort into his hand if he could see the level of excitement kuroo has to swallow once you agree, apologise for taking up space only to agree vehemently again.
everyday, in the morning when both of you found each other in the kitchen, he opens the newspaper wide for any new apartment postings while you scour the internet; the smell of coffee and breakfast soothing and familiar. a flat far away enough from your ex-boyfriend that you don't have to worry anymore, but secretly he hopes that it's not so far away that he won't ever see you again.
neighbour!kuroo who bids you goodbye when you leave for work first, waiting at the door until he sees you board the elevator safely lest your ex-boyfriend gets the prime idea of harassing you on your way out.
who cackles to himself at the notice hanging on the wall in the entrance hall: the landlord asking for the culprit who taped a tenant's mailbox shut to come forward for community service or to face a fine upon refusal.
kuroo thinks he's got enough money to pay double the fine. (he does plan to mess with it again — to maintain his youthfulness, of course.)
neighbour!kuroo who learns that your work place is not that far away from his own. who wonders if it's far too forward to ask you to spend lunch hour together down the street at the really good coffee shop.
whose heart stutters when he gets a call forwarded from an unknown number only for his ear to meet your voice to ask whether he wanted to meet up for lunch.
(his assistant, looking through the glass wall, raises her eyebrow at the fist pump he throws into the air; her other joining in as soon as she watches kuroo trying to tame his hair but to no avail — stubborn as the head it sits on.)
kuroo also happens to forget to mention that he doesn't like almond paste but when you excitedly show him your favourite pastry with hopeful eyes, lashes caressing your cheeks, a wide grin on your face, he can't help but put his entire life on the line fighting the blush that theatens to overtake his own.
for a second he thinks of refusing, but then he tries the almond riddled pastry, anyway.
he does not like it.
neighbour!kuroo who gets off work half an hour earlier and waits in front of your work place so that he could drive both of you home.
who, with a cocked eyebrow and a sharp retort ready on his tongue, notices a familiar loser linger around the entrance.
"i sure as hell hope you're not here to see who i think you wanna see," he says, looking down his nose at your ex. kuroo, who makes sure to bear his teeth in a resemblance of a sharp smile, who delights in the shifting of uneasy eyes, "but in case you need a reminder of why to stay away, i'm more than happy to help out."
who acts brilliantly inconspicuous once you walk towards him; your boyfriend long gone, shooed away, bullied away, sneered away. (he didn't even have to try that hard.)
neighbour!kuroo who finds it easy to match his long strides to your shorter ones; whose hand swings next to yours. now and then, your knuckles meet his for a split second in a way that makes him want to take your fingers in a tight hold so they can't tease him anymore.
you tell him about an interview you booked for an apartment viewing, excited, asking him whether he had time on the upcoming wednesday at 11 am.
he doesn't, but he says he'll be there with you, anyway.
who tries to ignore the little stab through his ribcage at the thought that he would lose out on your presence before he could even enjoy it to the fullest.
neighbour!kuroo who sends you a smile, void of any cutting edges, eyes crinkling, and tells you, "let's look for more viewings at home."
whose chest squeezes in consolation when you gift him a smile back and nod as you eat the same damn almond pastry; when you don't correct him about home.
neighbour!kuroo who innocently forgets to remind you of looking for more viewings, and instead relishes in the space you occupy on his couch next to him as you settle in with hot tea and a blanket to tackle on the many movies you borrowed from the library.
who gets into a routine with you of making breakfast, washing dishes, saying goodnight and good morning, bickering and teasing, late-night talks and dawn-kissed chats.
who thinks that really, maybe you could just stay here.
taglist | @takes1 @origamipivo @sailanne
@monikosman1311 (i know you didn't ask for a tag, but since you asked for a continuation in the first place—)
feat. karasu, otoya, yukimiya || wc: 9.4k
synopsis: moving into a new apartment with three men isn't exactly the most easy feat, but you think there's something quite unusual about your new roommates that makes life seem a little more fun.
↳ episode synopsis: when otoya asks you to be his plus-one for a wedding, you find out that there's more than him that meets the eye. so much so, that it somehow wounds you accidentally locked in a bathroom alone together.
contains: fem!reader, she/her pronouns, roommates au, modern au, fluff, slight crack, forced proximity, reader wears a dress and heels, subtle classism, family issues
series masterlist
☚ previous next☛
Otoya Eita is a curious case of someone who you suspect isn’t who he seems to be.
Something bugs you about him, something gnawing in a little crevice of your mind. Perhaps it’s that seemingly nonchalant exterior that you think is a little too lax for someone with adult responsibilities like him. Or maybe the way he’s much smarter than you think he was initially. Something of the sort, there’s a lot of peculiarities about him that just don’t seem to add up to what he thinks he’s trying to convey to you.
He says he earns the least out of the four of you—yet he owns a Lexus, multiple expensive colognes, and he’ll show off some new pieces of Chrome Hearts or David Yurman he bought. You figure that one watch of his is at least a third of your salary.
He says he’s not looking for something serious in a relationship—yet you’ve seen him wallow in his misery a few times when some girls wouldn’t call him back. Then he’ll get back up in a matter of two days or less to find someone new to play with.
He says he can't pay the rent this month to you and your other roommates dismay—yet he somehow always pulls through with the money at the last minute to a mysterious degree. Where he gets it from, you think you’re better off not knowing… especially since you’ve eavesdropped on a few of his conversations with someone shady on the phone, asking about a boon of some kind.
Otoya, to you, at least from a few months ago, was the most open roommate out of the other three. Now, you’re not so sure. Unlike Karasu and Yukimiya, who have gotten closer and more amicable as times went on, Otoya seems to have shut himself in with you to your dismay in the past weeks, despite him being the first roommate you were truly comfortable around. He seems to be an enigma to you more than anyone you’ve ever met—you don’t know how to decode him. And to be honest, you’re not sure if you should. Maybe you’re best placed in this pool of ignorance you’ve been trying to get out of to understand your roommate, absorbing it and letting it linger around you.
He has this outer layer to him; a mask of a seemingly chill guy who goes with the flow, someone who lays back and lets life do its work for him. He’ll just simply follow along wherever the wind takes him.
But something eats at you, that gnawing feeling always just lingering about. A gut feeling whispers in your ear that there’s something deeper, more intrinsic about him. You’ve acknowledged the suspicion, but you’re not too sure if you should try and operate on Otoya to properly pluck out his brain. After all, there might just be nothing there and you’ve been paranoid this entire time. Maybe it’s best just to stay out of his business (though, you sometimes find it hard not to, especially when you sometimes find him talking to someone on the phone with pinched brows when you enter the apartment, only for him to hang up the call when he notices you, his default face placing back onto his visage.).
And you’ve been doing a good job at it. Until now, when an opportunity presents itself for you to prod your nose around the hidden secrets of Otoya Eita. All because of an extended wedding invitation from him.
“I need a plus-one from my cousin’s wedding next Saturday,” he had said to you a week prior, scratching the back of his neck lazily. “I’d ask Tabito or Kenyu, but uh. I don’t want my folks to get the wrong impression, ya know?”
You had snorted under your breath, laughing, but said yes without thinking of the consequences at the time. It was only yesterday that it hit you that you’d be meeting Otoya’s family despite only knowing him for a few months whilst nothing absolutely nothing about Otoya’s personal life despite what he gave to you, much less what kind of people his family were.
So you ran to Karasu, who had known him the longest, and in a panic, asked him what sort of people they were. Unfortunately, he wasn’t much help, only giving you a sheepish smile and telling you, “They’re quite the weirdos, ‘s all I’ll say—at least from when I met ‘em. Sorry, sugar.”
When you asked Yukimiya, you ran into the same dead end. The brunette also only gave you a pitiful look. “Just try not to talk to them too much. The less you know, the better.”
Their responses did nothing to calm your nerves. If anything, it amplified the apprehension from twice it was before. You wish you felt it earlier in the week, however, since that at least allowed you more ample time to actually buy a better dress than this dusty rag that you had worn for a friend’s garden party a few years back.
You think this is the longest you’ve stared at yourself in the mirror that you’re becoming an eyesore to yourself. The baby pink dress with puffed short sleeves and layered tulle feels out of date; it’s weird around your waist and just doesn’t seem very elegant for the type of wedding Otoya had described. Too casual, too childish.
A knock comes at your door suddenly.
From the door reveals a dressed-up Otoya Eita before you, uncharacteristically sharp in his crisp grey-black suit and pistachio green tie. His hair is parted neatly, his bangs usually grazing his face now pushed to the side to show the entirety of his features.
A smirk displays itself on your face. “Someone looks rather handsome.”
Otoya hums with satisfaction at your approval, taking a singular finger and dragging it along his jawline. Something called mogging, if you call correctly. “It all comes naturally to me.”
He lets himself in your room, whistling at your messy bedroom littered with disarrayed clothing that you were trying to pluck out and make a nice arrangement with. “A little birdie told me you were having trouble choosing an outfit.”
Your shoulders droop when you spot yourself in your mirror again, your dress looking like it was just plastered on you rather than fitting you.
“I’m assuming my groans of despair were louder than I thought they were,” you sigh despondently, hands attempting to try and fiddle with the layers of the dress so it seems right at least in the mirror.
“I know you said to dress nice, but this is all I have…” you turn to Otoya, who curiously pinches one of your business dresses in his fingers. “I’m sorry, I would’ve totally gone shopping sooner had I known it’d be a big deal.”
Otoya gently places down the dress and turns to you with a barely-visible quirk of his lips. “It’s not bad but I might have something else in mind that might help ease your mind.”
He excuses himself out of the room and returns back not even a moment later with a large white zippered bag hung by a hanger. It’s thick and padded, clearly a bit of weight to it. You’re a little appalled, not expecting Otoya to go out of the way and quite literally get you a dress of his own means. But this also meant that if Otoya was doing more than what he was used to, swaying from his normal route of winging it and actually doing proper preparation for this, it ultimately meant that this was a much bigger event than you anticipated it to be. And you surely had to be ready to size yourself up for such a manner.
Otoya delicately places it on the mountain of clothes on your messy bed, carefully unzipping the bag to reveal a magnificent, floor-length, pear green sequined dress that reflected light so elegantly, it almost created a natural spotlight on itself. Held by thin straps, the chest area was highlighted from all the sequined and carefully-placed cherry blossoms speckling about that brought out a certain uniqueness to the dress. It looked preciously handmade, as you think no machine could delicately craft such petals from fabric and sequins.
It was magnificent and mature, something that clearly contrasted with your current dress. You couldn’t deny that Otoya had great taste when it came to fashion, both for men and women it seems, only second-best next to Yukimiya, though he came damn close to taking over his position on the podium.
You gasp aloud at it, clearly impressed at its meticulousness.
Otoya holds it up by its hanger, showing its full glory to you. “I’m really hoping it’s your size, but d’you like it? You wanna try it on?”
“I—” you falter. The dress was just so elegant that you don’t think someone like you should be adorning it; it was clearly fit for someone more high-class like a socialite or an actress. “Where did you even get this?”
He shrugs, nonchalant as ever. “Bought it on my way home yesterday. Thought you might want to wear it as a backup just in case.”
“I’m really hoping this is a rental,” you worry about, biting at your fingernail. Something seems rather ominous about all those sequins flashing about, like they’re warning you not to touch such preciosity. “How much was this?”
“Mmh, not telling,” Otoya says and slips the dress off its hanger to your panic. “Just know I’ve got it covered.”
You frown.
“Rent’s coming up soon,” you warn, “so if I find out you chucked some money out the window just for a mere dress, you’ve got a storm coming, bud.”
Otoya chuckles fondly. “Relax. I already gave my stuff early, so don’t stress about it anymore and just try it on.”
Ignoring your protests, he forces the dress in your hands and makes his way out, waving his fingers as he leaves you in the desolation of your room.
A pull of his neck releases the tension from it, rhythmic cracks from bones echoing in the hallway your room was located from. Otoya sighs, the weight on his shoulders heaving down on him more than ever today that he hopes will expel from himself once this day is over.
He feels bad, dragging you into this mess. But Otoya thinks that he can’t handle the masses by himself, he needs some sort of stabilizer, someone to help him keep on his feet. Karasu and Yukimiya knew about everything already, so they knew about the trials and tribulations that he faced back then, and clearly didn’t want to go through them again. He couldn’t drag someone from his roster either—he didn’t even know half of their last names.
It wasn’t his fault you just happened to be right there. With your grace and presence, you were the perfect person to have at his side for those hours he’s going to have to face head-on. All he has to do is just pivot his attention to you, knowing that it’ll be his that you’ll be yearning for as well in a room of strangers. It was an equal exchange.
Still. Even though you’ll be at his side, it doesn’t shake off the unease that lingers about.
Otoya settles himself on the couch, feeling tension stiffen his joints again. A warning sign to expect the worst, he assumes. Whatever. It’s just a few hours. He’ll reset and return back to normal in no time. This too shall pass, or whatever bullshit Yukimiya spews.
He cracks his neck again, making Karasu, who sits lazily next to him, cringe.
“Don’t do that near me,” he mutters, averting his attention to the soccer match on the TV. “Freaks me out.”
“It’s just bones, don’t think your two-hundred six are any different from mine,” Otoya insists, going to crack his knuckles to Karasu’s displeasure.
In the corner of the couch, Yukimiya throws some popcorn from a bowl in his mouth, grinning when he sees such a dapper Otoya in front of him. “You look good. For once.”
Otoya mopes, a light offense grazing him. “‘For once?’”
Yukimiya shrugs, still stupidly smiling. “Guess you wanted to look good for (Y/N).”
He frowns.
“This is a wedding. Why wouldn’t I try to look good?” Otoya remarks, clearly unamused. He’s not sure if he’s up for a childish banter right now, not when he’s got too much on his plate.
Karasu snickers at his appearance. Normally it was him and Yukimiya that looked rather tidy in their outerwear, so it came as comical to see the person who donned himself in the first clean thing he blindly plucked from his closet to be adorned in such fashion. “Took some money outta yer trust fund to get that suit o’yers, huh?” he slyly asks, nudging Otoya with his elbow.
Otoya rolls his eyes. “I’ve always had this, dumbass,” he insists with folded arms. “I just don’t like to wear it unless I have to.”
Yukimiya is next to chortle. “Maybe he used the money to buy (Y/N) that dress. Looked pretty expensive to me.”
Otoya thins his lips. Then looks away, the tip of his ears revealed by his slicked hair dusted with red.
Karasu and Yukimiya clearly take notice of his reaction that clearly can’t guise a lie even if Otoya tried to create one, bursting out into laughter when they make eye contact with one another.
“Aw, lookit this loverboy over here!” Karasu hollers and grabs Otoya by the neck, making him wince at Karasu's strength. “Didn’t know ya liked her that much!”
“I don’t…” Otoya grits his teeth, “I just… wanted to get her something nice.”
“Oh, yeah, sure,” Yukimiya cackles and lightly kicks at Otoya whilst he throws some popcorn his way, speckles of yellow-white fireworking over the living room floor. “Get your non-girlfriend plus-one a real fancy dress out of the blue, yeah? How much did it cost Prince Charming?”
Otoya sighs. “You idiots can’t decipher the fact that this is all for a wedding, can you?” he states with a flat voice. “You both know how my family is… I just don’t want her—”
Heels click softly suddenly, a shy pattering coming from the hallway.
“I don’t mean to interrupt but…” your voice breaks through the playful atmosphere, making all the men pause and look in your direction. “Er, sorry Otoya. Is this how it’s supposed to fit?”
Three spotlights turn to you from the coach from your roommates at once, suddenly drenching you in shyness at such vapid attention. Otoya is stunned at what he sees, breath hitching slightly when you present yourself before them.
He has to give himself a pat on the back because not only does the dress fit you right, it fits you so perfectly that it looks like it was made just for you. You’re going to blend in perfectly, he thinks.
Otoya abruptly stands up from the couch, clearing his throat and sending a soft smile your way—a rare feat considering how stony Otoya’s face could be.
“Fits like a glove on you, babe,” he compliments.
You warmly smile at him, relieved. Karasu and Yukimiya glance at each other, suppressing some teasing smirks, shoulders shaking.
The clock is ticking, and Otoya figures that you and him have to get to the venue soon before traffic starts. You wrap up some last minute adjustments to your outfit before you and him bid Karasu and Yukimiya goodbye with a wave.
“Get us some goodies if they’re offerin’ any!” Karasu shouts.
“Give my warm wishes to the couple!” Yukimiya calls out just as Otoya closes the door.
His sedan looks sleek as ever in the parking lot and you think this is the first time that Otoya actually looks the part to own such a luxury vehicle. He seems to be the gentleman tonight, seeing as how he opened up your car door for you to let you in, a hand holding yours to help keep you steady from the imbalance your heels might offer.
“Am I getting the princess treatment tonight?” you ask playfully as Otoya settles himself into his car.
“When do you not?” inquires Otoya as he slings back one of his arms on the back of your headrest, veering his head to help him reverse despite having a back camera with sensors. You roll your eyes jovially at his antics, supposing that his flirting tactics just come a little too naturally to him even when he wasn’t trying to do so.
The car ride is not too long, the venue being a lot closer than you thought initially. And clearly, a lot more grand, the pictures you saw from Google not doing it justice as you drive by it to its back parking lot.
It’s a large garden conservatory, filled with lush flora all over both inside and out and glittering the place with natural color and textures. A large window dome ceiling looks overhead the space, all the windows letting the setting sunlight in in a manner so majestic that you think it was haloed by the hand of the Sun itself. Two large ponds sit before the entrance on the grass, koi fish swimming about the many lilypads and lotus flowers that bloom before you.
Weariness grows within you when you stare at the building. You want to ask Otoya if you’re sure this is the right venue when he moves forward in the line of many cars to get a parking ticket, seeing as how you’ve never seen such a lavish venue before, but when you pass by a banister that reads a familiar last name of the groom, your words falter.
Welcome to the Wedding of Otoya Teruo & Hirai Hiromi, the banister states.
Up comes the gnawing feeling of suspicion again, like Otoya is hiding something, especially when you see his eyes narrow at the banister. Something is off. His mask is slipping, you think.
You know you should stay cautious and try to mind your business about him, but you’re just his friend and roommate after all and you’re not as close to him as Karasu or Yukimiya. But you feel pressured by an unknown force to try and squeeze something out of him that can help you gain a sense of the true Otoya.
Your fingers itch to lift the mask off of him, to truly see him for who he is and not just the nonchalant, flirty roommate.
“This wedding is pretty extravagant,” you admit after Otoya gains his temporary permit from the parking attendant. “I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me.”
Otoya drums his fingers on the steering wheel of the car, blowing some spare hair out of his way. “Yeah. There is.”
Your eyes go to glance at him, body unmoving. “Well…” you start, fiddling with your fingers when he doesn’t elaborate, “are you gonna say something?”
“You might not like it,” he says honestly, his own gaze focused on trying to find a space, his car moving at a snail’s pace. “You seem stressed enough as it is.”
He’s observant, a trait you’ve picked up from him over the course of the months. Almost a little too much so… were your anxieties that obvious that they leaked out without your knowledge?
Your lips pull a frown. “I can handle it. I’d rather know too much than not know enough. I’m meeting your family, after all.”
The mention of the word “family” irks him a bit, a slight tick from his jaw. A sigh drifts out from him, like he was expecting this from someone who’s mindset was so head-on for most things. “You should be careful about what you wish for.”
“Otoya,” you declare a little more sternly. He purses his lips at your calling of his name, akin to a mother scolding a child.
“Fine then, you asked for it,” he mutters, swerving his car suddenly into a blank space and jutting his gear stick into park. He leans his elbow on the center console and somehow forces you to look at him without touching or commanding you. You stay still where you are, but you focus on the droning look of Otoya’s green hues that bore into you, warning you almost.
“My family owns a subsidiary business of a large investment management company,” he begins with a tone so robotic, it sounds almost generated. It doesn’t sound a bit like him.
You were planning to uncover the true essence of Otoya Eita and why he’s been rather shut-in recently from you, but you never expected him to reveal everything about himself all at once because he spits out everything to you in the matter of seconds, leaving barely any for you to stay curious since he seems to ask every question you have in mind immediately.
“Specifically, we handle index funds. Yes we’re wealthy. Yes, I’m a trust fund baby. I just try to earn money my own way since I don’t want to rely on my parents that often. No, I can’t just give you money flat-out. No, do not ask me if you can dabble in them through me—Karasu already tried. I’ve got barely any knowledge in business and I want it to stay that way.
I have two sisters. Both of them are following my parents’ footsteps, which makes me a black sheep in the family. Stay away from them if you can, same with my parents. I don’t keep in contact with my family a lot for that reason and I only came here because Teruo is the only relative that I’m close with and that gets me.”
An apt pause goes by in the car.
“Ah…” you mumble, eyes wide as you nod slowly.
You thin your lips, not sure if you should say something at the moment, an exponential flurry of questions constantly rising to thoughts that you think you should hold yourself back from asking in the meantime as clearly this was just too much information to digest at once.
Otoya snaps you out of your thoughts with an actual snap of his fingers. You blink.
“This is important, so listen carefully,” he states, atypically serious. There’s almost this pleading look on his face if you look deeper into it. “All you need to do is keep your pretty little head down and let me do the talking, yeah? Don’t try to pretend to be someone you’re not if someone asks you who are—rich snobs can sniff out a phony in seconds. Just don’t give them too much information. Any questions?”
This is very unlike the usual Otoya you saw, and you think this is finally the real version of him that he’s finally allowing you to see; this more vulnerable, more historical side to him that you would’ve never guessed the current Otoya you knew (or thought you knew) well came from.
“Uh… who else should I avoid other than your sisters and parents?” you ask.
“Quite literally almost everyone on my side of the family, ‘cept for Teruo and my great aunt Hisako. She’s weird, but chill. Everyone else?” Otoya rolls his eyes. “Chances are if they look like me, then just stay away.”
You affirm with another nod. “What are your sisters’ names? Just so I can be wary.”
“My oldest sister goes by Eimi, my baby sister goes by Eiko,” Otoya describes. “Avoid nee-san the most—she can see through people easily. Eiko’s got a baby-face, but don’t be fooled. She’s a spoiled brat and a bitch if you tick her off.”
You wince at the insults he throws at his sisters, but you have no room to judge. Otoya grew up with them, you did not.
“Er, how about your parents?” you inquire.
“You don’t have to worry about them,” his shoulders sag a bit, “‘cause they’ll probably avoid me if anything.”
Otoya suddenly turns to you and you can see this foreign tiredness to his eyes; it’s not the normal lethargicness you see him being casted upon, but rather from exhaustion.
That’s what happens, you suppose, when you come from such a family of prestige—you can’t even imagine the amount of expectations he probably had to live up to prior to being your roommate. You’ve never seen him in this way before, seeing him almost defenseless before you.
Eyes closing, he breathes slowly, trying to regain his natural lull again as best as possible. Otoya cracks them open again, a familiar glaze over lime green.
“Just stay close to me,” he mutters almost beseechingly. “Okay? For both our sakes.”
Otoya was right. Money really makes people much too vain for your liking.
Despite looking the part of the family, Otoya himself had an aura that made him stand out in all the wrong ways, drawing side-eyes and whispers from people that knew about him and his reputation as you and him walked about the conservatory, trying to find the groom. You’re a part of it too, his notoriety stretching to you. Every time you try to sneak a glance at one of those dirty looks you think is being thrown your way, just when your vision clears up, they go back to talking in nonsensical manners amongst themselves and laughing much too sweetly.
An older middle-aged woman in a yukata suddenly begins to approach you and Otoya, a faux smile on her face that he doesn’t return. Her face is placidly smooth, eerily so, but the botox can’t always hide the essence of bitter time, and you think that smile is just as fake as her lips.
“Eita, what a pleasure to see you here,” she greets. “Teruo will be happy to see you.”
“Auntie Kazuko,” Otoya replies simply. “It’s good to see you.”
Her smile doesn’t falter and she draws her beady eyes to you, lighting up in mischief. “Hello there. I’ve never seen you before.”
You can feel Otoya stiffen before you, but you squeeze his arm in reassurance that you can temporarily handle yourself.
“My name is (Y/N) (L/N),” you greet with as much false compassion as you can muster, giving her a slight bow of respect. “I’m his plus-one for tonight. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“(L/N)...” Kazuko draws on her tongue, tasting your last name delicately. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of such a family. What do you all dabble in?”
“She’s not one of us, Auntie, she’s just a friend of mine,” Otoya cuts in before Kazuko can make a judgement. His tone is so much sharper than normal, serpentlike, almost equivalent to his aunt’s.
Kazuko’s smile stretches wider, eyes widening and you swear her pupils constrict themselves like a cat venturing for its prey. You swallow.
“Ah,” she murmurs, lilting her head to examine you fully. “My apologies. I just thought with your looks and your dress that perhaps I just wasn’t akin to your name. Seems I’ve been mistaken.”
Your dress suddenly feels constricting on your body, too tight. “Oh, I just—” you start, shuffling.
“Oscar de la Renta’s Summer 2023 collection, yes?” she asks you. A shiver runs down your spine when his aunt refuses to move her formidable gaze away from you, almost testing you.
You go rigid. No wonder why you felt so intimidated by the dress; a piece crafted by a distinguished fashion house was given to you by Otoya. And while you’ve dabbled in the world of high fashion before, you’ve never been in a status that allowed you to just casually wear $2,000 pieces like they were nothing.
Words fall heavy on your tongue, trying to compose yourself so as to not seem small in front of her. “I don’t really—”
Otoya beats you to it first, swooping down to save you before you accidentally embarrass yourself.
“His Pre-Fall 2025 collection, actually,” he says, face still blank.
Your throat feels dry. Kazuko had a trap set up ready for you and if it weren’t for Otoya’s quick reflexes, you probably would’ve ended up dead meat not even fifteen minutes into this wedding.
Kazuko’s smile falters a bit. Her gaze hardens at you but pivots to Otoya. “I’m sure she has a voice of her own, Eita.”
“Where’s Teruo?” he inquires boredly. “Just wanna give him some support before the big show.”
Kazuko huffs, but silently points to the right corridor of the hallway, her eyes cold and sharp and daggering when they burn into the back of your back as Otoya leads you away from her.
“I’m assuming she’s one of yours…?” you ask softly, noticing how Otoya’s own gaze softens and body loosens when she’s out of view.
“She’s his mom,” Otoya admits as you trail down a hallway of doors as you approach the large door at the end of the hallway. “It’s crazy considering they act nothing alike. Or look alike. I can’t tell if it’s because of all the botox or if just being a bitch ages you quicker.”
A stifled giggle muffles itself under your hand, a small bit of humor distracting you from the tension in the room.
True to his word, you meet the rather outlandish and loud Teruo, whose naturally extroverted nature is a breath of fresh air in comparison to everyone else. He shakes your hand warmly, telling you thank you for being here with Otoya, who many thought wouldn’t even show up, with a date nonetheless. You can understand why he and Otoya get along so well—they’re quite the oddities in the family.
He tells you and Otoya to go get settled soon in the venue with a shining smile, clearly excited to meet his shining bride. A lovesick man is always a treat to witness you think.
Skittering eyes are on you when you and Otoya settle down in your chairs and he can sense that your unease has amplified. It’s not like the same eyes that scan you aren’t observing his every move as well. Oddly, your out-of-place disposition that just seems to draw more attention than him than he would’ve liked brought him this solace—knowing that he wasn’t alone in not quite fitting in with the rest of the crowd. It was cruel to perhaps place you in a co-dependent position with him for the time being, but he figured he had to be just a bit selfish to keep his sanity.
You lift your gaze a bit and suddenly make accidental eye contact with a man in front whose head is turned ever so slightly to examine you, only breaking it when you notice him. There’s a few other eyes on you and Otoya, some even going to whisper behind their hands to share gossip.
You swallow dryly again, hands feeling clammy until a warmth slithers its way to one of them, squeezing it lightly.
You turn to Otoya, who idly gazes at you from the side and gives you a comforting nod.
“You’re fine. We’re fine,” he mutters softly. “Just ignore them. They won’t remember you tomorrow, anyways.”
The Otoya you’re familiar with somehow creeped back into this persona Otoya has been guising under, that coolness he’s notorious for bringing you comfort in knowing that this feeling won’t last for long. Relief in knowing that part of him isn’t entirely buried for the time being warms your nerves.
The lights dim.
You breathe steadily. Otoya squeezes your hand again and you return it, a silent agreement that you and him just have to stick it out for a few more hours together.
Despite the evident class and structure of the reception’s venue, the reception itself is rather rowdy. It’s too close and personal with the families, so you and Otoya have stowed away somewhere isolated and quiet, where you watch him play rhythm games on his phone intently.
“You suck,” you state as he misses a note.
“You swa—”
Otoya pauses mid sentence, closing his mouth.
You stare at him intently with a plastic grin, eyes wide and unblinking as he tries his best not to look at you and focuses his gaze on his phone. The douchebag jar was nearing its halfway point, if you could recall correctly.
“Finish that sentence, I dare you.”
“I’m good… thanks,” he mumbles.
“Good choice,” you cheerily state to his dismay as he begins another level.
The low hum of the game echoes through the part of the corridor where you and him settle yourselves in, the quietness lulling you both from the apprehension earlier. You can hear the cheers from the reception, but you and Otoya are better off just absorbing it rather than partaking in it. It’s not like they wanted you there anyway.
He’s much more relaxed now, ever since you and him moved away from all the commotion of his family that you witnessed in full light were just as everything Otoya had said they were. Judgemental, proud, and conceited.
“Hey,” you begin softly, resting your head on his shoulder and watch his thumbs prance about. “How come you didn’t tell me any of this before…?”
Otoya hums questionably, feeling the warmth of you radiating onto him. “What? My family?”
You nod. The fervent taps of his phone and echoes from the party are the only things that ring out into the silence for a bit, but Otoya eventually breaks after choosing his words carefully.
“Unless I’m forced to, I don’t like telling people about them,” he says, monotone and unfeeling. “For reasons you obviously saw. Also ‘cause I hate associating myself with them.”
That’s understandable, you think to yourself. You don’t think that you would be able to live with yourself if fate forced you to be a part of such a snobbish collective of rich folk without trying to break it off and make a name for yourself.
“It’s why I refused to go into the financial business field in college and chose music instead,” he continues to your astonishment. Not necessarily a man of many words in regards to himself, Otoya was always more of a secretive person to you, especially in consideration of recent weeks, so to hear him unsheathe truths of himself without you prying came as a small surprise.
But this is good, you think, to let him be vulnerable around you. To take that mask off.
“Your parents weren’t mad?” you ask.
He snorts loudly, shaking his head. “Oh no, they were pissed. Threatened to cut me off and everything.”
You perk up. “But you said you’re trust fund baby?”
“I am still,” he confirms with a nod. “Because I told them if they did, I’d reveal to the press all the scandals they covered up. And there’s more than enough to hand out to properly damage their reputation.” Otoya shrugs loosely. “My uncle on my mom’s side especially has quite the stack. Really likes that one gentlemen's club down on Twenty-Eighth.”
Your eyes widen at his quiet ferocity. Only a few hours prior, you would’ve never thought that Otoya you saw on a day-to-day basis would dabble in such matters, only doing his own business as he liked. But seeing this new side of him stirs sparks of interest within you, seeing as how there’s this undertone of determination and ambition he nurtured himself, very much unlike the lethargic, easy-going roommate you saw.
Otoya, without averting his eyes away from his phone, senses your shock and cracks a grin.
“Surprised?” he inquiries, a subtle slyness in his voice.
You’re nothing but. You let out a brief laugh in astonishment.
“A little bit,” you murmur. “Sorry, I just kind of always took you as—”
“—a slob? A sloth? A laggard?” Otoya lists down. “You can say it, I’ve heard it all before. They’re pretty much true anyway.”
“I was going to say ‘laid back’,” you mutter, shoving him a bit to his amusement. “‘Care-free’ even, you dunce.”
He cringes at the familiarity of the nickname. “Gross. You’ve been hanging out with Tabito too much.”
You’re about to hurl an insult back at him but Otoya stands up abruptly when two feminine voices suddenly trail through the hallway. His face remains still, but there’s a seriousness to his eyes that narrow when they grow closer.
“I feel as though Teruo went over his budget,” a familiar voice drawls steadily, two pairs of heels clicking in synchronicity. “All for a commoner girl?”
“Well, Teruo-nii has always been like that,” the other, younger in intonation, replies in what seems to be an attempt at comfort, but comes off as standoffish. Otoya’s brows knit in concern at the second voice, clearly accustomed to it. “Always loud and grand. Explosive, some may say.”
“I hope your brother won’t be doing that with that girl he came along with,” Auntie Kazuko’s voice chides. “Then again, I doubt he’ll ever get married anyway. He doesn’t seem like the type to do so.”
The younger voice laughs in amusement. “It might be better for us anyway. We don’t need more drama from someone who’s stirred up quite a storm already.”
Your eyes soften in pity at the implication of Otoya, who just stares at the two approaching shadowy figures in the hallway. You want to refute their statement, but your words falter when Otoya suddenly grabs your arm and pulls you further from them, your heels rapidly clicking against the floor.
“Hey!” you exclaim with a slight yelp in pain from his grip. “Where are we—”
“Just away from them,” he grimaces. “I don’t feel like talking to nee-san today.”
His older sister. Eimi, if you could recall, the one who was able to see through people. You’ve never heard of her until today, let alone know what she looks like, but you can already tell from Otoya’s urgency to get away from her that she’s not a force to be reckoned with.
Otoya leads you down one of the corridors leading to the entrance but hisses out a swear when he sees a cherub-faced woman talking politely with an elder, a head of long snowy white hair with that strike of green mimicking his own. He turns back, only to see the shadowy figures from earlier approach you both closer and closer as the seconds pass.
He groans out loud. He hates things like this—problems that require too much worrying. It was such a waste of time dabbling on things that were out of his control, such as this scenario before him, and Otoya thought he had gotten away from the hazards of it when he left the family but he supposes that he’s doomed to face such troubles whenever they’re in radius.
His eyes scan his surroundings for a way out, not finding any that won’t lead him to cross paths with people until he spots a certain door.
“Sorry babe,” he mutters lowly to you and pulls you to the men’s bathroom to your horror. “This won’t take long, I promise.”
You gawk at him when you see the male symbol on the door.
“Dude!” you shout in protest, but to no avail does it work in changing Otoya’s mind seeing as how he slams the door shut and locks it, pressing himself up against the door as a barricade.
To your relief, it was a single stall bathroom with no one in it to bother you both, one gold-plated toilet sitting next to the door and a marble sink across from it. Otoya swallows thickly, pressing his ear up against the wall to properly hear outside. He can hear the semi-condescending voices of his sisters murmur through, his name being bounced around once or twice to his displeasure.
A small velvet stool sits right in front of the door and you let yourself take a break from the stress of your heels, watching closely as Otoya observes the outside within the inner safety of the bathroom with his ear.
“I think we’re all good,” he asserts when turning back to you.
You don’t enjoy seeing him like this—it felt uncharacteristic of him to be so restless around people he was supposed to have fun with. It’s clear that he didn’t want to come from the very beginning.
“Hey,” you start, “I get that Teruo is your cousin and everything, but we can go home if you really want to.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t. I promised him I’d stay for at least the majority of the reception. Just until the toasts. Said I didn’t have to interact with anyone, but he wants me here. I owe him that much.”
“Well that isn’t worth being uncomfortable for nearly five hours, I’m sorry,” you remark tiredly. “You don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here. I think it’s just best if we leave.”
Otoya turns to you, a slight furrow in his brow. “He’s the only person in this family that I refuse to let down. Everyone else can go fuck themselves, but I’m doing this for him.”
You sigh, rubbing your forehead, a little vexed at this foreign stubbornness considering Otoya would usually go along with most things.
“You haven’t let yourself breathe even once the entire time we’ve been here,” you point out with concern. “I’m sure he’d understand.
Otoya takes your words in for a moment to consider, but ultimately shakes his head again. “It’s just a few more hours. Let’s just tough it out.”
Frustrated, you get up and dust yourself off, moving towards the door. You’ve had enough for one night; you’re tired, your esteem has been kicked down from all the shady comments sent your way, and all you want to do is just take off this dress and makeup and sleep. Meddling around in rich folks’ business was not your ideal Saturday night.
“You can stay if you want,” you huff, grasping the handle and whipping your head around to face him. “But I’m gonna grab an Uber. I’ll see you back home. I’ve done my part.”
Otoya shrugs loosely, unfazed as he takes your spot on the stool. “Go right ahead, princess.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Fine!”
“Fine.”
You throw him another judgemental look, one that he doesn’t do much with except for give you a questioning raise of his brows as you tug on the doorknob to swing yourself out of the reception’s venue.
Oddly, however… it refuses to budge.
You pause. Then jerk it again. Nothing happens. The door stays where it is.
“What…” you mutter, pulling on the doorknob again, fiddling with the lock multiple times to get the right latch. With every turn of the lock, however, you run into the same problem. “You can’t be serious? It’s stuck?”
“No way bro can’t even open a door right,” Otoya snorts and stands up. His hand goes to grip the doorknob and give it a pull from his own means, but even he can’t seem to get it to open.
“I’m telling you, it’s stuck,” you insist as he repeats your own methods, all reaching no avail.
Otoya constantly pulls on the doorknob, each yank being harsher than the previous. “It literally just opened a minute ago—hold on…”
“Don’t pull too hard,” you warn when he begins adding more of his strength. “You might—!”
Something clicks, and Otoya figures it’s the latch. He gives it one last harsh tug, only for the actual knob of it to snap off suddenly to your horror, a gasp pulling from your throat.
He steps back a little, examining the chunk of metal in his palm. He gives you a blank look.
“So… we may be stuck,” he says all too obviously, making you smack your forehead.
“Well duh!” you groan out loud and examine the broken lock that seems completely hopeless to try and solve a way to maneuver it.
Otoya is quick to pull out his phone. “Lemme call Teruo and see if—shit, my phone’s dead.”
He shows you the empty battery icon flickering on his screen, your dread expanding.
“I didn’t think rhythm games took up that much battery…” he falters, tucking it back into his pocket. “Try yours.”
Thankfully, you have your phone still at 40% battery when you pull it out, the number keypad at the ready, only for you to whine miserably when you see the No Service text on the corner of your screen. Of course you somehow land in the only place in the venue that is just slightly out of service.
“First rule of thumb whenever you enter a place,” Otoya holds a finger up, one that you have an urge to snap from the irritation that boils within you. “Always ask for their wifi password.”
That’s not how it works… you hiss at him in your mind, trying to avoid escalating this situation. You stare at him darkly, his lax personality not doing much to help your unease in this moment and wonder how many hours it’ll take for you to go insane and strangle him.
Two, you think. One, if he tested his luck.
Surprisingly, after three and a half hours have passed, Otoya still has a beating heart. He’s been the patient one out of you two, watching you as you pace back and forth to try and conjure a plan to get out while he was just riding on the wave of hoping someone would come by soon to try and use this bathroom.
You’ve tried going on his shoulders to try and receive a signal, pushing the vent to see if you could spy-movie—only for it to be much too small for a human body to fit, and yelling for help whenever someone passed by, only for your shouts to be drowned out from the music.
The music has died down, but your voice is gone from all the shouting. You’ve given up at this point, just hoping that a custodian will somehow break their way through after hours.
“Has no one attempted to look for you yet?” you question wearily when you slump down next to him on the stool.
Otoya gives another one of those loose shrugs of his again as he bunches up his suit jacket, plopping it on his lap. “Bold of you to assume that family gives a damn about me.”
The way he says it seems too casual, like he was used to this. Like this was normal for him. It’s unsettling to you, knowing that such a large and prestigious family would think of one of their own so scathingly that his existence barely mattered.
He sees you giving him a pouted look and sighs. “You don’t have to pity me. I chose to leave that life while knowing the consequences.”
“But even so… it doesn’t bother you?” you question with sympathy laced in your voice. “When they talk about you like that?”
“Hah,” Otoya gives a smileless laugh, rolling his eyes. “I promise you, I could not have given less of a shit about what they think of me. They can say whatever they want; I got what I wanted at the end of the day while they’re stuck slaving away at an office.”
You give him a stony look, silently reminding him that you and his other two roommates worked corporate.
“My fault,” Otoya excuses with guilty haste.
The rigidity in your face softens once more, your mind trailing back to all of those side-eyes that everyone had thrown in Otoya’s direction from before.
The Otoya you saw today just seemed so different from the one you were used to at home, so much so that you still can’t decipher him out and if anything, the Otoya that you had witnessed today just even caused more confusion to you. The usual Otoya, the one you suspect is just a mask, is this composed and carefree guy that dawdled around the apartment as he pleased, doing whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted to do it. This Otoya however, was much more uptight, much more weary of his surroundings—you almost think that he’s mimicking his family in some manner.
Maybe that’s why he’s been so closed-off with you recently. Family can bring out the best and worst in people, so the days leading up to this event were the reason why he’s been so strayed from you lately.
“You know,” you start quietly, earning Otoya’s attention. “I wish you didn’t feel the urge to have to hide something like this from me. Unless I made it seem like you had to…?”
Otoya examines you in full, scanning how bleak your face is, how sincere it was.
He remembers the first day you came into the loft—you, sitting there on the couch with your fidgety self squirming about. Originally, Otoya had not really thought that hard about you during the first few weeks you and him were living together, seeing you as no more than just a girl he wasn’t allowed to cross boundaries with to ensure nothing unnecessary would blossom. Even Yukimiya and Karasu had told him not to try anything funny, though he insists he wasn’t going to anyway.
But times change, as they always have. A crack was made in the wall he put between you and him from a specific day he saw you bring home a certain vinyl, one that he already owned from his own collection. That was his first break with you, your shared love of music—the start of everything. Of you and him. A unique relationship with a girl he’d never had before.
He thought it’d just be nothing more than that, casual chats over new albums and artists and whatnot. Until the small hangouts started to arise, where it’d just be the two of you venturing around places like record stores or flea markets. It was nice, being able to hang out with a girl without any other intentions. Perhaps that’s why Otoya allowed himself to get closer to you—you were a safe option. Someone he was able to breathe around just like Karasu and Yukimiya.
Someone he saw as an escape from the roots of himself.
“I didn’t mean to keep it from you,” he says. “I just never brought it up because I thought I didn’t have to at first,” He shuffles his feet about, almost ashamed.
He never even realized he was closing himself in from you when he received the wedding invitation all those weeks ago, a reminder to not forget where he came from, who he was supposed to be. That no matter how many times he attempts to bury it, that lost potential he never wanted to live up to was still a remnant of him.
“I figured that if I possibly did, you’d view me differently,” he admits, “you’d view me as someone I’m not.”
He had a point; money does a plethora of things—one of them being the way people see each other. Whether one person saw the other as a walking piggy bank, or someone they could depend on financially, or someone they should envy, money was always attached to some sort of ugly feeling that you figured Otoya didn’t want you associating with him. Not from someone he had such a unique connection with.
“I didn’t want that,” he confesses and raises his head to face you in full. You can feel your heart skip a beat when he goes to directly stare into your eyes with those lime green eyes of his that hold nothing but genuinity. “Especially not from you, (Y/N).”
The way he says your name is delicate, like it’s fragile. The lack of endearment and nickname reveals the earnesty of his nature.
It comes to you suddenly, that epiphany you had been searching for.
You had spent all this time wondering about who the true Otoya Eita was that you didn’t even realize you had been face-to-face with him this entire time. That, in reality, the seemingly-fake Otoya was the one you saw plastered on his face when it came to his family matters, people that brought the worst of himself to light. He kept it professional, keeping them at arm’s length as to not let anymore of those feelings only they could conjure to light. He was just trying to bury that part of him on your behalf to keep letting authenticity bounce between you and him.
But Otoya is a good man. A tad bit annoying, yes, you won’t deny you’ve seen some vices of his unfiltered self, sure, but at the end of the day, despite having that immense access to wealth, he still somehow lived humbly. It was ironic seeing as how he detached himself from his riches to become a happier person, but he’s clearly put in the work, seeing as how he seems to be content where he is. Everyone around him seems to be, as well.
You give him a gentle smile.
“I don’t think I would’ve viewed you in a different light even if I tried to,” you murmur. “You’re too much of a good person. I think everyone can see that, Otoya.”
His eyes widen a bit from your tender response before softening. Your response is tender, an honesty he’s not familiar with, but embraces nonetheless. “Thanks,” he murmurs.
One of his legs shuffles around with yours, linking them together in a loose manner. Otoya turns to you.
“You can call me Eita, by the way,” he proclaims quietly. “I don’t mind.”
The clicking of metal suddenly startles you awake, your body jolting so harshly, Otoya’s suit jacket falling to the ground from your body. Your head jerks up from Otoya’s shoulder, accidentally waking him up, whose own lied on top of yours for the small catnap you and him took, a groan rumbling out of him.
“Awhuzz happening…?” he asks blearily, eyes half-closed.
It takes a bit for your vision to adjust, but the inner mechanics of the broken doorknob are suddenly moving on their own, a muffled voice outside muttering about. You tap on his arm rapidly, pointing your finger towards it. “Look, look!”
Otoya’s drowsiness still stirs within him, but you go up and rap on the door, indicating to the person outside that someone was still here.
“Hello?!” you call out, hearing an exclaim from outside. “Hello! Sorry, but there’s two people trapped in here! Can you let us out please?!”
You watch eagerly as whoever is outside fiddles with the broken lock, the latch suddenly clicking and the door swinging open to your relief.
A custodian with his supplies appears before you, your unknowing knight in shining trousers. He widens his eyes at the both of you. “What on earth are you kids doin’ here? We’ve been closed for three hours already.”
I’m so sorry, the lock broke and we both got trapped inside since around eight or so,” you confess as you hand the custodian the broken knob. You check the time on your phone, the time reading 01:34 AM. “Oh gosh, we were stuck in there for that long?”
The custodian eyes you both suspiciously, raising a bushy brow. “And exactly why did you both move into the same bathroom when clearly…?” he eyes you up and down, moving his gaze to the male symbol on the door.
It was your turn for your eyes to widen, a heat rising on your cheeks.
“N-no sir, it wasn’t anything like that…” you stutter, shaking your head. “We just—will you shut up!” you snap at Otoya, who quietly snickers behind you to your disbelief.
The custodian sighs, dismissing it and just wanting his job to be over with.
“Y’all better get movin’,” he warns, checking behind his shoulder. “Security doesn’t take too kindly to who they think may be trespassers.”
When you both finally walk outside for the first time in hours from the bathroom and pass by the reception venue, it’s dark and completely devoid of all the decorations you saw earlier, eerily desolate. Otoya’s car is the only one that remains in the parking lot, with the exception of the night crew, and you couldn’t feel more relieved to be sitting on something other than a velvet stool for once. Who knew cold leather seats could feel so pleasant?
“It would’ve been easier if you just went along with what he was implying,” Otoya points out as he travels down the road, a smirk toying on his lips. “Would’ve been funnier, too.”
Your jaw grits, a familiar reaction whenever he says or does anything preposterous to you. He’s lucky he’s driving and not still stuck in the bathroom with you, because if he wasn’t, you most definitely would’ve strangled him by now.
“Twenty bucks in the douchebag jar when we get home, Eita,” you hiss.
He stifles a chuckle, a warmth within him blooming when he hears his name falling from your lips. “Yeah, that’s fair.”
☚ previous next☛
a/n: this chapter sucked the absolute life out of me good god im glad it's over... a little bit of a serious one, but dw i'm pinning that clown nose on otoya again soon! also, this was the dress that otoya had reader wear; it's an actual piece from the oscar de la renta's collection otoya stated.
yukki's chapter is next, one that i'm quite excited for! i think that's where all the drama is going to start to happen so i hope you'll stay tuned (spoiler: they dance together aaa)
thank you sincerely if you made it this far, i hope you enjoyed reading! comments and reblogs are the best way to support your writers; they're always appreciated and never unnoticed <3
cw: self-indulgent, reader has short hair and piercings, atsumu is there
iwaizumi hajime isn’t an easy man to distract.
only a singularly focused man could be the ace of aoba johsai, could study at a prestigious university in a selective major, could become the trainer for the japanese men’s national volleyball team. he chases his goals relentlessly; he is intense in every realm of his life.
“blah, blah, blah, backstory stuff,” is all he can hear from atsumu’s mouth as he watches you nod along. you’re a childhood friend of the setter, or a cousin, or something like that. you came to team dinner because you’ve just moved to the area and you’re relying on atsumu to introduce you to people who will show you around.
iwaizumi wants to show you around, alright.
your eyes are lively, your lips pressed together as you try not to laugh at whatever bullshit is coming out of atsumu’s mouth. iwaizumi’s jaw goes slack as you nod along and your earrings jingle, exposed by your short hair and emphasizing your long neck. your jewelry is all coordinated, from your multiple piercings to the necklace resting on your exposed collarbone.
“-waizumi,” someone is saying. “iwaizumi-san!”
oh, shit. everyone’s looking at him.
“…huh,” he grunts articulately, training his eyes on his plate.
“i was saying,” atsumu says, a glint in his eyes that iwaizumi does not like at all. “you know some good hiking spots in the area, yeah? places where you can be in nature in the city?”
“uh,” iwaizumi says. “yeah. why?”
“oh,” you cut in before atsumu says something horrible and weird—iwaizumi’s developed a sixth sense for when he’s about to do that— “i was curious. i’m not used to such urban areas, so maybe you could take me to some of your favorites?”
“course,” he agrees before he processes anything you’ve said. “whenever you want.”
you beam at him, pretty lips splitting into a wide white smile, and he completely loses track of whoever is snickering in the background.
“you’re so kind, iwaizumi-san,” you tap a finger on your nose. your nails are shiny, long and sharp. he can almost feel them on his skin. if he blushes any harder he’s going to get a nosebleed. “not at all like atsu said.”
iwaizumi swivels his head to stare at the setter, suddenly laser-focused. atsumu laughs, looking panicked.
“i only said good things, all good things! like you’re really strong, and cool, and good with baby animals…” he trails off. “right?”
“next practice,” iwaizumi promises, “you’re gonna do dolphin drills until you die.”
synopsis: moving into a new apartment with three men isn't exactly the most easy feat, but you think there's something quite unusual about your new roommates that makes life seem a little more fun. (prequel)
↳ episode synopsis: you suspect that one of your roommates has it out for you, making things a little more than awkward when you and him have a day off together.
feat. karasu, otoya, yukimiya || wc: 3.6k
contains: fem!reader, she/her pronouns, roommates au, modern au, fluff, misunderstandings, an attempt at crack (pls laugh), aged-up characters (20s), pov switches, more of a focus on karasu in this
You think your roommates are weird.
Not weird in a bad sense, but just... odd.
Their dynamic with each other is especially a little peculiar, considering none of them act the same way with one another, their personalities always twisting just a bit when interacting with the other roommate. But it's still clear there's this unspoken harmony between the three of them that upholds the peace in the loft. You just struggle to fit yourself in it to help the foundation of it all—as it's clear you're not a part of their little circle. At least not yet.
Yukimiya is by far the most normal one out of the trio and perhaps the one you've talked to the most.
A true gentleman at heart, he's always the first to greet you in the morning as you sleepily daze into the kitchen, a steaming black coffee at the ready in your cup for customization. You come home later than the others, but he'll always save some leftovers for you in the fridge for you to munch on, your name written in neat handwriting with a smiley face adorning glasses on an orange post-it plastered on the container.
You blame it on not really knowing each other that well, but you find he's the most docile with you. Him, Karasu, and Otoya have known each other since their high school days, so it's quite normal of them to bicker childishly with each other, but when it comes to you, you always see a rather gentle smile on his face. You think it looks a little fake, though, as if it's there by default.
Otoya is humorous by nature. He's funny without trying, without having to crack a smile from himself. In fact, you rarely ever see him smile, just always has a sleepy look to his face as he says the oddest things known to mankind and is often the starter to meaningless conversations.
"I feel like we should domesticate bears," he had said one time out of the blue. "I think they're too cute to not be pets."
"They'd bite yer head off an instant, dumbass," Karasu told him as he flipped a page in his magazine, to which Otoya nonchalantly shrugged.
"If it means I can pet them, then I'd take the risk," he said simply stated before stalking off to his room that always smells just a little bit fruity and sweet (It didn't take you long to figure out whose Pineapple Ice Lost Mary was on the kitchen island).
He wears weird t-shirts too. Aside from the "I ♡ MILFS" shirt you saw when you first met each other, some of your other personal favorites include his firetruck red shirt that simply reads "i have a bomb." in plain black Arial font and his beige long-sleeve that displayed a cartoon cat yelling "Chicken Parmesan!" in a graphic speech bubble. Clearly wearing them with no shame, you ask Otoya where he gets such... unique... t-shirts, to which the latter replied,
"Goodwill."
Karasu is the one roommate you haven't cracked fully yet. By far, he's the weirdest.
Even though he was the first person you had met when you were first being interviewed, he tends to keep to himself. Something in your gut says that he's staying away from you, purposely keeping himself at arm's length. He's still cordial, but unlike the other two, he doesn't really seem to spare much words with you. The most he'll usually do is just remind you that it's garbage day, but other than that, he rarely ever speaks more than sentence to you on the weekly.
Because of such, you think you have to walk on eggshells around him, always apprehensive that you'll make one wrong move that'll for sure root a dislike towards you with him when it's clear he doesn't really seem to favor you all that much. He'll give a nod of acknowledgement at you if you pass each other in the halls and will ask if he can borrow a charger, but nothing more personal. You figure that might be best—it's better to have a roommate who barely knows who you are but exist with you peacefully instead of a roommate who constantly butts heads with you.
So when you finally have a day to yourself that just so happens to coincide with Karasu's, you are nothing less of tense.
And to think you were going to spend the day finishing up on your soap opera with your pals Ben and Jerry! You were looking forward to having the loft to yourself, so when you see Karasu lounging on the couch and watching a soccer match, your stomach plummets. Otoya gets home at around 5:00pm, while Yukimiya gets home at around 6:30pm, meaning you'll be stuck with Karasu for at least a full seven hours.
Karasu notices you as you walk out of the hallway, turning his head towards you when you come into view. You freeze suddenly, body going rigid as his deep navy eyes bore into you.
Your surprise still lingers in your body, even as you open your mouth to try and greet him, but nothing comes out.
A brow raises from him. "Hi...?"
"Oh! Uh," you twitch, trying to recompose yourself. "Good morning—!"
"Mornin'," he quietly greets back after a confused moment of silence at your reaction.
When you stiffly shuffle towards the kitchen, you want to crumble and whine. Back still facing your roommate as you pour yourself a cup of coffee, you ask, "You don't have work today?"
"Nah," Karasu says boredly, "Boss took an early vacation, so everyone got the day off today."
"A-ah, I see," you quietly reply back with a thick tongue. Fighting the urge to wail aloud at the fact you'll be sharing a space with the one roommate that seems a little too far from your reach, you escape back to your room with your breakfast, not really wanting to be around him.
You were planning to do so much today! Clean up the loft, do some stretching on the balcony to catch some sunlight, cook up some meals in the open kitchen, but of course your luck doesn't bestow upon you today, as doing all of those would mean Karasu would be in your vicinity.
The mattress creaks when you miserably land on top of it, pillow soaking in your whines and sighs. You suppose your room will have to suffice.
On the other side of the wall, Karasu swiftly pulls out his phone, head clamoring with thoughts and questions as he opens up the "alvin & the chipmunks" groupchat in his contacts.
karasu (10:34) : eita
—otoya (10:36) : wat
karasu (10:36) : u told me her day off was next week friday
—otoya (10:38) : ya, the last friday of the month
—yukimiya (10:39) : Check your calendar, Eita
karasu (10:39) : yea exactly. it's today u fucking buffoon
—otoya (10:39) : wait fr
—otoya (10:39) : fackkk im late on my credit payment again
Karasu smacks his hand to his forehead, cursing Otoya under his breath. Of course he misread the dates. Now he's stuck here with you for the next few hours and he doesn't quite know what to do.
—otoya (10:42) : idk what ur deal is shes nice
—yukimiya (10:42) : Agreed. I think you just need to talk to her
karasu (10:43) : u guys dont get it
—yukimiya (10:45) : Why? Does she make you nervous?
A dry swallow passes through Karasu's sandy throat as he reads Yukimiya's text. Even though it was quite a loud secret, Karasu couldn't deny the fact you did, in fact, make him somewhat on edge. But not for the reason you think.
It wasn't his fault. He didn't expect you to be so attractive in real life given that your contact information's profile picture was simply just your first initial. How was he supposed to act when such a pretty thing is around him at nearly all times? He's never been very good with women the way his roommates are. Terrified of making an accidental wrong move, Karasu distanced himself away from you, trying to make himself scarce in fear of doing so.
He groans before typing his reply back.
karasu (10:47) : no
Otoya replies back in an instant, and Karasu thinks he should put hair removal cream in his shampoo at his response.
—otoya (10:47) : liar lmfaooo bet someones got a crush uwu
He grits his teeth, trying to fight the blush that he can feel creeping on his cheeks.
karasu (10:47) : stfu moron
karasu (10:48) : as if u weren't making goo goo eyes at her yesterday morning
—otoya (10:48) : not my fault!
—otoya (10:48) : theres just sumn abt a cute girl in a large tshirt and short shorts... 🤔 really makes u think...
karasu (10:49) : bro thinks hes aristotle
—yukimiya (10:50) : Please stay respectful
Yukimiya then texts something that makes Karasu's brain fizz out ever so slightly. He frowns.
—yukimiya (10:50) : Tabito, why don't you take this time to do something with her to get to know her? To help break the ice
—otoya (10:50) : yaaa like yk how me and her went to that flea market together
—yukimiya (10:51) : Yes exactly. Or how she and I visited that pop-up shop down on 5th
As much as he'd hate to admit it, Yukimiya did have a point. You got along with the other two men just fine, even having the ability to crack teasing jokes with them without a misunderstanding flying about. But he knew if he even tried to do something of such with you, if you took it the wrong way, he wouldn't know what to do with himself.
karasu (10:55) : idk
—yukimiya (10:56) : It doesn't have to be extravagant. Just something casual
—otoya (10:59) : ye like what chappell roan says🫡
—yukimiya (10:59) : That's not what that song is about
—otoya (10:59) : oh...
Karasu shuffles his phone to the side and settles woefully into the couch. He shifts his eyes to your closed door, where he knows you're in probably not giving him the time of day.
On the other hand, you're wallowing in your misery still, trying to think of what to do that escapes Karasu's radius around you. Perhaps you should go to a museum? Or maybe try out that new pottery place down the block.
You opt for going to the grocery store, thinking that be a good distraction and would allow you to get some fresh air. Maybe you should try out that pasta recipe you've been seeing all over social media nowadays.
You launch up in your bed, determined to make this day about yourself and not to allow yourself just simply mope around in your room as you march towards the door. Hand grasping the doorknob, you fling it open, ready to clean yourself up in the bathroom but instead find yourself facing Karasu, who has a hand up that was clearly ready to knock on your door.
You jump back. "Oh! Hi there!"
"Ah," Karasu slowly puts his fist down, scratching the back of his neck. "Sorry. Didn't mean t'startle ya."
"No, you're fine," you choke out, wondering what business Karasu may have that landed him at your door. "Did... did you need something?"
You wince at your tone, since it comes out a little sharper than you intended. Karasu seems to have noticed it, seeing as how he thins his lips ever so slightly.
"Uh... well," he starts slowly. "Was just wonderin' if you needed anythin' from the store. I'm 'bout to head down there to do some shoppin'."
You blink owlishly at his comment before giving a stiff, brief chuckle. "What a coincidence," you mention, "I was actually gonna go there myself in a few."
You think of this as your chance to perhaps finally get some breathing space for yourself. An elation fills yourself at the thought, and you begin to conjure up your list to give him, but then he says something that brings the former feeling of tension back into you, heaving you down like sand.
Karasu juts his hands in his pockets, turning to directly face you, his red ears hidden from view from you, curtained by his dark hair.
"Well, if that's the case," he begins all too nonchalantly, going to share your gaze. "D'ya want to tag along?"
And now you're here, side-by-side in a semi-crowded market with the one roommate who you don't even know the age of.
Something in your common sense attempts to get the thought of he doesn't actually hate you through your head. But you still can't help the fact that every time you brush against him, when he looks at you, you think he's sending you a warning.
In Karasu's eyes, however, when he scanned the area of the market, he notices that it's quite busy, so he understands that there'll probably be some times where you just accidentally bump into him to avoid running into others, his eyes flickering to you each to just make sure you're okay.
"Jeez, this much for apples?" you exasperate as you put down the bag of the fruit.
Karasu looks over your shoulder, his cologne suddenly filling your senses. Sweet... you think, yet woody. A slight hint of sage, perhaps?
"Yer better off just gettin' the individual ones," he points out and juts his thumb behind him, breaking you out of your trance. "Y'can get the same amount for cheaper by a buck or so."
"Oh, really?" you perk up and whip your head around to view how much the individually stacked apples were, but before you can process it, you spin around too fast and twist over your own feet.
An elderly woman on a motorized shopping cart is just a few feet shy away from you, and you brace for impact from running into it, but you feel a yank of your arm tug you back just in time.
"Woah there," Karasu is quick to pull you in close to his chest, letting the elderly woman glide by without another care in the world. "Don't get too hasty now."
You feel heat skitter over your face, embarrassed at the fact that you can't even move your own limbs properly around him. You should've just stayed back home, sighing internally at how impulsive you could get. To think you could withstand an entire shopping trip with your roommate that you think stays away from you when you couldn't even stand being in the same room as him!
You mumble an apology, Karasu's cologne wavering about you again in an attempt to calm down.
He suddenly lets out a deep chuckle, the vibration of it thundering from his chest. You lift you chin up to see him... smiling? And it isn't one of those stiff ones that he often gives you nor the smirk he'd throw at Otoya or Yukimiya, it's a genuine one, one that shows his teeth and makes his eyes crinkle.
"Didn't think someone could get so excited 'bout mere apples," he remarks with a grin.
An incredulous stare glazes over your eyes, a lighter feeling in your chest suddenly gracing upon it.
Karasu takes notice of your staring and freezes. A dread leaks itself within his body, making him go rigid all of a sudden. Oh, he's really done it now. He can't go making such teasing jokes around you like you were Otoya or Yukimiya. You're not a guy either, it's not polite to be making such jokes around a girl barely knows.
An apology attempts to conjure in his tightened throat, but it dissolves the moment that he sees you break out into a smile yourself.
"Sorry," you breathe through a breezy laugh. "Economy's so bad nowadays that any good deal will get me reeling, y'know?"
Karasu's eyes soften when he spots your relaxed smile, one he's seen in passing but never to him, until now. And when you adorn it towards him and him only, he can't help but feel a fluttering feeling in his chest.
Yukimiya's words echo in his head. Break the ice.
"If that's the case," Karasu starts slowly. "The weather's gettin' peachy now. There's an actual farmer's market openin' soon downtown, and they sell their stuff for way cheaper than this crap."
He chews on the inside of his cheek, trying to avert his gaze away from your curious, awaiting one. He thinks those doe eyes could definitely beat a puppy's any day.
His breath hitches, confidence slowly building and falling as the seconds tick by.
Just break the ice.
"Would..." he coughs, clearing his throat. "W-would y'wanna go there with me... to check it out... next Saturday...?"
Karasu dares to turn his eyes back to you, where he finds you fondly smiling at him, assurance all over your features.
"I'd quite like that," you reply warmly.
The chicken plops into the pan with a hearty splat. Karasu winces.
"Shoot," he mutters, feeling a bit of the orange sauce flickering onto himself. "Didn't mean t'drop it that hard... did it get on ya?"
"A little bit," you laugh as you scoop up a bit of it from your arm and tasting it. Karasu looks for a sign of approval on your end to see if the pasta sauce is good on your favor and sighs when you nod contently. "Mm. Not bad."
The door to the loft clicks open and you avert your gaze to it after you sprinkle some salt into the boiling pot of water. In comes Yukimiya and Otoya, chattering about.
"Hi there," you greet, waving a hand.
Yukimiya is first to notice you both, surprise on his features when he sees his two roommates that had barely seemed to acknowledge each other since your move-in standing next to each other in the kitchen, cooking out of all things.
It's a domestic scene, one he thinks that you and Karasu would only accomplish in a year's-time or so given the current atmosphere. So it comes to a pleasant shock to him that the bull-headed Karasu actually took his advice for once and broke the ice by himself like a big boy.
"Smells good," Otoya hums contently and spots you and Karasu after Yukimiya. "Whatcha both cookin'? And can I have some?"
Otoya peers over Karasu's shoulder, the latter lightly shoving him back before Otoya can dip his dirty finger into the sauce. "Hold it, ya idjit. We're nearly done, relax."
"If you're able to actually, Otoya," you call over and jut your head towards the oven. "The garlic bread should be done by now. Would you mind taking it out so it can cool?"
"Can I get a piece?" Otoya asks, cheering under his breath when you nod as you roll your eyes.
Yukimiya watches as your pour in some pasta into the pot, noticing the way Karasu whistles haughtily as you laugh when the water violently bubbles.
"Ah, is this the marry-me chicken pasta I told you about the other day?" he asks, fighting a disappointment the builds when he acknowledges that he wasn't the one that got to cook it with you but rather Karasu, despite you and him have built a weekly-habit of cooking with one another.
"Yep!" you chime happily without a care in the world.
"I still think that the sauce is missin' somethin'," Karasu mutters. "Like there's not enough zing."
You peer over to him and take a little bit of the spare lemon leftover, squeezing a bit of it over the sauce and chicken. You take a spare spoon and sipping a bit of it. You then bring the spoon and its leftovers to Karasu's lips absentmindedly for him to try. "How's that?"
He pauses for a minute, breath hitching as you bring the same spoon that your lips touched for his to as well. He stutters but goes to lean in anyway, slurping it and tasting that tang that was missing.
Otoya's eyes narrow slightly as he places down the platter of bread.
Yukimiya's lips pull into a small frown.
You blink up at him. "Is that okay? I just added some more lemon."
"Yeah," Karasu breathes as steadily as he can muster. "yeah, it's good. Thanks."
"(Y/N)," Yukimiya announces aloud suddenly, averting your gaze to the brunette. He fixes on his usual demure smile on his face the moment you spotlight him. "Remember that new cafe that was being built around the corner? Turns out they're opening next weekend, d'you want to come with me?"
"Ah..." Otoya mutters lowly as he crunches on a piece of bread. "Why are you only inviting her?"
"I thought you guys don't like coffee," Yukimiya says casually, lips still fixed ever so lightly, but Otoya can tell there's a mild mockery behind that pretty face of his.
"I guess so," the latter says, sighing. "But... there's also the record shop also has its monthly 50% off sale on Saturday, remember, (Y/N)?"
Otoya's eyes go to glance at the record player you placed in the living room for decoration, yours and Otoya's collection of records piling up beneath it, your music tastes being one the things that you were able to break the ice with Otoya about. "I spotted that record you were talking about the other day, pretty sure it'll be a part of the sale if we can go next week."
A small bit of pity grazes on your face as you guiltily look back on the both of them from the kitchen island. Karasu fights the urge to smirk when he turns over the chicken in the pan, already knowing what you're going to say to them.
You scratch your cheek, smiling a little sadly at the two of them.
"I'm sorry guys, I'd love to go but," you wave a hand towards Karasu, who gives into temptation and throws a sly smile over his shoulder from behind you that makes the men you face frown and purse their lips. "Karasu and I have plans already that day to go to the opening of the farmer’s market..."
a/n. my re-run of new girl has inspired new heights it seems. also don't talk to me if u dont think otoya would vape bc ik that mf would hit a geek bar any time of the day /j (don't follow his example tho. keep them lungs clean, kids)
sorry that this was more focused on karasu than all three of them, but i prommy yukki and otoya will get their spotlight next time i write abt them (which will be soon hopefully! im having fun with this au)
thank you for reading as always! comments and reblogs are the best way to support your writers; they're always appreciated and never unnoticed <3
fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline) — TWO.
SYNOPSIS. having fought tooth and nail out of high school, university, and law school, only to end up working for a law firm that basically serves as a clean up dog after the biggest organized crime group in the district, you thought you couldn’t get any lower than this.
the bar is in hell, and yet you’ve managed to limbo six feet beneath that. alternatively— na jaemin is the personification of hell, and your very existence just makes him even worse than he already is.
PAIRING. na jaemin x female! reader.
GENRE. gang! au, lawyer! au, office! au, comedy, drama, romance, very light angst, this is a sitcom, hate to love(?), a somewhat questionable power dynamic, asshole! jaemin (my beloved…my kryptonite…) but he’s also an idiot, jaemin has an eye contact thing, inspired by the manhwas “weak hero” and “study group.”
WARNINGS. an abundance of criminal activity (including but not limited to organized crime, fraud, blackmail, DUIs, unethical and illegal occupational practices, etc.), blood and violence, suggestive themes, eventual non explicit sex, jaemin with a tattoo, legal inaccuracies because i am not familiar with south korean laws, so i’m just using my own country’s as reference. also because this is just a stupid thirst fic. who gives a damn.
WORD COUNT. 7.6k.
NOTE. i tagged this as hate to love. i meant it. na jaemin is an objectively shitty person and i’ve given myself the herculean task of trying to redeem him (if ever) HAHAHHAHAHAHA. also, i tried to cut as many corners as i could in the trial scene. don’t expect it to be accurate. anyway, hope this chapter is fun! please let me know what you think! NEXT CHAPTER TO BE PUBLISHED.
YOU DIDN’T THINK YOU’D EVER FEEL THIS KIND OF DREAD ON A MONDAY AGAIN. The usual dread borne out of starting yet another week as a capitalist slave is given. It’s nothing special. But the dread you feel today as you drive to Yeongdeungpo Police Station (yet again, to the point that you’re starting to feel like an inmate yourself) is a dread that you haven’t felt in a long ass while.
Specifically, eight years ago. You’re like a broken record at this point, but it doesn’t stop you from continually cursing Na Jaemin in your mind as you stomp through the echoing halls of the station. Officer Jung is leading the way yet again to the visitation room, all while suffering from the brunt of your temper.
“He didn’t decline your request today,” he starts, attempting to make conversation.
No fucking shit, you reply in your head. “Thank you for the patience, officer,” you vocalize with a constipated smile.
It seems like Officer Jung managed to catch the eye roll you didn’t intend for him to see. He gives you one polite smile and doesn’t make any more attempts after that, speaking only once you’ve reached the visitation room to unlock it and wish you luck with a nod.
You thank him, sucking in a deep breath as you force your joints to start creaking. Luck. The door clicks behind you. You damn need more than luck to get through this meeting and this entire case. You need the very devil’s mercy and cooperation.
“Good day, Na Jaemin-ssi.”
But the devil isn’t a merciful man. You swallow down a lump in your throat and force out a smile.
“How have you been?”
He stares you down with the weight of a thousand suns, stabbing you right in the gut with a pain enough to incite a wave of nauseous vomit. “Get on with it,” he rasps. “I don’t think you got Mark on my ass just for some stupid fucking small talk. Hurry up and get on with it.”
Your smile twitches. This guy has never learned how to speak nicely.
*
(You’ve established that your new seatmate is Na Jaemin. Yet that’s all you’ve come to know about him up until the bell rings to signal lunch time.
Carefully sneaking out of your seat, you peer down to see that he’s still deep asleep. You huff. Wow. Four classes have gone by, and this guy slept through it all. And none of the teachers even called him out— only going as far as sending a look of resigned acknowledgement at your direction, sometimes even relief. Sometimes fear.
Anyhow, that first half of your day was enough to answer why Natty gave you that warning earlier: that the seat you chose was the worst one possible— next to the very embodiment of trouble, even if you don’t know the details just yet.
Despite not knowing much, you’re already blaming him for the fact that you’re eating lunch alone.
The heat from the stew broth pricks at the skin of your lips as you scan around the cafeteria. You notice a few familiar faces scattered around, all sitting either in pairs or in groups in their respective seats and tables. You even lock eyes with Natty at some point, who simply averts your gaze with guilt ridden twitch as she turns head to her friend, someone you don’t recognize was in your class.
Seems like you were doomed from the moment you sat your ass down on that seat. Fuck’s sake. Whoever this Na Jaemin guy is, you don’t like him already. You decide to temper your annoyed steps with some ice cream from the snack bar, seeing that there’s still a couple of minutes left before the afternoon bell. You pick up an extra snack as well— a melon bread wrapped in green tinted plastic. Something to pick at from under your desk as you go through your afternoon classes. You grab a can of pink peach soda to drink on the way back.
Upon returning to your classroom, the first thing you notice is the fact that no one else is here when there’s only five minutes left before lunch.
The second thing you notice—
“Hey, you.”
There is, in fact, someone here.
Na Jaemin had sat up from the cross-armed, sleep-ridden slump he’d been in all morning. He’s awake. Now that his face isn’t buried, you finally have something to match the name.
“Why the hell didn’t you wake me up?”
There’s a distinct scowl on his face as he sets his phone down on his desk, shoulders slacked and sitting with his legs apart, which pushed your seat away to the very edge of your desk space.
You feel a twitch in your brow. The annoyance prompts your feet to move close, triggers your mouth to open and speak back. “What?” you start. “There’s—there’s a bell that—”
“I was fucking asleep, you dumb fuck.” Na Jaemin cuts you off, and you flinch. “You think I’d hear a damned bell when I’m knocked the fuck out?”
A gut feeling kicks in, forcing you to preemptively stop, look down, and choke down the remnants of your words into a stifling silence. You try to take a peek at Na Jaemin’s expression, but the sound of a tongue clicking in annoyance and the reeling back of a chair forces your eyes to continue staring at the classroom floor, feeling your entire body reverberating with the loud sound of your heartbeat as Na Jaemin’s presence loom closer.
“I asked you a fucking question.”
“S—sorry,” you sputter out. “I’ll…I’ll wake you tomorrow.”
For a brief moment, you manage to take a quick glance at na Jaemin’s face, standing right before you.
And the sheer disdain and annoyance in his eyes makes you instantly regret that very decision.
“Useless.” You flinch back down and hear him release a huff as he snatches the half-drunk peach soda from your hands. Your feet are nailed to the ground, and Na Jaemin proceeds to down the remnants of the drink before tossing the empty can back to you, shoving past you as the bell rings— and you hear a fumble of apologies from outside the door as Na Jaemin saunters out of the classroom.
Finally looking up, you see your classmates crowding outside the classroom, some slowly trickling in upon noticing that the coast is clear.
You don’t think you’re wrong to assume that they’d seen everything that happened in the room. You don’t think you noticed wrong either that they’re deliberately refusing to acknowledge it.
All of them make it to their seats. No one tries to talk to you after that, but that’s not the topmost thing that you’re troubled with.
You promised to wake Na Jaemin up for lunch tomorrow. You might have just become his personal alarm clock.)
*
In retrospect, that was a completely void agreement. God, it pisses you off thinking just how much of a doormat you were. Still are, considering you’re barely keeping it together sitting in front of Na Jaemin when you’re supposed to be the authoritative figure here. It pisses you off even more knowing that he doesn’t even remember you.
His impatient taps on the wooden table echo and bounce off the walls of the visitation room.
“Na Jaemin-ssi,” you inhale sharply. “Your hearing is this Thursday, two days from now. I’ve already made the necessary preparations for your defense, and—”
“So, you’re finally getting me out?”
Can this son of a bitch let you fucking speak? “Hopefully,” you promptly answer. “I’m confident in the case I’ve prepared. However, there’s…something I need you to do in order to ensure that the judge will rule in our favor, Na Jaemin-ssi.”
Here we go. You gotta tread this carefully. Very carefully, because you know damn well that Na Jaemin doesn’t like being ordered around.
“It is very likely that the prosecution will call you to the witness stand. You have every power to invoke your right against self-incrimination. But in our case, allowing yourself to be cross-examined by the prosecution would actually be favorable for us as a testament to your innocence, so long as you stick to the script.” It’s hard to get a hint of how well he’s receiving this because you’re too scared shitless to look him straight in the face. All you can do is hope he’s actually listening and not picking his ears as you continue to prattle on. “You just have to agree to Atty. Jung Sungchan’s line of questioning— even the fact that you fought the witnesses. However, you have to say that you didn’t start the fight. You don’t remember how the fight started. And you sustained significant injuries yourself.”
Na Jaemin got out of that altercation with just a few bruises and scratches, but the doctor Mark Lee referred you to was able to turn that into a couple broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder. He agreed to attest to the medical report on the stand as well.
The only missing piece you really need right now is Na Jaemin’s testimony and cooperation.
His lack of response does not bode well for you. The room swallows you up in its cold and eerie silence. “Do you…follow…Na Jaemin-ssi…?” you try to prod out a response. And you get a response, all right.
Just not the kind of response you’d been praying for.
“Are you saying that I have to go up there, pretend I took a beating from those sissy fucks, and act all pathetic and pitiful like a little bitch?”
There’s an angry kick against the table. You suck down a breath when you feel the wooden edge jam against your ribcage.
“Who the hell do you think you are to tell me what to do?”
Your eyes squeeze shut, ignoring the sharp pain on your torso because that’s the least of your problems right now. Why…why does he have to be so goddamn difficult? Fuck’s sake. “Na Jaemin-ssi,” you exhale. “I’m not—I’m not telling you to do all those things. I’m just saying that the only way we could see your full acquittal is if we prove that Yoon Naksung and his party were also at fault.”
“We? That’s your damn job, attorney. You want me to do your fucking job for you?”
This is different from when he was trying to deliberately push your buttons last time.
He’s mad. He’s really freaking mad.
“Get out. Get the fuck out.”
You know a warning when you hear one. You waste no time gathering yourself and speed walking out the door— half out of fear, mostly out of angered frustration because holy fuck. This is a mess. You’re so fucking screwed. Sure, you managed to get Hong Hyunjae, and Ma Gildong to cooperate with you. Sure, you managed to get a doctor to fake his medical exam. But all that would be useless if your bastard of a client decides to run his mouth and brag about just how much he wrecked those idiots’ asses.
Say, you don’t force him to testify. Once the witnesses come out and follow the script you made, the judge might still compel Na Jaemin to take the stand to confirm things. If he says anything to the contrary, you’re as good as screwed. At best, you’d lose the case. At worst, you’d be charged with contempt of court, and you can kiss your license goodbye.
That’s how your meeting ends— with a looming sense of dread that follows you out the doorway.
You exit the visitation room as if you’d just gotten your life ripped out from your own hands. It doesn’t go under Officer Jung’s notice, who’d been waiting by the door.
“JJS is always handling the tough cases,” he remarks.
You grunt. “Give us a call when you wanna get silly with your gun and try shooting at random civilians.”
Thank god he doesn’t attempt any more small talk, nor does he follow you out. You’re way too exhausted right now— mostly emotionally and psychologically, and you’ve almost broken yourself down to simply just admit defeat and abandon this motherfucker’s ass. He can continue being a bitch in jail for all you care. You’re done. You’re so fucking done. You decide that you don’t give a shit anymore and give Mark a call right outside the station.
Four rings. Then he picks up. “Hey,” you immediately start. “What will you do if I fail to release your dog?”
Mark Lee never even got the chance to greet you back when you tossed this question at him. “Hmm,” he ponders, leaving a gap for a quiet pause. “That’s not something I’ve even considered, attorney. I really value our relationship thus far.”
You don’t even give him a response before ending the call. Your arm falls limp on your side. Fuck. You’re so dead.
Either in the hands of Mark Lee, or Na Jaemin, should you continue trying to push him. You’ve only ever seen the lengths of the latter’s violence. You don’t intend on finding out just how much of a psycho the former is. So death by Na Jaemin, it is.
You bring your phone up and call Mark again and ask for another meeting with your client tomorrow. He says he’s always happy to oblige.
*
(At some point, after a whole week of being Na Jaemin’s alarm clock, you started to wonder— why the hell do you have to keep doing this?
Lunch bells. Dismissals. Having to leave the classroom for gym or for some other special class. He expects you to wake him up or else you’d get your fucking ass kicked, and even when you do wake him up, he gives you a nasty ass look as if he’s about to kick your ass, until you promptly squeak out that class has ended, or whatever your teachers’ instructed you to do that day.
It’s only after seven days of this bullshit that you realize that you don’t owe him. You’re under no obligation whatsoever to keep being his alarm lackey or answer to him in any way shape or form. He’s just a guy. He’s just a student, just like you. And you bet that he’s probably just bluffing.
All he’s ever done is snatch your drink from you. He hasn’t even laid a hand on you.
So just as you march back to the classroom after having your lunch at the cafeteria— alone, because getting involved with Na Jaemin has ruined all your chances of making any friends— you decide that it’s finally time to put your foot down and tell him that you’re not his slave. You’re not doing this crap anymore.
Yet your newfound sense of will-power is promptly deflated when you slide open the classroom door and see that your seatmate isn’t snoozing in his usual spot.
In fact, no one is seated in their seats. Your brows furrow in confusion upon noticing that all your classmates are crowding the windows on the other side of the room, all pressing up the glass, gawking and gasping at the same thing.
“Is that Park Gunho from Class 9?”
“Yeah, dude. I heard him talking shit about Na Jaemin the other day, and— oh! Ouch. That’s gotta hurt.”
“Holy shit, is that blood?”
“Where the hell are the teachers?”
You managed to squeeze in between two of your classmates, looking through the glass and right at the crowded spectacle in the courtyard— just in time to watch Na Jaemin land a crunchy punch into Gunho’s nose that has you wincing, even when the fight is happening from several feet away.
At this point, the other guy is barely standing on his feet. Practically limping when your demon of a seatmate twists his arm behind, only to shove a kick into his back, sending him straight to the dusty ground. You watch as Na Jaemin stomps a foot into the poor guy’s knuckle’s. You can’t hear Park Gunho from here, but you can feel his choked up yelp penetrating into your skin and shuddering into your bones. Holy shit. This guy is a fucking monster. And you almost just offered yourself up to him like an idiot.
The worst part about it is the fact that Na Jaemin looks like he’s having the time of his life. There’s this crazed look on his face as he walks up to Gunho who’s trying to lip away— only to be yanked by the hair and slammed back into the ground— pinned down by Na Jaemin’s foot as the latter huffs out a grin, and says something that fails to reach your ears.
Needless to say, you’re horrified. This could have been you.
Na Jaemin seems to have heard your thoughts because right at that moment, he snaps his head up, pinstruck gaze shooting through the windows of your classroom— looking directly at you.
Your blood runs cold. You gulp.
Someone draws the curtains back down. “Fuck, you don’t think he say our faces, do you?” You feel yourself stumble back, and with lightheaded steps, you guide yourself to your assigned seat, and start praying to whatever’s up there that Na Jaemin did not recognize you from down there.
Much to your relief, he doesn’t return upon the right of the afternoon bell. He comes back between fifth and sixth period, looking like he’s in the best mood he’s ever been throughout your first week here, and it drives an even deeper pit of dread in your stomach.
The classroom grows colder as he comes nearer to your desk. He haphazardly draws the chair next to you back, you flinch, and he sets himself down with satisfied huff, right before assuming his usual position— arms crossed on the desk, serving as his pillow for the rest of the class day. “Oi,” he muffles out to the only person he could be talking to right now— you. There’s still blood on his uniform sleeve. You start to feel nauseous. “Wake me when the bell rings.”
You thought that that fight between him and Park Gunho was the worst thing you’ll ever witness in Ganghak.
Turns out, things would just get worse from here).
*
“All rise! The court is now in session. The Honorable Judge Bae Joohyun, presiding.”
It takes all the strength in your body to get up and not fall over from a mere gust of wind from the courtroom’s ventilation system. You’re exhausted. You haven’t gotten any sleep last night from the crippling anxiety of what’s waiting for you today. It took everything in your power to just look presentable for today’s trial.
You’re a shell of a human being— that much is obvious considering you’re one step behind when Judge Bae instructs everyone to be seated.
“We are here on the case of Yoon Naksung, Hong Hyunjae, and Ma Gildong versus Na Jaemin. Is the prosecution ready to proceed?”
“Yes, your honor.”
“Is the defense ready to proceed?”
“Yes, your honor.” No, you’re fucking not. You did in fact manage to meet with Na Jaemin one last time yesterday, and you barely managed to acquiesce something of an agreement out of him— most likely because he was threatened by Mark. But you’re not sure if that threat was strong enough for him to actually cooperate with you today.
“Very well. Prosecution, you may make your opening statement.”
Speaking of the bastard, you notice from the corner of your eye Na Jaemin’s unabashed yawn while Jung Sungchan introduces himself and his clients. God. This is a sickening set up— him sitting directly to your right. It’s like this day was designed specifically to make you feel like you’re back in that hell. More than anything, you just want this over and done with.
“Thank you. May I request the defense to make your opening statement.”
As you make your way to the designated podium, you cross paths with Jung Sungchan. He shoots you an over confident grin and walks past you with his nose high. You chew down a string of swears and curses. Every single man you’ve been dealing with as of late is determined to ruin your life. You hope they all run out of toilet paper every time they have to shit in a public restroom. You hope their zippers get caught every time they have to zip up their pants.
“Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen, the opposing counsel, a pleasant morning.” At this point, your soul is still completely detached from your body. Your mouth is practically moving all by itself as you do your introduction. “The prosecution argues that my client, Na Jaemin, is guilty for disturbing the peace and three counts of physical injury against Yoon Naksung, Hong Hyunjae, and Ma Gildong.” As you say this, your eyes and your eyebags trail across the prosecution’s table, locking eyes with the latter two as you scan past them. “We acknowledge that our party has done some injury to the witnesses. There is a fault in that. However, it is a well understood doctrine that two faults don’t make a right.”
If your client can’t cooperate to save his own ass, those two better do.
They’re smarter than Na Jaemin. They know what’d come for them if they don’t.
“Your honor, the witnesses have acted in pari delicto, sustaining equally grave injuries against my client, and therefore have no right to seek legal relief. A verdict of guilt against my client would be a grave mockery to our justice system when the ones seeking justice are equally at fault. We hope that you will see the wisdom in our defense. Thank you very much.”
The moment you return to your seat and Jung Sungchan is called first to make their case, your brain continues moving in autopilot. You’re so tired. You’re so damn tired. You know that you should be setting Na Jaemin straight right now, but you can’t find it in yourself to even talk to him without bursting a blood vessel. Jung Sungchan continues to present their evidence— affidavits from his witnesses, a janky recording of Na Jaemin and the other three leaving a bar located right on the cusp of Yeongdeungpo and Mapo, separately where they’d allegedly first bumped into each other, and the same exiting the frame.
Eventually, he calls Na Jaemin to the witness stand. The air refuses to enter your lungs as the bailiff leads him up the courtroom. You’ve re-oriented him with what he has to do yesterday. You close your eyes, press your palms together underneath the table, and mutter out pleas and manifestations that your instructions managed to get through his thick skull, that an angel would somehow possess him today and prevent him from screwing you over.
But you haven’t done enough good deeds in your lifetime to be granted this one wish.
Jung Sungchan asks him if he admits to being the person who caused Yoon Naksung and the rests’ injuries.
Na Jaemin responds with a shit eating grin saying, “Yeah, I fucking did it.”
Your face contorts in horror. Your eyes fly wide open, blood draining from your cheeks. Oh, fuck. Oh, fucking hell, please no. Your demon sent client looks like he wanted to elicit his kind of reaction from you— smiling at you from the witness stand, and you feel your nails dig into your clenched palms, biting into the thin skin of your flesh.
To make matters worse, he doubles down. He’s determined to kill you right here and now. “That guy nearly pissed himself when I socked him in the—”
“Your honor!”
This is a stupid fucking move to make, but you’re panicking. And that very panic easily seeps out of your skin and burrows into the notice of your opponent from the other table. Jung Sungchan’s eyes are both sparking incredulously and victoriously at this pretty blatant concession. To think your own client would fuck you over. You’re about to cry. You’re fuming. You’re dying from embarrassment.
“I’d— I’d like to request a short recess to meet with my client.”
Judge Bae narrows her eyes at you. “Overruled.” Yeah, you didn’t expect that to be granted. Fucking hell. You sink back into your seat in defeat, the dread that had once only been creeping up to you now completely swallowing you whole. “Counsel, please continue with your questioning.
No, it’s okay. This is fine, you think to yourself. You still have your witnesses. You’re not totally screwed yet. Maybe that would be enough to dismiss this damned case. Maybe that would be enough to let you walk away scot free.
“Ahem,” Jung Sungchan clears his throat. “Na Jaemin-ssi. Can you tell us the events that unfolded after the four of you left the bar?”
Silence.
“Na Jaemin-ssi…?”
“I don’t feel like answering.”
You let out a muffled noise as you bury your face in your hands. Your face is burning. Not only is he trying to screw you over, he wants to mortify you in front of everyone here.
“Defendant.” Judge Bae Joohyun has decided to intervene. “Are you…invoking your right against self incrimination?”
You almost let out an anguished cry and slam your forehead against the table when Na Jaemin responds with a, “Sure.”
The bailiff escorts him back to your table, and he’s all smiles when he sits down. Is he happy now that he’s thrown a big ass fucking wrench in your plans? Does he not give a fuck that he might get incarcerated as long as he sees you miserable? What a sadomasochistic psychopath, you hope he burns in hell.
“You don’t look too good, attorney,” you hear him chipper from beside you.
Your head snaps to the side. You hear a crash from inside your ears.
For the first time, you look this son of a bitch dead in the eye— and you might not have a mirror, but you don’t think you’re looking at him pretty pleasantly. In fact, you can feel your own self going lightheaded from the sheer animosity darting through blood vessels in your brain.
Jung Sungchan calls Ma Gildong to the stand, and you turn your head back to the front. Sure, the bastard next to you might have thrown a wrench into your plans, but you still have a few working cogs left— and they better fucking work properly. You think you still have that same, manic look in your eyes when you meet Gildong’s gaze from across the courtroom because he visibly gulps and clears his throat.
Jung Sungchan starts questioning him, and he does just as well as you hoped (unlike the last guy). That rookie attorney gets caught off guard when his client answers with a stuttering, “I—I don’t remember,” in response to Jung Sungchan’s request to recount who started the fight that night. “It all happened suddenly. It was hard to tell exactly who.”
“Witness Ma Gildog,” the judge intercepts once again. “In the affidavit you submitted, you stated that the defendant was the one who started the altercation without warning. What is the meaning of this?”
Ma Gildong looks at you. You look him dead in the eye and he promptly looks away with a hard swallow.
“I…I only wrote that because Naksung hyung told me to.”
Fuck yes.
“We—were were all drunk when it happened. It was hard to tell who started the fight. I didn’t even want to pursue this case, he—he was just pissed that that guy got more punches in.”
“What?! What the hell are you talking about?!”
“Order!”
You watch as the bailiff tries to settle Yoon Naksung down. You stifle down a smile. This whole trial wouldn’t have been necessary if he had only been as cooperative as the other two. God, you wouldn’t have needed to deal with this headache either.
You hear Judge Bae set down the gavel. “There seems to be some unresolved issues with the prosecution side,” she starts with a sigh. “In this case, let us have a short recess. We will reconvene after thirty minutes.”
Thirty minutes. That’s just fucking perfect.
“Recess? Are we having a snack break, attorne—”
“Please allow us to use one of your conference rooms.” You quickly shoot up and cut off Na Jaemin, a polite stance directed at the bailiff near you. “That would be alright, right?”
The way the bailiff looks at you makes you come to the conclusion that you don’t look exactly sane right now. Nevertheless, he humors you and leads both you and Na Jaemin to one of the available conference rooms in the district court. It’s hard to grasp the fact he is being very docile right now, lazily looking around with cuffed hands before him as he trails beside you, under the watchful eye of the court sheriff.
A door is opened before you. The moment the bailiff allows you and your client and closes the door behind, you swivel your heels, grab Na Jaemin by the fucking collar, and ram him against the wall with a loud rattle.
Your years and years of disdain for this guy just came to a breaking point today.
You’ve had fucking enough of his difficult attitude.
“Listen.” Your voice comes off as a hiss more than anything. You hear the sound of his handcuffs clatter when you shove him harder against the wall. You feel your nails dig into your palms through the collar of his shirt. You’re beyond livid. “I am trying my god damned best to get you out of here, Na Jaemin-ssi. You’re the last person I want to help. You’re the last person I could give a shit about, but here I fucking I am— fighting tooth and nail for you, for christ’s sake. I literally had to build up a defense out of nothing just to clear you from incarceration. All I asked is for you to not throw a fit, to follow my damned script, to sit still and still pretty for the rest of this stupid trial, and you couldn’t even fucking do that?”
Much to your surprise, Na Jaemin looks pretty much caught off guard. Not intimidated by any means, but he does keep his mouth shut, repeatedly blinking his somewhat widened eyes at you— the only other expression you’ve ever seen from him other than a scowl and that bastardized grin of his.
Another beat of silence. Your upper lip twitches into a snarl. “Useless fuck.”
You roughly let go of him with a grunt and roll back your shoulders, facing your back to him and release a sigh. Whew. That felt so fucking good.
Without another word, you take quick strides out the conference room, greeting the bailiff outside with a sweet and refreshed smile, maintaining that same air as you return back to the courtroom, an uncharacteristically cooperative Na Jaemin in tow.
The trial resumes. He doesn’t do anything stupid again after that because you’ve decided to completely remove him from the equation. Ma Gildong and Hong Hyunjae submitted new affidavits as evidence. Jung Sungchan and Yoon Naksung are red-faced and look like they’re sitting on burners from hell— even more so when it’s finally your turn to present your case, speaking before the court with a now clear head and your cards in place. When you call Dr. Qian Kun to the stand to attest to Na Jaemin’s physical exam result, the prosecution table is practically deflated in defeat by then.
You return to the defendant’s table. Your shoulders haven’t felt this light in weeks. Even lighter when the court finishes deliberation, and Judge Bae announces the final verdict.
“In light of the criminal charges against Na Jaemin—”
You inhale sharply.
“The court finds insufficient evidence to declare his guilt beyond reasonable doubt.”
Yes. Yes. Fuck, yes.
“Now, the civil liabilities attached to this case— the witnesses’ participation in the aforementioned offenses creates a unique situation. When both parties are at equal fault or in pari delicto, neither the courts nor law will grant relief to the parties. Although the defendant, Na Jaemin, had indeed inflicted less serious physical injuries against the witnesses, the witnesses have inflicted the same upon the defendant.”
Oh, fuck yeah.
“This court hereby dismisses the case without prejudice for want of prosecution. Court is adjourned.”
There is no one happier in this court than you right now. You lock eyes with Jung Sungchan from across the room. You stick your tongue out because you don’t give a damn anymore.
You’re free. You don’t have to deal with Na Jaemin ever again. You’re fucking free.
*
Well, you spoke too soon.
“What...what are you doing here…?”
Four days later, you see the very bastard sitting on your chair at the JSS office. He’s swiveling around, stopping the turn with a foot down to look at you. “Oh,” he starts. “Took you fucking long enough.”
Seriously. What have you done to deserve this? Nevermind, you’ve done a lot of things to deserve ten years worth of bad karma, but that’s neither here nor there. You’d just gotten back from a meeting with one of your clients— a normal client: a sweet, old lady who was drafting her last will and testament to make sure none of her nutjob sobs get even a percentage from her estate.
The meeting ran longer than expected because the lady kept trying to ask you if you’re single and would be interested to meet one of her nephews. So, you’d just returned back to the office at 6 p.m., most of your co-workers having clocked out already, only to be bitch slapped in the face with this psycho again, not even a week since you’ve last seen him.
You ignore him, eyes flitting up to the direction of your boss’s office. The light is still on. You grit your teeth. This son a bitch’s entry was permitted by the other son of a bitch. If he’s miserable, he should keep his misery to himself.
“Hey, attorney. I’m tryna talk to you.”
“Y—yes?” you choke out, taking a step back when Na Jaemin rises to his feet. God damn it. Your outburst mid-trial was an isolated case as a result of your pent up emotions. You can’t be brave anymore— and he notices.
There’s a slight raise in his brow when you flinch back, a barely visible smile playing on his face. It’s almost like this bastard can smell fear, and you’re completely lathered in it. “You were pretty gutsy enough to swear at my face and shove me around the other day,” he says, voice low. “What happened to all that spunk, attorney?”
You bite down the swear at the tip of your tongue. “I sincerely apologize for my inappropriate behavior that day.” You’re doing your damn best to keep your head down, but it’s increasingly difficult when this guy is trying to get all up in your space. “Any—anyhow. What business do you have with JSS, Na Jaemin-ssi?”
A flip switches. Na Jaemin suddenly looks very annoyed.
“Ugh. Right,” he grunts, digging into his inner jacket pockets like it’s a chore before pulling out an envelope. A really thick envelope. Your eyes widen. He hands it over to you. “The boss wanted to give his extra thanks.”
Extra thanks for risking your life to release one of his mutts. Holy shit. You say nothing as you take the envelope from his hands, the weight of the paper bills pulling you down heavier than they’re supposed to be. You clear your throat and stuff it into the bag you’ve yet to set down on your desk. “Why didn’t he come in person?”
“He’s out on business,” Na Jaemin flatly replies. Then, there’s a twinge on his tongue when he follows it up, “Why? You want to see him that badly?”
The fuck? That very through slips through expression for a second. Na Jaemin clocks this.
A grin takes over his expression. He releases a bare laugh when he walks past you with a hand on your shoulder. “I gotta hand it to you. You’re pretty damn good at pulling shit out of your ass out of nothing.”
Your breath hitches when you feel a firm squeeze. Na Jaemin releases you with a hum and a pat and finally starts fucking leaving.
“See you around, attorney.”
When you’ve confirmed that the psycho has finally left, you immediately lunge for your chair and release a long and hefty breath.
Jesus fucking christ. How many times do you have to tell these Nalkeutta bastards that you never want to see their faces again? Not enough, apparently. Because the next day, Mark Lee makes a visit to your office again. He greets you a good morning and you quietly tell him to leave you alone and never talk to you again. He laughs and disappears into Doyoung’s office for the next two hours, before stopping by at your desk again to inquire about your desk nameplate preferences.
“Do you prefer acrylic or marble?” he asks, peeking out from behind your desktop computer.
“Gold,” you soullessly respond. “Avenir font. Engraved. Heavy enough to knock a man unconscious with one blow.”
“Very particular.” Your eyes flit up to see his pleasant smile, and it just ruins your day further. It gets worse when Kim Doyoung follows not long after him. “Oh, Mr. Kim,” Mark greets. “I was just about to head out.”
“Yes, allow me to accompany you down to the lobby, Mr. Lee,” Doyoung chimes in. You look up at him as he leers down at you, noticing that you are, in fact, here. “Congratulations on yet another winning case, attorney.”
He’s five days late. “Thank you. Are you gonna give me my own office yet?”
“You know very well JSS isn’t in the position to grant you that.”
Very expected response, but you’re annoyed anyway. They finally leave you alone so you can mentally curse them once you die from overwork and overexertion. Indeed, you know very well that JSS isn’t in the best spot right now. Your firm’s reputation has been slowly nosediving lately— fully getting tanked recently because of your latest acquittal of Na Jaemin.
The general public has been questioning your integrity as a law firm. That much is fucking expected when you’re partnered with the biggest crime organization in the district. It’s not that this partnership is a recent thing. But with the establishment of a new law firm within your territory, the GP now has a point of comparison to notice just how many obvious criminals JSS has helped to subvert the rule of law.
These articles and nasty forum posts have been the source of Kim Doyoung’s stress as of late. During the next few weeks, you watch his mood sour and sour by the day after every meeting with the higher-ups.
The source of the problem is obvious, but it’s not like JSS can just cut ties with Nalkeutta to clean its name. In fact, it would the dumbest move ever, practically industry suicide considering Mark Lee and his company is your highest paying client. Not only that. All of the firm’s employees practically have immunity from the hefty protection fees all Yeongdeungpo residents have to pay weekly just to pay the streets. And you don’t want to make an enemy out of Nalkeutta either by cutting them off. Your firm is caught in between rock and a hard place with no easy way out.
“I think the boss has started to grow white hairs lately,” Jungwoo tells you over coffee in the breakroom.
“Why…are you looking at his hair?” you ask, almost worriedly. Jungwoo simply shrugs and you two watch as Kim Doyoung stomps into the breakroom in a fit again to angrily snatch a glass and nearly rip the fridge open for the pitcher of lemon water you started to make every morning, overpouring into the glass before chugging it clean and slamming the glass down on the counter.
He didn’t even ask for permission. What a monster.
Anyhow, you could give less of a shit about JSS’s steadily dwindling reputation. This ain’t your problem to fix. It’s your higher up’s problem. It’s Kim Doyoung’s problem, and— quite frankly— the peak of your week is seeing his grumbling swears every time he stomps out of another admin meeting, watching him scratch at the growing grey hairs at the back of his head through his private office like it’s your own personal TV show.
It’s such a great sight to see. Added to the fact that you haven’t received a call from Nalkeutta lately, whether it be for consultations or just simple blotter charges, they haven’t been bothering you at all. In short, you’ve been having the best two weeks of your life.
It comes to a peak when Kim Doyoung calls you to his office one day, prompting the assumption that JSS’s reputation situation has become way, way worse to the point that the firm needs the help of its rank and file employees like you to settle the matter.
“Damn, good luck. Let me know what’s up,” Jungwoo sends you off.
Honestly, you’re looking forward to having a front row seat to Kim Doyoung’s meltdown, if things have gotten as bad as you think. Your knuckles tap against the wooden entrance to his office, and you’re filled with a longing envy when he tells you to come in because damn— must be nice to have an office of his own. Why does he always have a stick up his ass when he’s got his own 150 square feet kingdom where he can do whatever he wants?
“Come in.”
Muct to your surprise, however, Kim Doyoung looks well rested today.
The moment you step in, you notice that his usual constipated expression is nowhere to be found on his face. In fact, his skin is perfectly clear. His white button up is crisp and tidy. His glasses are shining. His hair is neat and styled— as though it hasn’t been run through a million times today.
Whoa. What the hell? Who is this? Who is this man in front of you?
“How has your work been, attorney?” he starts, elbows on the desk, chin resting on interlocked fingers.
You tentatively make your way closer to his desk, slightly unnerved at this sudden disposition switch. “The same as usual.”
“That’s good to hear,” he hums. He’s humming. Kim Doyoung is humming. What? He sets his fingers on a folded piece of paper that’s been sitting on his desk, promptly pushing it forward to you. “Read this.” You’re beyond creeped out. You have no idea what’s going on, but you follow instructions anyway, inching a step closer to peel the paper from the glass surface of his desk, and unfold it in your hands.
He wants you to read it. So, you do.
The moment your eyes register the heading, your neck cranes, squinting. “Sir,” you say, holding the paper down. “Are you sure you gave me the correct sheet?”
“Yes, yes,” he affirms, waving a hand in the air. “Please continue reading.”
You do. You read the heading once again. LETTER OF RESIGNATION, in bold and all caps. Followed by today’s date. Followed by your fucking name.
The paper wrinkles in your grasp. Haha. You don’t remember writing a resignation letter. “Sir,” you start again, voice coming off as a weak wheeze. “There must be some kind of mistake.”
“There’s no mistake,” Doyoung confirms, spinning a pen between his fingers before pushing it forward to you in the same manner as he did with the resignation letter in your hands— your resignation letter. The letter that says you’ve found better prospects elsewhere and sincerely value the experience and growth you’ve had with this firm. What the fuck is this bullshit? You don’t fucking understand. “Would you please affix your signature at the bottom, attorney? I didn’t have your e-signature. That’s why I had to call you out today.”
Your stomach drops to the very depths of your gut. “You can’t just fucking do this,” you say with gritted teeth. Kim Doyoung readjusts his glasses and responds with a sigh.
“Attorney,” he starts. “You’re well aware of the problem our firm has been facing as of late, correct?” You nod. He continues. “It’s a difficult situation. However, Nalkeutta and JSS have managed to reach an amicable compromise.”
Oh no. Oh, god, do. He can’t do this to you. He can’t fucking do this to you.
“Starting today, you will no longer be JSS’s Junior Associate. You will be working as a private lawyer for Nalkeutta Security Company.”
“You fucking sold me out!”
“I did not ‘sell you out’. Think of it as a promotion.”
Your mouth is hanging open. Your blood is boiling to the point of evaporation. The resignation is a crumpled mess at this point. You slam it back down on his desk. “I can’t even get my fucking severance pay if I sign this damn thing!”
“I’m sure the benefits you’ll receive at Nalkeutta would outweigh any amount of a severance pay that JSS can offer you,” your boss— former boss— flatly replies. “Now. Please sign the letter.”
Your head is spinning. You’re nauseous as fuck. It’s not like you can just run away. Mark Lee would have your fucking head. Sure, you hate working under Kim Doyoung, but at least it made you feel like an actual lawyer, serving only as an occasional cleanup dog for that damned wretched company. With this, you’re not just dipping your toes into organized crime. You’d be fucking drowning in it.
“Sign right there— yes. Perfect. Thank you for your cooperation, attorney. It was a pleasure working with you.”
Nalkkeutta has officially ensnared you in its burning jaws, and you’ve got no way of getting out unscathed.
yoichi isagi ʚ ɞ taking care of you whilst you’re drunk
cw. bambi!reader + fratboy!isagi , pure fluff
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹🦌♡
sighh just thinking about our sweetheart, fratboy!isagi taking care of you at a party when you’re so unbelievably drunk to the point you’re stumbling all over the place and your words are coming out in babbles.
he thinks it’s cute, seeing you like this. especially when you’re not much of a drinker, preferring to stay inside and have an early night, so it’s always nice for isagi to see you loosen up.
but when he sees you wayyy too drunk, he’s always the first to sit you down, rushing to get a cold glass of water from the kitchen and practically forcing you to drink it by coaxing you with his sweet words and gentle eyes.
he’s pretty tipsy himself, so he can’t really drive you home, and when he offered one of his friends to take you home instead, your whiny “noooo.. i wanna stay with you..”, just makes his heart thump against his chest.
he thinks you’re adorable and he’s kinda always had a little thing for you since he met you at the start of the college year. but, you just always assumed you were in the friendzone since he never pulled any moves on you (he just tries way too hard to be respectful)
so, when he carries you up to his room to lay you down, he’s making sure his hands don’t linger in the wrong places, being so gentle with you by holding you like a porcelain doll. this doesn’t go unnoticed by your drunk, overthinking self, pouting against his chest while he holds you bridal style.
just as he gets to his room, placing you down on his messy bed where your head drops back on his pillow with a loud, elongated sigh leaving your lips and catching him completely off guard, you ask, “why don’t you like me?”
he’s light a deer caught in the headlights, “huh?”
“why don’t you like me? i’m pretty nice, right?”
isagi feels his heart swell at your words, “i do like you and you’re very nice.”
“i know you like me, but why don’t you like like me?”, you pout, feeling your throat tighten up, the alcohol making you way more bold and sensitive than you already are.
“..do you like like me?”
you nod, not replying with words scared you’ll end up crying about this, something so trivial and embarrassing yourself in front of the most popular guy at your college.
despite your saddened expression, isagi couldn’t have felt more relief in the moment, he’d liked you for so long but never made a move purely because he was worried he might scare you off if he came across too bold, and you just never got his hints (he said your outfit was cute)
“i do like like you, always have, to be honest.”, he says, giving you a small smile, “and we’re definitely gonna talk about this in the morning so you better not get all shy on me.”
you smile, the saddened expression you had previously completely melting away as you felt those butterflies in your stomach.
he chuckles, ruffling your hair, “y’gonna be so embarrassed by this in the morning.”
🌟 A Cry for Help: My Family’s Struggle to Survive in Gaza 🌟
Hello, my name is Areej Kassab. I’m a 27-year-old English teacher and writer from Gaza, and I’m reaching out to you with a heavy heart and a desperate plea for support. My family and I are enduring unimaginable hardships as relentless bombings devastate our home and our dreams.
We are a family of 15—10 adults and 5 children. Every day is a battle for survival. Food is scarce, humanitarian aid is not reaching us, and my little nieces and nephews go to bed hungry. Among them is my sister, who is deaf, and another sister who has a newborn baby. They, too, are suffering in this crisis, and I’m doing everything I can to protect and provide for them.
💔 A Life in Ruins
The war has robbed us of everything: safety, peace, and even the hope of a future here. My family’s needs are basic yet critical—food, clean water, diapers for the babies, gas for cooking, and other essentials to make it through each day.
With rising prices and limited access to necessities, we are struggling to provide even the most basic items. My sister’s home has been destroyed, and we are working together to ensure everyone has shelter, food, and warmth.
✨ My Plea for Your Support ✨
I’m a writer, and I’ve been documenting the harsh realities faced by my community under siege. But words can only do so much. We need action, and we need help. Your kindness can save us.
🙏 How You Can Help
Donate: Every contribution, no matter how small, brings us closer to securing the essentials we desperately need.
Share Our Story: If you can’t donate, please share this post to help us reach others who can.
Your support will help provide food for the children, clean water for my family, and basic supplies to help us survive this unimaginable crisis.
My name is Melissa and I am supporting Areej to help her family surviv… Melissa Saul needs your support for Emergency Evacuation for Aree
Thank you for reading, for caring, and for standing in solidarity with us. Together, we can create a lifeline for my family—a chance to live, to dream, and to hope again.
