Future (n) - 'The aftermath of choices made in moments we thought would last forever.'
“Not all futures wait for you. Some pull you in before you’re ready.”
Synopsis: Going in between the future and pasts; to moments which captured the essence of their youth -The boys are stuck in limbo- Time loops, memory loss, glitches in time. Mind programming, fractured identities. Love twisted by circumstance or altered perception. The trauma of youth trapped between moments. Existential questions about choice, fate, and time.
Sets of ruling oneshot/longshots taken from each members perspective.
Genre. Angst. Dark romance. Mind programming. Twisted sci-fi. Emotional depth.
I LIKE IT. Mark can’t figure out why he remembers things that never happened. Memories of you flood in; ones he never lived. In his search for the truth, he stumbles into a lab labeled "Emotion Archive." What he finds makes him question if his entire personality is programmed... or worse, stolen. According to the file... an AI version of himself was built as a digital companion for therapy purposes. But when he was placed into your care as a “mind coach,” something went wrong. And now here in the future, the lines blur. The 'AI Mark' starts thinking it’s real. And he's not sure if it’s falling in love… or being manipulated. [Read here]
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Interlude: Back to Our Paradise. Jeno wakes up to the same sunrise. The same sounds. The same faces. Over and over again. Trapped in a loop, reliving the same 24 hours without explanation, he searches for the trigger—something, anything—that might break the cycle. That’s when he notices you. You weren't there before. Or maybe you were. Maybe you’re the reason. Maybe you’re the answer. [Read here]
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Bout You. Renjun can see five seconds into the future. That’s all. It starts as a gift—avoiding spills, accidents, awkward encounters. Until one day, he sees you die five seconds before it happens… and no matter what he does, the future won’t change. Renjun knows he can’t undo what he did. But when he wakes up one day in the exact moment he lost you, he thinks time is giving him a second chance. The catch? Every time he tries to change it, reality breaks in a new way. [Read here]
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Chiller. Jaemin wakes up with a scar on his wrist—and no memory of how it got there. Then another scar appears. And another. Each one comes with a fragmented flash: a moment with you, a promise made, a secret kept. Soon, he starts receiving videos on his device. They’re of himself—from the future—leaving warnings, confessions, and countdowns. You’re in them too. Always close. Always crying. But he can’t remember any of it. He’s running out of time to figure out what version of himself is trying to reach him... and what he’s about to do to you. [Read here]
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Miss Me. After your death, Chenle couldn’t let go. So he didn’t. He uploaded your consciousness into a system designed to preserve love. But now, the version of you he created is changing—glitching, adapting, becoming someone else entirely. Versions of you that argue, beg, scream… lie. As the line between memory and manipulation blurs, Chenle must decide: delete the data and lose you—or reboot the system and make you into his own version. [Read here]
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That Summer. Haechan... No... Donghyuck can't control himself. Each time he jumps through timelines- with every time travel between the future and past, his conscious begins to separate and Donghyuck feels less like himself. Schizophrenic episodes cause him to be both a danger for himself and you. His fractured mind splits between love, fear, and obsession—until the line between you and him disappears entirely. [Read here]
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Dream TEAM. Jisung is the only one left outside the time fracture. The others are frozen, stuck in loops from their pasts. To save them, he must enter each of their timelines and convince them to leave. But the longer he stays, the more tempted he is to stay with you—the one version of you that’s still alive. [Read here]
OKAY! I CAN'T LIE. I started off with a huge dislike for all the songs- but once i started writing - these dark versions tagged with the happy songs made me love the album so much - I ACTUALLY FELL IN LOVE with this album for the wrong reasons. - but nct dream really put a lot of effort, so I tried my best with these stories
Chiller and Bttf really came through. The album was an unbothered absolute piece of chilled pleasure 💅🏼
Amid this haven of darkness—her bedroom, where thick curtains devoured the neon glow of Yokohama’s restless streets—dim streaks of light sliced through the gloom, revealing the chaos: tangled sheets, discarded clothing, and the faint scent of perfume lingering in the stale air. Dazai sat on the edge of the bed, shirt unbuttoned and tie hanging limp around his neck. His elbows rested on his knees, his hands limp at his sides, as though the weight of his thoughts had momentarily anchored him. Behind him, she slept, her body curled in soft, unconscious surrender, her breathing steady and shallow.
Closing his eyes he inhaled deeply, but it did nothing to quiet the storm within him. The warmth of her body still clung to his skin like a ghost—a warmth that felt alien, temporary, meaningless. He didn’t even remember her name. It had been spoken earlier, murmured between coy laughter and the clink of glasses, but it had slipped from his mind as easily as it had entered.
Earlier that evening, he'd found her in one of those dimly lit bars he gravitated to when the emptiness inside him grew too loud. He hadn’t planned to go out, but as he sat alone in the apartment, watching the minutes tick by in deafening silence, the need to escape had become unbearable. You were there, of course, tucked away in the bedroom, your form faintly visible behind the cracked door. He’d caught glimpses of you as you moved—folding laundry, brushing your hair, the mundane rituals of domestic life that only amplified his sense of alienation.
Although he knew he could have stayed, could have walked into the room, sat beside you, and pretended to be the man you still foolishly believed he could be, he couldn’t bear the weight of your hope, couldn’t stomach the way you looked at him with those tired but unwavering eyes, as if you saw something in him worth saving. So, naturally, he’d left.
Dark, discreet, filled with people who weren’t interested in asking questions—the bar was the kind of place he liked. He’d taken a seat at the counter, nursing a drink he didn’t particularly care for, and surveyed the room with his usual detached curiosity. That’s when he saw her. She wasn’t remarkable, not in any way that mattered, but she had smiled at him, her lipstick-painted lips curling just so, and that had been enough. Still, the woman was easy. Not just in the way she leaned in close, her hand brushing his arm as she laughed at something he said, but in the way she didn’t ask for anything. Not his name, not his story, not even the illusion of sincerity. She wanted him for the same reason he sought her out: to fill a void, if only for a moment.
It wasn’t long before they left the bar together, her arm looped through his as though they were lovers rather than strangers. He didn’t remember what they talked about on the way to her apartment—if they talked at all. It didn’t matter. The act was always the same. The details blurred together into a monotonous rhythm of fleeting touches and shallow breaths.
And yet, there had been a moment, brief and fleeting, when he’d sought you in her. It wasn’t conscious, not at first. It was instinctual, an ache buried deep within him that he rarely acknowledged. The way her fingers brushed against his jaw, the way she murmured his name—he let himself pretend, for the briefest of seconds, that it was you. But the illusion shattered almost as soon as it formed, leaving behind a bitter taste in his mouth.
You weren’t here. You would never be here, in a room like this, in a moment like this. And maybe that was why he came to places like this, why he sought out women who were nothing like you. With them, he could be anyone—everyone—except the man you thought you loved.
But Osamu Dazai, the man he was, didn’t stay in that moment of longing for long. He didn’t allow himself to. Instead, he leaned into the guilt, welcomed it like an old friend. The guilt was his anchor, the only thing that tethered him to a world that often felt so distant, so unreal. It was the one thing he could still feel, and though he hated it, he also needed it. Without it, he feared he might vanish entirely.
While the other woman had been eager, pliant, her lips tracing the curve of his neck as her hands roamed over his skin, he’d let her take him apart, piece by piece, but even as her nails raked against his back, he felt nothing. It was mechanical, a performance they both participated in but neither truly believed in. Every kiss, every whispered word, every practiced movement—it was all an imitation of something real, a hollow mimicry of passion.
Once it was over, once it was gone, silence settled where chaos had drawn, and she’d fallen asleep almost immediately, her breathing soft and even, her body warm against his. Yet the man couldn’t sleep. He never could, not in places like this, not after nights like this. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor as though the answers to his endless questions might be hidden there.
He ran a hand down his face, pausing at his jaw, where her lips had been not long ago. The sensation lingered, faint but persistent, and it filled him with a strange, hollow ache. He hated it—the way her touch stayed with him, the way it seemed to seep into his skin like a stain he couldn’t wash away. But he hated himself more, hated the choices that had led him here, hated the emptiness that drove him to keep making them.
Finally, he stood, moving with the quiet precision of a man who had learned to leave without waking anyone. He dressed slowly, methodically, his movements as calculated as everything else he did. His tie hung loose around his neck, his shirt still wrinkled, but he didn’t bother fixing either. What was the point?
The walk back to your shared apartment was agonizingly slow. The streets of Yokohama were quiet at this hour, the city caught in the fragile stillness that came just before dawn.
He lit a cigarette as he walked, letting the sharp burn of the smoke fill his lungs and distract him from the faint perfume that clung to his clothes. He thought of you as he smoked, not with longing or love, but with the same detached fascination he always felt when it came to you. You were his partner, the person he came home to, but even that word-partner-felt foreign in his mouth. What were you to him, really? An anchor? A habit? Or just another part of his endless game, something to keep him entertained in between the nights he lost himself to strangers?
By the time he reached the door, the sun was beginning to creep over the horizon, casting pale light over the city. He hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over the doorknob, before pushing it open. The apartment was quiet, the air heavy with the silence that had become normal between you. You were there, as he knew you would be, sitting on the couch with a blanket draped over your shoulders. The soft light of the lamp illuminated your face, making the dark circles under your eyes more prominent. You didn't look at him, your gaze fixed on the cup of tea in your hands, but he could feel the weight of your awareness. You always knew when he came home.
While closing the door behind him with a deliberate softness, the click of the latch echoed loud in the oppressive quiet. For a moment, he just stood there, watching you. You were beautiful in a way that made his chest ache-not because he loved you, but because he knew he could never love you the way you deserved. He wasn't built for that kind of devotion. His life was a maze of manipulation and power plays, his heart a wasteland he had long since abandoned.
"You're up late," he said finally, his voice casual, almost teasing, as if he had just returned from a harmless night out with friends. The lie was so practiced it came effortlessly, slipping from his tongue like a well-worn melody.
You didn't look up. "So are you," you replied simply, your tone devoid of accusation, but also of warmth.
He moved into the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water and taking his time to drink it. The tension between you hung in the air, thick and suffocating, but Dazai thrived in tension. It was his playground, his stage, and he played his part flawlessly. When he finally turned to face you, his smirk was firmly in place, his eyes gleaming with that familiar mix of arrogance and amusement.
"You're not going to ask where l've been?" he said, the question light and mocking, designed to provoke.
Setting your cup down on the coffee table, your movements were slow and deliberate, before finally meeting his gaze. Your eyes were tired, but not with the kind of exhaustion that sleep could cure. It was the exhaustion of someone who had been fighting a losing battle for far too long.
"What's the point?" you said, your voice steady but tinged with quiet resignation. "You'll just lie to me."
For a fleeting second, so brief you thought you had imagined it, something flickered in his expression—something that looked almost like regret. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by that infuriating smirk that made you want to scream and cry and leave all at once. He moved closer, his steps unhurried, until he was standing in front of the couch, looking down at you with an intensity that made your chest tighten.
"Lie to you?" he echoed, his voice low and almost playful. "Have I ever lied to you, love?"
You laughed then, a bitter, humorless sound that cut through the air like a knife. "Every time you walk through that door smelling like another woman," you said quietly. "That's a lie."
Tilting his head, he studied you with the same detached curiosity he might have given to a puzzle or a particularly interesting opponent. "And yet you're still here," he said, his tone almost gentle, as if he were pointing out a simple fact rather than delivering a cruel truth.
A truth that made you look away, your eyes focusing on the mug on the table, the faint steam rising from it already beginning to fade. "I don't know why I stay," you admitted softly.
But he knew. He always knew. You stayed because leaving would mean admitting defeat, because walking away from him would feel like tearing out a piece of yourself. He was your poison, and you drank him willingly, knowing full well the damage he caused.
Dazai knelt in front of you then, his hand resting lightly on your knee, his touch both a comfort and a trap. "You stay," he said softly, his voice laced with something almost tender, „because you need me as much as I need you."
And you hated him for it, hated the way he could make you feel so small, so powerless, and yet so completely his. However, most of all, you hated the way he was right. Because no matter how much it hurt, no matter how many nights you spent waiting for him to come home, you couldn't bring yourself to leave. He was your ruin, and you loved him for it.
::
You stared at the ceiling, wide awake, the darkness pressing down like an unbearable weight. The world outside was silent, but the inside of your chest roared—an endless cacophony of questions, doubts, and raw, unfiltered grief. Beside you, Tachihara lay motionless, his breath even, his body still. You hated the way it looked like peace.
But you knew better.
The man next to you wasn’t sleeping, either. He hadn’t slept properly since the day you confronted him, since the truth you had both been circling for weeks finally spilled into the light. You wondered what haunted him now—the memory of her hands on him, or the sight of your face when you had seen the truth written in black-and-white on his phone.
And what haunted you? Was it the message? Or the way his voice had sounded when he answered, “I’ve been seeing her for a few months,” as if it was some minor detail, as if time made any difference to the wound it had left in your chest? Was it the fact that he hadn’t even flinched when you asked? Or was it the part of you that still ached for him, even now, even after everything?
How cruel it was, to love someone who had already ruined you.
Tachihara lay still beside you, his muscles tense, his body heavy with the weight of your proximity. He could feel your presence, feel your anger and heartbreak radiating off of you like heat. He wanted to reach out, to touch you, to say something that would shatter this unbearable silence. But what was there to say?
Sorry.
The word sat on the tip of his tongue, heavy and bitter, but he couldn’t force it out. What good was sorry? What did it even mean? It wouldn’t erase what he had done. It wouldn’t take away the betrayal or the image of her name on his phone. It wouldn’t make you trust him again.
And yet, regret consumed him, burning through his chest like fire. It was strange, the way regret worked. How it could lie dormant, hidden beneath layers of justifications and excuses, only to erupt when you least expected it. He had told himself it didn’t mean anything—that what he had done with her was separate from what he had with you. That you were different, that you were home. But now, as he lay beside you, drowning in your silence, he realized how naïve that had been.
You thought about asking him if he regretted it. The question lingered on your tongue like poison, but you couldn’t bring yourself to speak it. Part of you didn’t want to know the answer.
Because what if he said no?
What if he looked you in the eye and told you it had been worth it? What if he said that she had given him something you never could? The thought made your stomach twist, but it wasn’t the worst possibility. No, the worst, the cruelest option was if he were to say yes. That he would tell you he regretted it, that it had been a mistake, that it hadn’t meant anything. Because then, you would have to wonder why. Why he had done it, why he had risked everything for something meaningless. Why you weren’t enough to make him stay loyal, to make him want only you.
And that question, you realized, was one you couldn’t bear to ask.
Tachihara thought about leaving. The idea had been circling in his mind for days now, an escape route he kept coming back to when the weight of it all became too much. Maybe, just maybe, it would be better this way. If he left, you wouldn’t have to see him every day and be reminded of what he’d done. You could start over, find someone who wouldn’t hurt you the way he had. Someone who deserved you. Yet, somehow, leaving felt like running, and running wasn’t something he allowed himself to do. Not in work, not in life, and certainly not with you. Not being ready to give up, even if part of him knew he should, he wasn’t ready to let you go, to walk away from the only person who had ever made him feel whole.
And that was the cruelest part of it all. He had betrayed you, hurt you in a way he couldn’t take back. But he still loved you. God, he loved you.
And yet, love didn’t feel like it could be enough anymore.
In between this hungry emptiness, you tried to remember the person you had been before him. Before his sharp smiles and warm hands, before the way he made you feel like the world was finally something you could bear. You had been lonely, yes, but you had been safe. And now?
Now you felt like you were standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down into an abyss you didn’t know how to cross. This man had been your anchor, your constant, your home. And now he was the storm, the thing tearing you apart piece by piece.
Tachihara wondered if you hated him. He wouldn’t blame you if you did. In fact, he almost wished you did. Hatred would be easier than this unbearable silence, this suffocating distance between you. Hatred was something he could understand, something he could face head-on.
However, you didn’t hate him. He could see it in the way you still lingered in the same room, the way you hadn’t told him to leave, even when you had every right to. And somehow, that made it worse. Because, in the end, if you didn’t hate him, it meant you still cared. It meant he had broken something precious, something that might never be whole again.
And for what? For a distraction? For a fleeting moment of escape from the weight of his own insecurities? The thought made him sick.
As you rolled onto your side, your back still facing him, you closed your eyes. You weren’t sure if you were trying to shut him out or if you were just trying to shut yourself in. Unapologetically , your mind wandered to the things you wanted to say to him. How badly you wanted to scream at him, to ask him why, to demand answers to questions you didn’t know how to phrase.
But you stayed silent. Not because you didn’t care, but because you cared too much.
Words felt useless now.
Turning his head to look at you, his chest ached with the weight of everything he wanted to say. He wanted to tell you that he was sorry, that he would take it all back if he could. He wanted to tell you that you were the only thing that had ever felt real to him, the only thing that had ever mattered.
But the words caught in his throat, tangled up in his guilt and his shame. He didn’t deserve to say them.
So he stayed silent, listening to the sound of your breathing, wondering if you were awake, wondering if you were thinking about him. About her. About whether he was worth saving.
In the end, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched on, heavy and unyielding, until it became something alive, something that filled the space between you like a living, breathing thing.
And maybe that was the cruelest part of all. Not the betrayal, not the guilt, not even the regret.
It was the silence.
A/N this is a re-do of my old cheating fic but sadder? and i added tachihara because i saw a delicious edit on tiktok… i still have to write my yandere fic that got requested like four times? maybe next week since university has started again and i am already not having it, dedicated this to @/saoirseyun because i am down bad.
back on my Tachihara bullshit because he was the only person in the show who infiltrated another organization and didn't get caught
When Higuchi snuck into the ADA? Dazai clocked her immediately and put a tracker in her pocket. Instantly found out.
During the Dark era, it didn't take long for both Dazai and Oda to figure out that Ango was secretly working for the government.
But Tachi? He had to end up revealing himself because nobody else had discovered him yet, he was just that good
and the fact that he had such a small role in the show up to that point makes it even better because be so for real, nobody saw that twist coming and if you say you did you're fucking lying because no you did not
(oh and the thing with Mori? That doesn't count because it was after his initial reveal, so dont come after me in the comments)
Amid this haven of darkness—her bedroom, where thick curtains devoured the neon glow of Yokohama’s restless streets—dim streaks of light sliced through the gloom, revealing the chaos: tangled sheets, discarded clothing, and the faint scent of perfume lingering in the stale air. Dazai sat on the edge of the bed, shirt unbuttoned and tie hanging limp around his neck. His elbows rested on his knees, his hands limp at his sides, as though the weight of his thoughts had momentarily anchored him. Behind him, she slept, her body curled in soft, unconscious surrender, her breathing steady and shallow.
Closing his eyes he inhaled deeply, but it did nothing to quiet the storm within him. The warmth of her body still clung to his skin like a ghost—a warmth that felt alien, temporary, meaningless. He didn’t even remember her name. It had been spoken earlier, murmured between coy laughter and the clink of glasses, but it had slipped from his mind as easily as it had entered.
Earlier that evening, he'd found her in one of those dimly lit bars he gravitated to when the emptiness inside him grew too loud. He hadn’t planned to go out, but as he sat alone in the apartment, watching the minutes tick by in deafening silence, the need to escape had become unbearable. You were there, of course, tucked away in the bedroom, your form faintly visible behind the cracked door. He’d caught glimpses of you as you moved—folding laundry, brushing your hair, the mundane rituals of domestic life that only amplified his sense of alienation.
Although he knew he could have stayed, could have walked into the room, sat beside you, and pretended to be the man you still foolishly believed he could be, he couldn’t bear the weight of your hope, couldn’t stomach the way you looked at him with those tired but unwavering eyes, as if you saw something in him worth saving. So, naturally, he’d left.
Dark, discreet, filled with people who weren’t interested in asking questions—the bar was the kind of place he liked. He’d taken a seat at the counter, nursing a drink he didn’t particularly care for, and surveyed the room with his usual detached curiosity. That’s when he saw her. She wasn’t remarkable, not in any way that mattered, but she had smiled at him, her lipstick-painted lips curling just so, and that had been enough. Still, the woman was easy. Not just in the way she leaned in close, her hand brushing his arm as she laughed at something he said, but in the way she didn’t ask for anything. Not his name, not his story, not even the illusion of sincerity. She wanted him for the same reason he sought her out: to fill a void, if only for a moment.
It wasn’t long before they left the bar together, her arm looped through his as though they were lovers rather than strangers. He didn’t remember what they talked about on the way to her apartment—if they talked at all. It didn’t matter. The act was always the same. The details blurred together into a monotonous rhythm of fleeting touches and shallow breaths.
And yet, there had been a moment, brief and fleeting, when he’d sought you in her. It wasn’t conscious, not at first. It was instinctual, an ache buried deep within him that he rarely acknowledged. The way her fingers brushed against his jaw, the way she murmured his name—he let himself pretend, for the briefest of seconds, that it was you. But the illusion shattered almost as soon as it formed, leaving behind a bitter taste in his mouth.
You weren’t here. You would never be here, in a room like this, in a moment like this. And maybe that was why he came to places like this, why he sought out women who were nothing like you. With them, he could be anyone—everyone—except the man you thought you loved.
But Osamu Dazai, the man he was, didn’t stay in that moment of longing for long. He didn’t allow himself to. Instead, he leaned into the guilt, welcomed it like an old friend. The guilt was his anchor, the only thing that tethered him to a world that often felt so distant, so unreal. It was the one thing he could still feel, and though he hated it, he also needed it. Without it, he feared he might vanish entirely.
While the other woman had been eager, pliant, her lips tracing the curve of his neck as her hands roamed over his skin, he’d let her take him apart, piece by piece, but even as her nails raked against his back, he felt nothing. It was mechanical, a performance they both participated in but neither truly believed in. Every kiss, every whispered word, every practiced movement—it was all an imitation of something real, a hollow mimicry of passion.
Once it was over, once it was gone, silence settled where chaos had drawn, and she’d fallen asleep almost immediately, her breathing soft and even, her body warm against his. Yet the man couldn’t sleep. He never could, not in places like this, not after nights like this. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor as though the answers to his endless questions might be hidden there.
He ran a hand down his face, pausing at his jaw, where her lips had been not long ago. The sensation lingered, faint but persistent, and it filled him with a strange, hollow ache. He hated it—the way her touch stayed with him, the way it seemed to seep into his skin like a stain he couldn’t wash away. But he hated himself more, hated the choices that had led him here, hated the emptiness that drove him to keep making them.
Finally, he stood, moving with the quiet precision of a man who had learned to leave without waking anyone. He dressed slowly, methodically, his movements as calculated as everything else he did. His tie hung loose around his neck, his shirt still wrinkled, but he didn’t bother fixing either. What was the point?
The walk back to your shared apartment was agonizingly slow. The streets of Yokohama were quiet at this hour, the city caught in the fragile stillness that came just before dawn.
He lit a cigarette as he walked, letting the sharp burn of the smoke fill his lungs and distract him from the faint perfume that clung to his clothes. He thought of you as he smoked, not with longing or love, but with the same detached fascination he always felt when it came to you. You were his partner, the person he came home to, but even that word-partner-felt foreign in his mouth. What were you to him, really? An anchor? A habit? Or just another part of his endless game, something to keep him entertained in between the nights he lost himself to strangers?
By the time he reached the door, the sun was beginning to creep over the horizon, casting pale light over the city. He hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over the doorknob, before pushing it open. The apartment was quiet, the air heavy with the silence that had become normal between you. You were there, as he knew you would be, sitting on the couch with a blanket draped over your shoulders. The soft light of the lamp illuminated your face, making the dark circles under your eyes more prominent. You didn't look at him, your gaze fixed on the cup of tea in your hands, but he could feel the weight of your awareness. You always knew when he came home.
While closing the door behind him with a deliberate softness, the click of the latch echoed loud in the oppressive quiet. For a moment, he just stood there, watching you. You were beautiful in a way that made his chest ache-not because he loved you, but because he knew he could never love you the way you deserved. He wasn't built for that kind of devotion. His life was a maze of manipulation and power plays, his heart a wasteland he had long since abandoned.
"You're up late," he said finally, his voice casual, almost teasing, as if he had just returned from a harmless night out with friends. The lie was so practiced it came effortlessly, slipping from his tongue like a well-worn melody.
You didn't look up. "So are you," you replied simply, your tone devoid of accusation, but also of warmth.
He moved into the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water and taking his time to drink it. The tension between you hung in the air, thick and suffocating, but Dazai thrived in tension. It was his playground, his stage, and he played his part flawlessly. When he finally turned to face you, his smirk was firmly in place, his eyes gleaming with that familiar mix of arrogance and amusement.
"You're not going to ask where l've been?" he said, the question light and mocking, designed to provoke.
Setting your cup down on the coffee table, your movements were slow and deliberate, before finally meeting his gaze. Your eyes were tired, but not with the kind of exhaustion that sleep could cure. It was the exhaustion of someone who had been fighting a losing battle for far too long.
"What's the point?" you said, your voice steady but tinged with quiet resignation. "You'll just lie to me."
For a fleeting second, so brief you thought you had imagined it, something flickered in his expression—something that looked almost like regret. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by that infuriating smirk that made you want to scream and cry and leave all at once. He moved closer, his steps unhurried, until he was standing in front of the couch, looking down at you with an intensity that made your chest tighten.
"Lie to you?" he echoed, his voice low and almost playful. "Have I ever lied to you, love?"
You laughed then, a bitter, humorless sound that cut through the air like a knife. "Every time you walk through that door smelling like another woman," you said quietly. "That's a lie."
Tilting his head, he studied you with the same detached curiosity he might have given to a puzzle or a particularly interesting opponent. "And yet you're still here," he said, his tone almost gentle, as if he were pointing out a simple fact rather than delivering a cruel truth.
A truth that made you look away, your eyes focusing on the mug on the table, the faint steam rising from it already beginning to fade. "I don't know why I stay," you admitted softly.
But he knew. He always knew. You stayed because leaving would mean admitting defeat, because walking away from him would feel like tearing out a piece of yourself. He was your poison, and you drank him willingly, knowing full well the damage he caused.
Dazai knelt in front of you then, his hand resting lightly on your knee, his touch both a comfort and a trap. "You stay," he said softly, his voice laced with something almost tender, „because you need me as much as I need you."
And you hated him for it, hated the way he could make you feel so small, so powerless, and yet so completely his. However, most of all, you hated the way he was right. Because no matter how much it hurt, no matter how many nights you spent waiting for him to come home, you couldn't bring yourself to leave. He was your ruin, and you loved him for it.
::
You stared at the ceiling, wide awake, the darkness pressing down like an unbearable weight. The world outside was silent, but the inside of your chest roared—an endless cacophony of questions, doubts, and raw, unfiltered grief. Beside you, Tachihara lay motionless, his breath even, his body still. You hated the way it looked like peace.
But you knew better.
The man next to you wasn’t sleeping, either. He hadn’t slept properly since the day you confronted him, since the truth you had both been circling for weeks finally spilled into the light. You wondered what haunted him now—the memory of her hands on him, or the sight of your face when you had seen the truth written in black-and-white on his phone.
And what haunted you? Was it the message? Or the way his voice had sounded when he answered, “I’ve been seeing her for a few months,” as if it was some minor detail, as if time made any difference to the wound it had left in your chest? Was it the fact that he hadn’t even flinched when you asked? Or was it the part of you that still ached for him, even now, even after everything?
How cruel it was, to love someone who had already ruined you.
Tachihara lay still beside you, his muscles tense, his body heavy with the weight of your proximity. He could feel your presence, feel your anger and heartbreak radiating off of you like heat. He wanted to reach out, to touch you, to say something that would shatter this unbearable silence. But what was there to say?
Sorry.
The word sat on the tip of his tongue, heavy and bitter, but he couldn’t force it out. What good was sorry? What did it even mean? It wouldn’t erase what he had done. It wouldn’t take away the betrayal or the image of her name on his phone. It wouldn’t make you trust him again.
And yet, regret consumed him, burning through his chest like fire. It was strange, the way regret worked. How it could lie dormant, hidden beneath layers of justifications and excuses, only to erupt when you least expected it. He had told himself it didn’t mean anything—that what he had done with her was separate from what he had with you. That you were different, that you were home. But now, as he lay beside you, drowning in your silence, he realized how naïve that had been.
You thought about asking him if he regretted it. The question lingered on your tongue like poison, but you couldn’t bring yourself to speak it. Part of you didn’t want to know the answer.
Because what if he said no?
What if he looked you in the eye and told you it had been worth it? What if he said that she had given him something you never could? The thought made your stomach twist, but it wasn’t the worst possibility. No, the worst, the cruelest option was if he were to say yes. That he would tell you he regretted it, that it had been a mistake, that it hadn’t meant anything. Because then, you would have to wonder why. Why he had done it, why he had risked everything for something meaningless. Why you weren’t enough to make him stay loyal, to make him want only you.
And that question, you realized, was one you couldn’t bear to ask.
Tachihara thought about leaving. The idea had been circling in his mind for days now, an escape route he kept coming back to when the weight of it all became too much. Maybe, just maybe, it would be better this way. If he left, you wouldn’t have to see him every day and be reminded of what he’d done. You could start over, find someone who wouldn’t hurt you the way he had. Someone who deserved you. Yet, somehow, leaving felt like running, and running wasn’t something he allowed himself to do. Not in work, not in life, and certainly not with you. Not being ready to give up, even if part of him knew he should, he wasn’t ready to let you go, to walk away from the only person who had ever made him feel whole.
And that was the cruelest part of it all. He had betrayed you, hurt you in a way he couldn’t take back. But he still loved you. God, he loved you.
And yet, love didn’t feel like it could be enough anymore.
In between this hungry emptiness, you tried to remember the person you had been before him. Before his sharp smiles and warm hands, before the way he made you feel like the world was finally something you could bear. You had been lonely, yes, but you had been safe. And now?
Now you felt like you were standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down into an abyss you didn’t know how to cross. This man had been your anchor, your constant, your home. And now he was the storm, the thing tearing you apart piece by piece.
Tachihara wondered if you hated him. He wouldn’t blame you if you did. In fact, he almost wished you did. Hatred would be easier than this unbearable silence, this suffocating distance between you. Hatred was something he could understand, something he could face head-on.
However, you didn’t hate him. He could see it in the way you still lingered in the same room, the way you hadn’t told him to leave, even when you had every right to. And somehow, that made it worse. Because, in the end, if you didn’t hate him, it meant you still cared. It meant he had broken something precious, something that might never be whole again.
And for what? For a distraction? For a fleeting moment of escape from the weight of his own insecurities? The thought made him sick.
As you rolled onto your side, your back still facing him, you closed your eyes. You weren’t sure if you were trying to shut him out or if you were just trying to shut yourself in. Unapologetically , your mind wandered to the things you wanted to say to him. How badly you wanted to scream at him, to ask him why, to demand answers to questions you didn’t know how to phrase.
But you stayed silent. Not because you didn’t care, but because you cared too much.
Words felt useless now.
Turning his head to look at you, his chest ached with the weight of everything he wanted to say. He wanted to tell you that he was sorry, that he would take it all back if he could. He wanted to tell you that you were the only thing that had ever felt real to him, the only thing that had ever mattered.
But the words caught in his throat, tangled up in his guilt and his shame. He didn’t deserve to say them.
So he stayed silent, listening to the sound of your breathing, wondering if you were awake, wondering if you were thinking about him. About her. About whether he was worth saving.
In the end, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched on, heavy and unyielding, until it became something alive, something that filled the space between you like a living, breathing thing.
And maybe that was the cruelest part of all. Not the betrayal, not the guilt, not even the regret.
It was the silence.
A/N this is a re-do of my old cheating fic but sadder? and i added tachihara because i saw a delicious edit on tiktok… i still have to write my yandere fic that got requested like four times? maybe next week since university has started again and i am already not having it, dedicated this to @/saoirseyun because i am down bad.
We talk about tachiharas traitorship and double crossing way more than we do his survivors guilt and I think that sucks because what do you MEAN your skill is a downgraded reflection of your brother and you will always live in his shadow
fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline) — FIVE.
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. 8.3k.
NOTE. landlord identity theft case was adopted from this reddit post that i heard on a podcast HAHHAHAH. anyway, there’s a bit less action in this one and a bit more set-up, but things do get heating in the latter part of this chapter so i hope that satiates you, my fellow freaks. as usual, please please do drop in your thoughts and comments! enjoy! NEXT CHAPTER TO BE PUBLISHED.
EVER SINCE YOU GOT BACK TO WORK ON THURSDAY, THE MURMURS WOULDN’T STOP. You’re not sure how it started or who started it, but you’re pretty sure some kind of information had been circulating while you were on your short leave because when a Yoosun employee came to your office early in the morning to pick up some documents— first thing on your agenda since coming back— his eyes immediately darted to your fucked up, bandaged up hands, and his face paled. He then proceeded to cover the upper half of his face as he warily walked up to the documents on your desk like he’s trying to evade a wild animal.
“I—I’ll be delivering these now, attorney, th—thank you! I wasn’t looking at you at all!”
Then he darted off like a rabbit being hunted down.
What the fuck?
That wasn’t the only instance. Every time you crossed paths with a Nalkeutta member that isn’t Mark or any of the executives, they’d immediately scurry away and avoid your gaze— even when you’re just trying to politely greet them. It started to annoy you, so you cornered Renjun to ask him if there’s something you should know about.
He explained that since you requested Mark to keep your whole stalker situation under wraps because it was personal, people had to fill in the gaps to supply the reason for your few days of absence. However the words “multiple injuries,” and “police station,” and “hospital bills,” managed to slip past the sworn secrecy, and the story somehow got twisted to you getting into a bar fight the night of your welcome party, and your poor victim got beaten half to death.
Apparently your messed up hands and unscathed face served as a confirmation to your alleged brutality. The cause couldn’t be attributed to your stalker, so everyone had to use their imagination. Now, there’s an ongoing rumor that you jumped a bar patron just because he was giving you eyes and it pissed you off.
“Is that how everyone perceives me?” you gawk in wonder and mild offense at their characterization of you.
“You walk around the halls looking like you’re one the way to kill someone, don’t act surprised when people start assuming that you already have.”
“Oh, come on! I did not kill him! He just barely got out of a concussion!”
Your mistake is deciding to corner Renjun in the breakroom— where everyone is free to enter and hear your gradually escalating conversation. You notice his Hyeongshin subordinates hesitating to walk in, looking like a group of deer in headlights and immediately avoiding your gaze the moment you direct your gaze, and they scatter off into the wilderness with murmured sorry’s and excuse me’s.
You realize that you just admitted to the crime they were alleging. Doesn’t matter if the facts got mixed up because at the end of the day, you did assault someone, you did do something out of your own character, and you do recognize the mirrored image that your actions reflected.
Before this, everyone was just mildly intimidated by you, your freshly ironed blazers, and your three-inch heels. Now, they’re all avoiding you and your gaze as if you’re some sort of batshit loose cannon like Na Jaemin.
That’s where most of the offense comes from.
“I just got really pissed off! I didn’t know what came over me!”
To bring yourself back down to normalcy, you decide to take advantage of the contact that had been recently added to your phone that you’ve yet to contact since— which is why you’re currently sitting in an Instagram staple bakery at the university district of Yeongdeungpo, Natty trying her best to nod along with your rapid fire complaints, and the fact that she’s having trouble trying to keep up and catch the questionable shit in your rhetoric might be a silver-lining.
“Don’t feel too bad, the creep deserved it,” she tries to assure, but it doesn’t pull through.
“I don’t feel bad nor do I feel guilty, but I do feel like a fucking barbarian and the way my co-workers look at me certainly isn’t helping my case.” She watches as you sink down with a groan and wallow in your yerba mate, totally clueless on what to say to make you feel better, but your despair is unsalvageable. “Someone even had to see me go apeshit. So fucking humiliating.”
“Were they a co-worker?” she asks. “Did that person yap to the rest of your office?”
“No, he’s the devil, but I’m pretty sure he kept his mouth shut at the very least,” you wail, face in your hands. If he did, then the narrative that you’re volatile and crazy wouldn’t be running around.
She cocks her head. “Isn’t that a good thing…?”
You pull up your face, revealing a grimace. “There’s nothing good about that freak. Natty, he was treating me like shit for weeks then suddenly switched gears when I swore at his face because I had enough of his shit. Who the fuck does that? He watched me beat the shit out of a grown man and thought it was hot. I didn’t even ask about it. He just aired out his kinks unwarranted, like, what the hell?”
She does not need to know that you’re talking about Na Jaemin. And she surely does not need to know about the fact that you’re under the same illegal company as him— your shared high school tormentor.
“If you like someone, don’t you wanna make things easier for them? But this guy seems to enjoy turning my work life into a living hell. Do you know how much overtime I had to take just because of him? God, It’s like he gets off of seeing me suffering and in pain. It just gets more confusing after he helped me with the whole stalker death threat situation.” And considering your history with him. You groan and massage the wrinkles on your forehead. “I have no idea how to deal with him. If I ignore him, he acts up. If I get mad, he eats it up like a psycho and does more shit to piss me off even more. What the hell am I supposed to do?”
You realize you’ve been rambling and flinch up to observe your companion’s reception. Surprisingly, she seems to be thinking deeply about it, a hum rolling off her tongue as she ponders over your situation, and you’re a little nervous that she’s gonna grill you about the identity of this guy, or something.
“Well, first of all—”
There’s a wash of relief when he doesn’t ask about his name.
“—is he hot?”
And that relief is immediately punted out the window to make room for your sheer and visceral discomfort at that single insinuation, of which you try your best to hide from your face. The ghost of Na Jaemin replaces the image of Natty sitting before you— an apparition of the breakfast you shared with him against your will thanks to a brief moment of value-drigen weakness. That blunt, as-a-matter-of-factness in the manner he admitted to his attraction. Completely unabashed like a self-assured asshole. That fucking smirk pisses you off to the depths of hell.
“He’s not ugly,” you grit, waving the parasitic image of him away. Natty’s eyes immediately sparkle. Like she’d only been trying to be interested before but now she’s actually, genuinely interested.
“Good enough,” she chirps. “If that’s the case, then just seduce him!”
What?
“Take advantage of his feelings! Don’t let him take control!” Her pure, unbridled enthusiasm is catching you off guard. “Does he piss you off just to get your attention?”
“Uhh, apparently…?”
“Great, then you gotta exploit that.” Suddenly, she’s tugging you out of your quaint cafe chair and dragging you out of the bakery like a woman on a newfound mission. “First thing’s first— shopping. C’mon, I know just the place.”
“I’m sorry, but what the hell led you to that conclusion?”
Natty stops to look at you like a disappointed mentor. “Honey, flirting is essentially psychological warfare. You gotta arm yourself in order to disarm the other person— which means we gotta update your wardrobe from flat and plain business casual to skirting the line of an office porno if you want him on his knees and doing everything you say. Don’t let him have the upper hand, girl. It’s time to retaliate.”
You really hate that she’s kind of making sense, but you’re not very keen on abandoning your workplace appropriate clothing in a building full of men— even when 80% of them have now been instilled with the fear that you may be a maneater— so you manage to stop Natty halfway from dragging you all the way to the boutique by pulling her attention to a trinket kiosk stationed near Byuksan High School.
“I need a new phone strap. Help me pick one out.”
You’re a professional in your mid-twenties. It’s not very gratifying to voluntarily join a bunch of teenage prep students whose schoolbags are heavily weighted by a despicable amount of keyrings, but you will if you must.
“I never pegged you as an accessory girlie,” Natty muses, jangling a string of pink charms and beads in the air to show off to you.
You snatch it from her, and toss it back onto the display baskets. “That’s because I have an image to maintain and that image has no room for bubblegum pink. Hand me that black chain one.”
“How does this translate to your image?”
“As a miserable reminder of how I’m chained to my job.”
Natty laughs and continues digging around the kiosk’s assortment of displays. You notice the very indiscreet stares of judgement from the highschool girls you and Natty are congregating with as you pay for your new phone strap, as well as a funny looking dog keychain that you think Haechan might appreciate. When the standowner hands you the paperbag of your purchases, however, you notice her looking past you with a disappointed expression on her face, clicking her tongue and shaking her head the moment you finish the transaction.
“Tsk. These hooligans just keep acting out in broad daylight. Someone oughta call the cops on these delinquents.”
Huh. You turn your head to where she’s looking at, and there you notice— from the sliver of an alleyway— a group of seven to eight Byuksan students cackling and surrounding someone or something. Then you direct your gaze to the school gates with the very evident Byuksan High logo decorating the iron bars to confirm. Byuksan has never been part of Nalkeutta’s union. You shouldn’t be in an area with active gang activity. They’re probably just a group of juvenile bullies picking on a classmate.
If that were indeed the case, you would have left right now.
But then you notice that the two people the Byuksan students are ganging up on are wearing the glaring set of red blazers that you’re far too familiar with—
“Whoa aren’t those two kids from Ganghak? What are they doing here?”
—and then your stomach drops. Because those two kids are from Ganghak. Not just students from Ganghak— you’ve seen them at the fucking office building before. Park Jisung and Oh Sion, clearly troubled by the situation because no matter how skilled of a fighter you are, eight people is way too much to handle.
The former is carrying a large duffel bag with him. Oh, for fuck’s sake, are they out on a job? You feel a headache coming. You bring a hand to your head and grit your teeth. This is trouble. This is gonna be so much trouble if they don’t manage to get out of this.
“Hey, are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine,” you breathe out as an internal debate is going on in your mind. Eight boys. A very enclosed space. What the fuck can you even do in this situation? God damn it all. “Natty, hold onto this for a sec.”
“Wait, where are you— hey!”
She yanks you back the moment she realizes you’re headed straight to the alley. You look back at her face riddled with alarm. “What are you doing?! Don’t tell me you’re actually planning on intervening. High schoolers are terrifying these days! They don’t give a shit if you’re a girl or an adult. Those punks might actually hurt you, you know.”
“Don’t worry, I have a plan.” No you fucking don’t. At least not yet. You’ll figure it out on the way there. “Just— ugh. Can you take a video from here? Make sure to get a clear shot of the Byuksan kids’ faces. And whatever happens, don’t even think about calling the police. Don’t.”
Natty looks baffled yet at the same time in awe. And then lets go of you with a relenting sigh. “Why are you even doing this?”
You blink. “...Alumni spirit?”
Now, you didn’t expect that to elicit any kind of effect, but Natty for some reason appears touched by the bullshit you just pulled out of your ass, and you suddenly feel guilty. “Is that…is that why you helped me out too?” she says with glassy eyes. “Gosh, you’re such a good person, you’re so cool. Go do your thing, attorney. I’ll back you up from here.”
Did she forget that you literally had no idea who she was until she spelled it out for you? However, there is no time to clear up the misunderstanding that you are, in fact, not the good person that she thinks you are because those two Ganghak kids might lose a bunch of inventory at any moment and subsequently lose their lives to either Mark or Na Jaemin— which just translates to more work for you in case it really does happen.
So before you can even iron out a plan, your feet are already racing towards the crevice, open phone in hand, and you dive in head first to whatever mess this is gonna be.
“Whoa. What kind of extracurricular activity is this?”
Catch their attention. Catch them off guard because what could be more bewildering than an adult woman in pumps suddenly sauntering into a clear bullying ring— swiveling her phone camera to catch their nametags and faces.
“Let’s see, who do we have here? Lee Hyunsung, Jeon Sangwoo, Cheong Jitae, and—”
“Hey, lady, what do you think you’re doing?”
One of them smacks your hand away the moment your phone nears his face. The kid looks a little annoyed and confused. Mostly confused. You sigh and pocket your phone. “I should be asking you the same thing.” Your eyes flit over to Jisung and Sion. They are also very confused, but mostly nervous— probably because you showed up. They looked like they were ready to throw hands prior to your interrupt, but that wouldn’t have ended in any way good at all.
This is not in your fucking job description. Whatever.
“You eight are clearly ganging up on these two boys over here. Don’t you know that bullying is a punishable offense? You boys should hurry along if you don’t want to ruin your college applications.”
The one in front of you— who you assume is their leader— just scoffs at your threat, eliciting the same amount of ridicule from the rest of his posse. “Seriously? Lady, these Ganghak bitches are walking around in our territory in broad daylight like they own the place or some shit. We’re just trying to teach them a proper lesson on respect and decorum.”
Your mouth twitches, a slight waver in the expression you’ve been maintaining. “Wow. Territory. Are you kids in some kind of gang or something? That’s an even graver crime. If I were you, I’d just let Ganghak off and protect the future I have in store.”
“Hah.” He juts his face forward, further into yours. You don’t flinch. “Or else what? You gonna report us, old lady?”
The other seven cackle. Your jaw clenches. Alright, that’s it. These kids are gonna fucking get it.
“Go ahead. But you gotta know that my dad’s a police officer— and he patrols this area. You can report us if you want but it ain’t gonna do shit, lady. This is our turf you’re on.”
You look at his nametag. Shin Hyunwoo. A smile curls on your lips. “Really?” Suddenly, all the confidence he’s wearing flinches the moment he’s forced to meet your gaze. You still have your phone out. You let him watch as you dial 119 for all of them to hear. “Wanna test your luck, kid?”
R—iiiiiiing. Ri—
“Yeongdeungpo Police Station. What’s your emergency?”
This is a gamble. A very risky gamble, but you’re pretty confident in your cards after being acquainted with the deck.
“Hey, can you get Officer Jung on the line? It’s important.”
The person from the other end of the line chokes upon recognizing your voice that the entire station is probably sick of at this point. “A—attorney!” And at that moment, your victory is sealed as horror and realization dawns upon the faces of most of the kids— all except their ringleader before you. “Y—yes, of course, one moment, please—”
A moment’s pause.
“Attorney, is there a problem? What do you need?”
Maybe you should have actually taken Officer Jung’s number last time. He’s proving to be very useful.
“Officer Jung,” you make sure to greet with an abundance of familiarity. You make sure to look at this Shin Hyunwoo kid as you do. “I just wanted to ask a question. Is there an Officer Shin in your station?”
All that confident, pubescent bravado slowly melts away. “Well, yes, we have three. Shin Haesu, Shin Junsik, and Shin Byungkwan.” The moment Shin Hyunwoo winces at the exact moment Jaehyun pronounces the last name, you know you have your guy. “Why do you ask?”
“Ah, well,” you exhale with a smile. “Between you and Officer Shin Byungkwan— who’s higher in rank.”
You’re met with one second of silence before Officer Jung finally responds with, “That would be me.” Thank god he’s going along without any question. Is this what Natty was talking about? “Officer Shin is just a patrol officer.”
Fucking jackpot.
“Thank you, that’s all I needed to know! Have a great day, officer!”
The call ends. You drop your hand and look at Shin Hyunwoo who’s red in the face and about to piss himself in embarrassment, and when you look around, the rest of his friends aren’t faring any better. One of them looks more pissed than anything and is about to lunge at you with a punch when you raise a hand to stop him.
“Land that punch and a police report is gonna go through. You think I came here alone?” The kid stumbles, biting down his tongue in anger. You sigh and run your fingers through your hair. “Seriously, you had to pull this stunt in broad fucking daylight with a bunch of people out and about. I have your names and faces. Try anything funny and you can kiss your future goodbye.”
You settle a tap on Shin Hyunwoo’s shoulder, who flinches upon contact.
“Now get lost.”
Somehow, your intervention worked. The eight Byuksan delinquents run off, but not without at least one of them calling you an old lady again and flipping you off. You remind yourself that you are an adult with adult-level maturity. Park Jisung and Oh Sion look at your approaching figure cautiously. “A—attorney,” the former greets with a bow, still clutching the duffel bag close. The latter sees this and mirrors his actions. You settle a few steps in front of them, arms crossed with a hefty release of breath.
“Is it only the two of you?”
“Y—yes. Jaemin hyung-nim sent us to pick up the commission and contracts from K Company.”
“Seriously?” What was that bastard thinking sending these two kids alone to lug around a giant sack of cash? Is he trying to test them, or something? Or maybe he just doesn’t give a fuck and sent the first two people he saw. That seems to match his personality more. Regardless this could have ended really badly. “Anyway, are you two headed back to Nalkeutta now?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Stop being so stiff,” you huff, pulling out your phone to text Natty that all is good, and that she should go ahead because you offered to drive the Ganghak kids home. She responds almost immediately with puppy dog eye emojis and more gracious compliments about your goodwill and kindness. You shudder as a chill runs down your spine. “Well, let’s go. My car’s parked nearby. It’d be quicker and safer to just drive back to the office.”
The two follow you like a pair of lost ducklings. They settle into the backseat, not budging a single word even when you start the engine and start driving.
It’s only when you pull up in front of the company building that Oh Sion musters up his voice to say, “Attorney,” he starts. “You’re so cool.”
Your fingers twitch against the steering wheel. Your eyes flit up to the mirror to see the two boys looking at you with something akin to admiration in their eyes— respect, perhaps. You’re not quite sure. It’s new. Especially considering how your image has been tanked thus far.
“Wanna be cool like me?”
You settle an elbow over the seatrest, cocking your head to look at the two boys with a smile. Their eyes glimmer expectantly. You huff out a laugh.
“Quit Nalkeutta and get back to fucking school.”
That’s when you unlock the car doors and shoo them off. You don’t want to go back in there after already clocking out for the day. They bow goodbye from outside and you wave them goodbye, driving off.
You thought that’d be the last you’ll be seeing of those kids. Yet the next morning, you catch them loitering in front of your office, occasionally peeking through blinds as if you can’t see them, but you can. You very much can. It’s very hard to focus on drafting your contracts when there are two meerkats popping out intermittently through your office window.
“What do those two idiots want?”
Narrowing your eyes into the top of Park Jisung’s head peeking through the crack in the blinds, you’re just about ready to get up, get out, and just ask them what their deal is, but before your ass even leaves the comfortable cushion of your office chair, the door is sprung open— revealing the two boys being barrelled into your office by one Na Jaemin.
“Move it, move your fucking feet— oh, hey, attorney.”
To say that you’re unimpressed by the sight before you is an understatement. “First of all, learn to knock.” Na Jaemin simply brandishes you with a grin and a shrug. You give up with a sigh. “Second of all, what do you want?”
“Not me,” he answers, referring to the nervous pair that is Oh Sion and Park Jisung, who both swallow down a gulp in sync the moment Na Jaemin throws his arms around their shoulders. “These two have been hesitating to knock for the past thirty fucking minutes to the point that it got annoying. Thought they needed a little push and a shove.”
“How thoughtful,” you flatly say.
“What a good boss should be,” he muses a little too gratifyingly.
You roll your eyes as you switch the gears of your attention. “So, what is it?”
The two engage in a quiet argument for a moment before Jisung shoots Sion a look, and the latter finally grits up the courage to speak, albeit still nervous. “There’s—there’s just something I wanted to ask you, attorney. You know, as a professional…?”
This piques your interest. What kind of legal concerns would a high school gang member be facing?
“Go ahead.”
“Well, uh, hypothetically— if you find out that your landlord has been using your identity to apply for credit card loans…and when you find out and confront him about it, he threatens to file an eviction against you if you choose to press charges—”
Well, okay.
“Can he— can he do that?”
Oh Sion bats his eyes at you expectantly. You are, quite frankly, taken aback.
“Attorney…?”
Man, you were expecting a girl problem or a teacher inflicting corporal punishment. Not a whole fraud and identity theft case. “Sit down,” you grunt, beckoning him closer. Then your tired eyes flit over to Na Jaemin, whose attention seems to be provoked by the issue, so your mouth twitches into a sneer. “Jisung, you can stay. You. Get out.”
“C’mon, let me stay,” he whines, tromping over to land a hand onto your desk, leaning over. “This sounds interesting. I wanna see you attorneying this shit up.”
Natty’s advice wanders into your brain. Does he piss you off just to get your attention? Great, then you gotta exploit that. You gotta use everything within your disposal to make life in hell a bit more bearable.
“Na Jaemin.”
You start your first attempt at testing the waters— which is honestly a little nerve-wracking considering there’s always a chance of this biting you in the ass in the future.
But, fuck it. What more do you have to lose?
“I’ll have lunch with you tomorrow if you fuck off for the entire day. What do you say?”
The way Na Jaemin’s gaze shifts nearly makes you regret it at that very instance.
“Drinks,” he counter-offers.
What a pain in the ass. “Dinner,” you grit.
“Dinner tonight,” he presses. Then something on your desk catches his attention— which he promptly swipes and jangles in the air. “And this ugly dog thing.”
That ugly dog thing was supposed to be for Haechan, but whatever. “Alright,” you accept in defeat. “But you give me two days of peace instead of one. How does that sound?”
He flashes teeth at you, already taking a step back. “Deal.”
“Great. Now fuck off.”
Na Jaemin finally leaves your office, leaving behind two confused kids, staring at you like what the hell just happened. Park Jisung has been working here for a bit— even before Mark officially acquired you— so it must have been a bone-chilling shock to his boss to act like that. However, that is none of your concern, nor do you give a fuck about the image he’s projecting to his subordinates. “Sion-ah,” you turn. “Can you tell me more about your whole landlord situation?”
Park Sion tells you that it’s his father’s identity that their landlord has been using, and they’d only found out last month after receiving a letter in the mail that they owed a credit card company almost a million won— from an account his father never opened. This was followed by another letter from a different company. Sion doesn’t know exactly how it happened from simply overhearing conversations between his parents, but apparently their landlord had been using his dad’s name to open those accounts.
“I’ve only been eavesdropping since. They haven’t exactly brought it up to me so I don’t know the details…” he continues, trailing off hesitantly, looking down to his lap because he seems to be having trouble meeting your gaze. “We—we don’t have the money for a lawyer or anything, so I thought I could come to you for some advice, attorney. I—I understand if you don’t want to, though! Sorry, I—I just wanted to take my chances.”
You inhale sharply. Man. For fuck’s sake.
“Ugh.”
You’re not a charity worker. You’re not a god forsaken saint. You’re not motherfucking Mother Teresa. You have enough shit on your plate as is and playing pro bono for this case won’t do you any favors. You’re already neck deep and paperwork and you certainly have no intention of getting buried further underneath.
But—
“Um…attorney…? Is everything okay…?”
You sigh. You groan. You swing over to a drawer on your desk to fish out a business card sliding the same over your desk. You’re not happy about this, and that fact is definitely showing through your face. “Take this. Tell your parents to give me a call.”
Oh Sion jolts in his seat, blinking in disbelief. “Really?”
You’re really, really not happy about this, but your karma is bad enough already. Denying a kid in desperation would make you less than human at this point. You might be set on going to hell already, so the least you can do is hold onto the barest sliver of your humanity. “Yeah, just take it before I change my mind. If that’s all, then you two— shoo. Go. Leave. I still have work to do.”
Before you can wrack your brain about how in the world you’re gonna organize your planner spreadsheet from this point forward, Park Jisung, who’d been doing but being a silent pillar of support for Sion this entire time, adds another serving of stress to your already full plate.
“Attorney?” he raises, Oh Sion already halfway out the door while he remains inside. “Can I ask you something?”
“What is it this time?” you grunt, not even looking at him in order to preemptively nurse your incoming headache with a pen massaging circles into your temple as you continue your mental laments. Why hasn’t cloning been invented yet? Do you have to convince Mark to add another person to your department? That’s the only possible way you can handle Sion’s case without gumming things up in Nalkeutta. If that’s the case, then—
“Um...did you attend Ganghak in high school?”
The pen makes a hollow clatter against your desk.
“What?”
A million thoughts filter into your head in one, quick flicker.
“Close the door,” you say after a second’s pause. “How do you know that, Jisung-ah?”
“It’s just that…I saw some of the past yearbooks before, and I kinda recognized you when the boss was giving you a tour of the building,” he says before a tight swallow. You drill your eyes into him. He looks away. “And I, uh, also saw that you were in the same graduating class as Jaemin hyung-nim.”
This is great. This is so great for you. Fucking fantastic. You want to quit and die.
“I see,” you answer. You ponder. Every second of silence that passes adds another bead of sweat to Park Jisung’s forehead. Your fingernails clatter against the polished table of your desk. You look at him when you admit, “I did attend Ganghak for my last two years of high school. And I was in Na Jaemin’s class.”
There’s no point in denying it.
“This is a pretty funny coincidence, isn’t it? But I’d appreciate it if you keep this information to yourself, Jisung-ah.”
The only thing you can do now is damage control.
“O—oh! Yes, of course, attorney. I was just curious. I guess that would explain why you and Jaemin hyung-nim seemed so close.”
Close. You mask your sour feelings with a stiff smile. “Don’t mention this to him either. I’m not very fond of talking about my educational background. I’m only humoring you because you seem like a nice kid from my alma mater.” He nods profusely. You press your lips together even more. “Now run along. If Sion asks what’s keeping you, tell him you were just asking me how to apply for a driver’s license without parents’ consent.”
“Yes, ma’am! Thank you!”
The door shuts. At that very moment, you feel your shoulder melt as you sink into your chair.
Everything’s gotten fucked since you took Na Jaemin as a client. There’s no inherent issue about you going to Ganghak for a few years. The problem lies in the fact that during those years, you were Na Jaemin’s fucking alarm clock that he didn’t give enough of a shit to even remember. If he does remember, then he wouldn’t be ever so desperately trying to get in your pants at present. He’d be forcing your dignity down your throat the moment you blew up on him because what kind of alarm clock dares to look him in the eye?
He didn’t respect you enough to treat you like a human being back then. And if someone triggers that sense of recollection in him— you’d be done for.
He’s already a shitty co-worker as is, but at least you have his shitty feelings for you to take advantage of. If that’s overruled by the memory of you being his subservient, walking, talking, inanimate pushover of an alarm clock, then you’d have lost your sole and single leverage over him. Zero. None.
But there’s only one instance in which you’d even consider telling him about his forgotten history with you—
“Ugh.”
Your eyes flit over to your wall clock. Nine forty-three. Seven more hours before your dinner at gun point with him.
“I should pack some digestive pills.”
—and that’s if he ends up falling down, down the line of being far too in love with you to even care about that history. The odds aren’t in your favor. So you just have to continue living as is until your bluff wears out.
*ㅤ
“Your taste in restaurants doesn’t match the trash regularly spewing out of your mouth.”
That doesn’t mean you’d be acting like a doormat, though.
“Just shut the fuck up and eat, you ungrateful shit.”
You stick your tongue out before digging into the steak dinner he’s paying for. He says he thought you were a pushover until you started him like shit— so you might as well continue treating him like shit and sprinkle him the occasional bouts of positive attention, if that’s what gets him off. And what better way to tick off an egotistical freak than by talking about other men in front of him?
“Hey,” you start, wadding off the sauce lingering on your lips. “How receptive would Mark be if I bring in another lawyer into the company?”
Your theory is proven by the way his eyebrows twitch at the mere mention of Mark. “Fuck if I know,” he sneers, pointing an accusatory fork at you. “I take you to a nice, fancy dinner and the first thing you talk about is work. Is that all you plan on talking about?”
“Duh. Take a look at my workload. Do you think I have a life outside of this shitty job?”
Na Jaemin simply stifles a low chuckle at your bitter declaration, continuing to pick apart his meal.
“At least this pays better than the last one,” you sigh, continuing to wake your fork around. Your dinner companion seems to be enjoying your tragic monologue. “I swear. The moment I save up enough money, I’m gonna dip, move countries, change my name and buy a new identity so that Mark Lee won’t be able to chase me down.”
He swallows down a mouthful of food. “Should you be telling me all this?”
You snort, beckoning a waiter to refill your wine. “Why, are you gonna snitch on me to your owner? You’re more obedient than I thought.”
That provocation ticks him ever the slightest— evident in the strain on his jaw despite the apparent grin. You down your drink to mask a flinch of nervousness, but you push forward, setting the glass down as you lift your head up, batting your eyes prettily at him with a sweet smile as if you hadn’t just demeaned him. This catches him off guard, and whatever bite he was about to snark dissipates with a cough from him as he peers to the side and tugs on his collar, waving the same waiter for a glass of water, but in a much less polite manner than you did.
There’s a tug on your lips. Natty was right. You gotta make sure to give him a treat at least once a day so he doesn’t act out as an attempt to get your attention again.
“Na Jaemin,” you hum, eyeing him carefully. “Aren’t you curious about what your subordinates came to me for this morning?”
“Not really,” he answers half-heartedly. “Did they kill someone, or some shit?”
“Wow. Such a great boss,” you drawl. “They were your Ganghak juniors, you know.”
That was a fishing line. Just to get a read on what exactly he feels about his alma mater, which in turn may make your case better or worse in light of the fact that he doesn’t remember his history with you.
“So?” He simply raises a brow. “Am I supposed to give a shit?”
Yeah, you shouldn’t have expected anything more from him. “Whatever. Anyway—”
A phone call interrupts. As in, the default iPhone ringtone blaring from Na Jaemin’s pocket, which triggers his annoyance, but he pulls it out anyway to answer with a pissed off, “What?”
You pick apart your mashed potatoes while observing the way Na Jaemin’s expression twists and shifts from his usual hot-tempered annoyance, to being annoyed-confused, and then annoyed-stressed, based on the way he hisses into the phone while digging a claw into his hair.
“The fuck do you mean Lucy is vomitting?”
Oh. Oh, wow.
“I gave you one fucking job, you useless son of a—” His fit is extinguished by a loud groan, slumping back into his chair. You continue eating your food with heightened interest. This is a new look. This is nice. “Listen,” he continues into the phone, practically spitting venom. “You better be there when I get home. If you run away, I’ll kill you twice over.” Then he angrily sets his phone down on the table with a clatter.
You perk up with a curious gaze. “Trouble at home?”
Na Jaemin lets out a disappointed exhale. “As much as I’d hate to cut our date short, attorney—”
“Not a fucking date.”
“Yeah, whatever, I don’t give a fuck,” he dismissively says, focused on the watch on his wrist as he picks up his coat from the back of the chair. “I gotta go check on my daughter and stomp on the useless fuck I left to babysit her. Fucking son of a bitch.”
Well, that’s news. “You have a kid?”
“Yeah. Three.” He flashes you his phone screen. There are indeed three— three cats, that is. You buffer for a moment. The dots refuse to connect. He retrieves his phone before your brain finishes processing. “I was gonna give you a ride home, but—”
“I brought my car, It’s fine. Just go.” The mutt is a cat dad. Of fucking course. That makes sense. No it fucking doesn't. It’s almost terrifying to see him care for another living being. “And don’t forget about our deal.”
All he does is flash you a smile before dipping. What the fuck does that mean?
Whatever the case, when you finish your meal and attempt to bill out, you’re informed that everything’s been taken care of by the, quote-unquote, gentleman you were dining with. It really doesn’t sit well within your stomach that Na Jaemin now has you in debt— or maybe he’s doing this on purpose to manipulate you into spending more time with him. What a sneaky bastard.
Anyhow, the next morning, you’re deadset on fixing a solution to your excessive workload problem. So the first thing you do after clocking in is traversing the sets of stairs that lead to Mark’s office in order to negotiate the idea of bringing in a second lawyer into the company. You’d already texted your candidate last night and have arranged a friendly meeting later this afternoon. You don’t foresee any reason for Mark to object.
“There’s no issue with having another person onboard your team,” was Mark’s response to your concern. “But the main point of conversation is trust, attorney. I’m sure you know what I mean.”
“I know,” you say. “I’ll be sure to vet you a trustworthy candidate.”
He gleams at you. “I look forward to it.”
The moment you leave Mark’s office, your lungs are refilled with a dose of air. “Great. Good. This is great,” you release with a huff, marching towards the staircase to the third floor.
You’ve stopped using the elevator since whenever you end up riding the same flight as anyone other than Mark or the four executives, they end up sweating like buckets as if they’d been trapped in the same room as an axe-murderer. It’s not very self-esteem boosting whenever your elevator companions immediately bolt off the second the doors crack open. You’d much rather take the extra effort than be implicitly insulted to your face.
The problem with this is that you have to pass by the stinky, sweaty gym to get back to your floor. And you’re just unfortunate enough to bump into Na Jaemin just as he’s finished his morning workout session.
“Oh.”
Your eyes meet. You flinch and shoot your gaze down. Big mistake because he’s wearing an almost translucent white tank top, making eye-contact with a whole load of chest instead, and you almost choke on your spit. “Uh.” You lose the timing to nonchalantly brush past him— and the bastard notices. Of course he fucking does with that smug grin on his face. But he honors the deal you made and settles with a simple good morning before taking a swig from his water bottle and walking off.
“Oh, hello again, attorney,” Mark gives a surprised yet pleasant welcome back to his office. “Did you forget something?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. It’s none of your business,” you rapid-fire answer, back pressed against the closed door.
Your boss eyes you curiously, a smile playing on his face. “Well, you better finish your business soon because Renjun is waiting for you in your office. He’s requesting legal assistance for another external meeting over lunch. But you appear to be feverish. We can reschedule the meeting another—”
“No!” Your eyes widen. Mark raises a brow. “I—I mean, no, you don’t have to do that. I’m fine. I can join him. I’m just tired from climbing the stairs.”
“Well, alright,” he hums. “Now, off you go, then.”
This is perhaps the lowest point of your career. All you wanted was to avoid walking in the same direction as him, but your flight and fight kicked in. These in-office gyms are incredibly unprofessional and detrimental to overall company productivity. You’d submit a petition to take it down if only you had the fucking time.
“What are you muttering and swearing about like a lunatic? You’re scaring the grown men around,” is how Renjun greets you, but you look at him like he’s the second coming of Christ. Thank god you’d be spending the entire day out of the building. There’s no risk of bumping into that demon again.
The meeting is at a fancy brunch place, so you and Renjun order enough mimosas to get through this shitty meeting on company time, with company money. The both of you are always on the same page, it’s great. Even when the meeting has ended, you two loiter and talk shit at a nearby cafe instead until he eventually gets called back to the office— while you remain and wait for your fellow lawyer and future co-worker.
“Attorney Kim Jungwoo,” you greet him when he arrives. “How’s JJS treating you?”
Yes. You intend on dragging your old friend into this hell with you— a very well paying hell with a more tolerable boss. Of course, you ease him into it over frappes and cheesecake. He says life at JSS is the same as you’d left it: depressing, deplorable, and Kim Doyoung dumping all the work to his junior associates while taking all the credit. That’s your perfect segue to offering him a position at Nalkeutta.
“Unlike Doyoung, I’m giving you free reign, here,” you say, offering him the draft employment contract you quickly whipped up at 11 p.m. on caffeine last night. “You don’t have to sign or answer now. We can iron out the details later. I just wanted to present you with everything that we can offer.”
Jungwoo skims over the binded papers, interested. “You were pretty devastated when Doyoung sold you off, so this is a bit of a surprise,” he says, gaze flitting up with a hum. “What’s making you happy in Nakeutta, attorney?”
You learn back, mirroring his expression. “Page three.”
“Oh, yeah? Let me ch— holy shit. Are you sure this isn’t a misprint?”
“No, I cleared it with the boss earlier,” you boast confidently. “Also, there’s an in-office gym. That’s gotta be enough to convince you.”
Jungwoo says you’re making it very hard for him to refuse and you say that’s the point. You let him mull over the contract for a while longer while you finish up your frappe and zone out with the ambient cafe tunes.
It’s an afternoon weekday, so it isn’t very crowded. It’s peaceful. Quiet. Meaning the moment the sound atmosphere gets interrupted by the sound of a jingling bell, your attention is immediately strayed away by the noise, and your eyes widen— and you nearly choke on your spit for the second time today.
“Oh, fuck,” you hiss under your breathe, immediately darting around to look for a place to run off to. “Oh, fuck, don’t do this to me. Don’t you fucking dare do this to me, please—”
Jungwoo looks up from the document in concern. “Hey, you good, at—”
“Attorney.”
The sing-song tune of a third voice jumps in. “Fuck,” you repeat, unable to escape so you force your head up to acknowledge the looming and unwelcome presence. “Na Jaemin, I thought we had an agreement. It hasn’t been two days.”
He basks in your attention, pressing a hand against the backseat leather of the booth to lean into you. “Yeah, well our date got cut short last night so I figured my time sitting in the corner would too.”
“Ugh.” Your face falls into your hands. “Please tell me you’re here by accident. Please don’t tell me you deliberately came here to ruin my day.”
“Take a good guess, attorney. Had a nice chat with Renjun in the company lobby.”
You grit your teeth. That fucking snitch, you gotta knock him down a peg from your list of favorite co-workers. But that would mean Haechan would become first, but you don’t want to give that other asshole the gratification. Nothing ever goes right for you.
Before you can further lament the shittiness of your life, Jungwoo reminds you that he’s still here by clearing his throat, causing you to flinch and sit back straight to see the interested quirk on his lips as he sends insinuating glances between you and Na Jaemin. What kind of ideas is this guy getting? You can’t even dread that because you’re too busy thinking of a way to get out of this because if Jungwoo sees your co-worker— who’s already sending Jungwoo dirty glares— acting insane, he won’t take the delicious bait you spent all night preparing.
“Is this a co-worker?” Jungwoo playfully asks. “Aren’t you gonna introduce us, attorney.”
An idea sparks. Wait. Wait, hold on, this could work.
“Indeed. What great timing.”
You stretch your mouth into a smile and yank Na Jaemin down by the belt.
“Jungwoo, this is one of Nalkeutta’s executives— Na Jaemin. Jaemin, this is Kim Jungwoo. A former co-worker from JSS Law Firm.”
He came here with his own two feet. Might as well use the hell out of uselessness.
“Oh, I remember you!” Jungwoo cheerfully remarks, looking at Na Jaemin directly. Your former co-worker obviously doesn’t know better and you immediately gulp.“I saw you in the firm once. We didn’t get the chance to talk, but it’s nice to officially meet you, Na Jaemin-ssi.”
You hope your smile is enough to mask your nervous heartrate and you peer at Na Jaemin, noticing his pissed off annoyance from the way his upper lip twitches as he runs his tongue against bared teeth. “Yeah? You won’t be seeing anything much if you don’t keep your fucking eyes dow—”
Before you can think, you place a firm hand on his thigh.
Then you squeeze.
And he freezes.
Behave, you scratch into the fabric of his jeans. Please.
The three second pause that lapses before Na Jaemin finally returns the greeting felt like a three second dip into ice cold water. “It’s my pleasure, Kim Jungwoo-ssi.” And then you finally resurface from the ice with a relieved sigh because that was a close fucking call.
Still. You’re not allowed to rest just yet because while Jungwoo and Na Jaemin are having an unusually normal conversation, you sit there with the occasional auto-generated responses as you think about the possible consequences of your prior actions— and the fact that you did this. You made Na Jaemin do this. You. He’s currently exchanging his gym routines with Jungwoo who’s making firm eye contact with him when otherwise your poor friend would have been flung to the other end of the cafe by now like everyone else that came before him.
This is fucking insane. You’re not sure how you’re feeling about this.
“Sorry, excuse me for a sec,” Jungwoo says, looking down at his phone. “Doyoung’s calling. Gotta take this.”
He gets up to leave the cafe and you take this opportunity to make a run for it too. “I—I gotta use the rest—eep!”
Na Jaemin yanks you back down into the seat cushions and settles a firm hold around your hips, pressing a firm squeeze to your thigh as he leans closer like some form of revenge for all the crap you pulled on him earlier. “Did I behave well enough for you, attorney?” he muses, hot breath hitting the side of your face. “But this deal is gonna cost you a lot more than just dinner.”
A chill runs down your spine. Yup. You knew there were gonna be consequences. You should have thought things through.
┈─★ the dreamies’ ‘i haves’ when playing (dirty) never have i ever.
𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀 𝖬𝖣𝖭𝖨 ⠀⠀⠀───⠀⠀⠀ unprotected sex (don’t do this), strong language (dirty talk & cursing), some dom/sub dynamics, power dynamics, orgasm control, public sex, phone sex, face sitting, masturbation, oral (m. & f. rec), dry humping, begging, creampie, backshots, overstim, pet name usage. (lmk if i missed any !) 𝘄𝗰 2.0k
elia’s notes: this was a painnn to write lmao
𝗺𝗮𝗿𝗸.
“begged someone to let me finish”
mark’s sheets were rustled and messy beneath you, the warm colored light pouring in from the sunset through his window. you’re straddling him, riding him deep and slow, and his hands were gripping your thighs like it’s the only thing that kept him from losing it.“baby,” he whines in a broken voice, “please—can i come? please?” you grin, leaning down to pepper kisses to his jaw. “i don’t know, markie. you just look so pretty like this.” he bucks up into you helplessly, already so close. so close, his cock was twitching inside you. “babe—fuck—i’ve been good baby, i need to—” you stop the movement of your hips entirely, just to hear him whimper beneath you. “then beg for it,” you whisper, tone low and seductive. mark knew he wasn’t above it, especially not when he needed it so bad. “please, sweetheart,” he gasps, completely wrecked. “please let me come. i wanna—wanna fill you up—please…” “so pretty when you beg,” you praise softly. “so good. again.” “babe,” he gasps, grabbing at your hips, “i’m serious—i’m gonna—if you keep going like that i—” you grind down on him only once more and he breaks. his hands fly to your hips, his breath staggered, and he comes with a loud, whiny moan, spilling warm inside you while his whole body convulses under yours. you lean down to kiss him slow, smiling against his lips. “good boy.” mark groans again softly, head falling back against the pillow, a fucked out mess. “…i hate how much i liked that.”
𝗿𝗲𝗻𝗷𝘂𝗻.
“came in my pants”
you were comfortably straddling renjun on the couch, hands tangled in his hair, your hips rolling slow against his. it started off truthfully playful. just a few teasing touches, soft kisses, but now you were both breathing heavier, grinding into each other like you couldn’t help it. his hands grip your waist tighter and tighter, jaw clenched hard, head falling back against the cushions of the couch. “shit—baby—don’t stop,” he gasps, hips rocking up to meet yours every time. you can feel him easily through his sweatpants, warm and throbbing with need. the fabric between you was soaked from you rubbing on his lap. the pressure between you was just right, and he was close. too close. “so worked up already?” you tease, kissing up his neck to whisper in his ear. “that desperate for me?” “shut up,” he whines. “i can’t—i-i’m—” and then it happens. his hips stutter a jerk, breath catching in his throat as he comes hard in his pants, warmth spilling out between you. it soaked through the soft cotton of his sweats and against your own thin shorts. he lets out a moan, body tensing, arms tightening around your hips as he buries his face in your neck. “…fuck, i’m sorry,” he mumbles, voice muffled. “couldn’t hold it…” you shift your hips just a little and feel the mess in his pants, sticky and hot between you both. you smirk, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “don’t be sorry, baby,” you whisper. “came so good for me.”
𝗷𝗲𝗻𝗼.
“talked someone through touching themself”
“jen, i—” you start, eyes fluttering as your hand dips beneath your panties already. “shh,” he says, low and honey-toned over the phone. “i know, baby. i know you need it.” his phone was angled just right to show his hand lazily stroking himself, but his voice stays focused and firm for you. “put two fingers on your clit,” he murmurs. “slow. gentle.” you follow immediately without hesitating, gasping softly as you slide over your clit. “good,” he praises, voice already huskier. “that’s it. just like that.” you moan, thighs tensing and parting wider as your back arches a little. he watches everything; the way your lips part, the way your brows pull together, the motion of your fingers. “don’t rush,” he warns, hand still moving over himself, his grip a little tighter. “wanna watch you fall apart. slowly, baby.” you whimper his name softly, hips rocking up into your fingers. his voice drops even lower, almost ragged. “go deeper, baby. how would i touch you if i was there?” you bite your lip, sliding your fingers down and into your needy hole. two fingers pumping in and out, then three, messy and soaking. “fuuck,” he groans. “look at you. so wet just from my voice.” you pant harder, eyes hazing over now. at this point you were whining his name again as your fingers inside you faster. “you gonna come for me?” he asks, thumb brushing over his tip just like you would. “come on, baby. let me hear you. be good for me—” your back arches, mouth falling open, and you come with a trembling gasp, hips spasming into your hand. your skin flushed and damp with a sheer layer of sweat. jeno exhales through a grin, stroking himself faster now, like hearing your moans was all he needed. “good girl,” he says, low and warm. “that’s my baby.”
𝗵𝗮𝗲𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗻.
“had someone sit on my face”
you barely made it to your bedroom before haechan was tugging at your pants. his eyes were low, looking at you with a lazy grin. “sit on my face,” he said so casually, like it wasn’t the filthiest thing you’d heard all day. you blinked at him, half-laughing. “baby, i don’t wanna suffocate you.” he grinned even wider, already lying back on the mattress, hands behind his head. “damn good way to go.” his hands didn’t give you time to argue, pulling you up, and settled you over his mouth. before you could even adjust, his tongue was right there. hot and wet, dragging through your folds. he held your panties to the side and was teasing your clit in slow, gliding circles. he groaned against you, hands kneading your thighs, holding you down like he wanted to drown in you. now your thighs were shaking around his head, your puffy pussy pressed against his face, and his hands were gripping your ass like it’s the only thing he needed. your hips roll instinctively, and he whined deep into you like he lives for this. his tongue was relentless. continuously lapping at your folds, prodding your clit, dipping into you so deep you forget how to speak. “fuck—haechan—” you gasp, knuckles white as you grip the headboard for dear life. haechan pulls you down even harder to him, tongue burying deeper, and you cry out. coming faster than you ever have, thighs twitching and trembling on either side of his head. he doesn’t stop. not until you were relentlessly tugging at his hair, breathless and over sensitive, your legs barely holding you up. he pulls back finally, lips and chin glistening. and he was still grinning up at you like the smug little menace he is. “told you,” he pants, “best seat in the house.”
𝗷𝗮𝗲𝗺𝗶𝗻.
“got head in public”
jaemin tugged you down the hallway hurriedly, fingers firm around your wrist, eyes sharp with that needy expression. “jaem, someone’s gonna see—” “shh. no one’s around. it’ll be quick. promise.” he shoved open the dressing room door and you hardly heard the lock click before your back hit the wall, his lips crashing into yours. his hands were wandering freely. under your shirt, at waistband of your pants, tugging, squeezing, just hungry. “need you, baby,” he whispered, breath warm on your neck. “need your mouth.” and then he’s sinking you to your knees. his cock is already hard by the time you freed it from his jeans. thick and pulsing in your hand, precum already slicking his tip. he lets out a soft groan when your tongue flicks over it softly. one hand finding the back of your head. “yeah,” he breathes, hips bucking . “just like that.” you take him into your mouth deeper, feeling him throb on your tongue. “my good girl,” he whispers, eyes locked on you. more so, the way you took him so easily. “make me feel good, baby…” you moan around him, and he intakes a sharp breath, jaw clenched. the dressing room was quiet except for the wet, lewd sounds of your mouth and his heavy breaths, the occasional curse slipping past his lips when you suck a little harder, sloppier. he fucks into your mouth mainly slow, trying not to lose it too fast. it was a lot easier said than done though, the sight of you like this, knees on the hardwood knowing they would be red when you stood. your plump lips wrapped around him. the way your eyes rolled each time he hit the back of your throat. it was all too much. “fu—gonna come,” he pants, breath ragged. “you gonna swallow for me, pretty girl?” you hum a yes around him and that’s it. his hips shudder, fingers gripping your hair tightly as he spills down your throat with a low, lustful moan.
𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗻𝗹𝗲.
“given someone backshots”
it started with him watching you change. eyes dark, biting his lip until he finally grabbed your hips. “turn around.” he exhaled deeply trying to keep his composure. then bent you over the bed. chenle mutters again, already pulling at your clothes. “wanna see that ass.” he’s not shy about it, and never has been. he palms at your ass, spreads it in his hands, and growls like he’s starving. somehow, you ended up on your knees at the edge of the bed, hands gripping the sheets, and when he slides in from behind, pressing deeply, he groans a breathless, “fuck—” like it never gets old. like it’s the movie he could watch over and over and never get bored. and then he starts moving. his hips snap against yours, unforgiving and needy, the slap of skin echoing through the room. one of his hands grips your waist tight, the other smoothes over your ass, fingers digging in every time you clench around him. “look at you,” he pants, voice cracked open with lust. “so fuckin’ good like this—made just for me.” you moan something back, something incoherent and desperate, but he’s already too lost to tease you. he comes first, his hips rocking into you as he looses his rhythm. chenle’s breath hitches as he empties inside you with an overwhelmed moan, but doesn’t stop. just groans again and keeps going, already getting hard again from how tight you still feel, how pretty you sound. “gonna make you come now, yeah?” he breathes out, cock twitching deep inside you. “don’t worry, baby. i’m not done.” his pace picks right back up, and you swear it’s even deeper this time. rougher, messier, as his grip bruising your hips like he’ll never let go.
𝗷𝗶𝘀𝘂𝗻𝗴.
“made someone come twice in a row, back to back”
it was really late at night, you were both in his room. dim and quiet except for the rustle of sheets and the soft, wet sound of his fingers working deep inside your cunt. “so fucking tight,” jisung muttered, breath shaky. “feels like you’re sucking me in.” his fingers curled inside you just right, long and slender. and with his thumb pressing over your clit in slow, perfect circles, your legs shook as your orgasm hit hard. it was sudden and blinding, ripping a cry out of your throat when you clenched repeatedly around his fingers. but he didn’t stop. didn’t even pause. you barely had time to catch your breath before you felt the warm, slick pressure of him pushing in your pussy, thick and heavy, stretching you open further while you were still throbbing from the first high. “ji—wait—” you gasped, nails digging into his arms. “can’t,” he panted, lips close to yours, eyes hazy and hungry. “you’re still so wet, baby, fuck—just let me—” his hips rolled forward, sinking in deep in one long and slow thrust. you whimpered, overwhelmed, already on the edge again from how sensitive you were. every movement made you shiver, and made your breath hitch. his forehead pressed to yours, lips brushing yours in messy, desperate kisses between moans. “give me another, yeah?” he whispered, voice breaking. “you can do it—please?” you nodded, tears rimming the corners of your eyes from the stretch and heat. “that’s it,” he breathed, thrusting a little faster but still so deep, hands grounding on your waist. “my perfect girl. give it to me.” your body writhes, back arching as you come again, even harder this time, clenching around him with a broken moan. and jisung loves it, soaks it all in.
never once did you think you’d be sending a video of yourself masturbating to a guy before, but here you are. you also never thought you’d be putting so much thought into something so simple. was the angle okay? were your moans pretty enough? would he even enjoy it?
little did you know jisung was trying to hold it together in a cramped bathroom stall. he stares down at the three bubbles anxiously. did you back out? did you not want to do this anymore? did he pressure you too much? would he even have enough time to rub one out before it was time to go on stage?
both of you stare down at your phones with the same feeling of anxiety. biting down on your thumbnail, you quickly press send. you were just going to drop your phone and run away, but why not add a little flirty text too before you flee?
from: y/n (:
attachment: 1 video
here’s a little something ;)
jisung feels his body run cold. his thumb shakily hovering over the play button. he closes his eyes and lets a breath out before shoving all his thoughts to the back of his head and pressing play.
he whimpers at the sight of your tits. how he wishes he could have them in his mouth right now. perhaps he could wait until tonight, where you’ll both finally be alone. no interruptions, no more waiting. he’d been yearning for the day he finally gets to touch you, feel the warmth of your skin.
he moans at the sight of you spreading your legs, pussy now on full display for him. he watches the way you run a finger up your slit before teasing yourself by slowly slipping in a finger. it’s not until he hears that sweet sound from your mouth that he feels himself harden in his pants. it was just a soft gasp, but even that was enough to do it for him.
taking his cock out he slowly pumps himself, matching your pace. god did you have such a pretty pussy. maybe one day you could teach him how to please you.
he’s a minute in now and he can feel how close he is. it almost feels pathetic, but can you blame him? he can’t help it that you’re so pretty and you just turn him on so much. it isn’t until you bring a hand up to your tit, squeezing your palm around it, stimulating yourself by playing with your nipple, that he cums. he cums to the sight of you playing with your tit. he truly is done for.
he leans his head back against the stall door. suddenly the stall feels even more cramped and stuffy. the video’s still going and he looks down letting out a breathy laugh at the fact he came and the video still wasn’t even over yet. maybe next time he could edge himself a little longer to cum with you.
before cleaning himself up he takes a picture of the evidence and sends it to you.
from: jisung <3
attachment: 1 image
hey…
so i might’ve came a little early heh 😅
hearing the ping from your phone you slowly lift it up to see he had responded. he even hearted the video. tapping on the picture, you almost moan at the sight of his cock. how is it possible for a cock to be so pretty? you could start drooling just thinking about having it in your mouth or inside you.
bringing a finger down to your pussy you feel how wet you are. you moan softly and slip your finger in. just thinking about him, his cock, his cum. how warm it would feel inside you. his pretty lips you wish you could kiss. how pretty his moans would sound like. just the thought of him was enough to make you cum.
staring up at the ceiling you think, how the fuck did you end up here?
𐙚 the beauty of married life ﹔married young, loved even younger — y/n and jaehyun are newlyweds still caught in the bliss of their honeymoon, learning what it means to build a life after the vows. will they be able to keep their promises and love for each other, despite it all?
prev ꒰ ₊ ֹ my forever only. ֹ ₊ ꒱ next
𝓃otes ؛ hey jae :) LMAOO me softlaunching the angst :) the truth has been revealed :) now what :( who did you think it was ( ͡•. ͡•.)
lee donghyuck x reader — a variety show marriage. a fake spouse. cameras in your face every day. (5.9k)
• in celebration of our fullsun’s birthday!! this story is inspired by the show we got married, though please note that it may contain some inaccuracies, as it’s not strictly based on the show’s actual format or segments
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
you almost didn’t sign the contract.
the offer had come out of nowhere. an email from your manager, phrased with cautious excitement. 'we got married' was being rebooted after years off air. you’d be one of the main couples, if you agreed.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
you reread the email several times before closing your laptop and calling your best friend. “do i look like i have time to fake a marriage right now?” “you’ve literally been single for two years,” she said flatly. “yeah, but at least that’s authentic.”
the truth was, your agency thought it would be good exposure. and part of you, deep down, was curious. about what it would feel like. to pretend to fall in love. about whether pretending might start to feel real.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
donghyuck said yes because he thought it’d be funny. the managers barely got the words out. “they want you for we got married” he started laughing before they finished. “you’re joking. that’s the show where idols act in love for strangers, right?”
but later that night, lying in bed, he scrolled through old clips of the show. something about the way those couples looked at each other in the last episodes stuck with him.
he could fake chemistry. easy. he’d been doing that for stages and fan signs since he was fifteen.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
the camera lens captured everything.
your nervous fidgeting, the way your eyes darted around the unfamiliar set, the tiny puff of breath you let out when the PD said, “action.”
you weren’t a stranger to the industry, but this was different. this wasn’t acting. this was you, paired with someone you’d never met, pretending to be newlyweds on national television.
and then he walked in.
lee donghyuck. better known to most as haechan—nct’s infamous sunshine with a mischievous streak and a smile that could disarm even the toughest senior idol.
you have seen clips of him before: teasing his members and turning charm into a weapon. and now, he stood in front of you, grinning like he already knew all your secrets.
“oh?” he said, head tilting slightly. “they really blessed me with a pretty wife.” you blinked. “they told me my husband would be cute, but i didn’t expect him to flirt five seconds in.”
he laughed, hand coming up to hide his mouth. “gotta give the fans what they want. don’t worry, i’m not always like this.”
“…actually, i am”
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
the first few shoots were awkward, as expected.
you learned quickly that haechan had no shame in front of the camera. he was a professional flirt, tossing out compliments and jokes with effortless precision. every time you thought you had the upper hand, he’d flip the script.
"you’re not wearing your ring," he pointed out during episode two, eyes flicking to your bare finger as the two of you sat across from each other in a café.
"i forgot," you said, deadpan. "i left it next to the dignity i lost when they made us do couple yoga yesterday." he cracked up, but you caught the flicker of something behind his smile. maybe he hadn’t expected you to match his energy.
after that, it became a rhythm. witty back-and-forths. glances that lingered a second too long. moments that should’ve been harmless, like sharing an umbrella, decorating your "married" apartment, brushing flour off his cheek during a baking segment, but somehow weren’t.
you told yourself it was the cameras. the setting. the editing. they were supposed to make it look romantic.
still, you couldn’t help but notice the way haechan’s teasing softened when the staff weren’t around. how he started remembering the smallest things about you. how, during the fourth shoot, when your heel broke and you stumbled slightly, he caught you with an ease that felt too natural.
he blinked down at you. you blinked up at him.
then someone yelled "cut" and the moment disappeared like smoke.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
it was around episode six when things started to shift.
you were filming a camping trip. just the two of you, a tent, a rented suv, and several production crew members pretending not to exist.
after the marshmallow roasting and scripted couple games, you found yourselves sitting by the fire, wrapped in matching blankets. it was one of those rare lulls where neither of you felt like performing.
"are you always like this?" you asked. he glanced at you. "like what?"
“like you’re constantly trying to win some imaginary flirting competition."
haechan smirked. "would it kill you to admit i’m charming?" "i think the entire population already knows that," you said flatly.
his smile widened. "so you do think i’m charming." you groaned, pulling the blanket over your face. "regret. immediate regret."
but he didn’t tease you further.
instead, he sat in quiet beside you. the fire crackled. you could hear distant rustling, maybe a staff member adjusting the camera angle, but the world felt oddly still.
you peeked out from under the blanket. haechan was watching the flames, his expression unusually unreadable.
"you know," he said after a moment, voice low, "i thought this would be easier."
you turned to him. "what do you mean?"
he didn’t look at you. "i thought i’d be better at pretending."
you didn’t answer. you weren’t sure you could.
because the truth was, you were struggling too.
not because you didn’t like him.
but because maybe you did.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
the next few shoots blurred together.
the couple trip to busan. the matching outfits. the accidental hand-holding that neither of you pulled away from. the unscripted glances. the too-long hugs. the inside jokes that the cameras didn’t catch.
you still called it acting. he still called it fan service.
but the way his hand always found the small of your back? the way you leaned into his shoulder when you were tired between takes?
that wasn’t in the script.
neither was the night he texted you after filming, a message that simply said:
"are you okay? you seemed quiet today."
you stared at it for too long before replying:
"yeah. just tired. thanks."
he didn’t say anything else.
but the next shoot, he brought you your favorite coffee order without asking.
you didn’t thank him. he didn’t mention it. the moment passed quietly, like all the others.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
it happened on an off day. no cameras. no script. just the two of you, killing time between schedules.
your manager had dropped you off early at the company building. haechan’s studio was just a floor above, and somehow you ended up in the practice room together. music played low from the speakers, nothing specific, just some playlist on shuffle. you were stretched out on the wooden floor with a water bottle pressed to your cheek, eyes closed.
"you know you’re allowed to sit on the couch," haechan said, voice light.
"i’m cooling off," you mumbled. "this floor has healing properties. don’t question them."
he laughed, sitting cross-legged beside you, watching as the sunlight through the window caught the edge of your hair.
for a while, neither of you said anything. it was easy, being quiet with you. easier than it should’ve been.
he leaned back on his hands, eyes tracing the outline of your face.
you were still in your casual clothes, makeup faded from earlier, a faint sheen of sweat on your skin from dance practice. there was nothing particularly special about the moment.
you opened one eye, looking at him sideways.
"what?"
"nothing," he said, too quickly.
you sat up a little. not fully, just enough to look at him properly.
"do i have something on my face?"
"no," he said again, quieter this time. "you just... look different when you’re not acting."
you blinked. "we’re not acting most of the time."
"aren’t we?" he asked. and then smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "sometimes i forget what’s real."
you watched him carefully, the air going still between you.
"i don’t think it matters anymore," you said eventually, voice soft. "real or fake. you’re still here."
he looked at you like you’d said something too big. like he hadn’t expected you to cut through him so cleanly.
you turned away after a second, brushing your hair out of your face. he didn’t move.
and that’s when it hit him.
not with fireworks. not with a romantic soundtrack or some grand emotional monologue. just a quiet, breathless awareness that settled into his chest like gravity.
he liked you.
he thought about you even when he didn’t have to. texted you jokes late at night, rehearsed conversations he wanted to have with you while waiting in traffic. his mood shifted depending on whether you smiled at him that day. he’d started looking forward to filming, not because of the exposure or the paycheck, but because it meant he got to stand next to you for a few hours and pretend you were his.
and it wasn’t pretend anymore.
haechan looked down at his hands. his palms were a little sweaty.
he was in trouble.
he stayed quiet after that, afraid that if he opened his mouth, the truth might spill out too fast.
you didn’t notice the way he looked at you after that.
but he did. and he didn’t stop.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
he didn’t flirt as much anymore.
at least, not in the same way.
it was subtle, the way things shifted. haechan still joked, still teased, but his words started landing softer. less edge, more care. the things he used to say to get a reaction out of you—calling you pretty just to see you roll your eyes, leaning too close just to fluster you— were all starting to feel real.
you didn’t notice.
or maybe you did, but refused to mind it.
when you got a sore throat from overworking and showed up to set with a raspy voice, he handed you a warm honey drink without a word. you assumed a staff member gave it to him.
when you forgot your phone charger during an overnight shoot and muttered about your battery dying, he offered you his without hesitation.
"don’t you need it?"
"i can live without my phone for one night," he said, smiling.
when your hands were cold in the middle of winter filming, he tucked one of them into his coat pocket with his.
you laughed. "you’re just doing this for the cameras." "yeah," he said. but he wasn’t looking at the cameras.
you brushed it off. he was haechan. playful, dramatic, full of unnecessary skinship. you’d seen him flirt with microphones, charm auntie fans, do aegyo on command like it was second nature.
so when he started waiting for you after your other schedules, just to walk you out, when he started sending you good morning texts before call time, and good night ones after wrap, when he got weirdly quiet whenever someone on set joked about you two being a real couple, you didn’t think too hard about it.
because thinking too hard would mean acknowledging that it felt different now. that he felt different now.
you told yourself it was still fake. that he was just that good at his job.
you didn’t notice the way his gaze lingered on you when you weren’t looking.
didn’t catch how he started memorizing your moods, your habits, your silences. how he stopped filling every silence with jokes and started letting you be.
you stayed blissfully, stubbornly unaware.
and haechan let you.
because even though he wanted you to see it—even though his feelings were starting to rise up like a tide, impossible to hold back—he was still scared.
scared that if he said it out loud, the spell would break. scared that you didn’t feel it too. scared that you’d laugh, like it was just another punchline.
so instead, he kept showing you in all the quiet ways.
and you, heart fluttering in ways you still refused to name, kept calling it coincidence.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
episode thirteen.
you weren’t nervous, exactly. but you did reapply your lip tint twice in the van on the way over.
the producers had teased a surprise guest for today’s shoot, and variety shows loved nothing more than forced love triangles. you braced for awkward. but you didn’t brace for him.
cha sungwoo.
tall. handsome. charming in that effortless, trained-for-this way. you’d filmed a drama together almost two years ago, and for a brief moment, fans thought the on-screen chemistry might have spilled off-camera. it hadn’t. but the rumors stuck anyway.
"look who it is," sungwoo said as you stepped onto set, voice warm. "didn’t think i’d get to see you again on a fake honeymoon."
you smiled automatically. "long time no see."
beside you, haechan shifted his weight.
he didn’t say anything at first. just watched. his expression was unreadable, but his silence was louder than anything.
finally, he spoke.
"should i be worried?" he asked, light tone cutting sharp beneath the surface. "or is this just good tv?"
"depends," sungwoo said, amused. "are you the jealous type?"
haechan smiled. not the usual, teasing kind—the one that reached his eyes. this one was smaller. flatter.
"only when i have a reason to be."
you laughed, trying to brush it off, but your fingers tightened slightly around the sleeve of your jacket.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
the shoot moved on. it was supposed to be funny and competitive—three of you cooking dinner together like a sitcom setup.
you were chopping vegetables when sungwoo leaned in behind you, his hands brushing yours.
"still bad with a knife?" he said, voice low near your ear.
you didn’t even flinch. "i’ve improved."
but behind you, haechan dropped the spatula he was holding.
you turned. "you okay?"
he bent to pick it up, muttering, "yeah. slipped."
but when he stood again, his eyes didn’t meet yours.
they were still on sungwoo.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
later, the three of you sat at the low table, eating what barely passed as a meal. the cameras were still rolling, but things had turned quiet.
sungwoo was telling a story—something about a late-night shoot and a prank. you were laughing, loose and warm in a way you hadn’t noticed before.
and haechan was watching you.
his chopsticks hung in mid-air. his shoulders tense. his jaw set like he was biting back words.
you looked at him. "what?"
he blinked. "nothing."
you tilted your head. "you’re acting weird."
"just tired."
"you sure?"
he didn’t answer right away. then he leaned in, low voice meant only for you.
"you act like none of this matters," he said quietly.
you stared at him. "what?"
"this." he gestured, vague. "the show. the pretending. him."
you searched his face, unsure if this was part of the bit or something else entirely.
"we’re just filming, haechan."
his eyes didn’t leave yours.
"maybe you are."
the words hung there. suspended between you, fragile and real.
you opened your mouth to respond—but the PD clapped, announcing a break, and the spell broke with it.
haechan stood up without another word and walked off set.
you sat there, blinking, unsure why your chest felt so tight.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
you didn’t call haechan after the shoot.
you almost did. twice.
once, when you got home and dropped your bag on the floor like something was missing.
once more, in the middle of the night, when you were staring at your ceiling and couldn’t stop replaying the way he looked at you before he walked off set.
you didn’t call. you couldn’t.
so instead, you called her. your best friend. the one who knew the before version of you, before the show, before the cameras, before him.
"hey, everything alright?" chiya asked, her voice quiet over the line. soft with sleep but already worried.
"can i come over?"
"always."
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
her apartment was warm. messy in the way homes should be. you sat on the floor wrapped in an old hoodie you’d left there months ago, your fingers curled around a mug of tea neither of you remembered making.
you told her everything. not just about today, but about all of it.
the way filming used to feel like a joke, like a role you could slip into and out of without thinking.
how that changed.
how he changed.
how you changed.
"today… he looked at me like he didn’t recognize me," you said. "like he was hurt, and trying really hard not to be."
she didn’t speak, letting the silence hold space for you.
"and when sungwoo showed up, it felt like the air shifted. like i’d stepped into a room i didn’t belong in anymore."
"because of haechan?" she asked gently.
you nodded.
"he didn’t say much. just… one thing."
"what’d he say?"
you swallowed.
"he said, ‘you act like none of this matters.’"
the words still echoed in your head. they’d been soft, almost careful. like he wasn’t trying to pick a fight. like he was asking you to see him.
"and i didn’t know what to say. because i didn’t know how to tell him that i think it does matter. more than it should. more than i want it to."
your voice shook.
"and i’m scared. i’m scared that maybe this isn’t just acting anymore. not for me."
your best friend moved closer, resting her chin on your shoulder like she used to when you were both teenagers, crying over things that felt too big for your hearts to hold.
"have you ever been in love before?" she asked quietly.
"not like this."
you weren’t even sure it was love. but it was something. something that blossomed slowly, and then all at once, when you weren’t looking.
"he makes me feel like i’m being seen. not the version of me that the cameras want. just... me. and when he looks at me, sometimes i feel like he’s about to say something he doesn’t know how to say."
"and what do you want him to say?"
you paused. the answer hurt to admit.
"that i’m not just magining it."
your friend reached over, squeezing your hand.
"you’re not," she said. "i don’t even need to meet him to know. you’re not the kind of person who gets confused about this stuff. you’d never fall for someone unless it was real. and it sounds like you already have."
your eyes stung.
"i didn’t mean to."
"you never do."
she pulled you into a hug, and for the first time since you wrapped that scene, you let the weight of it press down on you. not the confusion. not the fear. just the feeling.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
episode fourteen
you weren’t sure how to act around him now.
you told yourself you’d just play it cool. do what you always did: slip into character, smile when you were supposed to, laugh when the producers gave you a cue, go home.
but when you saw haechan waiting on set, leaning against the kitchen counter in the little “home” you’d built together over the past months, sleeves pushed up, hair still damp from styling, something inside you stilled.
he looked up when you walked in.
and then he smiled.
small. real. tired, maybe. but his eyes softened the way they always did when he looked at you.
"hey," he said, voice gentle.
"hey," you replied, and the word felt different in your mouth. too small for how much you’d missed him in just a few days.
he opened his mouth like he was going to say more, but the PD clapped loudly and called for standby.
you both moved into position like professionals.
but you couldn’t stop glancing at him.
and he didn’t look away when you did.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
the day’s concept was domestic bliss.
folding laundry. grocery shopping. making dinner together. things that looked boring on paper but, somehow, felt like the most intimate parts of the fake marriage.
just pretend it’s real, the writer joked before you started rolling.
you wanted to say, it’s getting harder to pretend it’s not.
you were standing beside haechan at the sink, rinsing vegetables, when your fingers brushed under the running water. you flinched slightly.
he didn’t.
his hand stayed against yours just for a second too long.
your heart skipped, and you hated how noticeable it felt. how loud it became in your own chest.
"you okay?" he asked, voice low.
you nodded too quickly. "just cold water."
he didn’t call you out on it. but his eyes didn’t leave yours for a long time.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
after filming, you stayed behind for a bit. the cameras were off, the crew busy packing up equipment. haechan was still in the kitchen, stacking plates to be returned to props.
you didn’t know why you lingered. only that you didn’t want to leave yet.
he looked up, sensing you there.
"you didn’t call," he said quietly.
you froze. "what?"
"after the last shoot. i thought maybe you would. or… maybe i hoped you would."
you opened your mouth. closed it again.
"i didn’t know what to say," you said eventually.
he nodded, like he understood. like he’d expected that.
then, after a long pause
"you don’t have to say anything," he murmured. "but i need you to know… i wasn’t acting. not with that."
you met his eyes. for once, there was no smirk. no sarcasm. nothing playful to hide behind.
just him.
just the truth.
your breath caught in your throat.
but before you could speak, a crew member popped their head in.
"you guys done? we need to lock up soon."
haechan glanced away. the moment passed like a held breath.
he nodded slowly. "yeah. we’re done."
but as you walked out of that little house, your fingers still tingling from the brush of his, you knew something had shifted for good.
you weren’t just playing pretend anymore.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
it was the last shoot before the final week.
the set felt more quiet than usual, like the whole crew was holding their breath. maybe because everyone knew this was the last stretch—the end of the show, the end of pretending.
you and haechan moved through the day’s scenes with practiced ease, but the easy rhythm from before was gone. now, everything between you felt heavy, like invisible strings tugging tighter with every look and every touch.
you were sitting on the couch, pretending to scroll through your phone, but you weren’t really looking at the screen. your eyes kept flicking to haechan, who was sitting beside you, hands folded awkwardly on his lap.
he glanced at you once, then quickly looked away, face unreadable.
the silence between you stretched longer than usual, thick and uncomfortable.
finally, you broke it, voice barely above a whisper.
“are you okay?”
he didn’t answer right away. then, without meeting your eyes, he said, “i’m fine.”
you didn’t believe him.
he shifted in his seat, fingers twitching like he wanted to say more but couldn’t.
the director called “cut,” and the crew buzzed quietly as they reset the next scene, but you and haechan stayed still, caught in a space where neither wanted to cross the line first.
he looked over, voice low, almost rough.
“this… all of this. it’s harder than i thought.”
you swallowed, heart racing.
“yeah.”
“i don’t want it to end,” he said, eyes finally locking with yours.
you felt your breath hitch. everything inside you was screaming to reach out, to tell him you felt the same, but the words stuck.
“me neither,” you whispered.
he gave a small, sad smile.
“what do we do now?”
you looked down, fingers fiddling with the hem of your shirt.
“i don’t know.”
but maybe that was okay.
maybe the not knowing was the start of something real.
the cameras might have been off for the moment, but the space between you was alive with everything you couldn’t say—and everything you both desperately wanted to feel.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
the last day of filming felt like the end of something you weren’t ready to lose.
the set was buzzing with energy, but for you and haechan, it was heavy. heavier than before. the playful teasing, the easy smiles—they were all there, but beneath them was a current you could no longer ignore.
during a break, you found yourselves alone in the quiet corner of the studio. the noise of crew and cameras faded, and suddenly the space between you felt too small.
haechan looked at you. his usual grin gone, replaced by something softer, vulnerable.
“i’ve been a coward,” he said, voice low, almost breaking.
you blinked, heart pounding.
“me too,” you whispered back.
he took a slow breath, stepping closer, hands trembling slightly at his sides.
“i was supposed to be the one who didn’t fall,” he said, “but it’s me. it’s always been me.”
you swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking in.
“why didn’t you say anything?” you asked, voice barely audible.
“because i was scared,” he admitted. “scared you wouldn’t feel the same. scared it was just me.”
your eyes stung. “it’s not just you.”
the silence stretched, thick and full of everything you hadn’t said before.
finally, he reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “can i.. hold you?”
your breath hitched, but you nodded.
as he pulled you close, the world outside the studio ceased to exist.
for the first time, pretending wasn’t enough. this was real.
and somehow, it left you feeling both lucky and appalled.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
the studio emptied quickly, the usual noise fading until you and haechan were left alone. the silence between you felt thick, heavy with everything neither of you had dared to say.
he led you to the rooftop garden, the soft glow of string lights wrapping around the space like a secret only the two of you shared.
you sat close, shoulders brushing, every tiny movement sending sparks you could feel deep under your skin.
his fingers found yours, slow and deliberate, thumb tracing lazy circles on your palm. the warmth of his touch spread, setting fire to nerves you didn’t know you had.
he tilted his head, eyes dark and searching. “you feel it too, right?”
your breath hitched, heart pounding. “i do.”
his hand slid from your palm, fingers grazing your wrist, then up your arm, light as a whisper.
“this,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “this isn’t just for show.”
you swallowed hard, the heat in your chest rising. his gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, daring you to say no.
instead, you leaned in, letting your breath mingle, the space between you crackling with anticipation.
when he finally closed the gap, his kiss was slow, teasing—like he was savoring every second.
his hand cupped your neck, thumb stroking softly, sending shivers down your spine.
you curled into him, the world narrowing to the press of skin on skin, the heat of his breath, the ache building in your chest.
he pulled back just enough to murmur against your lips, “i’ve wanted this for so long.”
your voice barely a whisper, “me too.”
the night wrapped around you, every touch, every glance loaded with a promise neither of you was ready to say out loud.
but both of you knew.
this was only the beginning.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
soft light filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room.
you stirred slowly, the weight of haechan’s arm draped over your waist anchoring you in place.
for a moment, everything was still, the world outside paused, and there was just this—the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back, the quiet rhythm of breath and heartbeat.
you turned your head slightly, catching his profile in the morning light. his eyes were closed, lashes resting softly against his cheeks, peaceful and completely unguarded.
a gentle smile tugged at your lips.
careful not to wake him, you traced lazy circles on his arm, memorizing the feeling of skin beneath your fingertips.
he shifted slightly, murmuring something unintelligible, but didn’t open his eyes.
you let yourself soak in the quiet intimacy, the kind of closeness you hadn’t dared imagine before.
finally, haechan blinked open his eyes, meeting yours with a soft, sleepy smile.
“good morning,” he whispered, voice rough but warm.
“good morning,” you replied, heart fluttering.
he tightened his arm around you just a little, as if afraid you might disappear.
“last night was… real,” he said, voice low, full of something like awe.
you nodded, feeling the same weight of it.
“yeah,” you said softly. “it was.”
for a moment, neither of you spoke, just held onto the fragile newness of what had started between you.
and in the quiet of that morning, everything felt possible.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
the studio was buzzing again, crew rushing, cameras rolling, but for you and haechan, the world felt different.
you caught each other’s eyes across the set more times than you could count, every look loaded with a secret neither dared say out loud.
during a break, haechan slipped beside you, voice low enough that only you could hear.
“you okay?” he asked, thumb brushing lightly over your hand.
you nodded, heart pounding. “yeah. just… tired.”
he gave a small, knowing smile. “me too.”
the silence between you felt full, like an unspoken understanding.
filming felt harder now. not because the scenes were difficult, but because the line between acting and feeling was thinner than ever.
when the director called cut, you both lingered, reluctant to step back into the roles you’d played for so long.
haechan caught your gaze, eyes searching.
“we need to talk,” he said quietly.
your breath hitched.
“about us,” he added, voice softer now.
you nodded, the weight of it settling in your chest.
“after this is over,” you whispered.
“of course,” he agreed.
the cameras might have been rolling again soon, but in that moment, the world outside could wait.
because finally, you were ready to stop pretending.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
the days after filming ended felt like a strange in-between.
you and haechan were no longer pretending, but everything else still felt like uncharted territory.
text messages came more often now, sometimes just a good morning or a gif that made you laugh, other times long, quiet conversations about fears and hopes.
you met up after practice one evening, somewhere quiet—a small café off the main streets where no one knew your names.
he was a little awkward, fumbling with his words like he was nervous all over again.
“i’m not great at this,” he admitted, stirring his coffee.
“neither am i,” you said, smiling softly.
he reached across the table, taking your hand. “guess we’re both beginners.”
some days were easier than others. sometimes, a glance or a touch spoke louder than any words.
other times, the weight of schedules, the constant eyes watching, made it hard to find space just for the two of you.
but slowly, you learned to navigate the new rhythm—stealing moments between rehearsals, quiet calls in the middle of the night, little jokes shared just between you.
there were missteps, too—missed calls, misunderstandings, moments where the fear of losing what you had made you both pull away.
but every time, you found your way back.
because beneath it all was something real, something neither of you wanted to let go.
and as the days turned into weeks, you realized that maybe, just maybe, this was more than just a story.
it was your story.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
it started with a headline.
nothing scandalous, but enough to stir the internet—a fan account posted a blurry photo of you and haechan leaving a café, the caption dripping with speculation.
“are they dating for real?” “fake marriage turned real?” “what does this mean for their agencies?”
the messages flooded your phone—some from friends, some from fans, some from strangers.
you stared at the screen, heart pounding.
haechan was beside you, phone in hand, face tight.
“they’re going to spin this into a mess,” he muttered.
you nodded, biting your lip.
it was the first time your private feelings had become public territory, and neither of you knew how to navigate it.
that evening, you met at haechan’s dorm, wanting to face it together.
“what do we do?” you asked, voice trembling.
he took your hands in his, eyes steady and fierce.
“we don’t let rumors define us,” he said. “we keep being honest. with each other, and when we’re ready, with everyone else.”
you swallowed the lump in your throat, feeling the weight of the moment.
“i’m scared,” you admitted. “of losing what we have.”
he pulled you close, forehead resting against yours.
“me too,” he said. “but whatever happens, i’m not walking away.”
in that quiet room, surrounded by the noise of the world outside, you found a promise that felt stronger than any headline.
you weren’t just partners on a show anymore.
you were something real.
and you would face whatever came next—together.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
the room was tense as you and haechan sat across from your agencies. the conversation was careful, cautious, filled with questions you’d both anticipated but dreaded.
“are you sure this isn’t just for publicity?” one manager asked.
“this is real,” haechan said quietly, eyes locked on yours. “we want to take this seriously.”
your own manager nodded slowly, “then we’ll support you. but you need to be prepared for everything.”
the words hung heavy in the air, a mix of relief and new pressure settling over you.
once the meetings ended, you didn’t speak much on the way back. the city lights blurred past the windows, your hands finally finding each other’s in the quiet.
as soon as you stepped inside haechan’s apartment, the tension broke.
he pulled you close, fingers threading through your hair, lips pressing soft and sure against yours.
“no matter what they say,” he murmured between kisses, “this is ours.”
you traced his jawline, heart pounding in your chest.
“ours,” you echoed.
the night wrapped around you, a sanctuary from the world.
in the quiet between heartbeats, you’ve found a place—a fragile world where pretend becomes real.
A collection of oneshots intended to be read in the comfort of one’s state of mind, filled with young, fleeting love to forever cherish and chase. Each story is of a different adventure, a different song, inviting room to garner thought and tranquility.
OH SION — Pushin' N Pullin'
Sion knows he has all the chances to make sure his birthday present for you wouldn’t be underwhelming. But caught up in comments from his friends, who don’t know you very well, his judgment is pushed and pulled in all different directions.
Play — Read
MAEDA RIKU — My Dear
The moment you placed heart-shaped sunglasses and a kuromi headband crookedly on Riku, he couldn’t tell if today was more or less than a hangout. But the blush that crept to his ears impaired his ability to decide if he should act more or less than a friend.
Play — Read
TOKUNO YUSHI — Take It Slow
Yushi always makes sure his priorities and hobbies are set straight and balanced, never spending an ounce of time on potential distractions. But when you bring up the smallest, silliest side discussions, you’re still a clear sign to him that talking with you is never a waste of time.
Play — Read
KIM DAEYOUNG — Would U
There is a lingering question between you and Daeyoung—no romantic undertones, only the shared hustle to complete an English assignment. But his stutters, which are alarmingly frequent, somehow guide the discussion— except he is off topic and you’re simply nodding without understanding a thing.
Play — Read
HIROSE RYO — Little Little
The challenge was to buy one item in each other’s favorite color, be it a plushy, a keyring, or anything in sight to exchange as a gift. But challenges are also gambles and Ryo, who has no clue about your favorite color after all of your switch ups, wasn’t going to give up easily.
Play — Read
FUJINAGA SAKUYA — Candy
As much as Sakuya loves bread, he also has a generous soft spot for candy and all things sweet. But not candy making— he realizes he is always going to need your help in sweetening the sourness he makes or rather, causes.
ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ→ after waiting impatiently for your boyfriend to come home, you decided to get dolled up for him as a surprise for all the hard work he’s putting into his new album, despite always being absent and leaving you feeling empty. taken aback by your attempt at regaining his attention, you are definitely not feeling empty tonight.
ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ→ explicit words, sexual tension, angst.
ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀʼꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ→ first ever fanfic, hope y’all enjoy! inspired by this pin we found on pinterest! do not copy, translate any of our works.
ᴅɪꜱᴄʟᴀɪᴍᴇʀ→ if you are a minor, PLEASE do not interact with this post. The character and scenario in this fanfic ARE NOT REAL. do NOT assume they act like this in real life.
*+:｡.｡
you hear the front door unlock. “jaehyun?” you say eagerly.
"hey baby”, letting out a little groan of exhaustion as he stumbles to sit down on the couch. you rush out, eager to finally see your boyfriend after his long day at the studio.
“i missed you, love” he sees you all dressed and dolled up for him.
“fuck” he muttered.
you knew your outfit would entice him, something so provoking, you knew he would finally ruin you as soon as he entered the door, you loved this feeling.
“do a little twirl for me, baby” he said, letting out a little smirk.
you did a little spin for him as he asked, feeling his eyes all over you, analyzing every precious little detail. you loved how you both had so much control over each other in different ways, the way you hungered him, the feeling of him undressing you with his eyes, the way he devours you in his mind, and the way he simply claims what he owns: you.
after admiring the sight in front of him, jaehyun says “this is what you wanted, didn’t you? me to undress you and claim what’s mine?”.
he knew you so well, you couldn’t stand him being gone all day at the studio. you wanted him. needed him.
“i just really missed you, jae” you said as your head tilted downwards and eyes scanned the floor, you didn’t mean to get so emotional.
“i know baby, i’m sorry, and i know i’m always tired when i come home” he paused to take another moment to admire your efforts to please him, “but now i’m more awake than ever. how can i make it up to you tonight, baby?”.
this was such a relief to hear, noticing the eagerness in his voice, and how his eyes lingered your body awaiting your answer. he craved you, desired you and knew that you wanted it too. you did miss him—alot. you understood the tedious work a music artist did, but didn’t understand how isolating and deprived you could feel from it. but this made the tension grow, fuelling your need for his touch. despite playing the perfect patient girlfriend, you desperately wanted him to satisfy you, but you couldn’t give in. but now, seeing him standing in front of you, with the feeling of his lustful gaze all over you, like spotlight—how could you say no to him?
“love?” he says, waiting for your response.
you took a second and remembered the long days of being busy at the studio and feeling neglected. as you snapped back into the present moment, you matched his gaze. admiring the way he’s just plastered on the couch, hair messy, sweat glistening on his skin from practice; you were going to show him just how much you missed him.
“yes, yes please, jae, i’ve missed you for so long, and i know how hard you’ve been worki-” the words came out like vomit.
“i’m so sorry baby, i know, please, let me make it up to you” he said, cutting you off as he stood up slowly and inched his way towards you.
“yes, please” you muttered as your eyes became teary.
jaehyun began cupping your cheeks in his hands and you sunk into the palms of his calloused hands while he wiped away your tears. after making sure you felt better, he began giving you innocent kisses that trailed down to your neck. this made all your rushing thoughts come to a stop, relishing in the feeling and the scent of his cologne. he placed his hands on the back of your thighs and picked you up.
“i’m gonna make my baby feel so special tonight” he said before giving you one more kiss and carrying you towards the bedroom.
*+:｡.｡
ᴜʙᴇᴅᴏʟʟꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇꜱ*+→ he needs to come back. like seriously. guys jaehyun has invented male yearning and im not wrong.
park jisung x female reader | genre: fluff, slice of life? | word count: 1,187 words
The pool boy your parents hired has been in a staring contest with a tree for several minutes now. Is he okay? You make a decision in a split second, rushing to the bathroom mirror to make sure you look presentable before going out to check on him.
By now, you've grown used to his presence in your family's estate every week, diligently scurrying around the pool to make sure everything’s clean. You know his name is Jisung from overhearing your parents’ conversation with him the day he started working here. He's really cute, all smiles and nose scrunches with a sweet personality too. But not that you would know in detail—you've never actually spoken to him before, only knowing about him from various glimpses of him through the window and seeing him update your parents on the status of the pool. Still, Jisung's sweet aura was as clear as day, and you want to get to know him more.
He flinches when he hears the sound of the door swing shut behind you, and relaxes once he realizes it's only you, the daughter. Even so, he apologizes.
“I'm so sorry for getting distracted! I promise I'll get right back to work now,” he says, eyes lowered.
“It's totally fine! Do you need a break? You can come inside and have something to eat,” you offer, wanting to treat this boy to something nice. You know he's been here for a while already today, having more work than usual after the storm last week overwhelmed the pool with leaves and other debris.
Jisung looks hesitant, eyes moving between you and the still-unkempt pool.
“I won't tell my parents, if that's what you're worried about,” you assure him. “They're not home right now either, so it's just us. Also, it's like, really hot out here! I wouldn't want you to get heat stroke or anything.” You had noticed earlier when walking up to him that Jisung looked rather flushed. Maybe the heat was getting to him, and that's why he was busy staring at a tree?
“Okay,” Jisung says, giving you a shy smile. “Thank you, Y/N.”
The excitement you'd felt when he agreed immediately morphs into surprise. Before you can stop yourself, you blurt out, “Wait, you know my name?”
By now you're leading him towards your home, and he follows behind you with happiness in his step. “Yeah, I think your mom mentioned you to me. So when I saw you, I was like, that must be Y/N,” he tells you.
(He quietly adds, “And you're really pretty.” You pretend you don't hear it, but the compliment makes your heart go all silly.)
You show Jisung around, and he looks at everything with unconcealed awe. “Wow. Your house is so nice,” he says.
“Yeah, it is. I'm glad you like it,” you reply. You're used to it—this is your home, after all, but Jisung's comment is making you appreciate it with fresh eyes again.
The two of you sit down at the kitchen island, and you pour a glass of homemade lemonade for Jisung. The chef had made it for your family just last night, so it's still very fresh. And speaking of the chef…you get down from your tall stool to check the refrigerator. Did he make it? You're shifting things around on the shelves, hoping to find what you're looking for.
And…there it is! You emerge triumphantly with a raspberry vanilla cake. It's your favorite, so you're happy that you’re now able to share it with Jisung. Having a crush really is making your summer days more special.
This time, you let Jisung cut a piece for himself. You watch as he eats, cheeks round with the food, and you think to yourself, I don't know how a boy could be this cute. He's handsome too in a sort of unassuming way, and you like that about him. He's beautiful in the same way that a flower is during the slow process of blooming: quiet, subtle, but about to become your everything.
“Is there something on my face?” Oh, you were staring at Jisung without realizing it. That makes you feel embarrassed, but when you look at him, you can tell you're not alone in that feeling, which makes you feel better. He adjusts his sleeves as he waits for your answer.
You're silent for a moment as you debate on how much to tell him. His eyes meet yours, sweet and open, and in that moment, you know you should tell him. He deserves to know.
“No, there isn't. I was just thinking that you're really cute when you eat.” And more, but you can tell him about that at a later time.
He looks shocked for a moment, his hand going up to cover his mouth, but then he breaks into a laugh. It's a lovely sound, and it makes you smile in return. “Aww. That's cute too,” he says.
The two of you finish the cake together. Jisung admits to you that he was in fact pretty hungry by the time you came out to see him, so you saved him from going through the next few hours with an empty stomach. You smile again and kick your feet under the kitchen island where he can't see, happy that he keeps reaffirming to you that you'd made the right decision to talk to him today.
“Oh, also. I have a question for you. Why were you staring at that tree for so long? I could see you from inside.” You sip at the remainder of your lemonade, genuinely curious to hear his response.
Jisung leans back and covers his eyes with one hand, embarrassed that you'd caught him. But when he looks back at you, his face is more serious than you'd expected it to be. “I was looking at the bark,” he explains. “I was thinking about how a tree is like a microcosm of the universe.”
You don’t know what possesses you, but you say it anyway.
“Just like us right now?”
The light pouring in from the kitchen window casts Jisung in a soft glow, illuminating the dust floating in the air behind him. “Yeah,” he answers. “You could say that.” And for a moment, no words are needed.
You fall into a comfortable silence with Jisung, punctuated only by the occasional sound of the birds chirping outside. You think about how you always felt like you were put into this big world with the ultimate purpose of being alone in the universe, yet somehow it had brought Jisung to you.
But you can feel it now, that it’s time for Jisung to get going. “We should hang out outside of my house next time,” you say.
“Oh! I’d like that too.” You look at Jisung in time to see one last smile from him, just for you.
So you run to your room to get your favorite set of sticky notes. With your green pen, you write a quick message for Jisung, and he puts the note into his pocket.
xxx-xxx-xxxx. Text me, Jisung? ♡
Notes: Funnily enough, the day before this idea came to me, I saw this post. So yes, I am aware that there are a number of recurring themes in my work, and at first I hesitated to start writing this because I didn't know if I wanted to write something that seemed to take bits and pieces from several of my previous works. But, I decided to write it anyway, thinking that it's okay, and I think it turned out in a way where it's still distinctly different from anything I've written before.
When I wrote this, I just let the natural flow of the scene guide me on where to go next, and this is what I came up with. I didn't realize until I was almost done that it turned out very slice of life-y, but it's kind of cool that I unwittingly did this. I also think I finally did better with the ending this time, which is good!
Although I would like to keep consistent "types" of formatting depending on fic content and length, I have realized that I most likely want to avoid lapslock from now on, and that even if a fic is a little over 1,000 words, I don't always want to give it a big introduction. So, here this is!
Thank you so much for reading. You're welcome to let me know if you have any thoughts about this!
Credits
Dividers: by enchanthings
Reference to this song and ment
—cute boy alert, fanfiction written by moraesong on tumblr, posted 2025
We Dedicate This Requiem To You @narcisstict - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
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