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[slimesam]

MasterList

Yoi yo! Welcome to my Masterlist! My name’s Sam (She/Her) and I am 22 years old! Currently doing my best to graduate and doing commission.

Please don’t be shy about sending asks I like answering scenarios or drawing them.

(。・`ω´・) (๑˙❥˙๑)(〝▼皿▼)(≧ω≦)/

Lookism:

Goo and Gun unplanned/planned trip head canon

Asks:

Favorite pjt's characters

Fantasy Au:

- The Nun and her familiar Devil (Gun x Y/N) : Trailer, Chap 1, Chap 2

Kofi page: ko-fi.com/slimesam

[sweet-hearts-and-destiny-knots]

The pokemon ZA DLC was out for months already. And it contain Ansha and hoopa donut adventure. So what is the favorite donut flavor of each of the sisterhood's girls.

Leaf:

Cream Donut

Kotone:

Rainbow Donut

Haruka:

Jam Donut

Hikari:

Chocolate Donut

Touko:

Curry Donut

Mei:

Merengue Donut

Serena:

Merengue Donut

Mizuki:

Jam Donut

Gloria:

Curry Donut

Juliana:

Cream Donut

Harmony:

Rainbow Donut

[slimesam]

[slimesam]

[slimesam]

Headcannon Harmony was previously a team plasma member. She mainly does charity work of releasing Pokémons that have been given up by people before the beginning of the Black and White event. When the main event happen she and Paxton were tasked by N's foster sisters to spy on N and his new found interested at the protagonist named Hilda.

Harmony and Paxton have a front seat in the ferris wheel drama; their inner thought is "Just hurry up and date already."

[slimesam]

[slimesam]

Been listening ado music magic, I think it a fitting situation when they first introduce Corbeau.

[slimesam]

[slimesam]

Been awhile I posted so. Got into other fandom

[wannaeatramyeon]

Gun Park x Reader: Awkward Flirtations

G/N. Gun can't flirt but you catch the signals anyway. Masterlists

Gun doesn't flirt. Or at least, he has never tried.

Curse him and his stupidly good looks, he has never had to. He's a straight talking, cut the bullshit kind of guy, which may lead to people giving him funny looks if he was anyone else but this is Gun Park. There is no lack of confidence, no lack of handsomeness, and everyone that he has fallen into bed with, he has done so with very little effort.

The other thing is he has never liked anyone before. Goo declares he himself is falling in love with someone every other week. Of course you're a fool if you believe a single word that comes out of that blonde's mouth but Gun suspects Goo has never liked anyone before either.

There's never been any sort of romance in Gun's life; he doesn't have the time or the inclination for it. He has his needs fulfilled and then prefers not to see them ever again. Days are better off spent training or chasing money.

And yet-

Your eyes meet his across the store. You give him a curious look as your lips lift into a smile.

Blood immediately rushes to his face and he feels his heart rate creeping up. He holds two fingers to his neck, measuring his pulse at the same time as his stomach flutters.

Could he be getting sick? Strange. He never gets sick.

.

.

Gun engages in stalkerish behaviour. That isn't news.

After all, you can't turn up at the perfect moment during fights, in the rain, without some preparation. Neither can you seek out potential successors without some planning. Legal or otherwise.

But all you have shown him is a sweet smile and like a man possessed, he has found himself in your neighbourhood for three days straight hoping to catch a glimpse of you again.

He reasoned that it's his instinct. Subconsciously he must have realised he could train you to be his prodigy-

And miraculously at that moment, you appear into view and trip over the sidewalk, catch yourself then trip once more on what looks like, Gun squints and confirms that it is indeed thin air, and slip backwards.

With anyone else, he would have dismissed his previous thoughts on seeing this, and left, disappointed and annoyed for wasting his own time. All coherent thought vanishes, however, as he rushes over to catch you from falling over.

You gasp as a strong arm snakes around you. Instead of hitting your head with a thud, you find a stranger peering down and holding you firmly.

"Oof, thanks." Gun is rewarded with a lopsided grin and he feels his ears burn.

He helps you upright and slowly unwraps his arm from around your waist with a little reluctance.

You brush yourself off, asking. "Have we met?"

Gun pauses, feeling full force the gut punch of that question to his ego. He is anything but forgettable.

"The other day in that store," he nods to the 711 a little way down the street.

"I thought I recognised you."

The ego is soothed.

Awkwardness creeps in as Gun thinks of something to prolong this moment, keep you around. Small talk that he usually hates though in this instance he would actually like to find out how you are doing, how your day is going, what your plans are. If you've eaten yet, are you hungry, what foods you like, did you want to grab something-

Amidst his own rambling thoughts - which is another first - you give him an easy out.

"I owe you one but I gotta go." You smile like you genuinely regret cutting this short and the odd fluttering in Gun's stomach starts again. "Can I have your number?"

.

.

"Stop that."

"What?"

Goo's face comes unbearably close and Gun considers headbutting him.

"Stop smiling. It's creepy." Goo backs away, likely having sensed Gun's violent musings, and pulls a face, muttering about how he didn't even know Gun could smile.

"Fuck you."

.

.

Someone somewhere has made up a nonsense rule about not appearing too eager by messaging too soon.

Luckily for Gun, he doesn't pay attention to such ridiculousness. He works his way through seven cigarettes as he thinks of what to text you.

In the end, he settles for-

Gun: Hey

Eagle-eyed, he watches over the next half hour as the message turns from unread to read and-

And nothing. No further reply. He frowns. He rereads his 'hey' and follows up with-

Gun: This is Gun Park.

Gun: How are you?

That instantly changes to read and your status moves to typing.

Y/N: Heeeey!

Y/N: This is a cute surprise

Y/N: Happy to hear from you and thanks again for saving me earlier

Y/N: what about you?

Gun: I'm fine thanks.

He watches to see any more messages come through. Again, it changes to read then nothing. He reads his three word response, which is perfectly adequate, but notes he has effectively closed the conversation.

With another frown settling on his face, he types out a further message.

Gun: Are you doing anything today?

Y/N: Nope super boring stuff. Running errands then nothing so lots of free time :) what about you?

Gun: No.

As Gun's repertoire of small talk dries up, he figures that this will do, it's a start.  It's not perfect though he's left satisfied enough. Just as he's about to click his screen off-

Y/N: Fancy grabbing a coffee? On me :)

Gun's fingers move in a blur:

Gun: Ok. Tomorrow.

Y/N: Deal. It's a date!

If Gun was anyone else, he would be kicking his feet and giggling. But he's not.

He simply closes his eyes and exhales as a smile tugs at his lips.

What he does notice, is that ithis is the same feeling as a good, hard, vicious training session; like pushing his body past its limit to get stronger and better.

A wave of dopamine and euphoria crashes down.

[otoruuvv]

(HS! Au) Reading together 📕

[wannaeatramyeon]

Your Adventures as the Lookismverse Designer

G/N. Run-ins with Burn Knuckles, Goddog, Allied and Big Deal. Masterlists

Being in the Fashion department, you had assumed your classmates had a passion for fashion. For god's sake, it's in the name.

But no, you're wrong.

Apart from using it as an excuse to wear designer brands from head to toe, no one really gave a shit.

No one cared about the history, about design, fabrication, construction.

No one... apart from you that is.

.

.

Your first client wasn't really someone you could say no to unless you had a death wish.

When the whole of the Architecture department shows up along with Vasco, their terrifying leader, you consider running off and screaming.

It was only Jace Park, who seemed to understand a more subtle approach and how intimidating they looked, that stopped you from wanting to flee to the teacher.

(Strange. You actually don't recall seeing your teacher for months.)

"Please," Jace murmurs to Vasco and he's practically begging. "You didn't need to turn up with everyone. Just leave this to me. Please."

If you didn't know better, you would think Vasco was giving him grateful puppy eyes. But that can't be right. He's a thug.

"Sorry," Jace turns to you, looking contrite and fiddling anxiously with his big ears when you're finally on your own. "Are you the Fashion Designer?"

It should have been a stupid question, considering you're in the Fashion Department.

Except you look around at the so-called boxer who pitifully simps after the brunette all day, the rich blonde kid who never talks to anyone, the other girl who is an aspiring streamer and you sigh to yourself.

"Yes, that's me."

.

.

All things considered, the Burn Knuckles are very easy to please.

It's a design printed on some pre-made boilersuits, not exactly avant garde.

You did touch up the logo though and provided some more clothing options than requested. Boilersuits in a small selection of colours, bomber and leather jackets.

When you hand over the boxes to Vasco and Jace, the latter shakes your hand and the former stares at you with tears in his eyes and asks how they can ever repay you.

You shrug. Because he did already pay you for your time and the materials.

"Don't worry about it." You say, giving him a polite grin.

Vasco beams and you think maybe this guy isn't so scary.

.

.

.

.

Somehow your reputation precedes you.

To be honest you didn't even realise you had any sort of reputation until a guy with a messy mop head and two dogs corners you in an alleyway.

"I heard you're the Designer," he grunts.

A part of you thinks of fleeing once again. A smaller part of you thinks damn, that nickname is kinda cool.

"I am?"

"Don't play dumb. I know who you are."

You would have found him rude and menacing if not for his dogs picking that exact moment to roll around on the floor belly-up, desperately wanting some attention.

"Fuck's sake," he mutters though he squats down anyway to pat them. "So?" he continues, trying to regain his previous threatening aura even as the pups wriggle around under his touch.

"So what?"  you ask, not able to stop the smile creeping over your face at this adorable sight.

"I need some clothing."

.

.

Perhaps the Burn Knuckles gave you a false sense of bravado, thinking everyone would be as easy as them. Unfortunately, this guy is a goddamn headache.

He wants hoodies, which isn't an issue but he wants matching dog-sized ones and he wants you to design the logo from scratch too.

"But I don't do graphic design," you cry and he pretends he can't hear you.

On your twelfth iteration, he doesn't glare at it and praise the heavens; he's finally happy.

Well, happy is an overstatement. He doesn't exactly look happy but he's no longer glaring at you, so you assume in Johan Seong's world, that means he's exhilarated.

The hoodies fit, both Johan and the dogs, and the logo looks good too.

You wave goodbye to the back of all three. Your bank balance is healthier except you hope they never darken your doorstep again.

.

.

(You have no such luck. He returns, months later, requesting tracksuits.)

.

.

.

.

It's a sorry state of affairs when three of the members of Allied are part of the Fashion Department, and come to you asking for help.

"Why don't you design it yourself?" you ask Daniel Park, Zack Lee and Jay Hong.

They look at you like you've grown two heads.

.

.

You will be eternally grateful that Jay Hong is mute, that Vasco is actually the sweetest cinnamon roll, and Daniel Park is pretty easy-going because having Vin Jin and Zack Lee constantly bickering and criticising your design is bad enough.

Apparently these men are very adept fighters. Caught up in some gang shit. It didn't matter. You still wanted to ram your pen through their skulls.

Then throw in someone else called Hudson Ahn who also seems to like giving rude, overly critical comments concealed as constructive criticism -

You threatened to quit more than once.

.

.

Eventually, after staying awake for 46 hours - you all agree on a logo.

"Here." You thrust the USB drive with the files at Daniel Park.

"What do I do with this?"

"You're in the Fashion Department too." You rub at your tired eyes, patience long gone with these morons. "Find a clothing printer yourself. Search for it on the internet. You know what that is right? The internet?"

Somewhere to your right, Vin Jin bursts into laughter.

.

.

.

.

You can't decide if this guy is trying to sell you something or if you're actually falling in love with him by the second.

Hell, he could sell you some snake-oil and you're so charmed you don't mind.

"So, you'll do it?" he asks, holding your hands in his larger gloved ones and you feel yourself simpering like an idiot at the contact.

"Sure thing, Mr. Kim."

"Jake," he says, giving you a toothy grin. "I'm Jake. And this is Jerry."

"Who?"

"Jerry Kwon," A large hulking man steps up besides Jake, offering you a handshake.

What? How did you miss him? You didn't notice him at all.

"Oh. Uh. Of course. Nice to meet you too Jerry."

"Come here, guys." Jake signals for the other men hanging back to come forth. "Ths is Brad and Jerry and Lineman."

Shit. Damnit, you've been so fixated on Jake Kim that you ignored everyone else.

Hell. You didn't even realise there was anyone else.

"Hi," you say, wanting the ground to swallow you up and blushing furiously.

Jake catches your eye and gives you a wink.

.

.

Being completely honest, the Big Deal tracksuits aren't your best work.

You're not too sure on the logo design (though hey - that's not really your handiwork). The placement is a little awkward and the design is sort of plain.

You added gold elements to at least make it a bit more cohesive, and sourced extra durable fabrics with lots of movement as apparently the guys have a tendency to damage clothing during fights.

"What do you think?" Jake says, modelling your finalised version.

From the smile on his face, you could tell he's very much satisfied with your work.

"Looks great," you say and you're telling the truth. Although it's not really the tracksuit that looks great, but the man wearing it. His broad shoulders and tight waist, long muscular legs and-

Oops. You silently apologise for objectifying him.

The way your eyes rake over his form isn't subtle, though it's definitely flattering. Jake playfully throws another wink your way.

[wannaeatramyeon]

Gitae Kim x Reader: K-dramas

G/N. Crack. Platonic or romantic. Masterlists

The strangest thing about Gitae, of which there are many, is that he gets heavily invested.

In k-dramas, that is.

It's a strange interest from a strange guy.

He never watches it outright, usually scrolling on his phone next to you. Though when you occasionally turn to him, he's avidly watching the screen.

And he would never watch it on his own either, instead suggesting "why don't you watch that shit you like?" and sneaking glances here and there.

You never mention it to him, because this trait is so deeply endearing from an intimidating and terrifying man, that you fear talking about it at all will break the spell.

You wonder if it's because he misses his home. If watching k-dramas and seeing glimpses of Seoul, hearing his mother tongue makes him feel nostalgic.

However, the least strange thing, as you have gradually come to find out, is that he prefers k-dramas with a little less melodrama, and a lot more murdery and bloodthirsty.

The more people dying the better. The more fights the better.

Especially if there's betrayal. Especially if there's death of family members (preferably the dad or siblings).

It's frankly a little unhinged. Watching the grin spread across his face as the plot unfolds, the way his eyes light up when the body count increases. Although it's a challenge you've personally taken on to find the most violent series you can that ticks all his boxes.

In the end, you are successful. Gitae drops all pretence of being on his phone. It's hard to distract him from anything but the action unfolding.

And the final cherry on top, is when you see him browsing forums, reading up theories and actually participating in discussions. Leaving deeply unpopular comments wishing for more brutality and sadism. Ideally, with the antagonist, no actually scratch that, the whole cast dying too.

[slimesam]

You can do this Sam! You can live independently! Your a grown and graduated adult woman! Your parents is just an hour and half away from here you can visit them!

Damn it...

I feel lonely living alone in this apartment for the first time.

[slimesam]

Finally I am officially graduate now, the only thing I need to prepared myself to move to other country, doing adult paper works and send resume for work!

[wannaeatramyeon]

Meeting Student!Gun Park for the First Time

G/N. 3.2k. Remember when Gun wanted to get his GED? Well. Stranger to~ Masterlists

"How old are you?"

"20."

Press X for doubt, you think, and that's the exact meme you send over on chat.

"20 like 20 or 20 like you're mid 30s and planning your mid life crisis 20?"

You know you're being rude and making a terrible first impression. It's the first day of a new school year, of a new school in fact, and for some reason the class is held on video call and you're all forced to pair off with a classmate for an icebreaker introduction.

It’s already cringe worthy and awkward enough, icebreakers must have been created as a form of torture. To add insult to injury, you're sure this guy is bullshitting you.

"I'm 20." He deadpans.

Momentarily, you’re stunned into silence. It stretches almost a tad too long before you manage to choke out, “My bad. Sorry."

Wow. You're torn between thinking that's a rough 20, this guy has easily got 40 years under his belt and oh no, when is your puberty and hormones gonna kick in like that.

And that's also the exact moment this 20 year old Gun Park takes a drag on a cigarette and you decide that it's definitely a rough 20.

"So what do you do for fun?" You probe, and you have the distinct feeling he might say something like alimony, planning his third marriage, investing in the stock market - whatever someone in their 50s might say but-

To your surprise and glee, his body language turns shifty. 

He likes to game he says, like it's a dirty little secret. Amongst other things. Mentions something about training and martial arts and you fight to keep a straight face as it turns out you were also right about investing in shares and the stock market.

Gaming, however, is what you latch on to.

"Cute. I bet I could kick your ass."

"Oh yeah?"

"Oh yes."

And this is how you ended up at 4am on a school night, playing Tekken with your new classmate and getting your ass kicked.

"One more!" You screech down the mic, after the KO sign appears on screen, mumbling something about cheating and how if you can time this combo just right-

There's a huff of laughter coming through your tinny headphones and an amused "Fine."

.

.

Dark circles under your eyes grow. It's been a week of straight losses.

You blame the sleep deprivation on Gun Park, though really you have your own stubbornness to blame.

He never tends to say much during the gaming sessions apart from the odd expletive and you rant enough after each of your defeats for the both of you.

Sometimes this will earn you a chuckle and he will snidely add that you asked for this, you were the one who was supposed to kick his ass. This would piss you off enough for another game or three in the hopes of defeating him and getting to gloat.

Which unfortunately has not happened yet.

With a sigh, you hope your camera quality this morning is bad enough and pixelated enough that your poor sleep habits don't show.

You scan over your classmates, the few that have their camera turned on and find him.

Gun looks completely fine. He looks completely fine in what must be 4k and ugh, you scrunch your nose up in annoyance.

You keep an eye on him through the class. Observe how he's usually paying rapt attention, scribbling and typing up notes every now and then.

It's impressive how studious he is.

In comparison, you're daydreaming. Thinking about lunch, other combos or characters to play to counter his own when you catch on to the back end of a sentence as your teacher mentions ‘this’ is something to pay attention to as it will be on the pop quiz.

Huh? You blink a couple times. What is ‘this’? Unfortunately she swiftly moves onto another topic.

You type out a direct message to the only person you know.

You: I missed that, what did she just say?

Gun: You should have been paying attention.

You: Fuck you man!

You see his eyes dip to the bottom of the camera screen, briefly moving as he presumably reads your message.

He smirks.

That night he kicks your ass again.

Then as consolation, reveals what will be on the pop quiz.

.

.

If Gun looked like that in 4k, nothing could prepare you for how he looked in real life.

You're setting up your laptop and notepad in the classroom, the first actual in-person session, when someone takes a seat next to you.

Initially you feel a surge of irritation that they could have sat anywhere else and chose to sit next to you, then you look at the offender and-

Hold on.

You double, triple-take-

Is that?

It must be.

Shit.

It's fucking Gun Park.

You don't entirely regret your initial comments on his looks because this guy definitely does not look 20 but goddamn he looks-

He chooses that moment, when your jaw is on the floor, to turn to you and give you a nod of acknowledgement.

"Y/N."

"H-hi." You manage, and even to your ears it sounds like a simpering fool.

He must have thought so too if the quirk of his lips is anything to go by.

The cherry on top is that you expected this guy to smell like stale smoke, instead all you get is fresh laundry and something faintly dark and heady like leather and cedarwood.

Fuck.

Control yourself, a disapproving voice in your head says. Even that sounds vaguely like Gun.

It does nothing to stop your wandering gaze, peering at him in your periphery when you think he's not looking.

After you have taken your chance to not so discreetly run your eyes up and down his form, the only thing that makes you feel better is his hair. Because yeah he might be hot, but holy shit that must be a gallon of hair gel in there.

.

.

The other thing, as it turns out, that makes you feel a lot better is that he doodles.

It’s utterly charming.

Someone like Gun Park doesn't look like he doodles, but in between lines of his chicken scratch (seriously, who can even read that), there's little stick figures.

Maybe all the time you thought he was being studious he was just drawing-

Wait. You squint at the picture.

Is this guy for real?

"Are they fucking?" You whisper, using your pen to point at the page.

He doesn't answer straight away. There's a moment of surprise as he reacts like this is another secret of his he has unwittingly let you in on before his nostril flares and his eyes narrow and you grin in response.

Your grin grows when he grits out an answer. "No. Fighting."

He doesn't call you a dumbass but you can hear it loud and clear tacked on at the end.

"Whatever, pervert." You counter. You guess if you squint even harder then you suppose they could be fighting. Although the way one is lying on top of another is very suggestive. You don't hesitate to point that out to him.

Gun closes his eyes and counts to ten.

.

.

Even without a seating plan, one forms.

Places taken by chance on the first day becomes a regular arrangement.

You exchange a few words with your classmates, familiarise yourself somewhat with their names and faces. Pieces of their backstory, why they're here studying for a GED but take your spot next to Gun regardless.

No one really talks to him, you've heard them saying he's menacing and intimidating. Yet when your first encounter of him was mistaking him as someone about to hit mid life crisis, how intimidating can he really be.

Besides, he still doodles his lewd figures that he insists are not in any way shape or form comprising sexual positions. So no, you don't find him intimidating at all.

.

.

Gun, as you have come to know, is a man of few words. He is also unsurprisingly not great at literature.

What you don't yet know is he likes to say what he means and mean what he says. His patience only extends to The Art of War, so all the flowery prose and poetry only serves to irritate him.

If Gun glared at you the way he's currently glaring at the textbook, you think you may either burst into tears or burst into flames.

Luckily you do neither of those things but you do take pity on him. Leaning over, you ask him quietly if he needs help.

He doesn't respond but the pen he's clutching in his right hand snaps in half.

Alright then.

Half an hour later, when the class empties out you ask Gun to follow you to the library.

He hesitates, and you add "if you've got time" to give him an out. In the end he doesn't take it and trudges obediently after you.

You very quickly learn that he really doesn't like literature. You're explaining and working him through the analysis and also mildly offended at the bored look on his face.

"This is a waste of time," he interjects and there's a sullen undercurrent to his words.

"Just memorise the analysis then." Exasperation tinges your tone, "That's all you need to do to pass."

He arches a brow at your words.

"They're testing your memory. So just remember what our teacher says."

There's an angry air of resignation as Gun nods, and you slide your notes over for him to copy.

.

.

Not long after, you have your first minor evaluation on the literature material.

You notice during the test that while the vein in Gun’s temple is prominent and he’s clutching his (new) pen tighter, there’s barely any pause as he fills in the answers.

A few days later, the graded papers are handed back. There's a sigh of relief from Gun.

He gives you a smile, small and genuine, eyes crinkling at the corner.

"You owe me one," you tell him jokingly though he takes it to heart and gives you a stern nod.

.

.

Gun repays his debt, with a coffee.

He places the paper cup on the desk in front of you. Logo of the coffee house to the side but still visible. It's new, expensive, and there’s regular lines around the block.

Of course it would be from there.

The issue is, who repays a debt with an espresso. He didn’t even ask for your drink of choice!

"Thanks for this thimble of coffee," you remark as Gun sniffs in distaste at your comment, placing his own matching cup in front of him and saying something about how it's the best untainted way to drink it.

Of course he would also be a coffee snob.

You tell him you usually like it with a bit more cream and a lot more sugar and he mutters that you sound like Goo.

You think that's an insult.

"Well, at least Goo has good taste," you snipe back with a grin.

Gun closes his eyes and counts to ten.

.

.

You: Are you doodling or actually writing notes?

You: Cos on camera you look very studious but I’ve seen your notepad

Gun: None of your business

You: Still drawing your disgusting pornographic stick men then

Gun: They are not-

Gun: Whatever

.

.

You: Ok, maybe that espresso wasn’t terrible

Gun: I know

You: Who’s Goo anyway?

Gun: …

Gun: No-one

You: Suuuure

.

.

You: Tekken tonight?

Gun: Aren’t you tired of getting your ass kicked?

You: >:(

.

.

You: Do you wanna go over the new lit material in the library this week?

Gun: Ok

.

.

Gun: Thanks for your help

You: :) 

.

.

Gun: You’re tired. You should game less.

You: Spoken like a coward!

Gun: Dumbass

You: Hey!!

.

.

Gun: I’ll bring you an espresso tomorrow. You need it.

You: Does it have to be an espresso?

Gun: Yes

You: …Thanks

.

.

To anyone else, the figure standing in the doorway is just smoking. To you, it suspiciously looks like they’re waiting.

It's not a crime. Gun Park can wait for whatever or whoever he wants.

What really throws you off is his smoking. You've seen him casually take one single drag before throwing the whole cigarette away. Even to you, it seems like a waste.

However, this time he smokes one all the way to the filter before stubbing it out. Then does the same to a second, and third.

Strange, very strange.

You approach him. Taking gentle steps, in case he might get spooked and bolt which is really a ridiculous notion for someone like him. Nevertheless, you keep your footsteps light, yourself clearly in view and you wander over to him.

"Hey," you say, with a somewhat forced smile. He doesn't acknowledge your greeting apart from a brief nod.

"... Everything ok?"

It's a perfectly normal question to ask but a vastly bizarre one for Gun. He doesn't look like the type of person where people casually enquire about his well being.

He must have thought so too if the look he gives you is anything to go by.

In response, he stubs out his cigarette (his fourth!) then asks, stilted and stiffly, if you want to come back to his for a game of Tekken.

At least that's what you interpret as he seems to be crazy cryptic.

"Are you interested in Tekken?"

"...Yes." You wonder what on earth this question is because did you hallucinate all those games you played together?

"Then meet me. After class." 

"Where? Here?"

"No. At mine."

"Where's that?"

"..."

He gives you another look, as if you're the one trying to coax a secret out of him despite him offering.

Gun dips forward, murmurs quietly into your ear his address and some vague directions like it's highly confidential information.

You nod along, thinking what is with this guy. 

.

.

So firstly, what the fuck.

Then secondly, what the fuck.

Don't think you hadn't noticed the designer brands Gun wears. If they're fakes, they're very convincing fakes. But you're almost certain they have got to be counterfeit when he brought you over to a junkyard claiming this is where he lives.

You've seen films like this. Granted, it's less in a junkyard and more in the middle of nowhere in America where college kids meet their gruesome ends in fantastical ways.

You never thought this would happen to you. You have sorely miscalculated. 

Is this Gun Park (if that even is his real name) going to butcher you and leave your body on top of a pile of scrap metal in the corner?

Instead of a night of gaming where you’re the one KO-ing him, he’s actually the one that’s going to chase you around wearing a mask and wielding a knife or axe?

"You’re here. Come in," Gun says, opening his front door just as your inner monologue begins to truly spiral out of control and you're considering doing a runner.

"Eh?" You grunt like an idiot, not noticing when the shack appeared nor when you stepped onto his porch, or the side eyes Gun had been giving you.

He gives you another look, likely regretting inviting you at all, and leaves the door ajar for you to either enter or turn back and go home.

.

.

"This is... nice," you lie, through the skin of your teeth.

Gun sees cleanly through your white lie and exhales a huff of amusement.

It's sparse. Peeks of luxury here and there - the extensive PC gaming rig, the entertainment system and consoles, to name a few.

Apart from that, it's barely a home.

"Take a seat." He offers, and it sounds more like an order. Obediently you sit on his sofa, feeling very much a guest.

"You're not in danger," he says, bemused at how awkward you are in his domain, how tense you hold yourself.

'That's exactly what a killer would say,' you think and when you hear a low chuckle, you realise that you said it aloud.

"Don't worry," Gun reassures and it doesn’t really help before he strides off to somewhere in his house and leaves you sitting alone.

He returns back minutes later as you’re in the middle of admiring his entertainment set up and going through his vinyl collection (because obviously someone like Gun has vinyls) with a coffee for you that looks much more milky and to your taste than the usual ones he offers. 

“Thanks.” you take your drink and return back to your seat.

Taking the first sip, you finally manage to relax. Sinking into a sofa that is much more comfortable than at first glance and you take in your surroundings a bit more.

Sort of. You actually take in Gun Park more. 

He’s casual, in a way you have never seen or even considered. Dressed in a t-shirt and grey sweatpants, hair floppy and the only styling is done with his hands running through his hair now and then to keep it back.

Even during the online classes, he is usually dressed up in an open collared shirt.

If you thought he was hot before, it’s nothing compared to now. There’s an air of domesticity, the drink he made for you cradled in your hands, and the distinct feeling that not many people have had the luxury to see Gun in his natural habitat, so intimate and vulnerable.

You wonder if this is how he looks all those nights you’ve been gaming together.

You catch his eyes, having been caught checking him out and he raises his eyebrows at your blatant staring. 

Blood rushes to your cheeks as he chuckles into his own espresso and takes a sip.

.

.

"Holy shit, I won!"

You're familiar with the KO screen. What you're not familiar with is being on the side of victory. You're usually a hair trigger away from rage quitting, from throwing a tantrum down the mic.

Finally. All your hard work has paid off. Time spent thinking of combos, attacks and defences (which would have been better spent studying) is coming to fruition.

You peer over to Gun, expect the controller he is clutching to maybe have been crushed into pieces with his freakish strength. Expected nothing except for a vein throbbing on his temple.

What you do find is-

Gun looking at you, fondness in his eyes. He's taking in your grin, letting your gloating slide.

Doesn't do more than roll his eyes when you perform a victory dance of sorts around him.

And when you get in his face to tell him that you're the winner, you're the best-

(More words are on the tip of your tongue but your gaze drops to his lip, drawn to the small smile he wears.

It sinks in.

The patience he has, the attention he gives, the way he has opened his home to you.

From the very first meeting, the even-handed way he has dealt with your insults, entertained you to the early hours of the morning on Tekken.)

Gun reaches out, tugs your hand and pulls you into his lap and agrees.

"Yes. The best."

You think it's a lie, an embellishment.

But the way he holds you - tender and precious, and the way he leans forward to rest his forehead against yours - soft, like you might break - can't be anything else but the whole truth.

[wannaeatramyeon]

Gun Park x Reader: Injuries

G/N. Soft.

Gun, the miserable bastard, is actually not great with injuries.

Anything skin deep, sure, he can deal with. Bruises and scrapes are not a problem.

Except his fighting skills and talent means he hardly ever sustains an actual injury, and the few times he has, he has been absolutely insufferable about it.

(Goo Kim would attest to that, in a rare show of solidarity with you.)

And if anyone asked Gun if he pouts, he would likely floor them.

However, you know much better as you watch him, struggling with an arm out of commission and almost every inch of skin littered with cuts, trying to dress himself.

"Let me do it," you roll your eyes at his attempt to button the shirt with one hand.

He frowns as you approach him, eyes boring into yours.

"Well?" You question, clocking his expression and reluctance, and you fold your arms waiting for his answer.

"Fine." He looks away with pursed lips, clearly unhappy with the situation.

"You big baby," you mutter, fingers coming to thread each button through the hole. 

You feel him staring at you again. You refuse to acknowledge him, glancing only briefly to his face, and notice his eyes are narrowed and his lips are down turned - bottom one slightly jutted out.

Definitely pouting.

"Johan really did a number on you, didn't he," you smirk, finishing your task then with a gentle grip, cup his chin, angle his face every which way under the light to inspect the damage.

Gun is compliant, even as he tells you to go fuck yourself.

He sighs to himself, wondering if he's gotten too soft. Not because of his current state, but who else does he allow to get away with calling him a baby, mocking him, and not beating them to a pulp.

The only consolation, he supposes, is the extra attention and care you give him.

You're the one who's eyes widened with concern when you first notice that he's hurt, rushing over to check that he's ok as you swallow down the lump in your throat and pretend that you don't want to cry.

Then once you're sure he's fine, you bandage him even as your tongue is sharp and taunting at how careless and weak he is.

It doesn't matter what you say though, your careful touch reveals how you truly feel.

And when Gun is recovering, you're the one looking out for him and by his side. All the time poking fun and calling him a baby.

He lets this slide, because yes he's soft for you, but you're soft for him too.