jeongguk x f!reader. fluff? filthy smut. 3.8k
listen to this while reading ♡ masterlist.
you’re not sure where this vlogging obsession of his started, but it’s been infecting your whole entire life in an annoyingly endearing way.
it started with the late night snacks, you waking up to him sitting cross legged by the coffee table, halfway through a bowl of shin ramyun, a bluetooth mic warm in his palm with his voice dramatically belting out another pop song crackling through the speakers.
you would ask if he’s live, and he would shake his head, already offering you a spare bowl he made while you slept. you two would eat together, and he would force you to sing sometimes. your parts got edited out, of course, but he would keep those clips just for himself.
then it was the bikes. you already knew your boyfriend would be a problem after the first bike he got, but now he has four, maybe five; and it’s given you more mini heart attacks than you can count.
by one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, you would sit and sip some warm cocoa, look out at the nice view like an old lady, try to finally find some reprieve from the constant headaches you get from this man.
he’s gone god knows where, said he was going to film again. you expected him to head to the store, maybe vlog a grocery run, or invade namjoon’s privacy again. what you did not expect was your boyfriend all but skidding down the street right below you, one hand on the handle, and the other steadying a camera in front of him, trying to get a good angle.
you weren’t sure whether to call the cops, your therapist, or his mother. eventually, you shut him down by ringing his phone, and he shut you up by making you squirt twice.
eventually, it trickled into the showers. him wet, hair messy and soaking, making weird faces, furrowing his brows, toothbrush wedged between lips as he stands there in all his half-naked glory. shorts on, of course, because he said his ass is too fat to be given out for free.
those specific scenes you would be bothered by, if he didn’t give you the vip exclusive cuts of him stroking his pretty wet cock after, creaming with your name bouncing off the bathroom walls.
“two more minutes,” you mumble over another layer of brown lip gloss, smacking your lips for the nth time, and you squint at your reflection. then reaching for your eyeliner pen again—“pretty girl, you said that seven minutes ago.” his voice rumbles from behind.
the whine that leaves you makes him whine an even higher, even whinier whine.
your boyfriend sits on his bed bare-chested, grey sweatpants, tattoos out and glowing in the warm light, hair perfectly tousled — the whole effortless pussy-popper-9000 look — phone already propped up with one of his ridiculously expensive black tripods.
there isn’t an ounce of annoyance in his eyes though; just warm, gooey pools of affection for you. you. you.
“c’mere. beautiful baby,” he resorts to making grabby hands at you, which you catch in the mirror of the vanity he put in his room just for you. he’s making gross kissy sounds, beckoning you over like he would his dog bam.
you roll your eyes, and yet, you’re already setting down the pen and making your way to him.
“look who it is!” he’s clapping now, of fucking course he is, beaming at you as you approach. his hands then start drumming over his thighs, like some entrance fanfare for a princess — which you absolutely are in his eyes.
his lip tucks under his teeth immediately, as soon as you make contact, your hand holding onto his shoulder for a brief second just to steady yourself, before settling down on his lap like he’d instructed. and he’s already excited.
jeongguk is warm, and his scent engulfs you like a hug, and it soothes your nerves, even for a moment. you’re soft in his hands, always so soft; and his arms find your middle — you both melt into each other instinctively.
you’re met with a 4k 60fps view of yourself and him, shot wide to capture the way your thighs spread over his, and the way his silhouette swallows yours.
his shoulders go on for days, and his milky skin contrasts beautifully with the black tank top you (barely) have on. he squeezes around your tummy, making both of you laugh like idiots.
you look good together, real good. you lean in slightly, turning your head and pursing your lips to examine your makeup, when your vision is soon obstructed by one large, tattooed hand reaching up and cupping both your cheeks.
he grabs your face, touch gentle but firm as he squeezes lightly, and from what you can see on the screen — god, he’s fucking delighted. “so so prettyyy. what a pretty girl, no?” he coos, eyes crinkling at the corners as he gives one of his eyebrow-smiles.
you’re seething, and also soaking, kinda. he doesn’t need to know that.
“you’re actually the worst ever,” you grunt, trying to sound mean but it’s muffled by the pout he’s forced you into. both your hands have to wrap around his wrist just to wrestle his stupidly strong, stupidly veiny hand off your face, which you manage to do, but it’s no use.
“yeah? you promise?” he’s fucking giggling, proud of it, proud of your little attempts to resist him because you both know you can’t.
his other hand reaches over to gently pat your cheek, before pinching it lovingly; which earns him another whine. and he just loves it. he adores it so much you can feel it right under your thigh. his cock is thrumming in his boxers, heart so full as he leans over to press a big, wet, smooch to your other cheek.
ugh. “just start the damn video.”
after a few more pokes to your face with some odd, boyish explosion sound effects, he finally concedes, hips shifting under you.
one arm — very obvious and very unnecessary — hooks around your chest, effectively grabbing and squeezing your tit as he moves you like he’s done it a hundred times before.
he has. and like a hundred times before, you cuss him out for it.
until his free hand moves, his finger pressing to his lips, which, unfortunately, shuts you up pretty quick.
his thumb hits the record button, and he’s shifting you back, though his grip doesn’t loosen, just slips down to your waist, where he pulls you even closer.
“today, i am joined by the scariest, sexiest, most murderous force of nature i know—” “aaand you are going to end up six feet under,” you’re already crossing your arms, eyes narrowing at him through the screen. his brows pinch, looking to the camera and his imaginary viewers, shrugging in a told you so kinda manner, even as his hands start massaging over your shoulders slowly.
“see, this recording is actually for my safety rather than my enjoyment.”
he props his chin over your shoulder, and his little quip is pathetic. he’s pathetic. but knowing jeongguk, he would own that title like a fuckin’ badge of honor, too. you let out a huff, relaxing into his touch as your eyes flutter shut.
but jeongguk doesn’t like that. he clicks his tongue, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, lips brushing your hair as he nudges you with his nose to look back at the camera. “c’mon. introduce yourself, mama?”
your head falls forward, a smile tugging on your lips as you avoid the camera. “hello, i’m y/n, this is my clingy pet dog. bye.”
your lack of enthusiasm makes him chuckle, breath hot against your skin. you are sooo stubborn and he just loves you like this. “damn right.” he growls right behind your ear, which is insane considering his eyes peek out from behind you, all wide and innocent.
even as he’s clearly ogling at your cleavage and your pretty face on the screen.
his hands move from your waist, sliding up higher, and you, begrudgingly, uncross your arms, earning you another gravelly ‘good girl’ and a wet kiss to your temple. he’s already cupping your breasts, squeezing and bouncing them for the camera, the creamy flesh ripples under his handling.
it’s embarrassing, your face flushing pink as he toys with your tits, and you’re just letting him, biting back whimpers and whines with every punishing squeeze. “mn, koo—”
one hand slides upward from your breast, lightly smacking your cheek again before settling around your throat. the suddenness making your breath hitch, eyes rolling back for a moment as you tried to steady yourself. a breathless huff of laughter leaves you, in another futile attempt to sound mean.
“freak..” you hiss.
he only grinned, a wicked, lopsided thing. "mhm? and what else?" he murmured, his voice a deep rasp.
without so much as a beat to let you respond, he catches your lower lip between his fingers and pushed his thumb past your teeth, filling your mouth and muffling your indignant protests into soft, wet sounds of submission.
rude.
jeongguk is having the time of his life, his hand a heavy weight on your neck, not to choke you, no; but anchor you to him.
he can do the choking later.
his gaze is doe-like and adoring, shimmering with pure, unadulterated joy; glowing with a soft, manic sort of adoration that makes your heart ache even as he's being a total menace.
using his firm grip, he moves your head to get a better look at you and fuck. “fuck, look at you. look at my girl.” a heavy throb pulses straight through his cock, it almost hurts. “you are so pretty.”
his tone is dripping with honey through gritted teeth, disgustingly, aggressively sweet even as his thumb is pressed deep into your mouth.
the thick, delicious intrusion forces you to suckle on it, glaring at him through lashes that were already growing damp. you’re trying to maintain some semblance of that pride, but to him you’re just cute. so fucking cute.
“today,” he starts and reaches down, his fingers hooking under the hem of your black tank top. he doesn't ask; he just peels the fabric upward, dragging the soft cotton over the curve of your stomach and up, up, until your breasts are bared to the cool air and his gaze.
and he gives you that look. that deeply terrifying look that always ends with you in a messy, sticky heap. it’s manic, it’s a hunger that borderlines on holy despite the mischief dancing in his eyes.
he is so, so incredibly gone for you.
he lets out another breathy, jagged laugh.
“we’re gonna see how long it takes to completely break you, aren't we?" he whispers, the challenge hanging in the air like a dare. "how long can i ruin my girl before i finally lose it?" his nose nuzzled back into your hair.
you can’t even process the sheer audacity of his words, you’re struggling to breathe around the pad of his digit when—
smack!
the sound of his palm hitting the underside of your breast is sharp and loud in the quiet room, the sting sending a delicious, jolting shock straight to your clit.
the sting is sharp, a sudden burst of heat that makes your toes curl and your eyes water, but he doesn't give you a second to recover. his expression tells you he’s enjoying your discomfort far too much. then another, smack, right to the other breast.
you protest around his finger, but his grip is so strong and his hand is so heavy.
he gives in another light smack, before grabbing it roughly and squeezing, sending you choking around a sob. “b-baby mmff, please— mmnnn!”
he watches the way your skin flushes, the way your nipple hardens into a tight, dark peak from the sudden sting, and he lets out a soft, triumphant giggle that is entirely too affectionate for the way he’s looking at you.
"hold the camera, baby," he commands, his voice a low, honeyed growl that leaves no room for argument.
he nods his head to the device, forcing you to reach out with a trembling hand to angle it the way he wants.
“that’s it, you listen so well f’me sweet girl,” he peppers kisses over your shoulder, “right on your pussy. show ‘em those cute little panties.”
you would roll your eyes, but you just obey, the hand in your throat and thumb in your mouth a constant reminder of who’s in charge right now. it’s shaky, but it gets the job done, the phone held down low to show off the pretty, expensive black lace that did very little to hide the wetness pooling on your lips.
“fuuuuck, look at that,” he breathes out, mouthing at the juncture of your neck as he stares down at the screen. “god, why are you so fuckin’ sexy, huh? so fuckin’ lucky.” as you struggle to maintain your hold on the camera, your knuckles turning white, you feel his hand leave your breast.
down your waist, down your navel, down the soft curve which he squeezes lovingly. down, down, down.
his fingers come into view on the camera, pressing two into the lace, watching, his jaw falling slack as your lips make a soft, filthy squelch. the dampness only spreads.
“ohhh fuck, sweet girl,” you both whine, like the sight itself is breaking you both.
his thumb presses harder into your mouth, a silent command to keep sucking, to keep staying quiet and good while he works. his hand is a hot, heavy intrusion between your thighs, his fingers sliding past the damp, silken folds of your heat to find the center of your ache.
the moment he touches you, the moment his fingertip brushes against your swollen clit you feel your entire body lurch. you’re trying so hard to keep the camera steady, to keep the frame focused, but as he begins to rub you with a slow, punishingly deliberate pressure, your hand begins to slip.
he sees it, of course; he sees everything.
“don’t let go, baby, come on. you can do it,” his fingers slow, circling aching little figures around your swollen clit, and you buck your hips in an attempt to meet his hand. “k-kooooo—mmmff,” his thumb is now pressing inside your cheek, stretching your lips open for the camera as your noises spill out. “come on, fix the camera. show ‘em how good my girl is, yeah?”
blinking back tears, your grip tightens around the tripod again, the material biting into your palm — and you almost fucking let go because he speeds up all of a sudden. “mnnn ohh— oh my god!”
having your lips pulled open, your spit dribbles down your chin and around his hand, and the disgusting, wet feeling only spurs him on, practically ripping the lace out the way as two thick fingers plunge into your pretty pussy, his thumb relentless against your clit.
“thaaat’s right, that’s my good girl,” he hisses, eyes narrowed and zoned right in on the way your velvety walls suck him in. so fucking needy.
you can only respond with throaty little mewls, trying to hide your face in his neck as he works you open up close and personal, all in high definition.
you feel so fucking exposed, so vulnerable, so disgusting — his hand around your throat tightens, making you gasp and choke for air. his other hand pulls out, and you find tears welling up in your eyes again, head jerking in betrayal, “y-you fucking—”
the slap is sharp, a stinging crack that echoes in the quiet room, and the heat of it goes straight to your tummy as you yelp.
your inner thigh is already flushed, the skin sensitive and tender, but the impact of his hand slick, hot, and heavy with your own sticky juices is enough to make your vision blur. the sensation of his wet palm meeting your skin is so visceral, so unapologetically messy, that a fresh sob hitches in your throat.
he slaps you again. and again, for good measure.
"look at the camera, sweet girl. please?" he coos, his voice a devastating contrast to the sting he just delivered. it’s so sweet, so honeyed and adoring, as if he hadn't just punished you for your momentary lapse in composure.
“don’t hide. show them how much you're enjoying this for me. look at the screen, princess."
you’re fucking shivering.
your face hot and tear streaked, you force your heavy eyelids open. you feel so fucking gross, your lips are swollen and glistening with saliva, your hair is a mess, and you can feel the dampness of your own slick coating his hand.
but as you look back down to where the phone is angled, jeongguk is right there, his face hovering just inches from yours. his dark eyes are round and sparkly, filled with that worshipful light.
"there she fuckin’ is," he breathes, a low, ragged sound that vibrates in the air between you. he presses a messy kiss to your cheek. "my pretty girl. so fucking pretty. look at those eyes.. so wide and beautiful for me."
"j-jeongguk, please," you babble, the corner of your mouth is sore from his digit still pressing you open; the words coming out in broken, frantic whimpers.
your free hand clutches at the bedsheets, his hair, his bicep — anything — as the tension in your lower belly reaches a breaking point. “k-koo! hhnnn baby fuckfuckfuck,” “yes? yes my pretty girl?”
too much; the friction, the pressure, the sheer intensity of being watched and handled like this in front of a camera. "gonna— oh god, koo, g-gonna cum! i’m gonna cum, please!"
"yeah? gonna cum for koo?" his hand finally, finally leaves your face, letting you suck in a deep breath, still covered in sticky sweat and your saliva fucking everywhere.
you’re not sure what’s worse, the smears of your expensive brown lip gloss on his hand, or the way he sucks on his own thumb, making a show of swirling his tongue around it, tasting your spit before reaching down to help you film. like it was the most normal thing ever.
it makes your pussy clench, and you both wince.
“give it to me, mama. please?” he leans in, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to the curve of your shoulder, his lips soft against your heated skin even as his fingers suddenly become a blur of motion between your thighs, making you fucking scream as you squirm. it’s too much. too much. too much.
he’s working you with a ruthless, rhythmic precision, his thumb grinding against your clit in a way that feels like it’s trying to pull the very soul out of you — and the dirtiest thing somehow is the happiness on his face as he’s doing it.
through your tears you can make out his smile, his tongue poking out like he’s concentrated on a sketch rather than making his pretty girlfriend fall apart in a wet, hot mess.
the cherry on top? as he fucks into your sopping cunt, the filthiest noises filling the warm air around you, he’s peering down into the camera from over your shoulder.
and he, with all the audacity in the fucking world, winks.
the climax hits you like a physical blow, a violent, tectonic shift that shatters your remaining strength. you let out a high, keening wail, your back arching so sharply it feels like you might snap.
your vision explodes into white light as the first massive wave of release erupts from you. you feel the hot, forceful spray of your juices drenching his hand and splashing against the sheets, and the floor. a torrential outpouring of pure, unbridled ecstasy.
you’re shaking, sobbing, your entire body convulsing in the throes of a squirt so intense it feels like you’re being emptied out entirely.
and through the haze of your undoing, through the tears and the gasps and the sheer, overwhelming sensation of being broken open, you see him. he’s watching you instead of the camera, his eyes locked on you. his girl. as he captures every messy, beautiful second of your surrender.
a wide, enamored, and utterly obsessed grin is plastered on his face. he’s watching his masterpiece unfold in real time, and he looks like he’s never been more proud in his entire life.
“oh my god, you’re the cutest thing ever,” he’s giggling. he made you squirt all over and he’s fucking giggling.
after the first initial spray, he pulls his fingers out, only to plunge them back in, easily now, from all the wetness and slick, pushing, flicking against that spot with just the right pressure, to pull another spray from you. his eyes glued to your teary face, brows furrowed and lips still pulled in that stupid smile as he tries to soak in every single reaction.
“koo, baby, nghhhh, you’re so—“ you grit out through your teeth, thighs trembling violently, as the pleasure and stinging pain blend together so bad, your eyeliner is washed clean off by now.
he pulls out, goes back in for another, pulling a tinier fountain out of you,
and then another — but you’re pushing, pounding weakly against his forearm, and he finally stops. his hand resting, cupping over your creamy, puffy pussy.
there’s nothing but your breathing for a moment, and the thrum of your heartbeats racing in the aftermath.
he sets the camera back on the table in front of you, angling it low so it still catches every last drop of your release dripping down your thighs. his hand, the one drenched in your squirt, reaches up again, finding its place back on your neck the to tilt your head the way he wants and kiss you.
it’s wet, it’s messy, and so so soft, so so loving. his piercing cools the heat of your swollen lips as he sucks on your tongue playfully, before it’s your turn to smack him away.
“mm, you did so good. you’re so fucking pretty. so fucking sweet.” he praises, genuinely lovesick. “my little porn star.”
your breathing fans his face, and he kisses you again. can’t get enough of you.
“are we gonna count that as one? or three?” you question, the teasing lilt returning to your voice as you glance at the still-recording phone, a few specks of your release glistening on the screen.
he hums for a moment, looking at the device before turning back, that grin of his turning cocky, proud.
“one, definitely one. ‘m far from done with you, mama.”
“i fucking hate you.”
you both let out a deep sigh, and share another deep, lingering kiss, before he’s freeing his huge, heavy, aching cock, and tightening his hand back around your throat with a smooch to your temple.
I’d be completely lying if I say I don’t love my mooties with all of my heart <3
@chwrrybby @taevescence @gukcnt @raceme2hell @tarathetic @merakoo @yzzart @kookied @kooslovv @tragictaetae @kookiidoughh @wintrbears + a whole lot more
like they mean so much to me it feels ethereal yk?
honestly if we all were to get married would I complain? hell no
plus who says I can’t share my love around? not me thats who
anyways I love my mooties with all of my heart and I’m so glad to be around them cause they genuinely write good and are so kind 🥹 even if they do call me cute
oh also! Ik I don’t even talk to some of yall but I’m glad to have u around 🥹
in all seriousness you guys are so kind to me that it makes me want to sob
hello BIG fan of your writing for the longest time now ilysm, my friend showed me the master post thingy for your upcoming series and i kid you not i lowkey am tweaking because ive been having recurring dreams of jeongguk and a lighthouse and trying to push me into various bodies of water full of sharks 😭😭😭 i needed to get this off my chest help
hello pretty lady, gosh your words made my heart flutter 🥹 a fan of my writing for the longest time? because let me tell you i’m an even bigger fan of your blog now! your graphics are absolutely gorgeous and you're so sweet, i already love you sm more
i'm so happy that i got to make your dreams come true baby, i hope you’ll enjoy DWM to the fullest when it’s posted and i also can’t wait to check out your fics *mwa*
I JSUT FOUND YOUR ACCOUNT AGAIN i used to read ur stuff RELIGIOUSLY HELLO
WELCOME BACK, MY ANGEEL!! you're just adorable, really!! it's crazy to hear that, but thanks! hope you'll enjoy whatever crazy stuff i posted lately 💖 love your username btw 💖
pairing. jeon jeongguk x fem!reader
♡ idol!jeongguk, barely. glasses!koo. soft alt!reader. crack. fluff. the slicest of life it’s ever gonna get. bffs to, something
your best friend vs. your unhealthy obsession with pop mart dolls.
words. 8.3k oneshot
about. “nothing happens” fic just pure brainrot. lots of names and niches. they’re like thing 1 and thing 2. alt koo ain’t afraid of a little color after all! idol because he can literally afford all of pop mart if he wanted to. brief mention of spiders and religion. they’re so dramatic ugh holy yap
playing girly things & big ballin. ✴︎ mlist.
note. my first time ever writing aaa i’m so new to this hehe but i hope you like this lil ball of fluff as much as i did writing it
the first time it happens, it isn’t intentional at all on his part.
jeongguk has his black balenciaga backpack slung over his shoulder, fresh from helping you clean up your living room — pastel cardboard boxes collapsed into uneven stacks, foil wrappers still clinging stubbornly to the couch.
you’re thumbing at the studs on your lip when he interrupts your thoughts. “i’ll call you when i get home, bun,” he always does, though he knows you’ll probably call first anyway.
he flashes you that easy, boyish smile, like he didn’t just spend the last two hours cocking his brow in response to your yapping and shooting you the most judgmental sideways glances at every single one of your reactions.
his broad frame is halfway out the door when you shove something small and fuzzy into his palm — still warm, the hairs sticking in every direction from how you practically strangled it earlier, demanding answers.
“take it,” your grumble almost makes him laugh. you turn back to your desk, where the rest of your dolls stand in neat little rows, spared by the grace of whatever toy god you’ve decided to believe in. “it’s a dupe.”
it’s not unusual for you to give him things you don’t need. you’ve said that about hoodies, about food, about anything that ends up in his hands anyway. your adorable pout paired with the sweetness of the gesture would have him folding already,
— if not for what he’s holding.
he turns it over. looks at it. then at you. then back again, as though it personally offended him. “..it’s pink.”
“you’re welcome.”
he doesn’t question it after that, just observes.
her blonde hair curls like a loaf of clouds. her earmuffs — ears? whatever — are round and red, stamped with what appears to be a tiny apple design that matches her wide eyes and rosy cheeks.
his finger nudges the pink bow at her collar. it’s slightly crooked.
breaks his heart a bit.
the figure now hangs from one of the loops on his backpack. black and pink has always been your thing. somehow, the new addition makes him feel like he’s trying you on.
“i’ll make sure to take better care of you than she ever could,” he whispers to the toy in a baby voice, like you aren’t standing six feet away.
you flip him off over your shoulder.
“fuck you, and fuck moldy muffin.”
moldy muffin.
he bites back a smile. unsuccessfully.
“i’ll talk to you later — we need to discuss child support.”
with that, your apartment door closes, leaving both of you grinning like idiots on opposite sides.
even when he’s halfway across the world running on three hours of sleep and airport coffee, jeongguk still finds himself with your voice in his ear explaining things he never would’ve looked at twice on his own.
one month it’s vintage tokidokis. the next it’s five nights at freddy’s lore. obscure internet horror rpg games. strawberry matcha recipes. the fundamentals of gothic literature. he listens anyway.
sometimes actively, chin propped in his palm while you ramble from the other side of a facetime. sometimes passively — your voice blending into the background while he stretches, or sits in a makeup chair with one eye closed, exhausted beyond belief.
it’s annoying. you’re annoying. and it always sticks. he’ll catch himself weeks later standing in some department store in tokyo, staring at a display of figurines because you called one a “90,000 on the serve scale.” or he’ll see strawberry flavored anything and suddenly he’s sending you a picture and making a mental note to take you there.
when a new fixation sinks it’s claws into you, he’s a secondhand victim. but he’s never had one of them follow him home.
maybe that’s why the atmosphere in his house felt a little.. lopsided.
he had set his bag down on a table by the entryway — usually tossing it or letting it drop without thought — but in the moment, he felt the need to be uncharacteristically careful. likely due to the anomaly at his front pocket. those vacant, rosy eyes stare up at him.
that bow was, yet again, lopsided.
so now he was on the sofa, having peeled back his layers until he was in his loose black tank top and shorts — a batman pair you thought it would be hilarious to get him for his twenty-sixth. you’ve made a disgusting habit out of infecting his life with ridiculous traces of you.
the dim lighting catches on the ink sprawling down his arm.
pressed between long, tattooed fingers, is her.
“you’re a menace.” he murmured — though whether he meant the doll or his best friend with an odd penchant for collecting them, he wasn’t sure.
moving toward the kitchen to grab a glass of water, he catches his reflection in the darkened window, with the blob of pastel tucked safely under his heavy, muscular arm. she washes him out, in a way. his hard edges feel sanded down against his will.
“don’t tell her i said this,” his voice lowers to a whisper, leaning in close to the figurine as he took a sip of water, “but you look way better with me.”
just then, his phone buzzed on the counter, vibrating with a force that makes him jump. he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a grin tugging at his lips before he even reads the screen.
bun<3: are you home yet? i need to crashout
bun<3: bought another box. and there is STILL no sign of buddy doggie =((((
right. like he knows which one that is.
it’s a name he vaguely recalls you mentioning earlier at your apartment — one he was too engrossed in absolutely vacuuming up the plate of spicy pork dumplings in front of him to really understand.
jeongguk stares at his screen, trying to bluetooth another side eye to you.
bun<2: yes, i am home bun. i’ll ring after my shower
bun<2: and what kinda fuckass name is buddy doggie. i’m still not over moldy muffin
he’s chuckling, despite himself.
bun<3: what is your problem
bun<3: i swear i’ll make and present a whole powerpoint on skullpanda yk i don’t play abt this
he could ask. probably should ask. normally he would — but something about it this time feels like admitting defeat.
instead he types,
bun<2: i’d rather not
— fully knowing you’re gonna make him sit through it the next time you meet.
his breath catches around the start of a smile, shoving his phone in his pocket. for a second, he just stands there, staring at nothing in particular. the silence sets back in his home, but it’s lot less lonely now.
“buddy doggie…” he blinks like at the name like rearranging the syllables might help.
he looks down at the pink thing.
she looks back. very helpful.
he lifts a finger to nudge the cherry perched on top of her tiny head. “..you got any idea what she’s on about?”
moldy muffin probably knows. unfortunately, she’s an inanimate object.
jeongguk scoffs, setting the glass aside and walking back to the living room. he drops onto the couch again, this time he leans forward, elbows on his knees, his cutesy companion dangling loosely from his thumb.
this is stupid.
how do you make it look so endearing?
he thinks of your smile, your hopeless rambles, how your eyes lit up opening those foil packs.
and now he’s pulling his phone back into his hand anyway. a quick search, just to prove a point.
this is when jeongguk learns that skullpandas aren’t just balls of fluff, there are pocket-sized ones — and way bigger ones too.
different series, names, expressions. some are made of vinyl, porcelain, polyester. some cute, some breathtakingly beautiful, some slightly unsettling. some look like they have some sick backstory — and he’s rethinking your powerpoint proposal.
“..well damn,” he mutters under his breath, scrolling.
there are lists. rarity tiers, secrets and limited editions, some designer and collectors’ items — mega sized statues, chic action figures, various accessories, even a whole crystal ball for your dining table..?
his thumb passes over one image in particular.
“buddy doggie,” he reads aloud.
it was one of the fluffy, polyester, bag charm types. his stowaway’s evil, emo furry twin. her eyes were an icy blue, fluff shaped to resemble a wolf. a silver doggy bone rested on her collar where muffin’s bow was.
next to her was a dog. a sound escapes him.
it’s a cartoonish little ball with a smile and two little ears and two little legs. the lack of detail on it compared to it’s artful counterpart was comical.
his gaze drifts to moldy muffin again. “don’t give me that,” he says, pointedly. “this doesn’t mean shit. i’m not like your crazy mother.”
a pause.
another glance at the screen.
“if anything, it just proves the system is flawed.”
the doll’s description reads a diabolical 1/72 chance, it makes him cock his head. that’s — what, eight whole sets? even he gets offended at the odds.
that’s why you’re never getting shit.
the following afternoon, he doesn’t mean to stop.
he really doesn’t.
the newest spicy flavor of samyang ramen was the only thing on his mind today, head tilted, hands shoved in his pockets as he brainstormed in advance over recipes and seasonings.
a black mask was pulled over his face — anonymity, ideally — hoping his weekly snack run would go uninterrupted. he loves his supporters with his whole heart, but the last thing jeongguk will ever play about, is his food.
his backpack feels wrong, though. too light. which is ridiculous, considering he practically carries his whole life around with him daily. still — it’s as though he walked out of the house on the wrong foot and hasn’t figured out which one.
grey sweatpants. black shirt. black hoodie. stomper boots. the usual, and yet, dull.
it makes him frown. jeon jeongguk isn’t dull.
he makes a left onto a busy shopping strip, long strides eating up the pavement, trying to ignore the vague, itching sense that something is missing.
but maybe something is missing. maybe it’s the emptiness at his bag’s front pocket. maybe it’s how his monochrome outfit is missing just a touch of.. pink. something aggressively pink. something currently laid back in his home, nuzzled in his sheets like she paid rent, all because he had paused this morning — actually paused — to tuck in a doll and let it get more sleep.
“i’m losing it.”
in his defense, you did tell him last night to take extra good care of her. and his idea of good care is sleeping in through the afternoon, undisturbed.
the exhale that leaves him fogs up his glasses and blinds him momentarily. he curses under his breath as he tugs them off.
when he stops to wipe at the cloudy glass with the hem of his hoodie,
he lifts his head.
“abso-fucking-lutely not.”
so much for not interrupting his snack run.
it just so happens that right next to the store he’s supposed to be heading to, is the pop mart.
the root of all evil.
the same pop mart you spoke of with a kind of reverence in your eyes reserved for religion and life-altering events — usually from his passenger seat, legs tucked up, pointing it out as if he’d miss it.
he’s seething like it just ruined his day — like something is physically anchoring his boots to the pavement, keeping him from just walking past the happy haven of furry monsters and overconsumption like a normal person with self-control.
a beat passes, his eyes drifting back to the convenience store just a few more feet away, a beacon of light amidst the temptation before him.
“..i’m just lookin’.”
that’s how it starts, swearing up and down it’s not an admission of defeat, not curiosity, not interest, definitely not whatever it is you have going on. just looking around.
his feet are the first to betray him. one second he’s standing outside arguing with himself, the next, the doors slid open and welcomed him with a chime way too cheerful.
the lighting is warm.
the shelves are full of pastels.
he’s already tense, nose scrunching up in distaste. rows upon rows upon rows of tiny faces watching him from their perches.
‘fuck are you looking at?’ is what jeongguk would have said — had he not remembered he was in the middle of a public store and trying to keep a low profile.
god, this is a mistake.
his eyes scan the shelves anyway.
a display case of labubus makes him smile faintly, remembering his buddies — namely taehyung and namjoon, who fell victim to the craze. those spiky little demons. they’re cute, and his friends were actually quite normal about it.
but then he recognizes it. a familiar face, smack dab in the center of the store. one of the mega figurines, that scarily stood at three feet tall, with those huge, round eyes, and rosy cheeks.
moldy muffin — or rather, her bigger, more intimidating sibling, standing guard in front of their designated family shelf.
“skullpanda,” he sighs, like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.
it doesn’t, not really.
if anything, it sounds familiar now, annoyingly so.
even more annoying how much sweeter it sounds on your lips.
his hand comes up before he even fully registers it, hovering over one of the unmistakably red boxes he recalls scattered around your place. he pauses — glancing around quickly like somebody is gonna come out and catch him in the act.
of course, no one does. nobody cares as much as he does right now.
‘you found me,’ the title mocks him as he picks it up. he flips it over in his hand, reading the back like it was gonna give him any answers. names. designs. probabilities.
moldy muffin (ew), ratty bear, sneaky chestnut, cerberus, darkness, thistle, chomp, sandman, pranky peanut.. who is naming these?
at the very bottom, he sees the silhouette. the secret. 1/72.
“this is insane,” his brows pull together.
he flips it back to the front. gives it a small shake — he’s not sure why, but you always say it’s a crucial step in your weird gambling ritual.
nothing.
another shake.
still nothing.
“..what am i supposed to be hearing.”
he frowns at it like it’s withholding information on purpose.
he picks up a second one, “just for comparison.”
a third, “this one feels different.”
he squints at them, even takes off his glasses, rotating each one carefully, like the answer is going to reveal itself if he looks hard enough.
it doesn’t. of course not. the system is clearly fucking flawed.
he huffs sharply through his nose, pulling his glasses over his eyes, ready to put them all back, get his ramen, and leave.
but his hand lingers, for just a second.
then grabs one again.
“one,” he says quietly, setting a boundary with himself. “just so muffin isn’t lonely.”
and then he grabs a second.
“in case the first one is ugly.”
the third one stares at him.
no matter how much money he spends, jeongguk can’t guarantee the one you want.
“..this is how they get you.”
the third box joins the other two. “for statistical accuracy.”
bun<2: this is a fucking scam
bun<3: ?? what is
jeongguk doesn’t reply for a moment, his head tipped back onto the sofa as he lets out a bone-deep sigh. he’s so done.
he grabs his phone with the force of a teenager that’s been grounded, and lazily snaps a picture of the three empty boxes laid out on his — previously sleek and expensive-looking, coffee table. one ripped in half completely, before he figured out how the pull tab works, and opened the other two correctly.
the typing bubble comes instantly, he feels the irritation bubbling in advance.
bun<2: don’t start
bun<3: YOU DID WGHAATTTT
bun<2: two of them are wrong
he glances down.
bun<2: the other one is that pink thing
bun<3: LNFAOOOOO
bun<3: YOU GOT MOLDY MUFFIN AGAIN
bun<2: she’s following me
bun<3: she’s CHOSEN YOU !!
that makes him pause.
bun<2: she needs to unchoose me
bun<2: like rn
bun<3: WHAT DID U GETT send pics please
bun<2: i look like ass rn. they’re ugly too
bun<3: PUH LEASE
he makes a face, but he’s moving to pose anyway. his long fingers gather up the three dolls, hooking them by the silver loops like rings as he holds them up to his face.
the selfie he takes is pathetic — his glasses are pushed up to his hair, exposing his forehead and pinched brows. he’s wearing that stupid chad-face, his tongue peeking out, poking over his lip rings.
dangling from his hand are his three new companions.
ratty bear, pranky peanut, and moldy muffin number two.
bun<2: i’m so mad.
though the trio is rather cute.
your typing bubble appears, then disappears, then reappears.
bun<3: they look good on you =]
he rereads it. once. twice.
“..what does that even mean.”
but his thumb lingers over the screen for a long while.
he glances at the selfie again, seeing nothing but him looking absolutely ridiculous.
and yet — his lips press together, fighting something that feels suspiciously like a smile.
bun<2: you are so crazy
bun<3: and im RIGHT !
bun<2: you’re biased
bun<2: and blind
bun<3: i literally picked your outfit for senior prom, i BEEN right
jeongguk snorts.
actually snorts.
the sound rips out of him, loud and ugly and completely unfiltered, echoing slightly in the quiet of his living room. “that outfit was criminal.”
bun<2: you put me in a pink suit with a bow tie
bun<2: i looked like i was about to host a children’s show
bun<3: AND U ATE THAT
bun<3: dpmo jk
he shakes his head, but he’s properly grinning now. it settles easy on his face, like it’s been there a hundred times before — he finds that it comes easiest when he’s mid-petty argument with you.
you never pushed anything onto him — he could’ve easily said no. but he’ll never admit that he loved the way you admired him while he donned your favorite color, like he had invented the very hues himself.
bun<2: you’re never touching me or my style again
bun<3: see you say that, but you only got tattoos when i got them?? and the lip piercings too????
bun<3: who introduced you to guns n’ roses
he rolls his eyes so hard it almost hurts, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb over the dark patterns on his forearm.
he booked that appointment the second he noticed how pretty that little bat looked on your thigh. how impossible it became not to stare at your mouth once silver caught the light there.
bun<3: and now you’re copping my freaking SKULLPANDAS.
bun<3: you just love having me all over you huh?
his fingers still over a dry insult. your message sits there like it just — like it didn’t mean anything. like you didn’t mean anything by it.
“you’re so annoying.”
he goes in to type.
backs out.
comes back.
his gaze flicks up to the three figures sitting in his lap.
then to the reflection of himself in the black screen of his tv. he’s a mess. his eyes are blown wide, he’s surrounded by skullpandas, your hoodie is on his back — fuck.
it’s one he grabbed off your couch not even a week ago, among all your other belongings he probably has meshed into his closet. it still smells like you, too.
his jaw shifts, chewing on something he can’t quite swallow.
bun<2: stop saying crazy shit
bun<3: whatever helps you sleep at night, bun
the nickname you’ve been calling each other for as long as he can remember, it sits different this time. he stares at the message longer than he should.
“yeah..” he’s dragging a hand over his face, trying to erase the ache in his cheeks and mouth and chest — what the fuck is going on?
that night, jeongguk throws his three new companions onto his sheets next to muffin. he then feels bad for chucking them so harshly, muttering soft apologies as he fixes them to sit upright.
the two muffins are placed beside each other.
“great. you’ve multiplied.” he mumbles, lips pursed with his hands on his hips.
the two identical pink figures share that evil look, sitting side by side like they’ve formed an alliance.
in the span of two days, jeongguk’s king size had been split in half. instead of succumbing to sleep facing a dull, grey ceiling; it’s various balls of pastel fluff that bid him goodnight.
before he slips out of consciousness, his barely-there mind manages a small realization.
he didn’t even get his ramen.
it’s unclear when this turned from a you thing into an ‘us’ thing.
all he remembers is your voice — entirely too loud through the tiny speaker of his phone at eight in the fucking morning. “get your bitchass up,” you bark, sounding wide awake and entirely too happy about it. “i need to fuse our luck together again.”
jeongguk responds with the calm, measured patience of a man being spiritually persecuted.
“i hope you fall into wet cement.”
“you say that like you wouldn’t jump in right after me.”
neither of you mention it, but he’s on his feet in seconds.
toothbrush wedged between his lips, hair sticking up in every which way as he shuffles through his home half-conscious. the floor is cold beneath his feet. his oversized shirt hangs off one shoulder. somewhere behind him, nine pairs of beady eyes stare from the edge of his bed like debt collectors.
moldy muffin and her little clique of rapidly multiplying siblings are propped against his pillow in silence. the muffinettes — as you’ve affectionately dubbed them — have regrettably grown since his last pop mart visit.
in the last three days, ghostie, cerberus, pranky peanut 2.0, and moldy muffin 3.0 and 4.0, have joined the family.
he turns — slow, for dramatic effect.
“..a good morning would be nice.”
they continue looking at him exactly like that.
he points an accusatory toothbrush at them. “you’re as rude as your mother.”
“HELLO???”
the squawk cuts through his half asleep haze like a shot of espresso. he nearly chokes around the toothbrush before spitting into the sink, broad shoulders shaking with quiet laughter.
“i swear! they’ve unionized and are preying on my downfall.” the foolishness isn’t lost on him, a global icon, standing in wrinkled designer with a bird’s nest on his head, debating politics with a collection of vinyl toys and someone who’s been driving him insane since 2015.
and yet, he's grabbing his keys. putting on shoes. plucking the original muffin off his bed — “this is our third attempt, i still don’t understand why you won’t just let me order them in bulk —”
“because!” you sound more insulted than when he told you to fall into wet cement.
he can hear the shuffling on your end as he starts the car, keys jingling, drawers opening and closing somewhere in the background, the familiar tap. tap. tap. of your heels. ed hardy. the ones that make your legs look amazing. he’s picturing you automatically.
you’re probably planted in front of your vanity mirror right now, brows furrowed in concentration as you reapply that kiko lip gloss for the hundredth time. he can practically see the pout you make when smoothing it over your lips.
worse — he knows what you taste like, the spicy vanilla sweetness of it from when you’d pressed your thumb to his lips two weeks ago to ‘test’ it.
his grip tightens on the wheel.
that’s dangerous.
“mhm?” he hums, distracted.
“like i said,” your voice crackles through the phone as he pulls into the parking garage, taking on that sing-song tone you use when you’re rushing. “it ruins the fun! i know it’s like the most convenient option cause you’re crazy rich, but feeling like the chosen one just gives you that rush!”
you carry on, completely oblivious to your best friend listening with a bitten lip and tight fists. he has barely enough time to really clear his mind of it’s haze before your voice is suddenly next to him instead of inside his speakers.
“— and if you just buy entire sets every time, eventually your brain stops producing dopamine correctly.”
you slide into the seat in a blur of perfume, studs, and oversized sunglasses, black tote bag hitting the floor by your feet — to which, he notes, is decked out in pastel creatures, all unblinking, like they know something.
honestly, they probably do.
jeongguk fakes a cough, “— bullshit.”
“it’s science.”
“you failed chemistry.”
you peer up at him past the chunky frames. he looks back, knowingly.
“you literally didn’t attend a single chemistry class.”
the car ride is short. can’t say the same for your lecture, unfortunately.
“the joy comes from the experience,” you continue as you walk side by side through the street, hands gesturing, entirely too animated for this early in the day. “the shaking, the guessing, the suffering — the whimsy!” he really needs that wet cement right about now.
“the whole point is not knowi — shut up!”
jeongguk hasn’t uttered a word in the past five minutes. his lips form a thin line as your fingers latch onto his sleeve.
the automatic doors slide open. warm light spills over the floors and he’s already tired.
“they restocked!” there’s glitter on your cheeks, and glitter in your voice, and he stares at you for half a second too long.
“..jesus christ, doll.”
“what?”
“nothing,” he clears his throat, letting you drag him deeper into the store. “you’re terrifying when you smell a restock. like some predator looking for fresh meat.”
“don’t act like you’re not seated for this,” you say, picking up two boxes and shaking them next to your head.
he decides against arguing.
you’re right. but you’d end up getting your rare dog toy before he ever says that out loud. so he trails after you, slowing down when you do, speeding up when you drift too far ahead without noticing.
which is how jeon jeongguk finds himself spending the next forty minutes carrying increasingly concerning amounts of cardboard boxes around a pastel-colored store like someone’s (your) deeply disgruntled husband.
“bun,” he says flatly as another small box lands in his arms. “i can physically feel my testosterone dropping.”
“good. builds character.”
you don’t even look at him when you say it, too busy squinting at another box by your ear like a jeweler appraising diamonds. meanwhile he’s standing there buried in enough skullpandas to start his own damn pop mart.
he even understands some of it now.
not the whole shaking ritual — that still seems entirely placebo-based and nonsensical — but the little sparkle in your eyes every time you try to narrow down the possibilities. the way you gasp when the box sounds “heavy on the right side.” the devastation when you’re wrong.
he’s watching you more than the shelves, his tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek. that’s not good.
eventually, the pile in his arms becomes unmanageable enough that he has to dump everything near the register while you crouch on the floor beside a fresh display like a woman possessed.
“this is your seventh box.”
“eighth.”
he stares.
you stare back.
“you said you were only getting two.”
“and you said skullpandas were ugly. people change, jeongguk.”
that nearly gets a chuckle out of him. nearly.
by the time you pay for the first haul, the cashier seems one minor inconvenience away from recognizing him despite the glasses and mask. he can feel your smugness radiating beside him as he grabs the bags before you can.
“don’t even,” he warns.
“i didn’t say anything!”
“your face did.”
outside the store, the air feels cooler against his skin. he leans against the wall beside the entrance, shopping bags gathered around his boots.
he adjusts one of them with his foot when it tips too far toward the pavement. and you’re crouching down in front, instantly tearing into one.
“you literally could’ve waited until we got home.”
“and you could literally mind your business.”
foil crinkles. your eyes widen. then you frown.
“fuck.”
your reaction has his broad shoulders shaking before he could stop himself, dimples flashing briefly. “that bad?”
“i got the pensiveness.” you hold it up to him, the figure’s eyes are closed like they’re just as done as he is.
“isn’t that the one by your bed?”
“mhm.” your voice is small. distracted. you’re not even looking at him anymore, attention already drifting back toward the storefront, a world away.
that does it.
he exhales through his nose, pulling down his mask and reaching his hand out before he really thinks about it. his fingers brush your cheek to guide you back for half a second. you don’t resist.
he leans down and presses a quick kiss to your forehead — soft, almost absentminded, muscle memory.
“it’s okay, bun,” he starts, voice hushed. steady. “we can —” your eyes are elsewhere again, his tongue clicking as you pull another sigh from his chest. “..no.”
you blink up at him.
he straightens slowly, hand still lightly resting near your face like he forgot to let go.
“koo,” “absolutely not,” “koooooo.”
you’re halfway gone, fingers tapping at the torn foil packet like an addict contemplating relapse. he’s watching the battle in your head happen in real time, and how you’re losing not even three seconds later.
“you just don’t get it.” your bottom lip juts out, the silver bar awfully tempting. he has to look away, taking off his glasses as a distraction.
“thank god.”
he lets out a laugh under his breath, one that ghosts over your face. and his hand’s left your space to fish out his black card.
“woah, are y—?” your eyes widen, like this is the first time (it’s not), but his expression leaves no room for protest. “just take it.”
soon enough, you’re disappearing back through the glass doors with the card wedged dramatically between your fingers like you won the lottery.
jeongguk watches you go.
looks down at the pastel shopping bags around him.
then at the receipt in his hand.
then at moldy muffin hanging off the side of his backpack.
“you’re all criminals.”
if you were to tell jeon jeongguk six months ago that his five-story, all-black, hyper-luxurious mansion would one day become home to fifteen aggressively bright fluff balls, he would’ve mickey-mouse-laughed in your face until he turned purple.
but alas, that’s exactly where he finds himself now.
one chained to his gym bag.
one on the dashboard of his porsche.
two by his gaming setup.
five are piled on his couch, nestled against your sleeping form while you snore loud enough to rattle his floor-to-ceiling windows.
and six are keeping him company, or rather, silently torturing him in the kitchen. one with a crooked bow hangs from his belt loop, and the rest are on the countertop, watching him make tteokbokki.
six. moldy. fucking. muffins.
not a single buddy doggie.
the pot bubbles angrily on the stove.
jeongguk stirs with one hand while the other reaches down to straighten muffin’s ribbon at his hip for what has to be the fifth time since he started cooking. the bow keeps twisting sideways no matter how carefully he fixes it, stubborn little thing.
behind him, you shift between cushions with a soft noise, tightening your arms around your priceless treasures. your makeup has smeared slightly into his pillowcase, your heels are abandoned somewhere near the carpet like you’ve always lived here, and one of your thigh-highs is missing entirely.
he bites the inside of his cheek.
domesticity is a disease. and he thinks he’s already terminal.
it’s in the way his dish is a deeper shade of red than usual, extra spice added because he knows you like it that way after a nap. it’s in the way he threw in more rice cakes, knowing you’ll steal from his plate anyway. it’s in the way he adjusted the ac the moment you flopped onto his couch, you always run cold when you sleep.
it’s in the way your obsessions now occupy corners of his home like they belong there.
he’s halfway through stirring when his phone starts vibrating against the marble counter, insistent enough that he finally glances at it. it’s been going off for a while, ignored on purpose because for once he wanted a peaceful afternoon where nothing needed him except you.
jimin hyung.
he answers with a distracted hum, still fishing for a rice cake.
“wanna explain why dispatch has you posted outside pop mart looking like a divorced dad of three?”
the rice cake slips straight back into the pot with a splash.
there’s shuffling on the other end, then jimin loses it. full-body laughter, the kind that sounds like it hurts. “they got your ass bad, dude. hold on — i’m reading the comments —”
cold dread creeps up jeongguk’s spine.
he reaches for the remote almost mechanically, the television stuttering to life, youtube loading.
and there he is.
at the top of his homepage.
dispatch photos, grainy but unmistakable, one after another: jeon jeongguk in all-black designer standing outside pop mart, arms weighed down with pastel shopping bags like evidence of a crime.
one shot of him glaring down at a blind box with the concentration of a man diffusing a bomb. another of him rubbing at his forehead while surrounded by pink packaging like he’s contemplating walking into traffic.
and then —
“oh my fucking god,” he whispers.
moldy muffin basically posing for the camera, completely visible on his bag.
his friend is wheezing so hard he can barely speak. “you look like she got the house in the divorce.”
“hang up.”
“the comments are saying she took the kids too —”
“park jimin.”
the line disconnects immediately, which somehow feels worse because now jeongguk knows for a fact he’s screenshotting everything.
the cheerful anchor continues talking about his “unexpectedly relatable shopping trip,” but jeongguk barely hears it. the voice coming from the television feels distant, detached — like it belongs to someone else’s life.
his gaze drifts, slow and uneasy, toward the couch.
toward you.
toward the bags still sitting near your sleeping form.
and something shifts in his stomach.
“shit.”
he opens the site instinctively, the same one that had become part of your shared gambling routine.
SKULLPANDA: YOU FOUND ME
SOLD OUT.
his heartbeat stutters. “no.”
refresh.
SOLD OUT.
refresh.
SOLD OUT.
“no, no, no —” his voice comes out quieter this time, less denial and more disbelief. he turns so fast toward the couch it nearly hurts. you’re still asleep. thank fuck.
he lunges for the remote and mutes the television before it can wake you, then starts pacing the kitchen with sharp, restless steps, hands dragging through his hair hard enough to sting, looking moments away from a psychiatric evaluation. “okay, okay..”
he can fix this. he fixes everything.
he’s jeon jeongguk. if something doesn’t exist, he can make it exist. if it’s sold out, he can find it somewhere else. if it’s impossible, he can flash a grin and a wink and the world will cooperate.
it’s just a toy.
just a stupid, ugly dog thing with blue eyes and a bone collar.
so why does it feel like this much?
“koo?”
he almost fucking screams.
you’re sitting up now, hair somehow perfectly messed up, voice thick with sleep, one skullpanda smashed against your cheek. your lashes blink slowly as you squint at him in confusion. soft, safe, comfortable here — comfortable with him. and he ruined something for you.
his hands smooth over his sweats too quickly, too nervously. “why are you awake?”
“why are you doing that thing again?”
“what thing?”
“standing like you committed manslaughter.”
a strained laugh escapes him. “..rude.”
but you’re not smiling.
your eyes shift past him, toward the muted screen. toward the dispatch headline. toward him, standing outside pop mart.
jeongguk feels his soul attempting to eject out of his body.
you sit up more slowly now, expression changing as pieces click together. “jeon jeongguk.”
“before you rea—”
too late. “you caused a skullpanda shortage?”
“allegedly,” he offers as a small relief, but it doesn’t stop your jaw from dropping.
you grab your phone, and he has half a mind to flick it out of your hands and buy you ten new ones in return, but he can’t. he watches the exact moment it hits you. your eyes scan the page once. your shoulders slowly sink.
“buddy doggie.”
his chest caves in. “bun —”
you stare at him in a way that hits him in the sternum. the lack of dramatics kills him.
“i never even got her.” you whisper.
for a second, he just looks at you.
at the sleepy disappointment tucked into your expression. at the way your fingers still wrap protectively around the fluff in your lap despite everything.
you wanted one thing, and he accidentally made the entire world want it too.
suddenly he remembers all the little things tied to this — the way you shook boxes beside your ear with complete seriousness, the bounce in your step whenever you swore you could “feel the luck,” the excitement in your voice every time you talked about the dumb wolf thing.
he remembers laughing at you for it while secretly loving every second.
a small chuckle leaves you after a second, but it sounds thin. wrong. “ah,” you mumble, glancing back at the screen. “you’re so popular.”
jeongguk swallows.
“i’ll get it for you.”
your eyes lift. “koo, it’s fi—”
“no.” firm. immediate. “i’ll find it.”
“they’re sold out everywhere, it’s okay.” the way you stretch over to curl around his forearm has him holding his breath.
“then i’ll look everywhere.”
you search his gaze for a second, plush lips opening and closing like you can’t decide whether he’s joking.
he isn’t.
the next week becomes a genuine downward spiral.
at first, jeongguk tells himself it’s nothing. just bad timing. just fans crowding the usual pop mart near his route because dispatch caught him lacking with a moldy muffin clipped to his backpack.
he slows down outside the store twice anyway.
once after practice. again after dinner. watching strangers drift in and out beneath pastel lights while the skullpanda shelves sit completely wiped clean.
by the third day, he locks in.
“it wouldn’t hurt to try,” he mutters, already typing flagship locations into his phone like it’s a schedule instead of a war.
the first store is quiet.
he stands in front of the near empty display with his hands shoved into his pockets, pretending he’s just looking around instead of fighting for his life internally.
“just one.”
he picks up a box. shakes it. nothing.
again, still nothing. you’re in his head — that’s not how you do it, koo. you have to listen!
he leaves empty-handed.
the second store is worse.
people recognize him — not fully, but enough for whispers to start following him through the aisles. he nearly leaves before even reaching the shelf.
then he remembers the defeat on your face when he sold them out, and he buys their last four boxes.
this must be the greed they talk about in the bible.
the group chat starts tweaking before he can even make it back to his car.
jimin: jk not again 😭😭
namjoon: why are you getting spotted in public every day
taehyung: somebody get him OFF the streets
“you’re all useless,” he tosses his phone into the passenger seat before checking to make sure the boxes don’t tip over during the drive. when he gets home he finds another moldy muffin on his bed.
the fourth stop feels different.
mostly because this time, you’re with him.
you climb into his passenger seat in a tiny pink dress with three muffinettes clipped to your bag “for luck,” and he already knows he’s doomed.
this store luckily has ten boxes left. he buys five.
plus hironos, because you smiled at them.
you open them together in the car — moldy muffin again.
both of you stare at it in silence before immediately opening another at the same time, like combined stupidity might finally beat the odds.
it doesn’t.
you end up giving the duplicates to a bewildered barista during lunch. he leaves with strawberry matcha, two hironos, and no closer to beating the flawed system.
by the sixth stop, this stops being casual. he now has nine moldy muffins to his name.
he doesn’t remember deciding to drive this far. only that he’s here now, exhausted and standing beneath fluorescent lighting that makes everything feel slightly unreal.
the employee watches him approach the shelf with the kind of sympathy reserved for gambling addicts and divorced men.
jeongguk grabs one box, then another — wait.
one feels.. different.
he narrows his eyes at it.
“okay,” he sighs like a prayer, negotiating with god himself. “don’t fuck me over.”
he buys it without grabbing extras this time.
the employee gives him a look on the way out that feels suspiciously like confirmation.
jeongguk doesn’t even make it back to the car before tearing the foil open.
“found you.”
the second the door opens, he knows you’re expecting him.
“you’re early.” you don’t even turn from the screen when you hear the jingle of the spare keys and the sound of those worn down boots.
your apartment is dim except for the tv glow flickering across the walls, bathing everything in muted blues and golds. the same episode of that house of usher show plays in the background — one he knows you’ve seen enough times to recite word for word — and there you are, curled sideways into the sofa like you were poured into it.
a tiny black dress hugs your body, fabric riding slightly up your thighs where your legs are tucked beneath you, and he can see that small outline. one bare foot swings absently over the edge of the cushion. your makeup is dewy — liner smeared, gloss faded from your lips except for the lingering shine at the center.
pretty, painfully so.
jeongguk just stands there for a second, watching. the place smells like vanilla and fabric softener and something fried from hours ago. there’s clutter all over your otherwise monochrome space — plushies, makeup, open packages, little traces of you bleeding into every surface.
in his pocket, his gift presses against his palm. you don’t look at him, too busy gasping at a scene you already know is coming, mouthing the words before the actors can even say them.
the corners of his lips are curling. fond and helpless.
god, he’s so gone.
without making a sound, he pulls it free, feeling around the fur.
“catch.”
your head whirls around so fast he almost laughs.
“huh —”
it lands directly against your chest.
whatever it is he throws — it looks like a giant fucking spider. you shriek, not cute-startled either — genuine panic.
“JEON JEONGGUK —” you’re about to start flailing when something warm and fuzzy tumbles into your lap, cutting you off effectively as it stares at you with big, icy blue eyes.
you freeze.
he watches realization spread across your face in stages — confusion, recognition, disbelief. your lips part, your breath hitching. no fucking way.
the silver bone collar glints beneath the television light. grey wolf ears. it’s silly little puppy companion rolls off your lap.
buddy doggie.
“oh.. my god.”
the words leave you like air escaping punctured lungs, you don’t even realize the way your hands start trembling, wetness gathering at your waterline.
jeongguk physically cannot stop smiling now. it takes over his whole face, dimples cutting deep into his cheeks, eyes crinkling at the corners. you make him feel so dumb, standing there grinning like a teenager over a toy.
“no fucking way,” you whisper again, staring at the plush like she might disappear if you blink too hard. then your gaze snaps up to him, wide and glassy and so openly emotional it nearly knocks the breath from his chest. “koo.”
he shrugs, trying for casual. “don’t start crying now.”
your mouth opens. closes. opens again. “how?”
“trade secret.”
“how many stores did you go to?”
“a normal amount.” suddenly your kitchen island is so interesting as he tries not to melt into a puddle right in front of you.
your head shakes in disbelief, a sniffle leaving you as you turn the plush over and over and over in your hand. “that is NOT a number.”
“a few.”
“you’re lying.” you deflate.
he laughs softly through his nose, then you’re suddenly launching toward him. the impact hits harder than he expects.
your arms are around his middle instantly, buddy doggie crushed safely between your bodies as you bury your face against his chest with a sound halfway between a groan and a giggle.
“oh my god,” you mumble again into his shirt. “you actually found her.” the crack in your voice has a lump forming in his throat.
he’d been pretending this whole thing was ironic. pretending they were just another one of your obsessions he happened to humor. but somewhere between years of shared clothes and piercings and tattoo appointments and these dolls, you stopped feeling separate from him.
his life has your fingerprints all over it, and now this does too.
large hands settle at your waist automatically. too naturally.
one broad palm spreads against the small of your back while the other steadies your hip with an odd familiarity, fingers flexing slightly against the fabric of your dress. you can feel the hard chill of his rings through the material.
his thumb drifts lower without thinking, brushing absentmindedly over the bat at your upper thigh. his touch stills there for half a second too long.
you fit there so easily.
dangerously easily.
he can feel your heartbeat through the pressed warmth of your body. feel your breath against his chest. smell your perfume beneath the lingering scent of your shampoo.
it isn’t sudden. something soft just unfurls deep in his ribs, like it’s always lived there.
“you looked so sad, doll. couldn’t stand it,” he admits quietly, rolling his lip rings. you have to to tilt your head back just to gape at him. and you’re both so close. way too fucking close.
your lashes flutter, searching his face with this unbearable tenderness that has his throat going dry. the metal on your lip catching the light every time you move. neither of you can breathe.
“you’re insane,” you choke, a finger pushing up his glasses over his nose bridge.
jeongguk chuckles, but it sounds shaky now. “you’re the one who got me addicted to gambling.”
your fingers dig into his shirt, almost like you’re pulling him in. “that is not what this is.”
“it absolutely is.” he follows anyway.
“no,” you murmur, fingers curling tighter. it makes his heart stumble. the reverence you always saved for your figurines was now aimed dead at him. “you literally looked everywhere.”
the room feels static despite the television still playing behind you both. like a little pink bubble has formed around you.
“you would’ve done the same thing.”
“i know.”
something shifts visibly in his expression then — subtle, but nothing ever gets past you. your voice lowers even further, he watches your tongue drag over your slightly swollen bottom lip, and he swears he’s going to die.
“thank you.” when he glances back up, you’re already staring at him.
his hand slides higher along your waist until it cups the side of your jaw. you don’t resist, leaning in, trusting.
his lips brush your forehead instinctively,
but then you’re tugging on his clothes,
directing him right where you both want to be.
your lips are unbelievably pillowy beneath his, tasting faintly of strawberries and something devastatingly familiar. his head spins the second you lean closer with a tiny sound against his mouth — quiet, needy, affectionate enough to have his knees weak.
you kiss like satisfaction. like home. every restrained glance and swallowed feeling finally found somewhere to go.
he’s everywhere, cradling your jaw carefully while pulling you closer by the waist until there’s no space left between your bodies at all. even your piercings slot gently against each other. he can feel your heartbeat hammering against his chest now, fast enough to match his own.
“bun —” he tries, but your fingers disappear into his hair and he breaks.
a faint sound leaves him — helpless, wrecked — as you gently tug at the strands. the kiss deepens naturally after that, slower now, more consuming than frantic. his mouth parts against yours with a trembling exhale, trying to memorize the feeling.
every tiny thing overwhelms him yet makes him crave more. more. more. and you’re chasing him like you can’t get enough either. you’re both drowning.
and by the time you finally pull apart, neither of you get very far.
your noses still brush. your lips still ghost together with every huff of air.
his forehead falls against yours, eyes closed as he completely fails to steady his breathing, and he can feel your smile.
“can we get the secret hirono next?”
jeongguk lets out a breathless laugh that melts straight into another kiss.
a good heart can take you surprisingly far in a city like seoul, or so you tell yourself between routines that don’t leave much room for anything else. hold the elevator, smile at the cashier, leave a little food out for a hungry cat — small beats to fight the dull city grey. so why is the pavement on your walk home suddenly stained a bloody red? and why is it only you who notices the man lying there half-dead?
MAP OF SEOUL METRO (2023)
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about. dark. mature themes. blood, violence & gore. self harm. codependent relationship. age gap? (oc 23, jk 26?) asian religious themes. korean culture & history. urban decay. panic attacks. supernatural au. korean mythology. shamanism. spiritual horror. rituals. more korean culture & history. dissociation. false reality. each chapter will have their respective warnings
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based off works like bts’ arirang, ghibli’s spirited away, disney’s alice in wonderland & gaiman’s neverwhere
est 15.05.26. status. ongoing 2/?. words. 9.4k
note. korean gothic? horror series because i am insane. this all started from when i did a deep dive on the references the boys wrote into arirang, i fell down a rabbit hole and did so much research and i hope to portray everything respectfully! my love letter to culture and history
IF YOU HEAR A CAT AT NIGHT,
PROLOGUE: the night hears you
the city opens its mouth, though if it’s trying to swallow you or spit you out you’re not sure. welcome to seoul !
CHAPTER ONE: the offering is accepted
seven months working corporate hasn’t made you hate seoul; but maybe the city’s decision to ignore you while you tend to an injured man will.
the city opens its mouth, though if it’s trying to swallow you or spit you out you’re not sure. welcome to seoul !
words. <1.3k
note. so excited to start n share this with you all :3 the concept and writing may be a lil surprising but thank you sooo much for all the love on my little baby !! contains a few korean references, that i won’t say outright in the narrative, so if you’re curious, feel free to send an ask!
TUNNELS: MASTERPOST > next
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PROLOGUE. the night hears you
if love and hate shared the same word in korean, you were beginning to suspect it would be seoul.
there had been nothing to hate at first; you loved the unserious warnings from uncles about how the big city had an appetite for small-town girls like you. you loved flipping through the sappy, grief-stricken goodbye cards from friends who would probably never make the effort to contact you again — even an ex-situationship you hadn’t spoken to in three months had texted to wish you luck.
you especially loved the black I ♡ SEOUL tote bag one of your aunties gifted you with terribly concealed envy. the words now wrinkled beneath the weight of homemade meals your parents had tearfully packed into it.
you loved the way the thick, swirling throngs of trees unraveled, rising with the morning sun into dense rows of residences, then denser commercial districts, until the skyline rose so high you had your head tilted against the window, squinting through sunlight just to see the tops of skyscrapers.
even the air felt thicker in the back of your throat, harder to swallow, and you caught yourself gulping down not only the smog, but the realization that home was so, embarrassingly small.
and in some oddly hopeful, self-deprecating way, you loved that too.
you loved the ride — stuck in the space in between your past and future — but with each, successive cycle of the same, goth-rock-bubblegum-pop hybrid playlist on the train, on the plane, on the bus, and now in the taxi as it reached 5:30 pm, you found you were loving it a little less. started missing an apartment and a bed you’ve never even been in.
store doorbells chime as you pass by the fourth GS25 in a row — yes, you’ve been counting — but you’ve also noticed that every single one of them happens to have a sad but strikingly beautiful person standing outside with a smoke.
SEOUL WELCOMES YOU is plastered under the bridge, and for a moment, you wonder what it means to be welcomed by something that large. it feels more like the city is opening its mouth. you tell yourself it’s just the barrage of artificial light. the fifty-something year old lady in front tells you “it’s only welcoming to people with money,” as her bony fingers drum against the wheel.
you don’t love that.
“they’ll have you breaking yourself down before the birds hear,” she says, appearing to glance at you in the rear view.
“or, they’ll do you in quite nicely, i wouldn’t be surprised.”
you choose to smile and nod. it’s just old people talk — words gone bitter from rent climbing too high thanks to tourists. you imagine they’ve resorted to scaring off new faces like yours. your hands bunch in your clothes anyway, suddenly feeling like the dark cashmere sweater and low waisted jeans sat a little too tight;
and you thank your lucky stars, a little harder this time, that the job offer at gq korea pays well.
the hum of tires against asphalt and the familiar jingles of nongshim shin ramyun and sulwhasoo skincare ads serve as your soundtrack until you arrive at your destination. the lady was kind enough to help you with your suitcases, but before you could turn to give one last thanks — a train tears through the sky, a rolling thunder that swallows the street for a second before giving it back, which you definitely don’t love.
the last you see of her are tail lights, which you wave goodbye to, before turning to face your new home, or, the convenience store below your new home. the building isn’t hard to miss — wedged between two taller ones like it arrived late and had to make do with whatever space was left.
BLUE NIGHT MART is the name, all crooked and endearing as it glows a pretty, sleepy shade of blue. and despite the ache in your feet from nearly a full twenty four hours of travel, you find yourself entering anyway — mainly because the quaint store is the whole reason your parents even considered letting you go at all.
the bells over this shop’s doors swing in softer, heavier dings, like they’re made of an entirely different metal than the others, but you don’t dwell on it too much, not when a voice, warm and cracked with age says your name from behind the counter. “long trip?”
mr. kim — a name you gathered from dad’s stories — is looking at you with a smile. though, you didn’t quite expect the firm businessman and long-time family friend that you were too young to remember to now have such a kind, aged face. the quilted, pale orange jacket rounds him out in a way that’s.. cute, rather than old, like time has settled on him gently.
you smile back, and he chuckles, as if sensing your confusion.
“ah, it’s okay dear,” he says, softer now. “i haven’t seen you since you were —” he gestures vaguely, hand hovering low around his knee. “blood on a bird’s foot, as the kids say, y’know?” and you don’t have the heart to tell him you haven’t heard a single person say that since 2012, so you laugh, parking your suitcases by the entrance as you move to give him a proper bow.
“good evening, mister kim. the journey here was fun, thank you,” you stand in front of the counter, rocking back and forth on your shoes. “did i keep you waiting?”
“oh, please, your father wouldn’t shut up on the phone!” he waves you off, and you feel a little less homesick at how he treats you like you’re constant. “magazines, right?” his hands fold behind his back, in a way that all men in their late sixties like him do when they’re at peace, it’s infectious.
you hum, leaning against the cool metal surface now. “mainly retouching pictures and proofreading, for now,” your eyes land on the ceiling, almost wistfully, as the fluorescent light flickers. “hope to move up to writing or even modeling some day.”
the old man closes his eyes, nodding and pulling his lips in what can only be described as an impressed look on his face. “ah, i have..” he grunts, already bending down — slow, mindful of his age — to grab something beneath the counter.
he resurfaces with a small glass bowl, the kind that looks like it’s been sitting in the same spot for years, filled with individually wrapped candies in five distinct colors.
red, blue, white, yellow, and black.
“go on,” he nudges the bowl toward you. “pick one.”
you blink, an amused huff leaving you as you pluck at a stray piece of fur on the countertop. “just one?”
“just one,” he echoes, his smile too sweet to say no. you hover your hand over the bowl, fingers brushing lightly against the wrappers. they crinkle softly beneath your touch, warm, like this isn’t the first time somebody’s shuffled through them today. the sound is sharper than you expect in the quiet of the store.
for a moment, you consider picking your favorite color — but something about the way he’s watching you makes you hesitate.
you pick anyway. red.
your brows pinch as you roll it between your fingers. “ah,” he hums, as if he’d been waiting for that exact choice.
he doesn’t explain why, just turns back, slow and endearing as ever, mumbling something about making tea. “welcome to seoul,” he gives another chuckle as he fixes two mugs, and maybe it’s just the nerves, but, it feels less like a greeting and more like recognition.
seven months working corporate hasn’t made you hate seoul; but maybe the city’s decision to ignore you while you tend to an injured man will.
MAP OF SEOUL METRO (2023)
words. >8.1k
in this. slice of life. haha. vomiting. mentions of weight struggles? overall super vain social issues. descriptive blood & gore. lot of bleeding. panicking? panic attack. mention of self harm. smoking mentioned a few times. yelling. it gets messy. someone gets hit by a car. derealization? magical occurrences apparently. gets dark. not super proofread !!
note. be gentle im super amateur i only started writing like three weeks ago agh. the map is more for plot and immersion than actual accuracy as ive only been to the city once =] do enjoy !! xoxo
TUNNELS: prev < MASTERPOST > next
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CHAPTER ONE. the offering is accepted
each successive door proved harder to open than the last, though whether this was the fault of the doors themselves or the weakness steadily splitting through his palms and wrists had become difficult to say.
he had been running for what was likely four surface-hours now, stumbling somewhere between the dynasty and the republic, through tunnels that narrowed when he looked at them too long and passageways that no longer remembered permitting him through.
he was starving. freezing. nauseous. painfully aware that he had ruined a perfectly good pair of loafers; and beneath all of this sat the increasingly unpleasant certainty that if the emperor’s right hand reached him first, the humiliation alone might kill him before anything else managed to.
“should’ve sealed it,” he murmured. whether he meant the passage, the threshold, or himself hardly seemed important anymore.
he promises he’s just passing through.
above — or perhaps ahead; directions had become unreliable some time ago — the city opened around him all at once.
R1 blinked weakly from a sign overhead. traffic lights pulsed. people crossed streets. someone laughed too loudly into a phone. cigarette smoke curled lazily upward into the neon haze. and through the center of it all, he staggered bleeding like an animal the world had not yet decided to acknowledge.
they never did. definitely not at this hour.
blood soaked patiently through his sleeve and into his palm as he struck the first automatic door he saw. the glass trembled faintly beneath the impact while the sensor overhead flickered once — as though something inside it had nearly recognized him — before settling back into stillness.
“don’t do this,” he whispered.
people flowed around him in smooth and uninterrupted currents, untouched by collision, untouched by recognition. a woman stepped neatly around the trail of blood gathering near his shoes without ever lowering her eyes enough to see it there.
when his hand finally slipped against the wall beside him, coming away wet, red and shaking slightly with exhaustion, panic arrived not all at once but carefully, settling itself into the space beneath his ribs with the familiarity of something he expected but didn’t want yet to face.
the realization came a second before the car did.
impact.
pavement.
the terrible sensation of the world lurching sideways while the city itself continued forward untouched.
no one screamed.
no one stopped.
no one looked.
sound stretched thinly around him, warped somewhere in the distance, then returned to its proper shape. the car hesitated only briefly, as though mildly inconvenienced by something difficult to explain, before continuing on its way.
and this is where it dawned on him that, after everything, after all the years spent learning the precise and delicate machinery of forgetting, there was still something deeply embarrassing about being struck by a hyundai.
lying there against the pavement with blood spreading steadily beneath him, he laughed.
good matcha was never rushed.
the leaves had to be shaded before harvest so bitterness wouldn’t settle too deeply into them. hand-ground slowly. sifted carefully. water just below boiling, otherwise the taste bruised.
even the whisking had rules. too rough, and the foam became large and uneven. too gentle, and it never formed at all.
all of this you learn from watching mister kim on slow, sleepy mornings and late, twinkly nights. no matter the time of day, he always has a pocket just for you, waiting with his toothy grin and puffer jacket, and lord knows the sight is one of the few things that kept you going on particularly rough days. his matcha is the best, not just because of his tried and true traditional method, but because it’s always infused with the wisdom behind his eyes, and a good story.
you swear you could taste the difference.
when he spoke of the years before he opened blue night mart, spent in tall corporate buildings like the ones his tiny shop was squished between, the matcha always came out sharper. not too bitter, of course, never. but it had a kind of brightness that settled at the back of your tongue like a citrus peel. something remembered too quickly to be gentle.
on days when the subject drifted to his youth, he talked about his little army dreams, skateboards zooming down unpaved roads amidst occupations of japan and the united states. it should’ve been heavy, but the matcha was oddly light. airier. almost hollow in the way that snowfall is, like it had less to do with taste and more to do with space between things. you never pressed.
occasionally, he would mention people unnamed — which was understandable — he was pushing seventy; it’s honestly a blessing that he remembers enough to keep you entertained everyday. though he speaks of figures carefully, as if language itself might misplace them. recurring characters feature a bird watcher, a woodworker, and a man with a siren’s voice. on those days, the matcha was slightly thicker.
there was one story, told only once, on the day when your boss had you run your first errand through dokbawi..
something about his time as a musician in some grungy rock band, and the air guitar he played was so passionate that even the tea tasted faintly metallic at the edges. you spent the rest of the evening trying to decide if it was memory or the mixing.
regardless, it’s very endearing, the honesty of it;
tea could only become more of itself under pressure. people, on the other hand, usually became someone else entirely.
maybe that’s why you’re the only one in the office who prefers it over coffee, or maybe it’s because you needed something that wouldn’t make you so jittery while carrying the rest of the cups over to the building. we don’t want another latte incident.
there were only seven ways your coworkers liked their coffee — eight, if you counted assistant lee who changed her preferences depending on whether she was trying to lose weight, quit smoking, or get back together with her ex-boyfriend.
editor cho absolutely loves vanilla syrup, but he pretends not to. stylist yoon claimed that oat milk made her skin clearer despite spending most of her lunch breaks vaping outside the fire exit. one of the interns only drank americanos because she thought that chewing ice cubes would burn calories. minju from hr only took strawberry frappuccinos, which you respected. and the boss, well, the boss chugged black coffee like it was water.
the boss who was currently barking at you over the phone about picking up a rental from the givenchy down the street even though you were already halfway to the office in the opposite direction with, mind you, nine coffees trembling in your grip.
“director park—” you started, trying for reason, but of course that’s not something many people know in gangnam. “oh, and could you stop by joe’s garage down apgujeong? i had a jacket custom made for my husband, if he doesn’t get it today i fear i may catch him with another model on his arm. oh, the press!” and somehow that statement distresses you less than the fact that apgujeong is a whole thirty-minute walk away.
seven months. over half a year in the world design capital — or, as your cousin lovingly dubbed it, the world resign capital — fully convinced you’d come home to continue lugging bags of flour in the back of the noodle shop.
yeah, you thought about it a few times, and though you’re starting to feel the ache in your shoulders and the cramp in your fingers, it’s nothing that one of the luxury zen beauty & massage parlors in the area can’t fix. they certainly don’t have those at the noodle shop.
seven months in seoul didn’t really change you, it simply brought out what was already there; and the same goes for the city itself. the warped ideas and what-ifs you once had now settled into your day-to-day — and maybe your uncles weren’t so far off after all.
because seoul did have an appetite, that much was apparent in the endless food stalls in every single strip, you still haven’t managed to try all the restaurants in your district alone.
you also found that they actually seemed to prefer outsiders like you, though mostly as spectacle rather than any genuine embrace of diversity. but hey, a win is a win?
you’d originally imagined it to be nothing but clean, warm marbles and blinking neons and wild, expensive nightlife, but you were surprised to find how dull it was in between such colorful chapters.
grey brutalist buildings with dark eyed workers inside, black graffiti over the sides, grey bridges over small ponds that looked like they were reflecting a night sky in the middle of day; grey subway floors, black coffee — right.
by the grace of whatever god is left in the city, you managed to catch one of the interns, hana, by the entrance of hq, chewing mint gum with a ferocity that suggested she was trying to bury a smoky scent. you shoved the coffee in the poor girl’s arms, telling her to bring it up to the fifth, before dashing back down the street.
today’s outfit was thankfully built for this, stitched together from three different lives: low-waisted jeans that fit just loose enough to survive the subway, your mom’s fitted black bebe sweater that was so old the cuffs had softened, and a black baker boy hat — just cause it’s cute! stylist yoon doesn’t share the sentiment, but her views and way of life isn’t one you vied after anyway.
silver rings crowded your fingers. your chanel tote was heavy enough to qualify as a personal burden. your beloved shoes looked alternative enough to justify the scuffing —
maybe this was a show of character development, your comme des garçons flats you got from a flea market a few years ago never would’ve seen the light of day back at home; where people dressed for weather and practicality. now, they were pounding against pavement, carrying you to givenchy, where the front desk dude, jiwon, gave you another one of his concerned dimply smiles.
“slow down,” he says, for the third time that week.
you tell him, again, that you couldn’t really afford to, already rushing out as soon as he hands you the goods and trying not to rustle the white paper bags that probably cost triple your salary.
the next place your shoes brought you to was a small alleyway between a huge shopping mall and a rental building, taking one of the few cuts you know over to a familiar street of mauve brick and open air. your hand brushes against the glass like an old friend, and you note that the overhead clock reads 8:55 as you descend the escalator.
this crystalline cave opens into what you, and a bunch of other working class citizens, consider to be the heart of the city: the seoul metro subway.
every morning, approximately seven million people descended below just to keep seoul alive for another day.
the railway stretched like exposed anatomy — arteries threaded with fluorescent light, veins carrying warm, energetic bodies from district to district, only to drag the cold, quiet ones back to rest. its face is tangled and messy and beautiful, and it has been for the past century or so,
though it’s not the same face it had in 1899, or 1974; and the distant clang of metal and power tools suggests it may not keep this one for the next ten years either.
the same could be said for many women that walk above.
its skin is branded by liveliness, youth, and the preservation of such, but it is an old soul. those who know how to read between the lines will see that contradiction is a language it is fluent in — motionless and restless, tranquil and moody, gorged, and yet, perpetually hungry.
line 9 strains.
line 5 mourns.
line 3 becomes.
line 1 endures.
and line 2 circles its center in an endless loop — though most who have been on it for too long say it starts to feel like a spiral after the fourth stop. it swallows and spits out the same names and faces so often that eventually, some stopped noticing they were moving at all.
not all passengers moved at the same pace, either. especially not on hell-train.
eonju.
sinnonhyeon.
sapyeong.
sapyeong.
sapyeong.
you’re jolted awake by a particularly rough bump.
awake? ..what?
your cheek is warm from pressing against the window, your matcha wet and cooling between your fingers as you blink. once, then twice, then thrice. turns out finally grabbing a seat on seoul’s crammed line 9 lead to some pretty good naps, like a reward of sorts.
or maybe, a curse. the panic slowly presents itself in your chest when you reach up to rub your eyes — thankfully wearing the smudge-proof eyeliner minju had recommended you so enthusiastically last week — how long were you out? why does your shoulder hurt so damn bad? then you realize it’s probably the ribbons on the givenchy shopping bags.. shit.
you couldn’t have possibly been out for more than ten minutes, right? you feel it more as a plea than a question as you wipe and set your matcha down, steadying it between your thighs in favor of your phone. which immediately crushes all possible hope as the bold 9:25 nearly blinds you.
almost thirty fucking minutes you’ve been out, on what was supposed to be an eight-minute ride. fuck. fuck. fuck this motherfucking life. should’ve listened when assistant lee told you to get more steps in.
you rub at your arm instinctively as you adjust your posture in your seat, trying to spare at least a bit of dignity from the pale redhead wonyoung wannabe retouching her makeup and the salaryman-looking guy with eyes way too old and judgemental for his youthful face, who just watched you realize in real-time that you missed your stop.
it’s fine — you tell yourself — you’ll never see them again.
rush hour is just ending, you take a desperately needed sip of your matcha as you plot your next steps. you could get off at the next stop and probably catch a westward train in another ten. director park will make an example of you, surely, but you could easily stop by the kpop square in hongdae and make it up to her with another seventeen album.
you can worry about that when you figure out where you are first, squinting at the landscape blurring past the window. where does the train even end up this far east? saetgang? jeongmi? the national assembly—?
the pungnyeon plays, and the uplifting zither melody that’s meant to bring good harvests, sounds more like a death sentence. you close your eyes.
this station is: express bus terminal. the door is on your right.
..huh?
now, you should be jumping for joy at the fact that you don’t have to get off and ride another thirty minutes back — and you will — just, when you’re finished processing how the hell it took the train half an hour to get here. it’s three stations away? maybe there was a delay, an emergency or something that you completely slept through, and somehow that only furthers your humiliation.
maybe cut the matcha before bed.
you don’t have time to wallow in it, just thank your lucky stars, again, and down your now room-temp drink in a single heavy gulp before unceremoniously dunking it into the nearest bin. this time, you allow yourself a little skip in your step,
because if director park tries to make a fuss over your timing, you can just blame it on seoul metro.
the best part is, you know she won’t question it, not when you’re around line 3, where you double tap your card again, finally northbound to apgujeong.
her and her superstitions, you smile quietly to yourself as you queue. even her impatient, fast-paced life is forced to slow down in taxis through jongno to eonju, simply to avoid line 5, line 3, and line 1 — which, funnily enough, were all stationed together in her area. “too many were lost along those rails,” she once said, which you empathized with, though you’re not sure if she meant the previous suicide rate or something else entirely.
the doors opened with a soft breath, and that friendly announcement chimed through the space as you boarded. it was now that sweet spot in the morning where the only people left sitting in public transport were those who gave zero fucks and those who worked in beauty and press.
you were teetering between both as you haphazardly threw your belongings onto the empty space.
the grey-haired lady who stepped in after you, however, was a prime example of the former; with a purple hat too big for her head on a cloudy day, a stack of gold necklaces beating on her chest, waving around a purple fan in a fully air-conditioned train car. in her hand is a bright pink carrier with a mewling, black ball of fluff inside — labeled ‘kkami.’
she doesn’t look at you, she’s too out of this world for you; but her companion does. its green eyes blink as it sleepily paws at the bars, happy as can be. you make a mental note to buy some premium tuna for lily.
working at a fashion magazine in seoul gave you somewhat of an upper hand in the hierarchy, and it also taught you the inner workings of all the glam;
like how style here comes from survival more than creativity, or how, contrary to popular belief, nobody actually likes glass skin, the standard is more of a soft mochi look.
the interns knew this. someone’s sobbing in the bathroom while the rest of the girls retouched their powdery faces, donning muted neutrals and clean silhouettes — because they needed to look competent despite being paid less than a decent dinner.
the editors looked rich enough to weaponize proximity, holing themselves in their dens of oxford commas and thesauruses.. thesauri? no clue. that’s their problem.
the stylists had the most pressure, you think, to set a good precedent while trying not to outshine the main stars; no matter how desperately they wanted to be the one posing for the camera. their team usually consists of guys and girls in strictly acne and alaia. one of them is steaming a shirt while swearing under their breath because a celebrity “looked bloated” in yesterday’s shoot.
stylist yoon, in her signature red blazer that signaled her ever-raging soul, had a curling iron clenched between her teeth like a weapon. she’s currently tugging somebody’s bangs into submission.
“if she cries again i’m shaving it,” she muttered around the metal.
“pretty sure that violates labor laws,” you elongated in a sing-song tone, sliding past her like she was literally on fire.
“good. maybe hr will finally do something useful.”
somewhere behind her, the model in question sniffled harder.
you lean over, peeking over her shoulder to offer the blonde woman a sympathetic smile, before swiping a loaded folder off the glass table. the printers never stop. neither do the phones. nor the crying. and the vapes, terribly hidden beneath musks of peach gum and vanilla perfume.
the models were the least flashy, minju says it’s because they don’t have to try as hard as the rest of us anymore, arriving in oversized hoodies and designer sunglasses like they were trying to erase themselves before somebody else could do it professionally — which was where you came in.
after wrestling with four garment bags, one instance of your metro card declining, two jammed elevator buttons, and the growing urge to cause a scene for whichever security guard monitored the cctvs because editor cho sent another apologetic text about “accidentally” mixing up your lunchboxes again, you were actually excited to sit down and do your job.
correction.
ironically, your desk was tucked between two far more respectable workstations like a stubborn act of individuality that couldn’t be sanded down. the concept of not bringing fashion and self expression to your job at a fashion magazine?
between dual monitors and an attempt at neat wiring were fragments of personality sprinkled in and arranged with deep care: silver lip gloss tubes rolling beside color calibration cards. calico critters behind sticky notes scribbles with hex codes and deadlines. little charms. black ribbons. silver studs. trinkets you’ve amassed from one-too-many detours to insadong.
someone said it looks like a tokyo bedroom compressed into four square feet of corporate misery. exactly how you like it. makes you forget how complicated your relationship with the work really is.
initially, it sucked. and, it still, really fucking sucks.
every time you were instructed to make someone prettier or sexier or even smarter by changing minuscule details that realistically had no effect, you felt the guilt eating you alive. as if you’d be doomed to eternal punishment like a corrupt official rather than a creative simply trying to make a living. because it’s stupid, and it’s immoral, and it makes no sense — the length of someone’s fingernails absolutely does not determine their iq.
but you’d learn that your rules don’t apply everywhere, especially not in seoul.
so you kept your mouth shut in favor of the thirty-six million won you were getting every month. you’d eventually come to find that when everything around you moved too quickly and too carelessly, there was something satisfying about being able to pause a person and decide what stayed.
soften the jaw.
brighten the eyes.
lift the nose.
shrink the waist.
assistant lee rested over the back of your chair, arms folded atop your head in a way you normally hated from anyone else. “make her more.. approachable,” she says through a mouthful of her fourth iced americano that day, gesturing in a you get what i mean kind of motion.
approachable. whatever the fuck that means.
but you know what it means in the office, and your mouse is already moving. two clicks later, the model’s decade-old scar vanished beneath your cursor like it had never existed at all.
to you, she’s just another face you don’t know the story of, and her eyes were already too filtered to really read. but lee nodded like you just reinvented the entire image, ruffling your hair with manicured fingers. “keep up the good work.”
remove the mole.
remove the emotion.
remove the proof.
after the six hour mark, faces stopped feeling attached to people. they became arrangements instead — pores, shadows, asymmetry, teeth. things to be corrected. sometimes you zoomed in so closely on somebody’s skin that the image blurred into grain and color, abstract enough to stop resembling a human being entirely.
by no means are you unhappy with the girl in the mirror; you’re cute, well-dressed, you know your colors, you always carry a genuine smile — which was rare around here. but sometimes, after long enough, you catch yourself staring into the dark reflection of your monitor, wondering what parts of you would disappear first beneath somebody else’s hands.
maybe seoul didn’t change people. maybe it simply taught them to be.. edited.
and you can’t help but question what good is all this freedom when you’re the one doing the editing?
overtime finally loosened its grip on the building, and the city outside had already softened into drizzle and neon haze. the baby pink clock perched on the wall — one your boss paid a ridiculous amount for because she thought it was soooo y2k — told you it was already 7:45.
“heading out back again?” minju’s voice drifted toward you as she adjusted the strap of her gucci bag, her gaze sharp beneath little ysl frames. even exhausted, she somehow still looked expensive.
you shove your laptop shut with a sigh. “someone has to maintain diplomatic relations.”
“with the.. invisible cat?”
“she’s not invisible,” you mumble, standing. “just, emotionally unavailable.”
minju snorts loud enough to turn heads.
“you’re seriously stubborn, you know that?” she says, fixing her pin-straight hair as she follows you toward the elevators. “most people would’ve given up after three months.”
you shrug one shoulder.
“the food’s always gone by morning.”
“cho probably eats it.”
“that man would rather die than bend down for anything,” you cross your arms. “even free sashimi.”
“mm. fair point,” she giggles, flashing her perfectly straight teeth that she nearly went into debt for before patting you on the shoulder.
the two of you part ways in the lobby with tired little bows and promises to text that neither of you will have the energy to follow through on. that is, unless she makes you her savior for the night — minju always ends up at that soap club in itaewon on thursdays and saturdays.
you end up where you always do after late shifts: behind the office building, beside the humming vending machines, near the rusted staircase where somebody once tried to grow tomatoes in cracked plastic buckets. they’re now full of cigarette butts and bitterness, courtesy of the distressed interns.
the city sounds different back here.
muffled; like seoul is speaking through its teeth.
you crouch beside the wall and pull the small tin from your bag.
“i brought tuna today,” you announce quietly.
nothing. not that you expected otherwise.
the lid peels back with a soft metallic snap, steam rising faintly into the cold air.
“the expensive kind, too,” you add. “so if you don’t show up soon, i’m taking it personally.”
silence.
for the past three months, this had been your arrangement with the stray cat you named lily, short for spider lily the third: you spoke, she listened. neither of you made yourselves fully visible.
you first heard of her during winter, after director park casually mentioned seeing cat prints in fresh snow leading toward a wall, and then vanishing. the lounge was in chaos that day, the main theory was that it climbed like spider-man — hence, spider lily the third. lee offered that it might’ve just tiptoed away. cho saying it may have been swooped up and eaten by a bird scared you enough that you went around back to leave out salmon and prayers of safety.
since then, the bowls always emptied overnight.
sometimes the food disappeared while you were still there, always when you’ve said your goodbyes and turned to leave. you’d give one final glance to the dark corner and whatever you left out is gone. though whenever you looked up, the alley remained empty. she was like a bored and introverted landlord waiting for you to pay rent and leave.
you stopped questioning it after the second week. seoul was exhausting enough without interrogating every strange little thing it handed you.
you place the tin carefully beside the wall.
“rough day?” you ask the darkness. for a moment, all you hear is the buzz of lights overhead and the harmony of night traffic.
then — a soft scrape.
your breath catches immediately, eyes darting toward the shadows beneath the staircase. thinking this might finally be the day.
but there’s nothing there.
still, you smile anyway.
“yeah,” you sigh, taking off your hat that was now askew, and pulling your knees against your chest. “me too.”
rainwater drips softly from somewhere, and you hope lily doesn’t get wet. or maybe she’s one of those weird cats that actually enjoy the rain, you wouldn’t put it past her. you wonder briefly what lily must look like, is she fluffy and big? maybe she’s tiny, with short fur. is she white, black, grey? regardless, you know she’d never need retouching.
you stare out toward the alley mouth, watching headlights smear across wet pavement. “i think i’m happy here,” your admission is so hesitant that you start to wonder if you even mean it, but who are you kidding? it’s just you and the cat.
you run your fingers through your hair, quieter this time. “which i think is embarrassing.”
your laugh leaves in a puff of white, do cats even get embarrassed? they don’t even speak korean, unless maybe trained to do so. after months of one-sided conversations, could lily understand you?
“back home, everyone kept acting like seoul was going to eat me alive. and maybe it is.” you glance down at your hands. “but i don’t know. sometimes i think i’d let it.”
the vending machine hums louder, probably telling you to just get a damn milk soda and quit talking to yourself like some crazy cat lady.
“is that weird?”
silence. for a minute, or three.
you lick your lips, about to give into the taunts of the vending machine and head back to the subway station.
then, somewhere deeper in the dark, for the first time, you hear her:
mrrrow.
it’s small and raspy, but close. director park owes you lunch.
“yeah,” your smile softens, nodding your head. “thought so.”
another thing that surprised you about seoul is how awkward it felt, the ancient and old jostling with the modern and new.
it's like if you made your brainrotted baby cousin hang out with mister kim; not uncomfortably, but not very respectful either. the image is funny, and the layout itself is even funnier.
well, it was funny at first; but now it makes you a little sad.
it's a city of thousand-year-old burial grounds and cryptocurrency billboards; of yukjo-geori and lotte world tower; of screaming train brakes and silent temples; of preservation without much patience. it's a city alive in the same way a cicada shell still technically looked like something living after the creature itself had already climbed out.
even the highly-acclaimed historical palaces are just replicas of what once was.
you sighed louder than necessary whenever you walked by another courtyard reduced to a restaurant selling seven-thousand won salt bread and matcha tiramisu to couples too busy photographing the desserts to eat them fresh. you hate how old you sound, you love seoul, but you hate even more how such an ancient land pretends to be younger than you are.
that may be why seoul time gets weird at night.
other than the lack of your boss threatening to have your head with every second lost. it’s like the seconds float off like stars in the sky — or blinking subway lamps, that works too.
usually you’re accustomed, just sleeping the minutes away while listening to some montell fish, but the city center isn’t the only thing cut in half from eonju to dangsan. your half-hour ride feels more like fifteen minutes, and — even weirder — your ten-minute line 2 ride from dangsan to hongdae feels like twenty.
you check your phone again, with a bit more irritation this time, and no, there are no time jumps or anomalies in the continuum. maybe you just didn’t add enough songs to your playlist. maybe you just woke up on the wrong side of the bed and you need another pick-me-up from mister kim. your sigh fogs up the glass, and you’re reminded of how chilly it gets, too.
the sounds of culture and art are already greeting you as you leave hongik station on foot.
afrobeats blasts from one direction and some 80s trot from the other. the gimmicky shamanic & tarot café glows a brighter red tonight — as if closed spiritual practices and overpriced coffee belonged anywhere near each other. but that was the charm of hongdae’s red road.
R3 blinked weakly from a sign overhead. traffic lights pulsed. people crossed streets. someone laughed too loudly into a phone. cigarette smoke curled lazily upward into the neon haze. and through the center of it all, you were smiling down at the goblin mascot painted below your feet — you’re not sure if it’s kkaesun or kkaebi, but you know you personally identified with it.
its chubby face beamed up at you, looking like it was about to destroy the big bowl of rice in its hand. you debate doing the same.
like every night, you promise you’re just passing through, but, like every night, you’re already five — maybe closer to ten minutes through a rack of trousers, all smelling like old fabric softener and someone else’s life. a little doll in a red dress was strung over the door, the only thing keeping you company other than the tired nineteen year old working the register.
“ooh, is that chanel—”
you hook your fingers into what you were hoping was grail, and it looks promising. structured shoulders, clean stitching, the kind of jacket that would absolutely get stolen from set if you left it unattended for more than four seconds.
you tug it free, already mentally negotiating whether your salary can survive another “investment piece,” because of course even secondhand clothes cost more than a meal, when your gaze drifts to the mirror at the back wall.
it’s bordered with swirling wood, dusty in a way that makes everything inside it look slightly delayed. you squint, and it’s like the room is happening a second too slow to be trusted or maybe you’re moving too fast? in that smear of reflection, for just a fraction of a moment — you think you see her.
an older woman, with a strangely familiar purple hat.
not browsing, not shifting weight, not doing anything that would justify being there in a moving, breathing thrift store with kitschy peeling posters. she’s just.. positioned near the rear corner like she had been placed there on purpose and forgotten.
your brain tries to correct it immediately — lighting, angle, fatigue, hongdae air doing whatever it does to people like you who don’t get enough sleep. but the detail refuses to dissolve fast enough to feel safe.
you turn your head to ask.
there’s nothing there except coats swaying slightly from someone brushing past, empty space between racks, hangers clicking softly, laughing at you for actually looking. and beside you, the girl at the register lets out a small, distracted chuckle at something on her phone, completely unaware of whatever just happened in your peripheral vision.
and you stand there, brows pinched together for a moment, before you swallow it down like it never occurred.
instead, you end up at the counter with two plastic bags hooked over your arm — a mix of dark baby tees, something lace-adjacent you swear was “practically vintage” that you would surely rub in yoon’s face next week, and a balconette bra you talked down to half price out of sheer principle, and the love of the game.
after another five minutes, you now have three bags, the third full of fresh strawberries, green onions, red apples, and, tucked at the bottom like contraband, three dozen of mister kim’s favorite caramel bars.
your flats hit the pavement outside with the confidence of someone pretending they aren’t just about ready to drop yet. hongdae air greets you again — colder, louder — like it never stopped talking while you were inside. and you could’ve sworn the same person’s been singing karaoke since you got here.
home is that way.
you shift the bags, already thinking about the way mister kim will squint his little eyes at you like he’s reading a headline off your face before you even speak. what story he’ll decide to give you tonight. whether it’ll be one of his youth stories, or one of his half-remembered people who may or may not still exist outside his shop counter.
did he fix the sign like he said he would this morning? you hope he didn’t. you actually kinda like it crooked.
your gaze stays low as you walk, the rhythm of your steps syncing with the unending conversation of red road behind you. everything feels normal in that soft, slightly surreal way that it always does at this hour — like seoul is letting you pass through it instead of holding you inside it. you take the usual cut, slipping into the road near exit 9, expecting the homey stretch of sleepy blue glow waiting just beyond the bend.
but the blue doesn’t come.
instead, you see red.
not in color; not in signage or neon or lanterns or anything that belongs to hongdae at night. this is deeper. denser.
it’s a kind of red that’s weighted, wrong, and persistent. the same red that might just be draining from your face right now.
you shiver and stop in your tracks before you fully give yourself permission to, which sent the man walking behind you nearly stumbling into your back, shoving your shoulder as he sent you an incredulous glare. “yah, are you crazy? watch where you’re going!” his voice drowned out as he stumbled forward, and you couldn’t see his face, no.
your gaze was fixed on his shoes, and the sickening squelch. squelch. squelch. as he stepped in the red. it was sticky, it was thick, it was human. it was blood, and there was a body, and —
“is there something on my feet?” the man whines again, scratching the back of his neck like the situation is about him, and you felt the blood and the bile rise up to your face all at once; you wanted to scream in his fucking face because WHY the fuck is he stumbling over an injured person, acting like they’re not even there. what the fuck is wrong with people?
what the fuck is wrong with you? you need to move, to help, you need —
the rustling sound of your bags dropping to the ground don’t even register, nor does the sound of your knees following, and you swallow up the sickening, terrifying feeling that you’re going to throw up as your jeans sink into the wet, sticky mess. all you see is red, and even that starts to blur as wetness wells up in your eyes. fuck.
you’re grabbing them, gently, at least trying to be, fingers slipping slightly against the wet weight of what was once a baby blue button down as your brain refuses to fully process what your eyes are seeing.
“hello? hello — are you— can you hear me? please,” you choke out, voice already cracking in places it shouldn’t be cracking. you don’t even know if they’re conscious enough to hear you, but talking feels like the only thing keeping you from dissolving.
you try checking their — her? pulse, forcing your violently shaking fingers to still as you brush the person’s long curls, damp and sticky and matted with their own blood, and press against where you think the pulse should be felt. and nothing. no. no. no.
you reach again, slower this time, forcing your hands to behave like they belong to someone competent, someone trained, someone who does not currently feel like their skull is splitting right open from adrenaline.
and you almost sob when you feel the skin shift and beat beneath your fingers. fuck. okay. okay.
“okay—okay—okay,” you whisper under your breath, less reassurance, more command to yourself than the person. a car passes too close. not slowing. not looking. wind cuts through you both like you’re part of the street furniture and not something actively happening.
and, as if it were comedic timing, or divine punishment, someone brushes by a bit too close, about to walk right past, as if two bloody figures crumpled down on a busy street was an easy thing to miss. your shoulder jerks as she clips you, the pain flashing white.
“oh! oh my god, i’m so sorry! i-i genuinely didn’t see—” she turns back mid-step, eyes widening as if the situation so fucking conveniently only becomes visible once language is assigned to it.
this time, you do scream.
“FUCK! what the fuck! what the FUCK is wrong with you fucking people!? do you have no fucking soul, huh?! piece of fucking shit!” you lash out, half in fury and half in hysteria, neck nearly snapping with how fast you turn to look at the wide-eyed girl, and you almost feel bad; the shame colors her face like it was an honest mistake.
“there is a person,” you breathe, shallowly now, “fucking — BLEEDING right in front of you, and y-you just,” you’re sniffling, like a little bitch, and swallowing hard; you almost miss the realization dawning on her face, like the person on the ground had also, conveniently, just appeared to her out of nowhere. she offers to call an ambulance, which you ignore as the head in your hands starts to stir.
fuck. fuck fuck fuck.
you zone right back in as they — he, definitely a he — he lets out a pained groan, his jaw straining as he tries to move his head, and you try not to panic all over again
“hi!” you start, trying to hold enough sunshine for the both of you, “i’m gonna — gonna move you, okay?” your voice spikes higher than you intend, breaking on the last word as your arms adjust under him, locking in a way that shouldn’t really work, but it does.
something in your shoulder is screaming in delayed horror — but your brain refuses to negotiate. he’s heavier than you — of fucking course he’s heavier than you, and way more than your panic accounted for, but somehow he still moves when you shove upward, boots scraping uselessly against the pavement. and it’s something. something is good. something isn’t useless.
you don’t even process that the man is nearly six feet tall, or the fact that you’re carrying him like a sack of mom’s rice flour on pure terror and adrenaline alone — just instinct, just motion, just get him off the fucking ground before another car comes and doesn’t miss.
“just— stand. please stand,” you’re saying it like a prayer now, like bargaining, like a spell of strength, and you briefly consider running to that shaman café. his weight shifts once, unsteady, and you almost collapse with relief before it even stabilizes.
his head lolls forward slightly, breath catching in a way that makes your stomach turn.
then — barely. a breath.
and then his voice, cracked and wrong and far too calm for someone currently bleeding into your sleeves. “what.. hyeonnam is this?”
you freeze so abruptly your grip nearly fails, mind stuttering on the word like it doesn’t belong in any language you know. “what?” it comes out sharper than you mean, disbelieving, and you’re already scanning his half-bloodied face, bruised cheek, a cut lip, a brow piercing? looking for something, anything, to indicate any brain damage.
his fingers twitch against your wrist like he’s trying to confirm you’re real. like you’re the blood red anomaly, and it frustrates and pains you all at once as you successfully manage to nudge him onto the sidewalk. this man —
“this feeding town,” he mutters, like he’s trying to place something that keeps slipping out of reach. his expression shifts in fragments — confusion, offense, then something faintly unsettled — and it makes your head feel worse, not better. at all.
“why is it so loud.” he slurs. and you make a sound that is not language. something between a choke and a malfunction.
“i — what?? no — what feeding town??” your voice cracks upward again, snappier than it would for an injured human being, but you’re already on edge, and the very person you were trying to help was NOT helping you.
“this is hongdae,” you speak louder, more annunciated, more heated, as if communicating with a toddler who only knew half your vocabulary. “this is SEOUL. this is a street. you, sir, are injured. why are you asking me about feeding towns??”
he tries to lift his head again like the answer might be written in the air above you. instead he sways, and you tighten again, so violently that your fingers go numb. “you’re above,” he says slowly, like he’s tasting the concept. “that’s not supposed to—”
“NO,” you interrupt immediately, nearly shaking him, wherever he was going with that, you did not want to hear it. “don’t— don’t do that,” you snap, panic spilling into more frustration because you don’t have space for anything else. “don’t start saying cryptic dying-man things, okay?” you glance down at the situation that caked both your clothes and arms;
and you nearly throw up in his face.
“you’re bleeding. you’re literally— you’re leaking. you’re fucking soaking. we are doing survival first and whatever hyeonnam is, NEVER.”
his brow furrows like he’s offended by your tone more than the fact that he is, in fact, collapsing. which would almost be funny if you weren’t actively trying not to pass out.
behind him, automatic doors to a CU chime, a soft ding that makes his entire body tense like it means something you don’t understand.
the sickness is twisting further around your stomach. you cannot vomit. you cannot vomit. please do not fucking vomit.
tears are still pricking your eyes as around you, the street keeps fucking moving. it’s cruel , so cruel how it seemingly refuses to pause even during something so fucking dire?
someone laughs into a phone. a bike passes. a couple steps neatly into the space where his blood touches the curb without adjusting their pace at all.
squelch.
squelch.
squelch.
are you going crazy?
“don’t — they can’t see—”
“SEE WHO?” you shriek, causing a passerby to finally fucking notice you two again, as they awkwardly shuffle past. “WHO the FUCK is them?? there’s NO THEM, there’s —”
your sentence collapses halfway as his knees buckle again, dragging your focus back into his weight, his reality, the fact that he is still here and still not okay.
“there’s just you and me, and you are currently losing your body weight in BLOOD, please—”
his hand clamps weakly onto your shoulder, not grounding or comforting — but like he’s checking you are actually there, even when he’s clearly not fully there either. then his voice drops, fractured and oddly distant again, as if he’s slipping sideways inside himself.
“you.. smell like sparrow.”
.
you stop completely.
not because that specific jumble of letters and words mean anything to you — it doesn’t, no matter how hard you try — but because your brain simply refuses to continue processing input for a full second. your expression goes blank in a way that feels almost violent after everything that came before it,
like your system has finally hit its limit and chosen shutdown over comprehension.
he sways, and you instinctively adjust your grip again, but slower now, like something in you has shifted and is trying to decide what kind of emergency this is supposed to be — or just because you’re fighting the urge to rattle him for answers.
“what?” there’s no rise in tone this time. no panic. just exhaustion trying to imitate sanity.
his eyes flicker, unfocused again, and for a moment he looks less like he’s leaving and more like he’s being pulled somewhere you can’t see. “can’t,” he murmurs, almost apologetic, like that answers anything. but regardless, he’s fucking leaving.
leaving you with nothing but stinky, blood-soaked clothes, a throbbing head and unanswered questions.
maybe some trauma, too.
your throat tightens, and the scent only thickens. “hospital,” you try again after a deep gulp, softer now, like maybe volume was the problem all along.
he gives a faint, uneven smile that makes your breathing hurt for a bit. “i’ll be okay,” he murmurs, like it’s already decided. “just, tell the cat i said hi.”
footsteps.
silence.
the hum of a distant train.
the air feels wrong without his weight in it, like something has been removed from reality and no one bothered to tell the rest of the scene. your hands are still half-raised, still remembering pressure that isn’t there anymore. you take a deep breath, and another, and another, until you start to feel real again.
real.
that was not real.
you blink, once, twice, thrice, and the sound returns gradually, and now everyone walking by has collectively decided to start looking at you again. but there’s still blood on your legs, and soaking your forearms, and under your fingernails. it’s real.
it’s real?
they don’t disappear, no matter how hard you squeeze your eyelids. neither does the knocking from deep inside your skull. nor the swirling sickness in your stomach, the bile, the blood, the —
you spill your guts out on the street, and all over your comme des garçons.
