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@waleriqww
i honestly didn’t expect anyone to like grindhouse but seeing people follow it brought my motivation back (also i’m not really reading lookism anymore. i can’t keep up with the new chapters…)
💬 2 🔁 1 ❤️ 65 · my main motivation for writing Grindhouse is actually to break out of the mold. we all know Gun as someone who’s a bit dis
Heyy are you okay? How's everything going?
honestly everything went upside down but im okay. a lot has changed since the day i left this app oh my god… have i really been gone for more than six months?? i hope you missed me. im back to write Grindhouse. did I talk too much?? sorry… long story short, im okay and i missed this app
does anyone remember me?? hahahajah i dont think so but im BACK
hey guys… sorry for the delay with Grindhouse episode 3. things have been really heavy here lately for the past month, there’ve been protests against the government, university students are being thrown in jail and today we were hit by a massive earthquake. i’ll share the story with you when i get the chance, but honestly, it feels like we’re standing at the edge. Political Islam is killing Turkiye… i hate how people use religion to manipulate others. anyway take care of yourselves, okay?
my main motivation for writing Grindhouse is actually to break out of the mold. we all know Gun as someone who’s a bit distant, not exactly good with women, far from settled relationships and someone who doesn’t have the luxury of loving someone. maybe that’s true, maybe it’s not but in this story i want to break some of those norms
Grindhouse Part 1 Part 2
GRINDHOUSE
Part 1 Part 2
“What do you say, wouldn’t it make for a nice evening?” your friend drones on while you stare vacantly at the papers in front of you. It’s been two days since your hospital visit, and you still haven’t managed to dig up anything substantial on your prospective patient. It’s as if someone deliberately wiped him past clean. The thought is driving you mad. You’re running on two hours of sleep. All you’ve got on him are tabloid headlines and the fact that a businessman named Charles Choi has taken credit for those crimes. Every murder he’s supposedly committed remains unresolved. It sparks an insatiable curiosity in you. You pick up your car keys again and again, remind yourself to behave, then gently set them back down.
“Y/N. Hey, are you even listening?” your friend raises her voice. You startle and turn to face her. She look at you in surprise for a moment, then blurt out “For God’s sake, what’s wrong with your eyes?” Her gaze lingers uncomfortably on your face, so you avert your eyes and fix her on something else.
“Don’t you dare tell me you spent all night researching that guy” she say, leaning back and taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry… he’s a crime machine. I only found out by chance in the paper this morning.”
Your eyes go wide and you hiss in frustration.
“So what,” you snap with a bitter laugh, “you sent me to some guy you know nothing about?”
“I didn’t know, I swear” she raise her hands in surrender. “Look, you can back out anytime.”
“For God’s sake, this isn’t even a case you’re qualified to handle. It’s outside your field, and if you slip up and things go legal, you won’t stand a chance. He needs someone more professional. A psychiatrist.” you say. Guilt flashes across her face under the weight of your words, and she fall silent. You draw in a deep breath and murmur to yourself, “I thought I’d dealt with every killer thanks to you, now I’m about to handle one myself.”
You haven’t been able to shake these thoughts for two days. Of course, the only solid fact you have is that the patient you’re supposed to treat allegedly committed a run of the mill murder and laundered money. But standing in front of you is someone who uses his body and, more importantly, his mind as a weapon. He exudes an energy so different you’re not sure you can handle it.
When you sit down at that table today, you’re jittery. But it’s not just nerves: it’s fear implanted deep in your psyche. Before you entered that room, warnings about his danger had burrowed into the corners of your mind, whispering that you must stay alert for any attack. That’s why you feel so on edge. Your training taught you this much.
Yet the real test begins the moment you open the door and step inside. You’re still tense when you sit down, your body is afraid even if your mind isn’t ready to admit it. Then he lifts his head and meets your gaze, and your fear dissolves into plain apprehension. It’s strange. Even when you speak, you sense that if he has a hypnotic trance ability, he’s chosen not to use it on you. He prefers conversation. Maybe it unsettles you so much because you left that room physically and mentally unscathed.
According to Mr. Choi, every doctor who’s sat at that table suffers mental damage; none of them remember events clearly, and they recall that entire time as a blank. But you remember everything. Every detail is etched into your mind as if recorded for posterity: his facial features, the knife scar above his eyes, the blunt way he speaks, even the tiny wounds on his lip. Why didn’t he use that same technique on you? Why, unlike everyone else, did he allow you to leave with your memory intact? Perhaps you’re overthinking. Maybe it’s simply that you can’t imagine someone so adept at gestures and expressions being mentally ill. Even though you haven’t been part of his treatment, you’ve witnessed countless patients and mental disorders.
You don’t know how long you stayed over those files, or how many times you Googled “Park Jong Gun.” When you finally look up from the papers, it’s already three in the afternoon. You have to get ready to leave, but you’re bone‑tired.
Before you find your office, you stop in the kitchen to brew a bitter coffee, hoping it will wake you up. As you place the mug on the counter and head back, your friend emerges from the bathroom, towel wrapped around their head, phone in hand. The moment she see you, her lips part, and one hand goes back to pat down damp hair.
“Choi texted” she say, twisting her hair absently “He says thanks, and by the way, didn’t you give him your number? He asked whether you’d show up.”
“Oh, I completely forgot,” you say, rubbing your forehead.
Time is running late, so you dash through a quick shower, dress, and head out without another thought. Your friend is cooking, warning that you’ll pass out if you go hungry. She offer you a snack, but you plant a quick kiss on her cheek and slip out the door. The drive is agonizing. You feel like you’ll get sick from stress. You turn on the radio to calm down, but even your favorite band’s best song does nothing. You’re still on edge, still consumed by anxiety. A bitter taste lingers in your mouth, like mud. Your stomach knots in a way you can’t ignore and you regret not eating when you had the chance.
“I’m here to see Mr. Choi.” you say to one of the nuns at the entrance. “Is he in his office?”
“Oh yes,” she replies, setting down a tray, “Please, go right in. He’s expecting you.”
You smile and follow her gesture down the hallway, expecting to see patients in the corridors—but they’re all in their rooms. Passing a few doors, you hear screams that make you shiver, but you force yourself to stay calm. At last you reach the familiar door. You nod to the nun, who steps away. You knock and wait. When you hear a voice from inside, you slip in and greet Mr. Choi, who’s standing to welcome you.
“Dr. Y/N,” he says eagerly. “I thought you wouldn’t come.”
“Hello…” you reply with a faint smile. “I needed to do thorough research before coming. I apologize for the delay.”
“Oh no,” he says, eyes gleaming, “It’s your job. I should be the one apologizing for doubting you.”
“Then,” you say with a laugh, “May I?”
“Of course, please,” he says, motioning you toward the door with his left hand. His expensive watch catches your eye. You nod gratefully and step into the corridor with him. As you pass each corner, you realize you’ve already committed every twist and turn to memory—as if you’ve worked here for years and could navigate alone without his help.
The corridor feels icy compared to the waiting room. Your palms are soaked with sweat, and a cold dampness trickles down your back, soaking the back of your shirt. Unnoticed, you brush your forehead with the back of your hand and fix your gaze on the path ahead. When you arrive at his door, Director Choi says, “I’ll leave you here,” and walks away without looking back. Your hand finds the doorknob, and you hesitate should you turn it? You stand there, weighing your options, until a sudden surge of courage prompts you to push it open and slip inside.
The room is even colder than the corridor. He stands there exactly as you left him, hands folded in front.
“Welcome, Doctor.”
His head is bowed, yet he speaks as if he sees you standing there. It’s unnerving. You shiver. He even chuckles softly, as though this moment has been rehearsed.
“Are you cold?” he asks, lifting his head to meet your eyes. His hair, longer and slicked back since you last saw him, frames a face that never blinks. When he finally does blink, you notice how his lashes move as one unit in a fraction of a second.
“If you’re cold, we can warm up” he offers.
“You must be cold,” you reply with a smirk. “Since you asked.”
“I am cold” he says, deadpan.
His unexpected honesty throws you off. You want to think he’s mocking you, but his tone is sincere. The room is frigid, the corridor just as much. The chill of your shirt pressed against your skin sends waves through your body. He’s been trapped in this icy cell for days, yet you suspect it’s not the room that chills him. Just like his handsome face contrasts with his crimes.
“I requested that they remove the handcuffs,” you say, trying to change the subject. But a sharp pang stabs at you. Are you really here to work with a killer? “Looks like my request was denied.”
“Oh,” he laughs, showing you the scars on his lips, “Handcuffs, you say? How did I earn this trust?”
“There’s no trust here,” you say, denying it outright. “I’m simply trying to build a bridge for effective communication.”
“But they don’t agree with you, Doctor,” he says, grinning as he shakes his head. “They won’t even take me to the bathroom. If you want them to do anything for you next time, ask for the litter box. Someone’s bound to soil this place.”
“Then,” you say, forcing yourself to ignore the pain in your chest, “they don’t feed you either, right?”
“I wouldn’t want to disappoint you,” he replies, rolling his tongue, “but the service here is zero.”
His words strike your conscience. You force your face to remain impassive. There’s a killer in front of you but your mind is consumed by the staff’s cruelty.
“Anyway,” you say, pulling a couple of files from your briefcase, “let’s begin.”
“Ah yes,” he says, leaning forward, “but tell me Doctor, does any of this feel right to you? Look at me.. am I anything like them?”
You pause and wait, watching his next move. He leans in as far as the handcuffs allow, adrenaline and stress ratcheting up your heartbeat until you hear it pounding in your ears.
“Do you think” he murmurs, tapping his handcuffs against his head, “this place is more complicated than all those pictures you’ll show me?”
He fixes his gaze on you, inches from your face. You can feel every contour of your skin under his stare.
“You’re beautiful.”
His words catch you off guard. Your eyes widen, your lips part. You watch him bite his lip as if tasting the words he just spoke.
“If you let me kiss you now,” he whispers, tilting your chin toward his lips, voice thick with desire, “I’d lock these bars myself, and leave the key between your fingers… who knows?”
There’s barely three and a half centimeters between you. You feel his warm breath on your lips like an alarm in your head. You don’t move, God knows why. If he’d given you a chance to step back, you might have left your heart on that table and run. His lips so close, you can’t think straight. He inches closer still.
You steel yourself, but the ringing in your ears grows louder, and he asks, “How can you be so beautiful?”
You’re frozen. Completely frozen. You’re rooted to the spot, unable to move a muscle. The session has gone off course, and you haven’t even touched your files. Your thoughts aren’t about therapy anymore. They’re about the ringing in your ears, the distance between you and his scarred chest, the warmth of his lips. You’re thinking of the red in his lashes instead of the blood that once dried there, of the perfect arch of his brows instead of the cut beneath them. You’re focused on the veins swelling from his wrists rather than the cuffs that caused them.
You don’t know what happens next. Summoning the last ounce of courage you have left, you pull back and furrow your brow. He watches you, his half smile deepening.
You leap to your feet so fast the chair scrapes across the floor, echoing through the empty room. You don’t break eye contact as you stand. You spin and fling the door open, every movement under his intense scrutiny, then rush into the corridor without losing your composure.
“Could someone come in here, please?” your voice slices through the silent hallway like a bullet. It’s not long before a guard appears, baton in hand, sprinting from the corridor’s end, breathless as he reaches you.
“Is something wrong, Ms. Y/N?” he pants.
“Oh..” you say, forcing a smile to ease his concern “I just need one thing.”
“I’m listening, ma’am,” he says, catching his breath.
“I’d like the key to that patient’s handcuffs,” you say, smiling faintly. “I assume you have it.”
“But Ms. Y/N,” he replies, suspicion and worry etched on his face, “He’s a convict. I don’t have the authority for that.”
“It’s part of his treatment,” you say, still smiling. “Before I leave, I’ll speak with Mr. Choi. Don’t worry, I won’t put you in a bind.”
He hesitates, studying you with doubt. Then he exhales deeply and, from the keyring at his belt, produces a small key and hands it over reluctantly.
“Here you go” he says.
You take it with a quiet “Thank you” and watch him disappear down the corridor. Then you slip back into the room and meet the man’s eyes again, he’s sitting exactly where you left him. He watches you, trying to anticipate your next move, glancing often at the door behind you. He must suspect you called someone. You step forward closer and closer until you’re standing at his feet, just as you did when you brought him water days ago. He watches, curious, as you crouch beside him.You place your hand gently on his handcuffs, and your nerves tingle from the contact. It’s as if his energy pulses through you, sending a shock to your brain. Without hesitation, you insert the key into the lock and turn it. The cuffs fall open with a sharp click, freeing his hands with a satisfying finality.
He never takes his eyes off you he follows every move, every twitch of your face. When you step back, gathering your files, you notice the bruises where the cuffs once bit into his wrists.
“You’re free”
GRINDHOUSE
Part 1 Part 2
The memory of the two of you meeting when Jong Gun was in prison
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, I suggest you get in line. Hey Bobby, spit that candy out right now!” As you quietly walk beside the guard on your left, you make sure not to make eye contact with anything or anyone around you. You’ve already passed the third cell, and this godforsaken place reeks. Ignoring the stench that tickles your stomach is exhausting, and you’re close to cursing your profession as the bile threatens to rise. You keep swallowing frequently to stop yourself from vomiting in front of the guard beside you. It’s been more than two and a half years since you’ve seen a real mental hospital. During this time, you’ve been working in a clinic that barely qualifies as one it’s basically a cramped room. But even that hopeless, lightless space was a million times more bearable than this disgusting-smelling place. At least it gets aired out half an hour before appointments.
“It’s really good that you came, Doctor. Director Choi hasn’t slept in two days Hey, for God’s sake, put your underwear back on, Aldo!”
When the guard suddenly turns around and yells, you pretend not to notice the tall, burly man walking unsteadily down the hall, completely naked from the waist down.
“Sorry, what was I saying? Oh, right! Mr. Choi… This whole thing must’ve shaken him. He hasn’t slept in about two days. Neither have Sister Lee and the Chaplain. They think the boy is possessed by a demon. I’m not a religious person, but I’ve been praying for days. May the gods help us.” As you’re distracted by the man clawing at a wooden table with his nails, your attention shifts from the guard talking beside you. Your eyes involuntarily lock onto the man. His nails scrape the wooden surface with a grating sound, and blood drips from his nail beds down to his fingertips. But he doesn’t seem to feel the pain. He’s muttering to himself, shaking his head as if he forgets what he’s saying, then leaning harder onto the table and scratching more violently. Instinctively, your steps lead you to his table to stop him.
“Ms. Y/N, this way, please.”
The guard’s firm voice makes you pause. Your gaze shifts to him. The stern look on his face, his furrowed brows, is a clear warning: do not interfere. This is the kind of place where you can’t touch even a regular patient without permission. With that awareness, your eyes linger on the man once more. You sigh and return to the guard waiting a few steps away. You can’t even remember the last time you saw a real mental hospital. Let’s be honest you’ve never even treated a real psychiatric patient in your life. You’re a marriage and family therapist. Even your training was molded by a system too comfortable to care about actual patients. This job isn’t for you. And God knows, even you have no idea what the hell you’re doing here.
At the end of the cells, a wave of cold air hits your skin, making you shiver. This corridor doesn’t reek like the last one, which is good. The man next to you is saying something, but your mind is elsewhere. Report structure, next appointment… If you can get out of here without catching hepatitis, you should compile your report and set a time. But the first real thought that crosses your mind? Finding the friend who referred you to this hospital and murdering them.
“Director Choi is waiting inside, Ms. Y/N. Please, this way.”
You exchange a brief glance with the door ahead. Following the guard’s direction, you knock. You wait for a response, but the command you expect comes late. You turn to the guard, but he has already turned around and headed back toward the cells. Just as you open your mouth to call after him, a short “enter” comes from inside. You slowly open the door and slip inside. As your profession demands, you should appear confident—but your shoulders are already slumped. The room is stifling. Clearly a place that hasn’t seen sunlight in a long time. When you make eye contact with the man dozing with his head in his hands, you bow in greeting. He straightens immediately, adjusts his posture.
“Hello, sir. I’m Y/N. I was referred here,” you say.
His expression changes, and he smiles with satisfaction, reaching out with both hands to shake yours.
“Hello, Ms. Y/N. I’ve been expecting you. Please, have a seat.”
You sit where he gestures and observe the man standing. He’s tall, thin—maybe in his early fifties. He’s wearing a white shirt and classic dress pants that end at the ankles. He apologizes for a quick phone call, then asks for two coffees. He even pulls the phone away to ask how you take yours.
“I’m grateful you came, Ms. Y/N,” he says as he ends the call. “Believe me, thousands of patients have passed through these cells, but this… This is the first time I’ve seen anything like this.”
He rolls up his shirt sleeves to the wrists. You meet his eyes. With a tense smile, he pulls a file from the drawer. His voice, like his gestures, is tight. He takes a shaky breath and continues speaking.
“Three different specialists came. All three fled that room in a panic. This… how should I put it…”
He pauses for a moment.
“I haven’t used this word in years, but this is a terrifying case. You’re the best in your field—I’m not afraid to say it, Ms. Y/N. I haven’t slept in two days. I don’t know what it’s called in your profession, but I can say I was psychologically harassed. If I didn’t know he wasn’t a murderer… I’d think he put me in a hypnotic trance.”
“A hypnotic trance?” you ask curiously.
“Yes. A hypnotic trance. I don’t know what happened in that room. Nothing is clear. Not the conversations, not the expressions… You can’t imagine how hard I’ve tried to remember after that session, Ms. Y/N. But I can’t recall a thing. It’s like someone opened my head and stirred the inside with a spoon.”
His pupils are dilated, his voice trembling. He’s scared—seriously scared. You’re about to say something when a knock interrupts. A woman enters, sets the tray down, quietly places the coffee, and leaves.
“Inducing a hypnotic trance isn’t all that difficult, Mr. Choi. Don’t let that scare you. Anyone trained in the technique can do it. Controlling the brain takes effort, but the person you’re talking about must be very knowledgeable. Is there any issue with me speaking to him?”
As you place the coffee cup back down, Mr. Choi shakes his head.
“Your friend worked at this hospital. I know her well. I have no doubt you’re capable, but I hope this doesn’t overwhelm you, Ms. Y/N. The issues with that man’s mind are far more serious than anyone else in these cells.”
You nod and stand. The Director stands with you. He gestures, and you begin to walk with him. As you proceed down the corridor, heading away from the cells confuses you. Realizing he’s in a different section makes you furrow your brows. You pass through a door with a transparent curtain. At the end of the corridor is a locked room. As you approach, the tense aura presses on your gut, but you try to stay calm.
You continue until you stop in front of that locked door.
“This way,” says Director Choi. The guard trailing behind you steps closer with equally nervous steps. You try to maintain your composure as the tension clings to your skin. As the guard unlocks the cell, you hope he doesn’t fumble the job. When the door opens, Director Choi makes no move to enter. The guard turns and disappears. You frown and swallow involuntarily.
“His hands are cuffed. He hasn’t attacked anything yet.”
It sounds like he’s saying he doesn’t want to go in. You give a slight nod. You don’t want to go in either—not one bit.As you step inside, a tickle forms in your throat, but to avoid revealing your anxiety, you suppress the urge to cough, pressing your tongue to your palate. As the door opens, Mr. Choi stays behind, and you enter alone.
He’s right there in front of you. Head bowed, cuffed hands resting on the table. Strands of hair fall over his face, casting a shadow on his eyes. You can’t tell whether they’re open or closed probably closed. He’s wearing a plain shirt, buttoned all the way up to the crease on the sleeve. If not for the cuffs and the rumors, you could mistake him for someone high-ranking. Killers don’t wear neatly ironed clothes.
“Welcome.”
You were lost in observing him. The closing door startles you. The soft chuckle filling the room unsettles you, and your feet freeze in place. You’re not sure if he’s noticed you watching, but you feel observed. You remain composed, take a few steps, and decide to approach the table. His tan hands twitch, then rub together. His head remains bowed, and it unsettles you more than it should. You try not to notice how fast your heart is racing.
“Not going to speak, Doctor?” he says in a layered voice. You place your hands on your legs and take a shaky breath. You don’t want to stutter. You choose your words carefully.
“I’m Y/N. They told me inside that you need help.”
He laughs. Nods slightly, then lifts his head to meet your eyes. Now you get a better look at his face. You encounter his irises, unusually white pupils, which, rather than adding to his intimidation, seem to be a distinctive element that sets him apart from everyone else. The shadows cast by his hair don’t hide the sharp lines of his features, the shape of his nose, his eyes, his lips you memorize them. He has a beautiful face. Killers are supposed to be dirty. His isn’t. You spot a small mole on his nose and a red scar between his eyes. He runs his tongue between his teeth a few times. You’re struck by the shape of his mouth. You pause. You really wonder, is he even a killer?
“I do need help, Doctor” he says. Tilts his head and watches you. He looks like a small child. He swallows. As he does, a pained expression crosses his face.
“There’s a bit of pain between my legs.”
A child? Forget that.
You ignore the dirty joke.
“Director Choi said you hypnotized him and controlled his mind. Do you have that kind of expertise?” you ask, flatly.
He looks around the room. When he purses his lips, your hands cling to your pants without thinking. He appears thoughtful, then looks back at you.
“Did I do that?” he asks curiously. His voice is childlike, but to you it’s just annoying. You don’t respond. You wait.
“As far as I know, there’s no legal restriction in our country on who can or can’t perform hypnosis.”
Despite your tension, you chuckle a joyless laugh.
“If you’re that knowledgeable, then you should also know that manipulating someone’s mind violates a physician’s professional boundaries” you say.
He leans in, closer to your face. You grip your pants tighter, hold your ground. You’re now face to face. His eyebrows are neat, lashes aligned. His face is sharp and symmetrical.
“Sweating from increased body heat, accelerated heart rate…” He smiles. You hadn’t noticed the sweat until he said it. His breath fans across your face, making him harder to ignore.
“You must be having naughty thoughts to be this excited, Doctor,” he says, grinning. Gets closer.
“Or… You’re not a real doctor.”
His breath grazes your face again before he pulls back. He leans into his chair, watching your stunned expression with amusement. You part your lips and release your grip on your pants.
He keeps watching. You avert your gaze. You try to calm yourself down before you slam the door and walk out.
“Do you have a boyfriend, Doctor?” he asks. You look at him again. He’s still watching. His lips are dry, cracked. That dry? They must not be giving him water.
“I’m not satisfied with the service, Doctor,” he says. He must’ve noticed where you were looking. You quickly meet his gaze again. There’s a warmth there it confuses you even more. You take a deep breath and reach for your bag. He eyes the bottle of water you pull out.
“But you still haven’t answered my question, Doctor.”
You stand, approach him. The closeness triggers him, he studies your every move. You’re tense, but not like when you first entered.
“I’m not obligated to answer personal questions. Especially if the person asking is my patient,” you say. You open the bottle and bring it to his lips. He doesn’t break eye contact as he drinks. A drop trickles down from the corner of his mouth to his chin. You swallow. His lips now have more color. But his damned eyes still haven’t left your face. Your hands tremble as you return the bottle to your bag. You clear your throat.
“How sweet of you to already claim me, Doctor,” he says. You frown, face him.
“You won’t answer personal questions with me that makes me your patient too, doesn’t it?”
Is that what he focused on? He must be obsessed with details. You read a little article somewhere about murderers being detail oriented and symmetry obsessed. Now it gives you goosebumps remembering it.
“If that’s what you’re fixated on, I don’t recall implying that I would treat you,” you say.
He clicks his tongue, the sound echoing in the room. He lifts his gaze, meets yours. Tilts his head slightly to the right, keeps watching.
“Pity, Doctor. I could’ve behaved for you.”
Of course he’s playing. You know if you don’t take this job, your friend will kill you. You know what’ll happen if you object once you’re out of here.
“I think that’s enough for today,” you say, standing. “I have a report to deliver to Mr. Choi.”
He must’ve gotten the message. He smirks. Watches your body as you stand.
“I like you, Doctor.”
As you walk down the corridor, you wipe your forehead with the back of your hand. You’ve just come out of a terrifying session. You breathe easier now than you did inside the room. You wipe the sweat off your neck and shoulders with a tissue from your pocket. When you find Director Choi’s office, he lifts his head from the papers and watches you with curiosity. You drop your bag and speak before reaching for the file.
“In our next session, I want the cuffs removed. Also, I request a pitcher and glass be left in the cell” you say sharply. While he stares at you in shock, your eyes catch the name written in bold ink on the file cover.
7552 – Park Jong Gun
I don't think anyone will read this story, but the fiction suddenly teleported into my mind, so instead of keeping it in my notes, I'm writing it here lol. sorry if I wrote something wrong
gun being a cutie (rare)
drawn by someone who works on the funny animations for ptj's socials!
GUNNNN 🧎😫😫😫🤏💗💓💓💓💞💞💓💗
the fact that they are similar versions of each other scares me a little (except for their life philosophies)
the GD&TOP era was so peak, the goats of club k-pop songs
As a veteran VIP myself it is a crime not to point out this sooner
THATS SO TRUE 😭 … now we need to figure out who Daesung is in lookism
everyone's hair looks different in the new style don't tell me gun will come with long hair (just like his dad)
new art is soo good but you can't tell me they're same person
Hi hi! I just read your Kim gitae relationship headcanons/summary and wow I loved it so much😩pretty please could I have the same thing for gun??🙏🏻
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♯┆character jonggun park x reader ♯┆summary __ in a relationship w you part 4 or wha ♯┆w/c 1.7k ♯┆cw mildly suggestive, body image ♯┆genre fluff + angst, no happiness for bro😭🙏 ♯┆a/n tysm for requesting!! cute theme but there’s nothing cute about this i love this divider why is it adorable 😭 2am, I didn’t edit properly 😭
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⚝・┆ Jonggun loves when you let him rest his head upon your chest, wrapping his arms around you as he basks in the love he never was able to receive while growing up. The warmth of your kisses resonates inside of him, as it allows him to finally lower the guards he was taught to always put up, resting in your arms like a baby. How selfish were this clan to punish a little black kitty like him? How he curls up in your arms and kisses you with a small, playful smile on his lips, you can’t imagine someone doing that to him. Those charcoal eyes that were taught to intimidate and glare with disinterest, showing a hint of sparkle that left you with hope. I’m sorry, Gun. You know it’s not your fault, yet a hint of guilt rests inside you.
⚝・┆ Very traditional. Your wedding will be one of luxury, expensive wine and the sort. He’ll make sure it’s the most grand day of your life, spending it with you with a smile plastered on his face. He showers you with kisses, despite the fact the venue seems to be quite empty. Gun has never had much friends and family, apart from Goo, yet you had the world. It didn’t take long for him to feel jealous that you had so many people to care about, while he lay in the middle of the night with tears and choked sobs, with no contacts on his phone to call. Except yours. You knew he felt this way, you could see it written on his face. Of course you could tell, you were his fiance, no, wife, after all. That’s why you were here to distract him from it all - you wanted to be the person he would call first when he needed it most. The person by his side to the end of his days he spent together with you in happiness.
Perhaps that’s why you said ‘yes’ to that ring, engraved with yours and his initials. Ms. Yamazaki. That name written on your legal documents made you smile. That man, made you smile, cry and laugh everyday.
⚝・┆ Gun reminds you so much of a little black kitty. Black cats are filigrane and intelligent, affectionate yet keep their keen personality, perceptive of their surroundings. They’re good-natured and calm, tolerant of others. Loving and they love to cuddle and play, and are introverted creatures. On the other hand, a black cat is often associated with bad luck, and death. Bad luck, and death. Maybe it was all inevitable. First, his cousin, his dad and his mother. Death runs in the family, so shall he loose you too? Will you also die at the hands of a selfish, idealistic man, too? No, it’s a thought he can’t bear to let occupy his mind anymore, yet there’s nowhere to blow the steam. After all, it’s better not to worry you and silence all these conflicting thoughts. Shoved to the back of his mind, they bubble to the front uninvited, swarming around his head like bees to honey. On a fun note, these cats spend more time in solace and being philosophical. Spending time in solace will stop the bad luck he emits from spreading, right? But then why cant he keep himself away from you. The bad luck he was born with will spread like the plague, just like it did to his family. Knowing this, he loves you too much to let you go. It’s another one of his selfish wishes, isn’t it?
⚝・┆ He wants to experience the world as you see it — stargazing, food, TV shows. Jonggun just wants to see the world with you after struggling with himself for so long. Being born left him with a cruel fate ahead, and he explored what his parents left him with such tears then left him almost apathetic. Life had no meaning left until, cheesy enough, he met you. Gun never fails to remind how much of an impact you’ve had on him, reminding you how much he values you. Just looking at his baby pictures leaves you with a feeling you can’t put into words. Is it guilt, anger or remorse? Why do you feel so guilty you couldn’t be there to shield him from this cruel world? It pains you how inevitable the world is.
⚝・┆ He loves caring for you, making sure you never had to lift a finger. Jonggun never had someone to properly care him mentally as a child, so if he could let you sit back and relax, and treat you how he wished he were treated, he would pour his heart into it all. He’d never want you to experience the loneliness and pure grief he once experienced, even if he’d never admit how much it meant to him.
⚝・┆ Personally I believe he’s a hands-on kind of guy, although he’d never admit it. Delicate kisses upon your lips, hands around you while he stares ever so lovingly into your eyes. His charcoal-like eyes that was made to scrutinise and intimidate, was now experience true love. Love that he’s never experienced like this before, that now he’s willing to comprehend such a new topic, giving it his all if it’s for you. His hands are always resting upon your body, lips always nearing yours as his eyes are practically unable to stop tracking them. When you speak, they watch every parting and shaping as you arrange words, just wanting to shut you up with a passionate kiss. Jonggun just wants to hold you in his arms, feeling your warm breath upon his neck as he tangles his fingers within your hair. Is that so selfish to ask?
⚝・┆To him it’s so strange how he’s so smitten with you. To others, he’d act so cold and secretive, only dispensing bitter stares and passive aggressive gestures with remarks that make anyone furious. When he looks at you, he’s unable to hold back a smile, eyes sparking with the warmth of his heartbeat increasing. Suddenly, he can tolerate the momentum of someone’s endless talking and continuous energy, constant need for attention and the warmth of their body against his own. Jonggun has always hated being touched, yet when it came to you, he can’t even keep himself away.
⚝・┆When he first caught feelings for you, he was the first to deny it. Got so many years he’s learnt to push back these emotions, making way only for the passion of fighting, and your first to not encourage him to do so. You’re the first to kiss him like you mean it, cradle him in your arms while you whisper sweet nothings. It wasn’t long until he caught feelings. And it wasn’t long until he couldn’t accept the truth. When he was around you, he noticed hos heart beating faster than usual, with a feeling he couldn’t just figure out. A smile always snuck upon his lips, however he wouldn’t notice until you’d say his smile is so cute and he should wear it more often, to which he’d blush and cover his face. In the rare occasion your hands would even brush against the others, he wouldn’t help but scowl and face the other way, imagining all types of possibilities. What if he held your hand, how would you react? What if he told you he’s loved you all this time? Loved the way you smile, talk, walk.. would you hate him after that? It’s such a new yet blissful feeling inside him, that he wants to blurt out, but something inside is stopping him - the fear of rejection. The overwhelming looming feeling of you ruthlessly rejecting him stabs him in the heart like a sharp knife.
⚝・┆Jonggun is the type to embrace your every curve, praising your body as if you were a goddess. Let it not be that he finds out you’re insecure about a certain part of your body — stretch marks, the way your hip dips, overweight or underweight, the list continues — because he’ll almost faint from the shock. He loves every part of you, and he wouldn’t change a damn thing about you. So seeing you so hooked on a particular part of your body, wishing you could change yourself, hes frustrated.
His hands run down your body, whispering sweet nothings into your ear.
“I love you, each and every part of you. You’re beautiful. You’re my ideal woman, and I don’t care what anybody else thinks.” Gun whispers into your ear, playfully biting upon it. When his calloused fingers reaches back up to your hips, he pauses. “Please. Don’t tell yourself otherwise. Your beauty is one of Aphrodites.”
“But I hate the way it looks.” You murmur closing your eyes, unable to bear the sight the unforgiving mirror reflects upon you. That body of yours, you hated it. From head to toe, you wished you could be somebody else. Anybody else, and their body would look better than the one so selfishly put on you from birth. Being in this skin made you want to peel it all off, stitching scientifically made plastic onto your skin to be the Marilyn Monroe of your dreams.
Jonggun turns your chin to look at him, cupping your cheek in his hand. “I find you beautiful. I love the way your curves fit in my palm, the way your skin feels against mine, you hear me?”
He turns you around, leading you onto the mattress, positioning himself in between your thighs. Gun’s lands upon your breasts. Your body sinks into the sheets, eyes fixated on his movements. He looks down upon you with an almost sorrowful face, eyebrows curled into one of worry, lips pouting like a dog who can’t find its human. In all honesty, he’s upset. Why can’t you love yourself as much as he loves you? This body of yours is so delicate, that he loves exploring and splaying his hands all over. It’s like a statue made to admire and inspire. Your body is a temple, from head to toe we were all made as perfect. It tears him apart
“There’s so need to be insecure, I love your shoulders..,” they move further down to your hips. “I love the way I can hold onto these when I make love with you. I move the way my hands wrap around you. It’s as if your body was made to fit into my palms.”
“Please,” he begs, placing kisses upon your cheeks, all leading to your lips, eager for his touch. “I want you to.. love yourself, as much I love you. You have no, no fucking clue how much I value you. That pretty face of yours..” He murmurs, a chocked sob escaping him. Jonggun’s better than this, to cry over such a rivial matter. Yet the impact burned through him, reaching his darkest crevices. He needs you, and he doesn’t want to admit it. How come, after always being so apathetic, has he came so sympathetic to another human being, even weeping pathetically for them? For crying out loud, please. Let yourself be you, you’re not the girls on the television, you’re so much better than them.
i can’t tell you how much i loved this it feels like this was the only thing i ever needed 🧎♀️➡️❤️🔥
The only reason Gun joined Charles was because he has guilt that Shingen died cause he chose Gun to save 😖
Well end of story,he still died🤡
HERE IS MY HOUSEWIFEY 🍓😳🫣🤭
HERE IS MY HOUSEWIFEY 🍓😳🫣🤭
warm water therapy
summary: you are having some steamy quality time with your boyfriend
genre: fluff (no smut yet but there will be eventually) annoying but husband figure goo
wc: i really don’t know but it won’t take long
warnings: sex mentioned
a/n: this is my first fic on tumblr i hope you like it, contact me if you think it's my fault. i wrote it when my legs were really aching :)
you genuinely care about your boyfriend—he has such a fit and well-maintained physique. inspired by him, you’ve been hitting the gym for the past week, determined to build some muscle yourself. that way the next time Goo swipes the last tiramisu from the fridge, you’d have the strength to land a proper punch.
today was leg day in your trainer’s program and you showed incredible determination, dragging yourself out of the gym on wobbly legs after walking in with confidence. when you finally made it to your apartment, you tossed your keys aside and collapsed onto the couch. propping your legs up on the cushions you took a deep breath and checked the messages on your phone.
Goo 😼: [sent a reel]
Goo 😼: [sent another reel]
Goo 😼: “did you know women who exercise regularly have more flexible bodies after childbirth, babe?”
Goo 😼: “the internet is so helpful these days.”
Goo 😼: “your efforts won’t go to waste. fighting!”
your trembling legs twitched in response to Goo’s nonsense. with every ounce of energy drained from your body, you shot back a short and sharp reply before tossing your phone aside.
Y/N: “if you’re already thinking about having kids, come over and fulfill your duties as a husband first.”
Y/N: “it was leg day and i’m dying from the pain. if i can’t walk you better be ready to carry me.”
Goo 😼: “cupcake, no machine can work your legs as well as i can.”
Goo 😼: “seems like a skill issue, huh?”
Goo 😼: “kidding, don’t block me.”
Goo 😼: “i’ll bring snacks and head over.”
as you flipped through TV channels with the remote, you were hardly surprised when your doorbell rang five minutes later. Goo was always fast. despite the pain in your legs, you managed to hobble to the door and open it. the silhouette of your blonde boyfriend greeted you with a wide grin. before you could even close the door, Goo had already tossed you over his shoulder. balancing the shopping bags in his other hand, he kicked the door shut and carried you back to the couch.
“alright, babe, where should we start? your medicine has arrived to heal you.”
Goo settled onto the couch, transferring you from his shoulder to his lap. setting the bags on the table, his hands instinctively found their way to your thighs gently massaging them.
“my trainer said i’d get used to this within a month, but it’s so hard. i really don’t know how you maintain this whole body.”
resting your head against his chest, your hands drifted over his as he focused on your legs, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips.
“if you’re curious i can show you how. what did Gun call it? ohh right—‘i'll make you my masterpiece .’ we can start by buying a private gym for just the two of us.”
his smirk widened as he continued kneading your aching muscles. Goo was no stranger to pain—he’d endured countless battles, injuries, and cramps—but unlike Gun, his body was flawless, smooth, and impeccably maintained. not a cutting board, but polished marble. weighing his options he suddenly stood up lifting you effortlessly in his arms while leaving the snacks behind. without hesitation, he headed for the bedroom.
“i’ve got the perfect solution for this and trust me, you’ll feel better in no time.”
you clung to his shoulders, glaring.
“Goo, i’m in pain. is this seriously all you’re thinking about right now?”
meeting your eyes with an exaggerated arch of his brow, he exhaled dramatically.
“just trust me, babe. i read about this in an article.”
you couldn’t help but laugh in disbelief. “an article? seriously?”
allowing him to lay you on the bed, you watched as he turned and began unbuttoning his shirt. he then walked to the ensuite bathroom, adjusting the settings to fill the jacuzzi with warm water. returning to you shirt undone he leaned closer, his grin never wavering.
“now, i think we both need to relax. start undressing or should i help you out?”
his face was inches from yours, his voice low and teasing yet strangely serious. embarrassed, you turned your head away reaching for the hem of your shirt. as you hesitated, he leaned in, whispering in that deep husky tone of his.
“we’re not just showering, babe. this is a warm water therapy session.”
straightening up, he returned to his usual cheeky self. “ah carrying you really tired me out cupcake, my legs might need some therapy too.”
you responded by throwing your shirt at his face, telling him to shut up before things escalated further. moments later Goo was carrying you, now completely bare into the bubbling jacuzzi. gently lowering you into the water, he slid in behind you, pulling you back to rest against his chest. the scent of fragrant oils and cologne filled the bathroom as his hands resumed their massage on your thighs, soothing the tension in your muscles.
warm, wet and impossibly close, the two of you melted into each other. this truly was a healing therapy—a win-win situation for both of you.
