wannaeatramyeon

[wannaeatramyeon]

Gun Park x Reader: Bad fit

G/N. Masterlists

"We're bad for each other."

Gun takes a drag, long and slow, and offers his cigarette to you.

No smoking in your apartment was one of your rules and now he's smoking in your bed.

No fucking your enemy was one too.

What can you say? Life happens. There's twists and turns and backstabbing and doublecrossing and - what's the saying - so the enemy of an enemy became a friend.

Friend? You wrinkle your nose at the thought of Gun Park as a friend.

He is noone's friend and everyone's enemy. And your fuck buddy too.

Business is business. You do your job and come together in a clash of fists and nails and any weapon you could get your hand on.

Off the clock, or whatever you call it for people in your line of work, you had met by coincidence. Mutual respect led to you falling into a bar together, then a cab, then your bed.

You never formed attachments before Gun Park. He never used to race across the city at 2am for-

For this sort of arrangement.

He never used to spend the night either.

"I know," Gun finally responds, plucking the cigarette from your lips and stubbing it out. He knows you're bad for each other but-

He settles, lies down, opens his arm. Inviting you back into the space that has became yours.

[wannaeatramyeon]

Lookism x Reader: Idiotverse

G/N. Silly. James, Ryuhei, Gun, Jake. Masterlists

"James, stop."

You pluck the phone out of his hands. He makes no move to block you, though he does throw you a dirty look. 

This narcissistic idiot, you sigh. He needs to stop googling himself and reading all the trash so called journalists are writing.

But it's still his own stupid fault.

"If you stop running after these minors and get back into the studio to plan a comeback, the media wouldn't call you a has-been."

"Fuck the media," James replies, sullen and his bratty self coming out to play. Even if he's the one that's denying interviews and appearances, changing his look with no consideration for his merch, and there's absolutely no signs of any new music on the horizon.

"And can you stop obsessing over these 5th gens!" James crosses his arms, manspreads further, and absolutely refuses to look at you as you scroll through the forum open on the screen, rolling your eyes at all the trolling comments he has left over the last twenty minutes calling these new idols talentless in increasingly creative ways.

"Ok," you click the screen off and drop the phone into your bag. "I'm officially confiscating this."

He's about to say something, but catches the look on your face and shuts his mouth instead.

"Yeah," you smirk, "that's what I thought."

.

.

"Are these tampons?" you ask as Ryuhei carefully pushes something up each nostril, stemming your nose bleed.

He keeps his face carefully blank.

"Ryuhei," your voice takes on a dangerous tone.

He tries for a reassuring smile that only raises your suspicion further.

Then when you feel the telltale string dangle past your lips, you shove him away.

"Why the fuck didn't you get me tissues?!" You yank them out and fresh droplets drip down your shirt.

"They absorb blood better." He looks at you, fond and exasperated as if you're being a silly goose right now and you feel the urge to hit him. "Why wouldn't I get tampons for your nose bleed? Hold still, cutie pie, let me put another one up-"

"Fuck off!"

.

.

"You're an idiot, a waste of space and a waste of my time. You thought you could be my equal? I already know you're going to amount to nothing. Your life will be meaningless and pathetic-"

"Excuse me?" You say and Gun stiffens.

His fingers still move in a blur on the gaming controller-

A moment later his victory is announced on the screen and the distinct sound of a kid bursting into tears rings out from his headphones.

"Were you shit talking a child?"

Gun pretends he can't hear you.

.

.

"What are you doing?"

Jake's voice drifts over your shoulder and you still.

"Is that.. are you trying to learn that dance?"

How do you admit to Jake that yes you are, that you spent the last hour shimmying to a video trying to learn a viral dance and you still don't really get it.

"You're half a beat off." He tells you and you finally whip around to face him.

"How long have you been watching me?"

"Long enough," he grins, leaning against the doorway. "Start the music and I'll show you."

"What?"

"Just do it."

For the next minute, you watch Jake dance in sync to the choreography, flowing from one move to the next and timing the gyrating with the shoulders move perfectly.

Damn, he must have spent hours practicing this and you have never been more impressed.

"Amazing, Sir!" Brad's voice calls out.

You turn around to see him, Lineman, Jason and Jerry sincerely applauding with the latter wiping a proud tear from his eye.

[wannaeatramyeon]

Lookism Demon AU: Who summoned Gun Park this time?

G/N. 1.4k. Cracky. Can be standalone. After The First Summoning. Masterlists

There's a demon on your bed.

There's a demon on your bed that you know for certain wasn't there this morning. In fact, you haven't seen Gun Park in over a week and chalked up the entire summoning and demon nonsense as being sleep-deprived and desperate.

Isn't it impressive what the mind can conjure up?

Except-

The only thing, for days afterwards, that alerted you to the fact that there was a possibility of it all being real was the black glitter Gun Park left behind that you had to clean up.

Why on earth do demons vanish in a puff of glitter, you wondered, vacuuming for the third time that day. Although, you suppose, they're very dramatic and not exactly subtle so in a weird way, it fits.

Anyway.

You don't feel any fear at seeing the demon sitting pretty on your bed, scrolling on his hellphone. In fact you feel a lot of resentment and annoyance that he hasn't been able to help you with your recent test at all. You've traded your soul for his help, and the high school dropout couldn't even give you what you wanted. You've failed and your test paper with an angry red 8/100 circled is stuffed into your desk drawer. 

So no, you're pretty damn sure you haven't summoned Gun Park today. You were sort of hoping you would never see his stupid face again.

"Why are you here?" You sigh, because it's not exactly like you could kick him out even if you wanted to. He owns your soul.

(Well, not quite. In time. When you've decided what you actually need him for.)

Gun's gaze drifts to you and he arches a brow. That's not the greeting he has come to expect. There's usually reverence from his cult members (of which there are many) or screaming and terror when he's on the warpath.

With you, there's an air of resignation and quiet frustration at his presence. 

He offers you the truth.

"Hell is full of idiots," he responds, turning his attention back to his phone. You think you hear him mutter bitterly about something or someone called Goo. Then the more he says, the words warping into an ancient language, the greater a blood red aura pours forth from him, reaching out from his very core and inching its way towards you and covering your entire room, his eyes turn from black to unfathomable voids that mere mortals would lose their sanity in and his horns, his horns are-

Huh.

"Um. Gun. Where are your thingies?"

Everything stops. All the tension, the previous terrors evaporate and Gun jerks towards your interruption.

"You know," you gesture to his forehead, "Your horns. Can you just hide them or is it some kind of," you search carefully for your next words but fail, "dysfunction. Like when you're too angry or drunk or whatever to get it up-"

"Stop."

"I didn't mean. Not that I'm saying. It's normal, I'm sure. For you demons. Don't get embarrassed-"

"Stop." 

Gun's lips are pressed into a thin line. You finally heed his warning, stopping your yapping and shutting your mouth. You have a feeling if you keep going then he may be reaping your soul sooner than you want.

He’s the one to sigh this time, a very long suffering sigh, and a packet of cigarettes materialises in his hands.

You're about to remind him of your room's no smoking policy but he flips it open and finds it empty. 

"I'm leaving." Gun tells you, reminiscent of a father about to skip town for twenty years because he says he's going to buy milk, or cigarettes in this instance.

Good riddance. Then you remember the glitter. The goddamn cloud of glitter that demons apparently leave behind in a flamboyant show of dramatism and satanism. It took you days to clean up. Days.

"Wait!"

To your surprise Gun does as he's told. He stares at you with a frown, head tilted like a slightly curious puppy, hell puppy, if you will. It's almost cute.

Either way, if he’s gonna vanish in a shower of glitter, then the least he can do is do it away from your home.

"Let's go to the convenience store, you'll love it."

.

. 

You don't know who is more surprising to whom.

Gun, at your ridiculous outbursts and seeming lack of fear at not just any demon but a Grand Duke of Hell. He's not sure you have any sense of self preservation and is having second thoughts if a troublesome soul like yours is worth this headache.

Or you, at Guns interest in the aisles of ramen and snacks.

"Don't you get this in hell?" You jab him playfully with your elbow.

Gun deadpans no, tells you not to touch him and you roll your eyes.

Fifteen minutes later, you find yourself at an impasse.

Gun, like the bastard that he is, nods at a few items that catch his interest. Realising that he's making no effort to reach for them himself, you do it for him. You kindly carry his goods, trailing after him  in the store although to be honest the sooner he leaves here, meaning Earth, the better.

But then after forming an orderly queue behind the other patrons, with you hissing at Gun to stand next to you as he looks personally affronted at the concept of waiting his turn, nothing happens once you reach the clerk.

"Cash or card?" the clerk asks, and you pause patiently for Gun to answer.

And you wait and you wait.

And you wait some more.

What the hell?

You turn to stare at Gun and find him staring back.

What is with this guy? Does he expect you to foot the bill for his munchies and his nasty cigarettes?

'Pay up.'

Huh?

A voice that sounds suspiciously like the demon next to you booms through your mind and Gun arches a brow.

Are... Are you in my head?

'I am a demon.' The voice says, as if you’re being exceptionally stupid right now.

Eh? Demons have telepathy?

'It's not telepathy.'

You pull a face at that. 

Well obviously it is, or something adjacent- Oh. Oh my god. So you can wifi thoughts to my brain?

'Don't say oh my god.'

You barrel on, ignoring him. But does that mean you can read all my thoughts?! Oh my god can you see my memories?

A pause. An unnecessarily long pause then-

'No.'

It feels awkward, like Gun is lying but demons aren't going to just come to the mortal realm and lie are they? You take his no at face value and as you're about to breathe a sigh of relief, Gun Park, One of the Ten Grand Dukes of Hell, delivers the finishing blow.

'If you spent less time obsessing over fictional men and more time studying your soul wouldn't be bound to me.'

Holy shit. Fuck.

You think you're screaming, whether just in your head or with your mouth too you're not sure. All those chronically online thoughts that you've had, all those very personal daydreams, the secret cringe behaviour that you partake in because it's private and no-one else had to know is out. He knows.

I want to die. I want to die right this fucking second.

'That can be arranged.'

You hang your head in shame. Stop. This is private. This is an invasion of privacy.

Complete silence.

Out of sheer embarrassment, you slide the payment over to the clerk and focus on anything else but Gun Park reading your thoughts.

Except if you try not to think about something, the harder you think about it, right? Like if you said not to think about pink elephants, then a great big whopping pink elephant appears in your mind’s eye. All the thoughts about the fictional men that you can't help but hyperfixate about, all the little fantasies you have about them come rushing to the forefront of your mind.

To you right, Gun tries and fails to stifle his laughter. 

If you weren't deathly mortified you would be surprised demons could laugh.

When the clerk hands you the receipt, you realise you have almost blown your entire week's food budget on snacks and cigarettes for that bastard demon and the thought of starving for the next seven days finally breaks you out of your shame spiral.

I hate my fucking life, you think, he owes me.

Without missing a beat, 'No. I don't.'

[wannaeatramyeon]

Young!Samuel Seo with Young!Reader: Safe Space

G/N. Part of convenience store AU. Can be standalone. You're both grown up and life has happened.

Leave him be | Dinner Guest | Doctors and Patients | Baby | Dragons | Masterlists

You don't look after the store as well as your parents.

The place is nostalgic, full of memories for you, whereas your mom and dad poured their hopes and dreams into it. Now that they've passed, you couldn't bring yourself to sell it and move on even if you feel like your life is drifting away.

Your day begins with flipping the sign to Open, and ends with flipping the sign to Closed. Stocking shelves and counting inventory, a lunch at the counter with your phone for company. You're a side character to those that frequent your store. Stressed students grabbing their lunch, families picking up dinner ingredients, young couples so in love that even browsing your mundane wares is an adventure.

The old, rusty doorbell jingles and alerts you to hopefully the last customer of a long day.

"Welcome!" You call out on reflex, seated and elbows resting on the counter as you count down the minutes until you can close.

"Evening." 

You recognise that voice anywhere. It's deeper, even if it's only been a year since you've last seen him. He's taller too, his suit filling out better than you recall. There's confidence in his posture and how he holds himself. 

There's barely any traces of his childhood self left.

That's good, you think, internally chiding yourself for wanting to see glimpses of the small Samuel again. He was your best friend but life was so much more difficult for him than it should be.

"Sammy-" you begin but correct yourself. "Samuel. I didn't realise you were in town."

It's the truth. There's no way of knowing if he was around or not. Most of your ties are severed.

"I was in the neighbourhood," he responds, then to your surprise, he avoids your gaze when he tells you, "Sammy is fine."

"Sammy," you try it once more on your tongue and smile. 

Samuel is someone you barely know.

Sammy feels like hazy summers sitting side by side trying to cool off in front of a fan, building snowmen in front of the store as the cold seeps through both your gloves, sleepovers and staying up too late watching scary movies then not being able to sleep even when the sun rises.

Sammy was a constant part of your life, had pride of place in your heart, and the thought of separating you two was unthinkable.

"This place feels the same," his voice cuts through your thoughts as he runs his hand along the counter. It's not a criticism, there's wistfulness in his tone and care in the way he touches the surface.

He stops centimeters away from your fingers.

You notice the way his knuckles are red and swollen. Your eyes rove up. There's faded dirt on his jacket and when you peer at his face, a bruise sitting on his temple partly hidden by his fringe.

"Are you ok?" Alarmed, your hand tenderly grasps his and you urgently reach up to push his hair aside.

He's stiff when you touch him though he doesn't deny you. You're wrong when you said there's no traces left of the Sammy you used to know. He still looks like he has half a mind to bolt, there's uneasiness radiating off him in waves but he stays put for you.

His voice is casual, dismissive. "I'm fine. It's nothing."

You stare at him incredulously and he defiantly stares back, challenging you to disagree.

Your lives had diverged a long time ago, yet he's back here with you tonight. You thought the gods of time and fate had sentenced you two to be apart except it looks like you are still destined to be intertwined. At least for a little longer.

You call his bluff, because even though it's been years, Sammy could never truly be a stranger.

It's never been fine, it's never been nothing.

If he doesn't want you to fuss over him then you will just play this differently.

"I love you, ok." You release your hold to give him a playful tap on the shoulder. "Come back and see me soon. Stop being a stranger."

Sammy's eyebrow shoots up, his mouth falls briefly open as something inscrutable flashes across his features.

He's stuck. In time, in place; the words, in his throat.

You smile softly at his expression. "Think of me, of this," you gesture at the store, "as your safe space."

Something inside him breaks. He closes his eyes. He can't look at you right now. Inside this place with the flickering fluorescent light sits the only person and the only memories that have mattered. 

Sammy chances a glance at you and it's like all those years have never happened. You've both stepped back in time and you're just kids again. 

He nods, a small bob of the head but he feels like he can finally breathe.

He reaches over the counter, closes his eyes once more and rests his forehead against yours.

[wannaeatramyeon]

Lookism x Reader: Soft Spot

G/N. Gun, Goo, Vin, Samuel. You know you're their favourite. Masterlists

"There's someone here to see you," the receptionist says with a questionable look on their face.

Oh? You weren't expecting anyone. You follow them to the lobby, all the while they're casting furtive glances in your direction.

What the hell?

They look half impressed and half terrified. Who exactly is here to see you? You round the corner and-

Ah. Ok. This makes total sense.

Gun Park comes into view and you now understand their feelings completely. Looking larger than life, quiet and menacing and confident in an eye-wateringly expensive button-up and slacks that fit perfectly to his form.

My god.

Forget fight or flight, it's usually flight or goddamn when it comes to Gun.

But why is he here?

"You've forgotten this," he says holding out a bento box wrapped in a cute cloth with small chubby cats all over.

He came all this way just to deliver this for you? You soften and smile brightly. "Thanks!"

Gun nods, eyes concealed behind his sunglasses, but his fingers grazes and lingers on yours when he hands you your lunch.

.

.

"Can I try those on?" You ask.

Goo blinks owlishly. "My glasses?" 

"Yep!"

"Nope," Goo says, popping the 'p'.

"Please?"

"No."

"Please?"

"Sure."

"Really!?"

"Nope," he repeats, smirking in your direction and you pout, bottom lip jutting out and pulling your cutest puppy dog eyes.

Ugh. 

It's just that... Goo has pretty bad eyesight. Yes he likes to wear glasses because it’s called style, but he also damn well needs them. Not that he likes to admit it, because he's sure some bastard would use that to his advantage, though he's confident that he'll be able to beat the hell out of anyone that tries but why work harder for the same result.

So no, he has never let anyone try on his glasses except-

He frowns at you. Your eyes are impossibly wide and sad.

Goddamn it, you've learned this pathetic look from him. And it's also working. Ughhhh.

"Fine!" Goo sighs and he removes his frames. 

You beam at him as he places them on your face.

.

.

"Really?" Mary snorts, arching an eyebrow when she catches the song playing on his phone.

Vin doesn't bother to remove his headphones. Turning up his music with one hand, he flips her off with the other.

She rolls her eyes and walks off, cussing him out under her breath.

That was embarrassing.

What would have been even more embarrassing is if she saw Vin's playlist. She would have no doubt been able to put two and two together, that witch.

It started as songs that he liked. Kinda. He couldn't put his finger on why he liked them, he just knew he did. It was an eclectic mix, everything from ballads through to blues to hip hop. Yet the vibes, to him, were all the same.

He listens to the playlist everyday, even as it grew and more songs were added, he came back to it regularly.

One night, lying in bed, music loud and a singer crooning into his ear as he texts you back, he finally realises the running theme.

It's cringe, and a secret he'll take to his grave-

Because he doesn't actually want to stop listening to these songs, to stop feeling this way-

It turns out-

(Damn, he hates that he's admitting this, but-)

They all remind him of you.

.

.

"Tell me," a voice drawls into your ear and you nearly jump out of your skin.

"Why am I, your boss," A pause. "Or rather, your boss's boss's boss waiting for you to finish work you should have completed 2hours ago?"

"I- I'm sorry!"

You look up at Sammy, contrite and desperate because this report is taking far too long and you've made so many mistakes that your supervisor has rejected it twice before she went home and-

"Leave it."

You blink. Once. Twice. Your eyebrows knit together. "Huh?"

"I'll assign it to-" Sammy signals in the vague direction of your said absent supervisor. 

You think about her peacefully enjoying her evening then coming in the next morning to a monstrous report that is really your responsibility, as well as all her usual work and deadlines and-

You gasp, "No! You can't! I'll finish it in the next 30 minutes, I promise!"

Samuel peers past your eyes that are growing wetter by the second and your panic stricken expression and scans the screen quickly. Your report is almost done but he's already counted 17 errors on a single page.

This must be some kind of company record.

With a sigh, he closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"This can wait," he decides. It really can't though.

"What, I thought it was for your meeting?" It is.

"Don't worry about it." You should be worried about it.

"Are you sure?" No, he isn't sure.

Samuel takes one look at your eyes full of hope and decides that yes, he will have to make this work either way.

He's confident that tomorrow will go well, it has to. With or without this report. And if not, some subtle blackmail and threats will certainly help.

[wannaeatramyeon]

Is your blog alright for late teens?

I'll throw in a MDNI or whatever to cover my ass but 🤷🏻‍♀️ I'm not gonna and can't stop you.

In all seriousness though, anything that is a typical trigger I would indicate beforehand.

[wannaeatramyeon]

I love your fics pls don't go bald 🔥

Reading and narrowing my eyes at this. Is this who I think it is.

(Affectionately)

[wannaeatramyeon]

Happy pride month and I wanna give you a big hug for being my fav fanfic writer, you're the best thing lookism fandom has given to me

Thank you that's so goddamn sweet. I really appreciate you reading my nonsense.

Happy pride month! Hope everyone is happy and safe. All the -phobes can get fucked ☺️

[wannaeatramyeon]

Lookism Demon AU: The First Summoning

G/N. Crack. Trying out something new. You connect with your first Lookism Demon. Masterlists

In a moment of desperate madness, you had summoned a demon.

To be fair, it was already the work of the devil that even with your impending exam tomorrow, instead of studying for it, you further procrastinated by casually researching summoning spells.

"Ok let's go," you shrugged, eyes bloodshot as the clock struck 3am.

You bit down on your finger, hard enough to draw blood and went to work.

Your summoning circle was kinda lopsided and tiny. You're not a madman ok, you're not about to slash at your palm with a knife like in the movies and even making your finger bleed stung. With the measly few droplets you squeezed out, this is the best you could do.

And no, you didn't have candles so you mustered up a few spare lightbulbs and placed them strategically.

Who even has all these fresh herbs it asked for. You subbed that for some of the wilting lettuce leaves in your fridge.

Sprinkled salt as per instructions. Mmm, might as well add some pepper for good measure, and olive oil too, why not.

You step back from your handiwork and realised you made the world's freakiest salad and it's all over your fucking floor. Shit.

Whatever. Grabbing your phone, you start reading out the incantations.

.

.

Turns out that demons look nothing like you imagined.

This one is exceptionally well dressed, the only thing betraying that he is otherworldly are his black eyes and two small horns protruding from his forehead.

He lights up a cigarette.

"How interesting," he takes a drag, keeping his eyes fixated on you. "That a mere mortal like you could summon me. I am Gun Park, one of the Ten Grand Dukes of Hell. I will lend you my power in exchange for your soul."

Gun Park isn't a very demonic name, you think.

But more importantly-

You pluck the cigarette from his fingers and stub it out quickly on your desk.

"Sorry my room has a strict no smoking policy."

Gun stiffens. The shadows grow long and monstrous and your light flickers. "Who are you to-"

"Anyway," you cut in because you really don't have any time to waste and he blinks in surprise at your audacity. "Help me study please. Or actually just let me pass the test tomorrow."

His face darkens. "I can't." His eyes drop to the floor and the shadows retreat.

"W-what?"

"That is beyond my powers. I dropped out of high school."

.

.

You had stared at each other wordlessly for a while before you collapsed into your chair, holding your head in your hand as the seconds tick by.

What the fuck are you supposed to do now. The test is in four hours.

Gun breaks the silence first, "I can grant you anything else."

"Well not anything, is it," you snap, finger pointing accusingly at the demon, "you can't even help with my test."

Gun's nostrils flare, "Within my powers-"

"Whatever. Just come back later."

"I can't come back later, we have a contract." He carefully and slowly enunciates each syllable.

Your brows furrow. "We do?"

He motions at the summoning circle.

You handwave that away. Details. "Well I haven't decided yet. Come back later."

"That's not-"

You flap your hand harder in his direction, "You can still have my soul."

Gun pauses. You are an odd one. However, if in the end, the result is the same-

"Fine. Say my name three times to summon me again."

In a puff of black glitter, he disappears.

Your room is showered. You'll never get it clean again.

"I fucking hate that guy," you drop your head to your desk with a loud thunk.

[wannaeatramyeon]

Have u had anyone criticise your work? How’d you deal w it

Hmm. I haven't had a lot of criticisms in all honesty.

Not saying my writing is anywhere near great, just that if you don't like a fic or agree with a characterisation you're more likely to just stop reading and move on right?

If it's constructive feedback, I'll try to take it on board. I think I have a good idea of where my shortcomings are though 🤔

[wannaeatramyeon]

THANK YOU FOR ALL YOUR FICS!!!!!!!!!!! UR WRITING IS SO GOOD I EAT EM UP EVERYTIME <333 have a good day!!!!

Thank you for being so lovely! I'll hold tight to my fanon HC and outdated canon. Have a great day too 🥰

[wannaeatramyeon]

Gun Park x Reader: Passing notes

G/N. Cute, short, fluffy!! HNH-Days. Masterlists

HNH Exec meetings are luckily few and far between.

Yet everytime the traumatic hours-long event arrives, you can't help but wish for someone to fatally maim you just so you have an excuse to not go.

These corporate freaks, to your complete non-surprise, love the sound of their own voice. They talk about grand plans and takeovers and quarterly results and four-year-ops and you can feel your brain cells dying in real time.

Perhaps you can throw yourself out the window instead. That would be a far better alternative to having to sit through this.

As someone launches into yet another presentation, you glance around at the attendees. You're in terrible company.

Professional, business-driven psychopaths who will stab you in the back just to climb the corporate ladder, and actual psychopaths that will literally stab you and enjoy it.

You're sandwiched between the worst of both worlds.

To your left is a Charles Choi sycophant with too big an ego and an inferiority complex, and bursting at the seams to talk about how well his division is doing and annual turnover and all the people he's fired to increase the share price.

To your right is... Well, it's Gun Park.

How he has the patience to sit through this, you'll never know.

Though as you watch Gun, you realise that even he is human. His eyes are glazed over, his concentration having lapsed about twenty slides ago, and he fails to keep up with this bullshit.

You nudge him with your knee and he flashes you a look.

Shaking your head in faux disapproval, you scribble a note and slide it over.

'You should be listening.'

His eyes flicker to read your words but he ignores you. Bastard.

You jot down a few more thoughts.

'It's very important.' Another glance.

'This guy certainly thinks so.' And another.

Clearly Gun is also bored out of his mind if he's entertaining your juvenile behaviour and not telling you to shut the fuck up.

Oh!

A metaphorical lightbulb goes off over your head, you have a burst of inspiration and write down your plans.

'I might kill him.'

To your delight, Gun lets out an amused huff and the edges of his lips lift.

He leans over for a brief moment, one arm circling the back of your chair and chest pressed lightly against your shoulder. Your nose is filled with the scent of sandalwood and amber.

When he moves away, you look at his chicken scratch:

'Not if I kill him first.'

You turn to Gun and he dips and angles his head towards you, reading your next move.

"Wanna kill him together?" You whisper into his ear.

Your face breaks into a grin when he nods.

[wannaeatramyeon]

Gun Park x Reader: Freedom

G/N. Post-Regret. Post...prison. Soft. Masterlists

"I'll wait for you."

You had said it during your first visit after Gun was incarcerated then never again.

Yet the words echo incessantly in his mind. He can recall it clearly. The stale and musty air, the guards at the door, you seated on the other side behind a flimsy plastic barrier, a sliver of light making its way through the barred window, illuminating your hair and features and the disappointment on your face and the regret on his.

You had waited and Gun, though he hates to admit this, also waited too. For days no longer spent within the confines of four walls, to move and roam as he sees fit.

Except the first steps of freedom he takes with the gates of Seoul Detention Center screeching behind him, instead of relief, he feels annoyance.

You're not there.

Gun lights a cigarette, a souvenir from the commissary, and takes a long drag.

It's fanciful thinking. Neither of you are the type to be particularly romantic and sentimental, you wouldn't be able to tolerate each other if you were.

Yet a small, unreasonable part of him was looking forward to seeing you here. Waiting, eager.

He suffocates his displeasure with nicotine and assesses his bearings. Civilisation is close, ten minutes away if that.

He begins to walk, one foot after the other, and it's odd. The freedom he has. He can go anywhere he wants. He can flag a cab to take him to the airport and board a plane to anywhere in the world.

But he chooses to walk. To feel the ground beneath his feet, to take in the city he will soon reclaim as his.

Pounding footsteps catch his attention, alerting his ultra instinct, and he sees a familiar silhouette rounding the corner a split second later.

Slightly out of breath, slightly dishevelled and he smirks.

You're never dishevelled. You're never anything but calm and composed.

The earlier disappointment vanishes, the cigarette is flicked to the ground and his legs moves on autopilot, taking him towards his new destination.

You collide with his body.

Gun is unmoved, he doesn't even sway at the impact as your breath is knocked out of your lungs.

You've missed this.

"Welcome back," you say, peering up to look at Gun Park. He's exactly as you remember him. Exactly as heartbreaking, exactly as powerful.

He nods, once, then opens his arms and pulls your body into his.

[wannaeatramyeon]

Not a request, just a question because I’m curious: What’s your MBTI?

I'm ENTJ-A. I scored 99% or 100% assertiveness if I remember correctly lol.

I believe good boys like Gun Park and Sukuna are ENTJ too 😇

[wannaeatramyeon]

Goo Kim x Reader: Realisations and Confessions

G/N. 1.5k. Sorta silly. Masterlists

An unfortunate side effect of Gun's ass being hauled off to prison is that Goo has more spare time on his hands, and you now have an annoying blonde on yours.

If you really think about it, his behaviour started further back than you can recall and has grown so constant and insidious, you're not sure if there was ever a time before this.

Maybe there was. But you don't like to dwell on it because it makes your current days all the more fruitless and depressing. You don't want to lament the past freedom you wasted, the joy you experienced without a pesky clingy idiot called Goo Kim hanging off you.

Almost everyday without fail, there'll be calls and a barrage of messages from Goo. If you ignore him for too long then he shows up at your door. If you respond, hours are wasted listening to him.

Truly a lose-lose situation. 

And what does he like to tell you about?

Mostly inane bullshit, complaints about this and that, whatever crap his single overworked brain cell can conjure up. You’re pretty sure you’ve spent more time with him, talking to him, in the last 6 months than anyone else in your entire life.

So yes, call it cabin fever or stockholm syndrome or any other psychological phenomenon you can think of; but now, when the silence has stretched for too long, when you don’t hear the telltale buzz or ping from your phone, when a familiar figure doesn’t darken your doorstep-

You start to wonder what Goo is doing. You think you miss him.

.

.

It's not that Goo is lonely, it's just that he's used to attention.

Kind of.

Gun Park would always sit there wordlessly when they ran their missions together, no doubt tuning him out. Still, it was an audience wasn't it. Someone that Goo could rattle off ideas and thoughts to. He's just thinking aloud, and Gun had happened to be in the general vicinity.

And then Gun became immersed with even more shady Charles Choi dealings, had offered you as a sort of occasional substitute - someone competent that could deal with the Four Crews alongside Goo.

And it was nice, having a new audience that Goo could bounce his unhinged ideas off of. It was also nice testing your patience and sanity. The fire in your eyes when he said something particularly foul, or the way your nostrils flared, or seeing how long it would take you to roll your eyes.

The days when Gun was back and it was just the two of them again, sure, some of their trips ran a bit easier, success was swifter, though the company was undeniably less pleasant.

And finally, when Goo realised that you're not Gun's lackey or side piece or whatever but someone to be reckoned with; that you have thoughts of your own, there's scheming and plotting and deviousness behind that facade of pleasantness, well-

He's grown sort of-

A little bit-

Just a tiny bit-

(Hold on as he tries not to gag at this confession-)

Fond.

And-

AND.

The trouble is that Goo is never fond of anyone, at least not the way he is with you. He has his secret friends and his contacts but not someone he considers a confidante (not that you're likely aware that you're his confidante).

And when he's fond of someone, then even he feels a pang of pity for whoever has captured his full attention. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a stray thought sometimes lingers too close to realisation - a realisation that he is too much, too intense, too suffocating. Surely no normal, sane person could put up with him-

But he's not the retrospective type, so he never truly develops that self awareness, never has that realisation. Anyway.

You're a busy person, Goo's a busy person and there's days and weeks where your paths don't overlap.

So he frequently finds himself reaching for his phone, texting you and sending you gifs and memes. Often you leave him on read, and he shrieks at the audacity of you leaving him on read. He punishes you by not reaching out for the next couple hours but he's always the one that gives in.

That's another first, isn't it. Goo doesn't give in.

But with you there's no harm. 

He reasons it's almost cathartic to info dump on you. To at least know you haven't blocked him even if you don't respond. And despite all this, you still pick up your phone every time he calls. Sometimes after a few too many rings, though nevertheless you're listening to him. Murmuring appeasements as he rambles on and god, there's nothing better to hear your voice after a long day and he realises how much he's missed y-

Ahem.

Behind his glasses, Goo's eyes widen comically big.

Now that is a realisation.

.

.

Lately Goo has been nagging you to join him for a drink.

Somewhere between Goo recruiting Logan as a secret friend, and the disbanding of the temporary Fifth Affiliates, drinking sessions with you have become a semi-regular occurrence.

Not that he's drinking. Alcohol rarely touches Goo's lips. He likes his tongue sharp and mind sharper, and the effect of the beers and sojus only serve to dull his senses.

Still. It’s been far too long.

Tonight, by your third drink, as usual your defences are slightly lowered and your lips are loose. The roles have reversed and Goo is the one listening to you.

Whining about your life, Gun owing you something or another before he was locked up, the troubles with some new gangs you’ve encountered, a dull ache in your hip from an old injury,  and surprisingly-

The conversation twists and turns to an entirely new topic.

Not without some prodding and poking by Goo, that is. He hints at some shadowy figures in the corner of this dingy bar checking you out and cackles when you glare daggers; taunts you about being single and forever alone and how beggars can’t be choosers.

Then when you consider smashing the bottle of beer you’re currently nursing and glassing him in the face, you deflate and drop your head into the palm of your hands.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” 

“Asshole.”

“Me?” He feigns innocence when you peer at him between the cracks of your fingers.

“Why are you such a fucking asshole all the time?”

Unexpectedly, Goo bristles at your jab. “Hey,” he leans down to murmur in your ear, “You’re being awfully mean to me.”

He relishes you shivering at his closeness.

“Am not,” Then after a beat, “You started it.”

Even in your hazy consciousness, you realise how childish you sound. You outwardly cringe.

To move swiftly on from your embarrassment, you find a particularly interesting spot on the wall in front of you and once you talk, you find that it’s hard to stop.

It’s not that you’re not interested in anyone, it’s just difficult isn’t it? FInding the time and the right person in your line of work. There’s so much you need to hide unless you find someone already in this world. And anyone that is involved in this is fucked up enough as it is. Hardly relationship material. But you’re still young, there’s no rush. Though it’ll be nice to have someone to share a life with, who gets you, who greets you after a long tiring day, who looks after you-

“I’ll look after you.”

A voice somewhere to your right breaks through your rambling. You snap your head around to stare at your companion.

“Huh?”

“I said, cupcake,” Goo shrugs, eyes boring into yours even though his body feigns nonchalance, ”I’ll look after you.”

Your brows knit together. Maybe it’s the alcohol that prevents you from immediately joining the dots. Maybe it’s the impossibility of what he has just implied.

“Why are you going to do that?” you blurt out.

At your question, an emotion that you can’t quite put your finger on flashes across Goo’s face.

He hesitates, and you notice how loud the hesitation is. You watch the casual way he runs his fingers through his blonde locks and realise it’s not casual at all. He’s buying time for his answer.

Oh?

Oh.

Oh.

You suddenly feel unbearably hot. You’re certain you’re blushing. You try to stop your face from breaking into a grin and you know that you’re failing.

Your eyes dart to Goo’s and find them watching you closely from behind his glasses. 

He’s confessed, in a way, and he’s realised your brain is whirring away, finally able to put two and two together. He’s waiting for your answer, Handing you the power, leaving the ball in your court.

“Ok,” you squeak, voice almost failing you. You clear your throat roughly. “Let’s try it.”

Not the most romantic agreement yet Goo can’t stop the heat rising to his cheeks or the way his stomach flutters. And now, he realises, that the grin on his face matches yours.

[wannaeatramyeon]

Jake Kim x Reader: Growing Old

G/N. Soft. So soft. Some years post-Lookism. Masterlists

Jake catches himself in the mirror.

In his mind's eye, he's the Leader of Big Deal. Running around in the trademark suit and Sinu's signature coat. The one who everyone calls Boss with respect and affection. A mere nineteen year old, trying to survive.

But his reflection betrays him. 

Even as the days drag, the years have slipped by. He's no longer the teenager trying to desperately make it out alive. Training all day and night to keep his reflexes fast and mind sharp.

No, that was a lifetime ago.

Now, he has noticed the wrinkles around his eyes. The beginnings of pepper starting to dot the hair around his temples. His body is softer than he remembers.

"I'm so out of shape," He mutters, and that catches your attention.

You can't help but chortle at his own scathing remark.

"What are you talking about?"

"Look."

And Jake poses. A little for him, a lot for you.

Twirling this way and that. Pushing his stomach out with deliberate poor posture. Flexing his arms and back with you chuckling and rolling your eyes. Checking out his own ass, his once best feature, and grabbing handfuls, as your giggles turn to full on cackles.

He's not out of shape, far from it. With age and comfort, his body is a little softer however. He's no longer living on a knife's edge. He has enough money and time to look after himself. He has the privilege of you caring for him.

Giving him a gentle shove, you tell Jake he’s being ridiculous. He's still as handsome as ever.

(The neighbourhood ajummas like to tell you all about it. If only I was 40 years younger, they like to say, grinning salaciously at each other like cheeky youths.

The Jake Kim charm has never waned. You doubt it ever will.

You catch teenagers double-taking at him. Even children gravitate towards your golden retriever of a man.)

"You don't think I'm out of shape?" he turns to you, a hint of vulnerability in his face.

“Of course not.”  

You notice that the scars on his lips and nose are barely visible anymore. In this light, you have to squint to look for them.

Back in the early days, when your romance was just blossoming, you both assumed there was a looming expiration date. After all, he was a gang leader first and foremost and everything else second. Growing old, when danger lurked behind every corner, always came with a question mark; growing old together seemed like a fantasy.

Yet through blood, sweat and tears and after fighting tooth and nail, Jake has managed to make it out alive.

You both did.

Sometimes, Jake thinks about his past, tinged with nostalgia and almost dream-like. A distant memory, a million miles away from his present. He didn’t think this sort of life, this sort of happiness and contentment was possible for someone like him.

There's a constant undercurrent of disbelief. That this isn't real and could all be taken away from him in a second. It's almost too good to be true-

You interrupt his spiralling thoughts, leaning up to press a kiss on his lips and anchoring him to reality.

He grins when you tell him all about how he is still the hot topic of the ajummas, and that even their daughters and granddaughters take notice of him.

Most of all, you tell him that you love growing old together and you’re glad you’re not teenagers anymore but you will always be idiots.

Jake softens, eyes crinkling at the edges and he pulls you into his arms.

[wannaeatramyeon]

YOU'RE BACK I MISSED YOU WRITING SO BAD

The face I pulled and guilt as I read this after emerging briefly from my troll cave.