lonely machines

You used to recognize these streets. You used to be able to make a map out of them, all the crooked alleyways and dead-ends forming a knotted ball of yarn in your head. Now, nothing is as it used to be. None of the names feel familiar. The metallic, cartoonish jingles meant to lure you in like a siren song don’t, either, and you try to discern if you’re hearing them for the first time or if, like so much of this city, you forced yourself to forget. You take another step. All the old haunts you used to frequent are either boarded up or long gone. Either sequestered behind rotting caution tape that’s frayed and worn at the edges or nothing but exposed steel and concrete and a memory where a building used to stand.

God, this is fucking with you. Have you finally lost it? Done yourself in for good? You’re certain it used to be here, right where you’re standing. You know it was. Out of everything, you recognize the shape of the crack in the sidewalk—the one that’s shaped like a bolt of lightning. You remember how you used to joke that it was going to strike Hansol, rewire his brain like electroshock therapy, and you can see it so vividly: the way his lip curled as he sneered and said in return that was the only way he’d ever be able to tolerate you as his partner. How he used to turn his head to hide his eyes from view and the way the neon lights of the city swarmed in on him, filling in the contours of his cheeks and the slit in his brow. Another step and you remember the street vendor that used to set up there—the tent the two of you used to sit beneath in the liminal hours of the night to get out of the rain. The way you came to associate the pitter-patter against the cheap plastic with the bitter beer Hansol used to drink.

Even now, the sound of rain reminds you of him. Of stale beer and neon lights and memories you so desperately want to cling to that dissipate like smoke every time you try to reach for them.

As you stand in the graveyard of your old life, it’s clear the world has moved on without you.

Without him.

But you have to be sure.

You need to know there’s some semblance of truth to what you’ve been hearing. If you’re going to go down this path again—if you’re going to stalk these once-familiar streets with your eyes constantly trained over your shoulder, you need to be absolutely certain the incessant whispers have substance. Even now, there’s still an unshakeable weakness in you when it comes to Hansol, and you need to know what you’re walking into, because he makes you vulnerable. And if there’s a puppetmaster—if all of this is just meant to lure you out of the shadows—there you’ll be, dangling hopelessly from wood and string, only moving when you’re made to.

Nothing more than a marionette. A thrall for someone else’s whims.

You sigh and press the palms of your hands into your eyes. This liminal space is giving you vertigo—this world you recognize but don’t, long for but don’t, want to return to but can’t. Unable to tell the difference between remembrance and hallucination. What’d this place used to sound like? Had you sunk into the ambient noise like a warm bath, letting the conversations of strangers pull you just beneath the surface? Had you wrapped yourself in the muted sounds of their laughter? Their anger? Standing here now—the streets empty and devoid of life, nothing but ghosts to keep you company—you don’t remember. Maybe you can’t, or don’t want to. You want to scream until your throat is raw. Want to drop to your knees on the concrete and let the polluted rain seep into your clothes as you ask no one and nothing, What’s the point in any of this?

But you’re terrified the abyss will answer.

You’re terrified someone will tell you the point is Hansol, because nothing else could drag you back into this life. Nothing else could bloody you so badly and still draw you back in. Nothing else could conjure a fear so primal it left you—leaves you—paralyzed and still have you crawling over glass if it meant getting vengeance on every last person who harmed him. If it meant getting it right this time.

A chill runs up your spine.

You already know who will be standing behind you when you turn around. Hansol has always been a viper, preferring the safety of the fringes until it came time to strike. It’s what made him so effective, that you could feel his presence like a syrupy, tangible thing—that you knew there were eyes on you, that you could sense an apex predator camouflaged amongst the shadows, but you couldn’t see him. Not until it was too late. Not until fangs were sinking into flesh.

That’s what you expect now, for Hansol to charge and tear you apart, and you brace yourself. But nothing happens. There’s no movement. No sound except rain on concrete. You turn slowly, your movements stunted by the anticipation of something that never came, and you’d miss him if you didn’t know where to look. Didn’t know all his favorite hiding places.

And that’s what you do, immediately casting your eyes to the darkest corner of this desolate street, finding his silhouette exactly where you expected it to be. Hunched over to obscure his height, hood pulled over his head to hide his eyes. A lone sliver of moonlight slices through the darkness, and casts him in a silver glow, making him look otherworldly. It’s all that keeps him from being entirely disguised by the umbra.

Still, it feels hard to believe after so long—after time and circumstance formed such an insurmountable chasm.

You watch one another wordlessly, and as the minutes tick by you catch yourself counting his breaths. They’re all that tells you there’s a human being standing there rather than one of the many faceless phantoms taking up residence in this part of the city. That he’s real and not some illusion your brain has cooked up in order to cope with the crippling loneliness that accompanies your forced solitude.

There’s the flick of a lighter, a cherry red ember, and a plume of smoke before Hansol speaks. “Didn’t think you’d actually come.”

Why wouldn’t I, when you asked me to? you want to say, but it feels too intimate for a deserted street that reeks of garbage and stale piss. “I could say the same for you,” is what you settle on. “Suffice it to say I was pretty fuckin’ shocked to hear from you.”

He takes another drag of his cigarette. Exhales another plume of smoke. “Yeah, well.” Tosses the butt to the pavement and stomps it out.

That’s all he has to say about that.

[input_TIME >>: the before // input_DATE >>: may 2112.]

You fidget in your seat, silently cursing the bureau’s uniform requirements.

Two weeks out from graduation and you haven’t heard a thing your instructor has said. The bottom-most button of your blazer refuses to sit right, intent on digging into your skin, and you’ve been fucking with it all morning, hissing through your teeth at every stab of discomfort. If you would’ve known you’d have to dress like a middle-aged department store clerk, you would’ve applied to a different department.

That prompts a snort of hushed laughter.

As if you hadn’t been recruited. As if this bureau with the horrible uniforms hadn’t taken one look at your transcripts and handed you your dream job on a silver platter, effectively offering you everything you’d been working towards your entire life. As if it wasn’t a childhood dream that squeezed into a blazer and pencil skirt every morning for the last six months just to spend nine hours a day sitting ramrod straight in an uncomfortable metal chair. As if it wasn’t optimism and the constellation of stars in your eyes that pored over pages upon pages of notes each night, committing them to memory as you washed away ink smears and ignored the ache in your dominant hand.

Just two more weeks, you reassure yourself. Two more weeks and you’ll finally be done with your instructional training. Two more weeks and it’ll finally be real: a real job, a real title, real responsibilities. Two more weeks and you can finally put your education to good use. You can finally start cleaning up the streets.

Start making a real difference.

It’s this thought, more than anything else, that gets you through each day—more than finally earning a salary; more than finally being able to subsist on something more substantial than freeze-fried noodles and whatever’s on sale at the GS25. You’ll tolerate fourteen more days of this cursed uniform if it gets you one step closer to your place in the Ministry, the role waiting for you within it, and finally being able to realize your life’s purpose.

And it arrives in the blink of an eye. One second you’re metaphorically chained to your desk at the training institute; the next, you’re sitting opposite one of the Ministry’s middlemen as he monotonously explains the minutiae of your employment from his side of a glossy walnut desk. You try to listen but it feels like staring at the sun. All you’ve ever wanted is finally within reach, yet you can’t bring yourself to reach out and grab it. You sigh. Wipe your sweat-slick palms on the same pencil skirt you’d been cursing weeks ago, hoping desperately that whatever you’re feeling isn’t showing on your face. That he can’t smell it like a bloodhound.

There’s no one better equipped for this position. No one who wants it nearly as badly.

Some of your classmates had called you a brown-noser. Doesn’t matter now, you think, your broad smile coming easily as this man—someone important; someone who actually matters—uses more flattering words to describe you. Impressive. Hard-working. Ambitious and intelligent. One of the most promising recruits the Ministry of Welfare has had in decades.

He continues shuffling through your paperwork, tongue darting out to wet his fingertips. “Tell me again where you graduated from.”

You clear your throat. “Ewha Higher Education, sir.”

He hums an acknowledgement. “Ah! Yes, yes, here it is. Ewha Higher Education… double-majored in psychology and social welfare… perfect grades… awarded the highest honors... Yes, yes, very impressive, indeed.” There’s a spot of dark sauce on the corner of his mouth you hadn’t noticed earlier. “Inspector Choi could surely use someone of your caliber.”

You know that name. You wrack your brain, trying to remember how, and then—

Another blink of an eye as your field of vision is reduced to the size of a pinhead. Suddenly, your breath hitches, stuck in your throat as you feel your blood turn to ice. Please no, you want to beg, anywhere but there. But there’s no point. Before you can protest, the man pulls a giant rubber stamp from a drawer, officially branding your file.

MINISTRY OF WELFARE, CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION UNIT

The ink is so red it could pass for blood.

[input_TIME >>: the before // input_DATE >>: november 2112.]

“Again.”

You clench your jaw. Try not to spare any concern for the sound your bones make when you roll your neck to the side. You’re thankful that your back is to Hansol so he can’t see the irritated look on your face. Not that he’s paying attention to you, anyway—he’s taken up residence in the corner, slumped in a metal chair as he makes shapes out of the water stains on the ceiling. He’s silent, making absolutely no sound until it comes time to either criticize you or obnoxiously smack his gum.

So yes, you’re irritated. You’ve been at this for hours. Your arms are sore, you’re hungry, and the stench of mildew is bringing on a migraine. But it isn’t like Hansol’s criticisms don’t have merit. Inspector Choi won’t clear you for field work until you get better. Until you can prove you won’t be a liability.

Until your partner feels confident in your ability to save his life and do your job.

“Again.”

Hansol is not feeling very confident, needless to say.

You raise your arms. Press your tongue into the fat of your cheek. Squint one eye as you center the target. The silhouette stares back at you, riddled with bullet holes, numbers demarcating body parts. You aim your pistol at the bright red X on its chest, trying to imagine a reality in which you have to do this. In which the silhouette was real, living and breathing right in front of you—the difference between kill or be killed. Would you take a life to save your own? To save Hansol’s? It made you sick at first, the thought of it. You used to lie in bed and swear there was blood on your hands, viscous and sticky, but every time you’d stumble to the bathroom and flick on the dingy fluorescent light there was nothing there.

Made you wonder if you were turning into a monster.

But you can do this. You have to. The tattered silhouette is not the difference between life or death, not right now, but it is the only thing standing between you and a dream. A duty. You exhale slowly, trying to steady your erratic heartbeat, and place your finger on the trigger. Before this job, there was a foolish naïveté in the way you thought there was a particular weight to this decision, but not now. No, now you think there’s a foolish metaphor in how little it takes to fire a gun. Just the slightest hint of pressure and you can shoot for whatever reason you choose: to paralyze and stun, to contain—and to kill, of course, if necessary.

If the System deems it so.

Nonsense has clearly made its way into your head. You’re safe. The System keeps you safe, as does the Ministry. The same one you work for. The reason you’re stuck down here in this basement shooting at numbers until it’s instinctual, training to keep others safe. Listening to Hansol chew his gum like a cow. Rummaging through the rubble of everything he says, discarding all his snide remarks as you search for feedback you can actually use.

Another exhale. You widen your stance and plant your feet. Focus on that red X. Adjust your aim by nanometers. Finger firmly on the trigger, just a little bit of pressure, you can do this, you can do this, you can, you will—

Pop!

You startle, letting out a sound of frustration more akin to a wild animal. Hansol pays you no mind, just plucks the remnants of the popped bubble from his face and stuffs the wad of gum back into his mouth, no doubt gearing up for a repeat performance. It’s got to feel more like chewing on rubber by now, but you wouldn’t put it past him to saw off his own foot if it’d annoy you.

Sighing, you lower the pistol and put the safety back on, turning slowly as you dig deep, trying to gather whatever professionalism is left in you. “Hansol.”

Pop! That one was bigger than his—

“Headshot.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Head. Shot,” he repeats, tone belying his belief that you’re nothing more than a stupid child. He sits up straight, finally making eye contact with you. Nods in the silhouette’s direction. “You see those circles above his head? Big and red?” You ignore his taunting. “C’mon, they’ve got a big X on ‘em and everything. Not even you could miss that.”

Proverbial fingers stuck in your proverbial ears, you turn back around. The silhouette stares wordlessly. It doesn’t beg for its life as you remove the safety just as quickly as you’d put it back on. Doesn’t start bargaining, desperate and incoherent, as you raise your arm and squint through one eye. Doesn’t do anything at all as you pull the trigger and blow a perfect hole right between its eyes.

Now that you think about it, though, it does start to look a lot like Hansol.

[input_TIME >>: the before // input_DATE >>: february 2115.]

Inspector Choi says he’ll handle the paperwork and bids the two of you goodnight.

Snow falls steadily. It’s rare these days—too warm, not the right kind of precipitation—so you’ll covet it, even though it covers the streets and sidewalks in an unsightly and inconvenient layer of brown-grey slush. As always, Hansol isn’t quite so romantic. He scoffs, hands immediately going to his coat pockets in search of his cigarettes. When he pulls them back out, his knuckles are red from the cold, hands trembling slightly when he tries to use his lighter.

“Give it here.”

With a roll of his eyes, Hansol hands the lighter over and moves in closer, cupping his hands around the tip of the cigarette to block it from the wind. You flick the wheel, a low flame sparking after a few well-practiced tries. Hansol erases more of the space between you. Steps in closer and lights his cigarette, sucking the first pull of it deep into his lungs, a small explosion of cherry red embers. He’s close enough for you to smell the smoke that lingers in the wool fibers of his coat. It’s not a smell you ever thought you’d find comforting, but it’s the one you associate with him the most.

“You heading home?” Each word is reluctant, as if they’re being pried out of his mouth by force. He exhales another drag of his cigarette. Doesn’t move entirely out of your space, but turns his head just enough so that the smoke doesn’t blow directly into your face.

Snowflakes land and immediately melt on his eyelashes.

One of the Sybil drones approaches, whirring as it wheels by you on the sidewalk. Every few meters it slows to a stop, moving side to side as it completes its scans, leaving behind perfectly parallel tracks in the slush. The crowd parts biblically as it continues down its pre-programmed path. Every face you can make out wears a look of trepidation; of anxiety and unease. It’s always the first thing you notice. People don’t look at you and see a savior. Don’t see a protector or a guardian or even a role model. People look at you and see someone responsible for defending and upholding the status quo.

The turning of the tides has been slow, but certainly not subtle.

You can feel Hansol’s eyes on you, his gaze heavy and pointed. “Hey,” he says, dragging you out of your head, “I asked you a question.”

The snowfall is heavier now, the flakes larger and less watered-down. You know the entire city will be covered and iced over soon. You know the government will tell everyone to go home and stay there, that there will be a losing battle mounted against it using plows and shovels; that the public transit systems will stop running and, even though you don’t live far, it’ll be a headache to get home if you don’t get going.

But you stay rooted in place, unable to bring yourself to care.

A half-turn with a shit-eating grin. “No,” you finally answer, feeling a thrill jolt through you as Hansol raises an eyebrow in question, “I’m taking you out for a drink.”

Surprise stuns him into silence, leaving him unable to protest. You take advantage, grabbing onto the lapel of his coat as you drag him down the sidewalk towards the pojangmacha the two of you frequent:  the one that never seems to close; the one that has slowly come to belong to you and Hansol.

“Absolutely fuckin’ not,” he grumbles, using all the strength he possesses to pull himself in the opposite direction but he slips, no traction to be found in the snow. He swears. Starts bitching about how fucking cold it is, it’s getting late, he lives all the way across the city and the fucking trains never run in the snow so how the fuck’s he gonna get home, he’s gonna be fucking stranded here and it’s gonna be your fucking fault.

Perpetually open, the amber lights of the pocha spill onto the sidewalk, contrasting against the harsh neon of the city. The heater is cranked to full-blast; you can hear the gears clanking as it works overtime and you find yourself desperate for the warmth. Pulling back one of the flaps, you snark, “I don’t live that far, so if worst comes to worst you can crash on my couch.” Hansol scoffs, making no attempt to hide the fact that this would not be his contingency plan if there were any other options available.

You move aside and gesture for him to go in.

Soonyoung greets you immediately from his spot at an empty table. He waves you over and relinquishes his seat to Hansol—who’s clearly still sour about this entire ordeal—before disappearing to fetch menus neither of you need. “Come on, it’s your birthday,” you argue, dropping into the seat opposite your sulking partner. “Can you please find it in yourself to stop being miserable for one hour and enjoy one of those shitty beers you always drink?”

The corners of his mouth turn up minutely, blink and you’ll miss it, before he schools his expression back into familiar annoyance. “They’re not shitty.”

You roll your eyes. Soonyoung reappears with sweat dotting his hairline, cheeks ruddy from the heat. A complimentary bowl of tteokbokki is placed between the two of you: seemingly a preemptive apology for the unprompted report of the weather forecast that he launches into. You roll your lips. It’s extremely detailed—you might even dare to call it impressive—but what little patience Hansol had is fading fast. So you politely interject, cutting him off to order, “Two shitty beers, please,” which obviously makes no sense to him. Nevertheless, he nods and disappears once more, two cans of beer cracked open and poured into frosted mugs that make your fingers ache, and when you take a sip of what he sets in front of you, it’s just as metallic and awful as you hoped it’d be.

Your lips pucker from the taste and Hansol laughs, not bothering to tamp down his smile this time.

[input_TIME >>: the before // input_DATE >>: august 2115.]

Discontent is swelling.

What used to exist in the undercurrent has morphed into something palpable, the cells of it multiplying as rapidly as a tumor. What was once communicated through knowing glances shared in the safety of silence is now being spoken into existence. Lone protestors on street corners have become grand-scale demonstrations; the handmade signs, once shoddily painted and nailed into a plank of wood, are now replicated and distributed en masse, printed on paper so glossy it’s nearly blinding. What was once a gentle rain is now thunderous. What once thrived only in the shadows of the underbelly has made its way above ground.

Tension permeates every inch of the city, sparing no one. Your branch of the Ministry feels it heavier than the rest. After all, the system they’re protesting was given life here, born from computers and tangles of wires as thick as jungle vines—the system that was once heralded as the guiding light into a new age of governmental omnipresence. What was once revered as a beacon of safety is now regarded with deep distrust, as yet another oppressor with its fingers crossed behind its back, chains ready and waiting for anyone needing to be contained.

Once that skepticism had taken hold, there was no vanquishing it. No going back. Now it has you by the throat, squeezing increasingly tighter, watching with indifference as you struggle to breathe. As the crowds of protestors jeer at you, spittle flying as they hurl their curses and accusations, call you names. It watches with indifference as Inspector Choi locks himself in his office day after day, lights off, speaking to no one, bankrupt of guidance. As Hansol spends his time pacing between his desk and the large window that overlooks the city, a severe crease between his brows as he stares down at the raucous mob, his fragile, fraying nerves unraveling entirely as he chainsmokes with trembling hands, resolving to throw himself off the rooftop before admitting his worry. It watches with indifference as you step into the elevator and descend into the labyrinthine depths of the building; as you navigate the funhouse maze and pass the biometric scans.

Watches with indifference as the automatic door whirrs shut behind you, sealing you in Wonwoo’s domain. This place has always made you uneasy: the neon green lighting that falls over your skin, making you feel like you’re being bathed in acid; the nonstop humming of the servers; the humid, stale air that the fans try—and fail—to circulate. You don’t know how he works down here. How he copes with the unyielding darkness and the liminal passage of time.

Regardless, this is Wonwoo’s empire, its walls built out of CCTV monitors that oversee every inch of this city, scanning and listening and anticipating. Wires dangle from the ceiling. On every computer screen, endless lines of code rapidly scroll by, jumbled and nonsensical, only having to make sense to one person. And there he sits in the center of the room, his figure illuminated by a silvery-blue aura, fuzzy around the edges as if he’s slowly being absorbed by the technology he spends all his time with. There’s an energy drink in his hand and a pile of empty cans at his feet. Every so often he moves—to alter a line of code, to change the view of the CCTVs, to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose—but otherwise he’s entirely still, a ghost on autopilot, and it only adds to the restlessness you feel here.

“How haven’t you gone blind yet?” you half-joke.

Wonwoo snorts a laugh, spinning his chair 90° to greet you. No one else bothers to come down here. “Here to get away from the hellscape outside?”

“Somewhat,” you admit, stepping in closer. Unsurprisingly, Wonwoo’s got cameras trained on every crowd. The one that has assembled right outside the Ministry’s doors is displayed on its own screen. “Got anything we can use?”

He hums and presses a button. The Ministry protestors now up the entire wall of monitors in front of you. “Not really.” He scratches at the back of his neck. “They aren’t protesting anything new. No new faces, either.”

“They’re relentless,” you mutter. “What’s Sybil saying?”

Wonwoo presses another button and the screen splits in half. The camera trained on the protestors remains on the left. On the right, however, is a familiar array of identifiers, colors, and numbers. “Psycho-Pass levels continue to be heightened, as you’d expect, and all Crime Coefficients have remained within normal range. So far, nothing has even remotely approached clouded status.”

You sigh, forced to live another day in this in-between, unable to do your job. Protesting the government isn’t strictly forbidden, per se. It’s certainly frowned upon, but so long as nothing gets flagged by the Sybil System, it remains begrudgingly legal. It’s not your responsibility to arrest petty demonstrators, anyway—that’s the role of another department entirely, so it’s not the crowds themselves that have you so anxious.

It’s the novelty of it all.

The country (and its capital city, especially) has a long history of protesting, but never before have citizens been able to keep their numbers—stress levels or their overall mental wellbeing—within range. Protesting is directly at odds with neutrality, so it seems to be a foregone conclusion that those levels will inevitably surpass the established ranges dictated by the government. Sybil is almost always flagged. Someone almost always ends up institutionalized, locked away to prevent the spread of dissent.

That’s not happening this time, though.

The numbers remain acceptable, ultimately unactionable despite teetering on the knife’s edge of concern, liable to tip over in either direction. Discord continues to circulate. Animosity and distrust continue to fester, burning every bridge the government attempts to build. A plague continues to take over the city. It’ll reach pandemic status soon, and that’s your fear: that by the time everyone else notices, takes it seriously, it’ll be too late.

It’s too late now, you think, eyes scanning over the monitors. You read all of the signs. Listen to all of the synchronized chants. Try not to let the odious words and malice in their voices send you spiraling deeper. You try to trick yourself into believing this will turn out like the others: a brief period of unrest that barely registers as a blip in the country’s history in the end. A government crackdown that widens the chasm but brings an end to the chaos. A bandage stuck uselessly over a bleeding, gaping wound.

You want to believe this. You have to believe this, because there is no fathomable alternative.

Lost in thought, you miss it but Wonwoo doesn’t: a line of code that doesn’t look right. Doesn’t fit with the rest. He types something into the screen and isolates it, and this time you don’t miss it when all the color drains from his face. When you ask what’s going on and he tries to stutter his way through an explanation. When, in fragments, you make out the system didn’t catch it… don’t know how long… should’ve caught it… I don’t know who or what…

You swallow your panic and ask, “Can you fix it?”

Wonwoo doesn’t bother as he answers, “I don—I don't think so? I don't—”

It’s too late.

It’s too late.

📺 True Romance, starring Choi Seungcheol

after going on a blind date with false pretenses with the ceo of your company, things take a turn when he asks you to marry him to keep himself from ending up in an arranged marriage.

pairing: ceo!seungcheol x f. reader genre: romance, smut, fluff, fake engagement, rom com at times, angst rating: 18+ warnings: cussing, explicit sexual content, lying

✷ director: @straylightdream | pilot | full series ✷ inspired by: business proposal

📺 Business Proposal, starring Yoon Jeonghan

finding out your boss is a misogynistic pig when you're up for the biggest promotion of your life is, to put it mildly, minorly inconvenient. finding out your ex is also a candidate? majorly infuriating. sometimes the only way to win is to not play… but other times the guy working a dead-end job at the convenience store near your apartment agrees to fake marry you so long as he gets what he wants out of the deal. too bad you can't stand each other.

pairing: jeonghan x f. reader genre: fake dating, marriage of convenience au; mutual annoyances to lovers, miscommunication; crack, fluff, angst, smut rating: 18+ warnings: capitalism, misogyny, adult content

✷ director: @100vern | pilot | full series ✷ inspired by: no gain no love

📺 Guard of the Heart, starring Joshua Hong

You have a lot of standards to meet. You’ve always had. Your family, your company, your fans, they all expect the best from you. And while it is your company who signs your checks, you have yet to disobey your family. So, when your mother demands you go on a blind date to find yourself a competent husband to take over the family business, you listen. You go on a blind date and meet with the worst possible man you could imagine — Joshua Hong. Annoying, careless, Joshua, who manages to make an impression on you nonetheless. But you refuse to fall for him or his shenanigans, especially after the series of events following your first meeting.

pairing: demon!joshua x idol!f. reader genre: romance, strangers to lovers, bodyguard romance, magic rating: 18+ warnings: smut, blood, graphic descriptions of violence, obsessive fans, death threats

✷ director: @jakedustry | pilot | full series ✷ inspired by: my demon

📺 You Again, starring Wen Junhui

it's been 10 years. since you last saw jun. since the break up that rocked you. since you've been back to this town. since you thought about any of this. but leave it to one of your closest friends to draw both you and jun back in and send your world spiraling again.

pairing: jun x f!reader genre: attempts at humor, fluff, angst, smut, exes to ? rating: 18+ warnings: smut, past relationship issues

✷ director: @starlightkyeom | pilot | full series ✷ inspired by: our beloved summer

📺 Our Rented Marriage, starring Kwon Soonyoung

out of options when your roommate becomes engaged to her boyfriend, you find hope that maybe there you'll find your ground when you meet kwon soonyoung, your landlord, and the man who asked you to marry him for the sake of rent.

pairing: soonyoung x f. reader genre: slice of life, romantic comedy, angst, marriage of convenience, strangers to lovers, slow burn, suggestive rating: 18+ warnings: alcohol, smoking, miscommunication, harassment, misogynistic environments/workplace

✷ director: @mellow-wishes | pilot | full series ✷ inspired by: because this is my first life

📺 Truly Madly Deeply, starring Jeon Wonwoo

Jeon Wonwoo is a brilliant programmer. The "what if" of your college years, he's back in your life in the most dramatic way. Yours and Wonwoo's internal Cells villages get into a state of chaotic, hilarious situations and things get interesting. Your Love Cell finally started to wake up from its deep slumber after your last devastating heartbreak. Jeon Wonwoo, has come to wake up every single Cell in your brain in the best way possible, to heal and to learn. To love again.

pairing: wonwoo x reader genre: friends? to lovers, romance, fluff, slight angst, comedy, fantasy au, mutual pining rating: 18+ warnings: strong language working environment, mentions of eating due to stress, past relationships, suggestive, a tiny little miscommunication, wonwoo is down bad

✷ director: @lovelylonelinesssvt | pilot | full series ✷ inspired by: yumi's cells

📺 Crossing the Bridge to You, starring Lee Jihoon

When Jihoon returns to Daeho after three years, the last thing he expects is running into a woman who claims to be his fiancé. You, who have been stuck in Jinyowon for the past three years, rattle his world with your eccentric yet kind nature. Your boldness is new to him but so is your naivety; will he get his happy ending despite the tragedy that has bound him to guilt? Will you get yours after opposing your mother? Only time will tell.

pairing: sorcerer!jihoon x priestess!f. reader genre: angst, fluff, fantasy, strangers to lovers, marriage of convenience rating: 18+ warnings: graphic descriptions of violence, near death situation, memory loss, constant suffering, blood, posession and usage of weapons (swords, bow and arrow), murder, corpses, mentions of suicide, self-blame, lack of freedom and being locked up, messed up timeline of AOS s2 plot

✷ director: @cherrymayz | pilot | full series ✷ inspired by: alchemy of souls

📺 Crumpled Paper and Metal Stars, starring Lee Seokmin

Your second semester of grad school has begun. Everything should be relatively easy, you've completed a semester and most of the people in your cohort adore your kindness and sunshine like disposition. Just as you're getting settled, an anonymous post ignites your semester. Instead of an easy sixteen weeks of learning, you're balancing teaching, a post that has the attention of literally everyone, and the personification of a gray cloud: Lee Seokmin.

pairing: grad student!seokmin x grad student!f. reader genre: grumpy x sunshine, angst, university au, cohorts to lovers, fluff, secret relationship and the angst that comes with it, anonymous confession rating: 18+ warnings: alcohol, seokmin is the grumpiest (lowk to the point where he's an asshole), mentions of academic burnout, mentions of a sick parent, suggestive scenes

✷ director: @gentleisa | pilot | full series ✷ inspired by: dear m

📺 Oops!! We Broke the Plot, starring Kim Mingyu

You and Mingyu are childhood friends and two self‑aware comic characters that are forced into clichéd romcom roles you both hate. On the page, he’s the perfect jock and you’re the villainess; off the page, you’re a nerd–queen duo secretly in love. Fed up with scripted drama and unwanted love triangles, you rebel, glitching the comic as the Writer fights to force you back into place. What follows isn’t a romcom but a battle for agency, freedom, and the right to choose each other.

pairing: mingyu x f. reader genre: romantic comedy, smut, angst, drama, childhood friends to lovers, meta, breaking the fourth wall(?) rating: 18+ warnings: smut/nsfw content

✷ director: @xomakara | pilot | full series ✷ inspired by: extra-ordinary you

📺 Universal Error, starring Xu Minghao

Being a doctor is hard work. Running your own fan page with over a thousand followers and translating a Chinese webtoon every week? Even harder. Being an avid reader and fan girl of the popular Chinese Webtoon, "Universal Error" turns your life upside down for the better as you translate it every week for your leaks page. However, when the finale turns dark and the main character, Xu Minghao's ending is left open-ended and undetermined. You thought your life couldn't get any worse, until an unforeseen circumstance happens that ends with you waking up in an alternate reality with Xu Minghao's life in your hands. Will you be able to change his reality or would you be left with a Universal Error yourself?

pairing: xu minghao x f. reader genre: fluff, angst, smut, strangers to lovers, thriller, suspense, fantasy rating: 18+ warnings: smut/nsfw content, talks about murder, weapons, blood

✷ director: @livmarauder | pilot | full series ✷ inspired by: w: two worlds apart

📺 Cyber Love is Bullshit, starring Boo Seungkwan

You hate Love Alarm and everything that it stands for, especially since it's the reason why your last relationship ended. Now navigating through a society where people rely a machine to dictate who you fall for, you find a lone soul like yours who makes you believe in love again.

pairing: seungkwan x reader genre: fluff, angst, smut, strangers to lovers, found family? rating: 18+ warnings: talks of infidelity, sexual content

✷ director: @aeristudios | pilot | full series ✷ inspired by: love alarm

📺 Rabbit, starring Vernon Chwe

Revenge is the only thing that kept you alive after your family’s betrayal. When the police force you to earn your place by infiltrating the same syndicate that destroyed you, you step back into a world that feels far too familiar - especially Vernon, who seems to see right through you.

pairing: vernon x f. reader genre: mafia, criminal, angst, smut ratings: 18+ warnings: violence, criminal behavior, explicit language, explicit content

✷ director: @sailorsoons | pilot | full series ✷ inspired by: my name

📺 You Think You Know a Guy, starring Lee Chan

Chan’s grandmother says she disapproves, but he knows she doesn’t mind so long as he proves he can turn a profit before he's given a role in the family business. That’s the easy part, Chan thinks, since a friend in Tokyo says business is booming for his own boyfriend rental service. So he hires four good looking guys— the himbo, the stoic romantic, the playboy, and you, the pretty one. The hardest part, Chan thinks later, is stopping himself from looking your way. (Or: allegedly straight Chan questions his sexuality when all he can think about is the guy who works for him.)

pairing: boss!chan x afab reader genre: fluff, angst, smut, strangers to lovers rating: 18+ warnings: questioning sexuality and gender, employer/ee dynamic, queer themes, accepting family/friend group, accidental but non-malicious misgendering; reader is afab, uses she/they pronouns, and looks androgynous

✷ director: @imnotshua | pilot | full series ✷ inspired by: coffee prince

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