#raceme2hell

it started with the late night snacks, you waking up to him sitting cross legged by the coffee table, halfway through a bowl of shin ramyun, a bluetooth mic warm in his palm with his voice dramatically belting out another pop song crackling through the speakers.

you would ask if he’s live, and he would shake his head, already offering you a spare bowl he made while you slept. you two would eat together, and he would force you to sing sometimes. your parts got edited out, of course, but he would keep those clips just for himself.

then it was the bikes. you already knew your boyfriend would be a problem after the first bike he got, but now he has four, maybe five; and it’s given you more mini heart attacks than you can count.

by one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, you would sit and sip some warm cocoa, look out at the nice view like an old lady, try to finally find some reprieve from the constant headaches you get from this man.

he’s gone god knows where, said he was going to film again. you expected him to head to the store, maybe vlog a grocery run, or invade namjoon’s privacy again. what you did not expect was your boyfriend all but skidding down the street right below you, one hand on the handle, and the other steadying a camera in front of him, trying to get a good angle.

you weren’t sure whether to call the cops, your therapist, or his mother. eventually, you shut him down by ringing his phone, and he shut you up by making you squirt twice.

eventually, it trickled into the showers. him wet, hair messy and soaking, making weird faces, furrowing his brows, toothbrush wedged between lips as he stands there in all his half-naked glory. shorts on, of course, because he said his ass is too fat to be given out for free.

those specific scenes you would be bothered by, if he didn’t give you the vip exclusive cuts of him stroking his pretty wet cock after, creaming with your name bouncing off the bathroom walls.

“two more minutes,” you mumble over another layer of brown lip gloss, smacking your lips for the nth time, and you squint at your reflection. then reaching for your eyeliner pen again—“pretty girl, you said that seven minutes ago.” his voice rumbles from behind.

the whine that leaves you makes him whine an even higher, even whinier whine.

your boyfriend sits on his bed bare-chested, grey sweatpants, tattoos out and glowing in the warm light, hair perfectly tousled — the whole effortless pussy-popper-9000 look — phone already propped up with one of his ridiculously expensive black tripods.

there isn’t an ounce of annoyance in his eyes though; just warm, gooey pools of affection for you. you. you.

“c’mere. beautiful baby,” he resorts to making grabby hands at you, which you catch in the mirror of the vanity he put in his room just for you. he’s making gross kissy sounds, beckoning you over like he would his dog bam.

you roll your eyes, and yet, you’re already setting down the pen and making your way to him.

“look who it is!” he’s clapping now, of fucking course he is, beaming at you as you approach. his hands then start drumming over his thighs, like some entrance fanfare for a princess — which you absolutely are in his eyes.

his lip tucks under his teeth immediately, as soon as you make contact, your hand holding onto his shoulder for a brief second just to steady yourself, before settling down on his lap like he’d instructed. and he’s already excited.

jeongguk is warm, and his scent engulfs you like a hug, and it soothes your nerves, even for a moment. you’re soft in his hands, always so soft; and his arms find your middle — you both melt into each other instinctively.

you’re met with a 4k 60fps view of yourself and him, shot wide to capture the way your thighs spread over his, and the way his silhouette swallows yours.

his shoulders go on for days, and his milky skin contrasts beautifully with the black tank top you (barely) have on. he squeezes around your tummy, making both of you laugh like idiots.

you look good together, real good. you lean in slightly, turning your head and pursing your lips to examine your makeup, when your vision is soon obstructed by one large, tattooed hand reaching up and cupping both your cheeks.

he grabs your face, touch gentle but firm as he squeezes lightly, and from what you can see on the screen — god, he’s fucking delighted. “so so prettyyy. what a pretty girl, no?” he coos, eyes crinkling at the corners as he gives one of his eyebrow-smiles.

you’re seething, and also soaking, kinda. he doesn’t need to know that.

“you’re actually the worst ever,” you grunt, trying to sound mean but it’s muffled by the pout he’s forced you into. both your hands have to wrap around his wrist just to wrestle his stupidly strong, stupidly veiny hand off your face, which you manage to do, but it’s no use.

“yeah? you promise?” he’s fucking giggling, proud of it, proud of your little attempts to resist him because you both know you can’t.

his other hand reaches over to gently pat your cheek, before pinching it lovingly; which earns him another whine. and he just loves it. he adores it so much you can feel it right under your thigh. his cock is thrumming in his boxers, heart so full as he leans over to press a big, wet, smooch to your other cheek.

ugh. “just start the damn video.”

after a few more pokes to your face with some odd, boyish explosion sound effects, he finally concedes, hips shifting under you.

one arm — very obvious and very unnecessary — hooks around your chest, effectively grabbing and squeezing your tit as he moves you like he’s done it a hundred times before.

he has. and like a hundred times before, you cuss him out for it.

until his free hand moves, his finger pressing to his lips, which, unfortunately, shuts you up pretty quick.

his thumb hits the record button, and he’s shifting you back, though his grip doesn’t loosen, just slips down to your waist, where he pulls you even closer.

“today, i am joined by the scariest, sexiest, most murderous force of nature i know—” “aaand you are going to end up six feet under,” you’re already crossing your arms, eyes narrowing at him through the screen. his brows pinch, looking to the camera and his imaginary viewers, shrugging in a told you so kinda manner, even as his hands start massaging over your shoulders slowly.

“see, this recording is actually for my safety rather than my enjoyment.”

he props his chin over your shoulder, and his little quip is pathetic. he’s pathetic. but knowing jeongguk, he would own that title like a fuckin’ badge of honor, too. you let out a huff, relaxing into his touch as your eyes flutter shut.

but jeongguk doesn’t like that. he clicks his tongue, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, lips brushing your hair as he nudges you with his nose to look back at the camera. “c’mon. introduce yourself, mama?”

your head falls forward, a smile tugging on your lips as you avoid the camera. “hello, i’m y/n, this is my clingy pet dog. bye.”

your lack of enthusiasm makes him chuckle, breath hot against your skin. you are sooo stubborn and he just loves you like this. “damn right.” he growls right behind your ear, which is insane considering his eyes peek out from behind you, all wide and innocent.

even as he’s clearly ogling at your cleavage and your pretty face on the screen.

his hands move from your waist, sliding up higher, and you, begrudgingly, uncross your arms, earning you another gravelly ‘good girl’ and a wet kiss to your temple. he’s already cupping your breasts, squeezing and bouncing them for the camera, the creamy flesh ripples under his handling.

it’s embarrassing, your face flushing pink as he toys with your tits, and you’re just letting him, biting back whimpers and whines with every punishing squeeze. “mn, koo—”

one hand slides upward from your breast, lightly smacking your cheek again before settling around your throat. the suddenness making your breath hitch, eyes rolling back for a moment as you tried to steady yourself. a breathless huff of laughter leaves you, in another futile attempt to sound mean.

“freak..” you hiss.

he only grinned, a wicked, lopsided thing. "mhm? and what else?" he murmured, his voice a deep rasp.

without so much as a beat to let you respond, he catches your lower lip between his fingers and pushed his thumb past your teeth, filling your mouth and muffling your indignant protests into soft, wet sounds of submission.

rude.

jeongguk is having the time of his life, his hand a heavy weight on your neck, not to choke you, no; but anchor you to him.

he can do the choking later.

his gaze is doe-like and adoring, shimmering with pure, unadulterated joy; glowing with a soft, manic sort of adoration that makes your heart ache even as he's being a total menace.

using his firm grip, he moves your head to get a better look at you and fuck. “fuck, look at you. look at my girl.” a heavy throb pulses straight through his cock, it almost hurts. “you are so pretty.”

his tone is dripping with honey through gritted teeth, disgustingly, aggressively sweet even as his thumb is pressed deep into your mouth.

the thick, delicious intrusion forces you to suckle on it, glaring at him through lashes that were already growing damp. you’re trying to maintain some semblance of that pride, but to him you’re just cute. so fucking cute.

“today,” he starts and reaches down, his fingers hooking under the hem of your black tank top. he doesn't ask; he just peels the fabric upward, dragging the soft cotton over the curve of your stomach and up, up, until your breasts are bared to the cool air and his gaze.

and he gives you that look. that deeply terrifying look that always ends with you in a messy, sticky heap. it’s manic, it’s a hunger that borderlines on holy despite the mischief dancing in his eyes.

he is so, so incredibly gone for you.

he lets out another breathy, jagged laugh.

“we’re gonna see how long it takes to completely break you, aren't we?" he whispers, the challenge hanging in the air like a dare. "how long can i ruin my girl before i finally lose it?" his nose nuzzled back into your hair.

you can’t even process the sheer audacity of his words, you’re struggling to breathe around the pad of his digit when—

smack!

the sound of his palm hitting the underside of your breast is sharp and loud in the quiet room, the sting sending a delicious, jolting shock straight to your clit.

the sting is sharp, a sudden burst of heat that makes your toes curl and your eyes water, but he doesn't give you a second to recover. his expression tells you he’s enjoying your discomfort far too much. then another, smack, right to the other breast.

you protest around his finger, but his grip is so strong and his hand is so heavy.

he gives in another light smack, before grabbing it roughly and squeezing, sending you choking around a sob. “b-baby mmff, please— mmnnn!”

he watches the way your skin flushes, the way your nipple hardens into a tight, dark peak from the sudden sting, and he lets out a soft, triumphant giggle that is entirely too affectionate for the way he’s looking at you.

"hold the camera, baby," he commands, his voice a low, honeyed growl that leaves no room for argument.

he nods his head to the device, forcing you to reach out with a trembling hand to angle it the way he wants.

“that’s it, you listen so well f’me sweet girl,” he peppers kisses over your shoulder, “right on your pussy. show ‘em those cute little panties.”

you would roll your eyes, but you just obey, the hand in your throat and thumb in your mouth a constant reminder of who’s in charge right now. it’s shaky, but it gets the job done, the phone held down low to show off the pretty, expensive black lace that did very little to hide the wetness pooling on your lips.

“fuuuuck, look at that,” he breathes out, mouthing at the juncture of your neck as he stares down at the screen. “god, why are you so fuckin’ sexy, huh? so fuckin’ lucky.” as you struggle to maintain your hold on the camera, your knuckles turning white, you feel his hand leave your breast.

down your waist, down your navel, down the soft curve which he squeezes lovingly. down, down, down.

his fingers come into view on the camera, pressing two into the lace, watching, his jaw falling slack as your lips make a soft, filthy squelch. the dampness only spreads.

“ohhh fuck, sweet girl,” you both whine, like the sight itself is breaking you both.

his thumb presses harder into your mouth, a silent command to keep sucking, to keep staying quiet and good while he works. his hand is a hot, heavy intrusion between your thighs, his fingers sliding past the damp, silken folds of your heat to find the center of your ache.

the moment he touches you, the moment his fingertip brushes against your swollen clit you feel your entire body lurch. you’re trying so hard to keep the camera steady, to keep the frame focused, but as he begins to rub you with a slow, punishingly deliberate pressure, your hand begins to slip.

he sees it, of course; he sees everything.

“don’t let go, baby, come on. you can do it,” his fingers slow, circling aching little figures around your swollen clit, and you buck your hips in an attempt to meet his hand. “k-kooooo—mmmff,” his thumb is now pressing inside your cheek, stretching your lips open for the camera as your noises spill out. “come on, fix the camera. show ‘em how good my girl is, yeah?”

blinking back tears, your grip tightens around the tripod again, the material biting into your palm — and you almost fucking let go because he speeds up all of a sudden. “mnnn ohh— oh my god!”

having your lips pulled open, your spit dribbles down your chin and around his hand, and the disgusting, wet feeling only spurs him on, practically ripping the lace out the way as two thick fingers plunge into your pretty pussy, his thumb relentless against your clit.

“thaaat’s right, that’s my good girl,” he hisses, eyes narrowed and zoned right in on the way your velvety walls suck him in. so fucking needy.

you can only respond with throaty little mewls, trying to hide your face in his neck as he works you open up close and personal, all in high definition.

you feel so fucking exposed, so vulnerable, so disgusting — his hand around your throat tightens, making you gasp and choke for air. his other hand pulls out, and you find tears welling up in your eyes again, head jerking in betrayal, “y-you fucking—”

the slap is sharp, a stinging crack that echoes in the quiet room, and the heat of it goes straight to your tummy as you yelp.

your inner thigh is already flushed, the skin sensitive and tender, but the impact of his hand slick, hot, and heavy with your own sticky juices is enough to make your vision blur. the sensation of his wet palm meeting your skin is so visceral, so unapologetically messy, that a fresh sob hitches in your throat.

he slaps you again. and again, for good measure.

"look at the camera, sweet girl. please?" he coos, his voice a devastating contrast to the sting he just delivered. it’s so sweet, so honeyed and adoring, as if he hadn't just punished you for your momentary lapse in composure.

“don’t hide. show them how much you're enjoying this for me. look at the screen, princess."

you’re fucking shivering.

your face hot and tear streaked, you force your heavy eyelids open. you feel so fucking gross, your lips are swollen and glistening with saliva, your hair is a mess, and you can feel the dampness of your own slick coating his hand.

but as you look back down to where the phone is angled, jeongguk is right there, his face hovering just inches from yours. his dark eyes are round and sparkly, filled with that worshipful light.

"there she fuckin’ is," he breathes, a low, ragged sound that vibrates in the air between you. he presses a messy kiss to your cheek. "my pretty girl. so fucking pretty. look at those eyes.. so wide and beautiful for me."

"j-jeongguk, please," you babble, the corner of your mouth is sore from his digit still pressing you open; the words coming out in broken, frantic whimpers.

your free hand clutches at the bedsheets, his hair, his bicep — anything — as the tension in your lower belly reaches a breaking point. “k-koo! hhnnn baby fuckfuckfuck,” “yes? yes my pretty girl?”

too much; the friction, the pressure, the sheer intensity of being watched and handled like this in front of a camera. "gonna— oh god, koo, g-gonna cum! i’m gonna cum, please!"

"yeah? gonna cum for koo?" his hand finally, finally leaves your face, letting you suck in a deep breath, still covered in sticky sweat and your saliva fucking everywhere.

you’re not sure what’s worse, the smears of your expensive brown lip gloss on his hand, or the way he sucks on his own thumb, making a show of swirling his tongue around it, tasting your spit before reaching down to help you film. like it was the most normal thing ever.

it makes your pussy clench, and you both wince.

“give it to me, mama. please?” he leans in, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to the curve of your shoulder, his lips soft against your heated skin even as his fingers suddenly become a blur of motion between your thighs, making you fucking scream as you squirm. it’s too much. too much. too much.

he’s working you with a ruthless, rhythmic precision, his thumb grinding against your clit in a way that feels like it’s trying to pull the very soul out of you — and the dirtiest thing somehow is the happiness on his face as he’s doing it.

through your tears you can make out his smile, his tongue poking out like he’s concentrated on a sketch rather than making his pretty girlfriend fall apart in a wet, hot mess.

the cherry on top? as he fucks into your sopping cunt, the filthiest noises filling the warm air around you, he’s peering down into the camera from over your shoulder.

and he, with all the audacity in the fucking world, winks.

the climax hits you like a physical blow, a violent, tectonic shift that shatters your remaining strength. you let out a high, keening wail, your back arching so sharply it feels like you might snap.

your vision explodes into white light as the first massive wave of release erupts from you. you feel the hot, forceful spray of your juices drenching his hand and splashing against the sheets, and the floor. a torrential outpouring of pure, unbridled ecstasy.

you’re shaking, sobbing, your entire body convulsing in the throes of a squirt so intense it feels like you’re being emptied out entirely.

and through the haze of your undoing, through the tears and the gasps and the sheer, overwhelming sensation of being broken open, you see him. he’s watching you instead of the camera, his eyes locked on you. his girl. as he captures every messy, beautiful second of your surrender.

a wide, enamored, and utterly obsessed grin is plastered on his face. he’s watching his masterpiece unfold in real time, and he looks like he’s never been more proud in his entire life.

“oh my god, you’re the cutest thing ever,” he’s giggling. he made you squirt all over and he’s fucking giggling.

after the first initial spray, he pulls his fingers out, only to plunge them back in, easily now, from all the wetness and slick, pushing, flicking against that spot with just the right pressure, to pull another spray from you. his eyes glued to your teary face, brows furrowed and lips still pulled in that stupid smile as he tries to soak in every single reaction.

“koo, baby, nghhhh, you’re so—“ you grit out through your teeth, thighs trembling violently, as the pleasure and stinging pain blend together so bad, your eyeliner is washed clean off by now.

he pulls out, goes back in for another, pulling a tinier fountain out of you,

and then another — but you’re pushing, pounding weakly against his forearm, and he finally stops. his hand resting, cupping over your creamy, puffy pussy.

there’s nothing but your breathing for a moment, and the thrum of your heartbeats racing in the aftermath.

he sets the camera back on the table in front of you, angling it low so it still catches every last drop of your release dripping down your thighs. his hand, the one drenched in your squirt, reaches up again, finding its place back on your neck the to tilt your head the way he wants and kiss you.

it’s wet, it’s messy, and so so soft, so so loving. his piercing cools the heat of your swollen lips as he sucks on your tongue playfully, before it’s your turn to smack him away.

“mm, you did so good. you’re so fucking pretty. so fucking sweet.” he praises, genuinely lovesick. “my little porn star.”

your breathing fans his face, and he kisses you again. can’t get enough of you.

“are we gonna count that as one? or three?” you question, the teasing lilt returning to your voice as you glance at the still-recording phone, a few specks of your release glistening on the screen.

he hums for a moment, looking at the device before turning back, that grin of his turning cocky, proud.

“one, definitely one. ‘m far from done with you, mama.”

“i fucking hate you.”

you both let out a deep sigh, and share another deep, lingering kiss, before he’s freeing his huge, heavy, aching cock, and tightening his hand back around your throat with a smooch to your temple.

lord pray for this man’s storage.

© maison raceme2hell.

note. whipped this up in like 4 hours. i’m not a smut writer at all. was very horny. won’t happen again. bye

you’re thumbing at the studs on your lip when he interrupts your thoughts. “i’ll call you when i get home, bun,” he always does, though he knows you’ll probably call first anyway.

he flashes you that easy, boyish smile, like he didn’t just spend the last two hours cocking his brow in response to your yapping and shooting you the most judgmental sideways glances at every single one of your reactions.

his broad frame is halfway out the door when you shove something small and fuzzy into his palm — still warm, the hairs sticking in every direction from how you practically strangled it earlier, demanding answers.

“take it,” your grumble almost makes him laugh. you turn back to your desk, where the rest of your dolls stand in neat little rows, spared by the grace of whatever toy god you’ve decided to believe in. “it’s a dupe.”

it’s not unusual for you to give him things you don’t need. you’ve said that about hoodies, about food, about anything that ends up in his hands anyway. your adorable pout paired with the sweetness of the gesture would have him folding already,

— if not for what he’s holding.

he turns it over. looks at it. then at you. then back again, as though it personally offended him. “..it’s pink.”

“you’re welcome.”

he doesn’t question it after that, just observes.

her blonde hair curls like a loaf of clouds. her earmuffs — ears? whatever — are round and red, stamped with what appears to be a tiny apple design that matches her wide eyes and rosy cheeks.

his finger nudges the pink bow at her collar. it’s slightly crooked.

breaks his heart a bit.

the figure now hangs from one of the loops on his backpack. black and pink has always been your thing. somehow, the new addition makes him feel like he’s trying you on.

“i’ll make sure to take better care of you than she ever could,” he whispers to the toy in a baby voice, like you aren’t standing six feet away.

you flip him off over your shoulder.

“fuck you, and fuck moldy muffin.”

moldy muffin.

he bites back a smile. unsuccessfully.

“i’ll talk to you later — we need to discuss child support.”

with that, your apartment door closes, leaving both of you grinning like idiots on opposite sides.

even when he’s halfway across the world running on three hours of sleep and airport coffee, jeongguk still finds himself with your voice in his ear explaining things he never would’ve looked at twice on his own.

one month it’s vintage tokidokis. the next it’s five nights at freddy’s lore. obscure internet horror rpg games. strawberry matcha recipes. the fundamentals of gothic literature. he listens anyway.

sometimes actively, chin propped in his palm while you ramble from the other side of a facetime. sometimes passively — your voice blending into the background while he stretches, or sits in a makeup chair with one eye closed, exhausted beyond belief.

it’s annoying. you’re annoying. and it always sticks. he’ll catch himself weeks later standing in some department store in tokyo, staring at a display of figurines because you called one a “90,000 on the serve scale.” or he’ll see strawberry flavored anything and suddenly he’s sending you a picture and making a mental note to take you there.

when a new fixation sinks it’s claws into you, he’s a secondhand victim. but he’s never had one of them follow him home.

maybe that’s why the atmosphere in his house felt a little.. lopsided.

he had set his bag down on a table by the entryway — usually tossing it or letting it drop without thought — but in the moment, he felt the need to be uncharacteristically careful. likely due to the anomaly at his front pocket. those vacant, rosy eyes stare up at him.

that bow was, yet again, lopsided.

so now he was on the sofa, having peeled back his layers until he was in his loose black tank top and shorts — a batman pair you thought it would be hilarious to get him for his twenty-sixth. you’ve made a disgusting habit out of infecting his life with ridiculous traces of you.

the dim lighting catches on the ink sprawling down his arm.

pressed between long, tattooed fingers, is her.

“you’re a menace.” he murmured — though whether he meant the doll or his best friend with an odd penchant for collecting them, he wasn’t sure.

moving toward the kitchen to grab a glass of water, he catches his reflection in the darkened window, with the blob of pastel tucked safely under his heavy, muscular arm. she washes him out, in a way. his hard edges feel sanded down against his will.

“don’t tell her i said this,” his voice lowers to a whisper, leaning in close to the figurine as he took a sip of water, “but you look way better with me.”

just then, his phone buzzed on the counter, vibrating with a force that makes him jump. he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a grin tugging at his lips before he even reads the screen.

bun<3: are you home yet? i need to crashout bun<3: bought another box. and there is STILL no sign of buddy doggie =((((

right. like he knows which one that is.

it’s a name he vaguely recalls you mentioning earlier at your apartment — one he was too engrossed in absolutely vacuuming up the plate of spicy pork dumplings in front of him to really understand.

jeongguk stares at his screen, trying to bluetooth another side eye to you.

bun<2: yes, i am home bun. i’ll ring after my shower bun<2: and what kinda fuckass name is buddy doggie. i’m still not over moldy muffin

he’s chuckling, despite himself.

bun<3: what is your problem bun<3: i swear i’ll make and present a whole powerpoint on skullpanda yk i don’t play abt this

he could ask. probably should ask. normally he would — but something about it this time feels like admitting defeat.

instead he types,

bun<2: i’d rather not

— fully knowing you’re gonna make him sit through it the next time you meet.

his breath catches around the start of a smile, shoving his phone in his pocket. for a second, he just stands there, staring at nothing in particular. the silence sets back in his home, but it’s lot less lonely now.

“buddy doggie…” he blinks like at the name like rearranging the syllables might help.

he looks down at the pink thing.

she looks back. very helpful.

he lifts a finger to nudge the cherry perched on top of her tiny head. “..you got any idea what she’s on about?”

moldy muffin probably knows. unfortunately, she’s an inanimate object.

jeongguk scoffs, setting the glass aside and walking back to the living room. he drops onto the couch again, this time he leans forward, elbows on his knees, his cutesy companion dangling loosely from his thumb.

this is stupid.

how do you make it look so endearing?

he thinks of your smile, your hopeless rambles, how your eyes lit up opening those foil packs.

and now he’s pulling his phone back into his hand anyway. a quick search, just to prove a point.

this is when jeongguk learns that skullpandas aren’t just balls of fluff, there are pocket-sized ones — and way bigger ones too.

different series, names, expressions. some are made of vinyl, porcelain, polyester. some cute, some breathtakingly beautiful, some slightly unsettling. some look like they have some sick backstory — and he’s rethinking your powerpoint proposal.

“..well damn,” he mutters under his breath, scrolling.

there are lists. rarity tiers, secrets and limited editions, some designer and collectors’ items — mega sized statues, chic action figures, various accessories, even a whole crystal ball for your dining table..?

his thumb passes over one image in particular.

“buddy doggie,” he reads aloud.

it was one of the fluffy, polyester, bag charm types. his stowaway’s evil, emo furry twin. her eyes were an icy blue, fluff shaped to resemble a wolf. a silver doggy bone rested on her collar where muffin’s bow was.

next to her was a dog. a sound escapes him.

it’s a cartoonish little ball with a smile and two little ears and two little legs. the lack of detail on it compared to it’s artful counterpart was comical.

his gaze drifts to moldy muffin again. “don’t give me that,” he says, pointedly. “this doesn’t mean shit. i’m not like your crazy mother.”

a pause.

another glance at the screen.

“if anything, it just proves the system is flawed.”

the doll’s description reads a diabolical 1/72 chance, it makes him cock his head. that’s — what, eight whole sets? even he gets offended at the odds.

that’s why you’re never getting shit.

the following afternoon, he doesn’t mean to stop.

he really doesn’t.

the newest spicy flavor of samyang ramen was the only thing on his mind today, head tilted, hands shoved in his pockets as he brainstormed in advance over recipes and seasonings.

a black mask was pulled over his face — anonymity, ideally — hoping his weekly snack run would go uninterrupted. he loves his supporters with his whole heart, but the last thing jeongguk will ever play about, is his food.

his backpack feels wrong, though. too light. which is ridiculous, considering he practically carries his whole life around with him daily. still — it’s as though he walked out of the house on the wrong foot and hasn’t figured out which one.

grey sweatpants. black shirt. black hoodie. stomper boots. the usual, and yet, dull.

it makes him frown. jeon jeongguk isn’t dull.

he makes a left onto a busy shopping strip, long strides eating up the pavement, trying to ignore the vague, itching sense that something is missing.

but maybe something is missing. maybe it’s the emptiness at his bag’s front pocket. maybe it’s how his monochrome outfit is missing just a touch of.. pink. something aggressively pink. something currently laid back in his home, nuzzled in his sheets like she paid rent, all because he had paused this morning — actually paused — to tuck in a doll and let it get more sleep.

“i’m losing it.”

in his defense, you did tell him last night to take extra good care of her. and his idea of good care is sleeping in through the afternoon, undisturbed.

the exhale that leaves him fogs up his glasses and blinds him momentarily. he curses under his breath as he tugs them off.

when he stops to wipe at the cloudy glass with the hem of his hoodie,

he lifts his head.

“abso-fucking-lutely not.”

so much for not interrupting his snack run.

it just so happens that right next to the store he’s supposed to be heading to, is the pop mart.

the root of all evil.

the same pop mart you spoke of with a kind of reverence in your eyes reserved for religion and life-altering events — usually from his passenger seat, legs tucked up, pointing it out as if he’d miss it.

he’s seething like it just ruined his day — like something is physically anchoring his boots to the pavement, keeping him from just walking past the happy haven of furry monsters and overconsumption like a normal person with self-control.

a beat passes, his eyes drifting back to the convenience store just a few more feet away, a beacon of light amidst the temptation before him.

“..i’m just lookin’.”

that’s how it starts, swearing up and down it’s not an admission of defeat, not curiosity, not interest, definitely not whatever it is you have going on. just looking around.

his feet are the first to betray him. one second he’s standing outside arguing with himself, the next, the doors slid open and welcomed him with a chime way too cheerful.

the lighting is warm.

the shelves are full of pastels.

he’s already tense, nose scrunching up in distaste. rows upon rows upon rows of tiny faces watching him from their perches.

‘fuck are you looking at?’ is what jeongguk would have said — had he not remembered he was in the middle of a public store and trying to keep a low profile.

god, this is a mistake.

his eyes scan the shelves anyway.

a display case of labubus makes him smile faintly, remembering his buddies — namely taehyung and namjoon, who fell victim to the craze. those spiky little demons. they’re cute, and his friends were actually quite normal about it.

but then he recognizes it. a familiar face, smack dab in the center of the store. one of the mega figurines, that scarily stood at three feet tall, with those huge, round eyes, and rosy cheeks.

moldy muffin — or rather, her bigger, more intimidating sibling, standing guard in front of their designated family shelf.

“skullpanda,” he sighs, like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

it doesn’t, not really.

if anything, it sounds familiar now, annoyingly so.

even more annoying how much sweeter it sounds on your lips.

his hand comes up before he even fully registers it, hovering over one of the unmistakably red boxes he recalls scattered around your place. he pauses — glancing around quickly like somebody is gonna come out and catch him in the act.

of course, no one does. nobody cares as much as he does right now.

‘you found me,’ the title mocks him as he picks it up. he flips it over in his hand, reading the back like it was gonna give him any answers. names. designs. probabilities.

moldy muffin (ew), ratty bear, sneaky chestnut, cerberus, darkness, thistle, chomp, sandman, pranky peanut.. who is naming these?

at the very bottom, he sees the silhouette. the secret. 1/72.

“this is insane,” his brows pull together.

he flips it back to the front. gives it a small shake — he’s not sure why, but you always say it’s a crucial step in your weird gambling ritual.

nothing.

another shake.

still nothing.

“..what am i supposed to be hearing.”

he frowns at it like it’s withholding information on purpose.

he picks up a second one, “just for comparison.”

a third, “this one feels different.”

he squints at them, even takes off his glasses, rotating each one carefully, like the answer is going to reveal itself if he looks hard enough.

it doesn’t. of course not. the system is clearly fucking flawed.

he huffs sharply through his nose, pulling his glasses over his eyes, ready to put them all back, get his ramen, and leave.

but his hand lingers, for just a second.

then grabs one again.

“one,” he says quietly, setting a boundary with himself. “just so muffin isn’t lonely.”

and then he grabs a second.

“in case the first one is ugly.”

the third one stares at him.

no matter how much money he spends, jeongguk can’t guarantee the one you want.

“..this is how they get you.”

the third box joins the other two. “for statistical accuracy.”

bun<2: this is a fucking scam

bun<3: ?? what is

jeongguk doesn’t reply for a moment, his head tipped back onto the sofa as he lets out a bone-deep sigh. he’s so done.

he grabs his phone with the force of a teenager that’s been grounded, and lazily snaps a picture of the three empty boxes laid out on his — previously sleek and expensive-looking, coffee table. one ripped in half completely, before he figured out how the pull tab works, and opened the other two correctly.

the typing bubble comes instantly, he feels the irritation bubbling in advance.

bun<2: don’t start

bun<3: YOU DID WGHAATTTT

bun<2: two of them are wrong

he glances down.

bun<2: the other one is that pink thing

bun<3: LNFAOOOOO bun<3: YOU GOT MOLDY MUFFIN AGAIN

bun<2: she’s following me

bun<3: she’s CHOSEN YOU !!

that makes him pause.

bun<2: she needs to unchoose me bun<2: like rn

bun<3: WHAT DID U GETT send pics please

bun<2: i look like ass rn. they’re ugly too

bun<3: PUH LEASE

he makes a face, but he’s moving to pose anyway. his long fingers gather up the three dolls, hooking them by the silver loops like rings as he holds them up to his face.

the selfie he takes is pathetic — his glasses are pushed up to his hair, exposing his forehead and pinched brows. he’s wearing that stupid chad-face, his tongue peeking out, poking over his lip rings.

dangling from his hand are his three new companions.

ratty bear, pranky peanut, and moldy muffin number two.

bun<2: i’m so mad.

though the trio is rather cute.

your typing bubble appears, then disappears, then reappears.

bun<3: they look good on you =]

he rereads it. once. twice.

“..what does that even mean.”

but his thumb lingers over the screen for a long while.

he glances at the selfie again, seeing nothing but him looking absolutely ridiculous.

and yet — his lips press together, fighting something that feels suspiciously like a smile.

bun<2: you are so crazy

bun<3: and im RIGHT !

bun<2: you’re biased bun<2: and blind

bun<3: i literally picked your outfit for senior prom, i BEEN right

jeongguk snorts.

actually snorts.

the sound rips out of him, loud and ugly and completely unfiltered, echoing slightly in the quiet of his living room. “that outfit was criminal.”

bun<2: you put me in a pink suit with a bow tie bun<2: i looked like i was about to host a children’s show

bun<3: AND U ATE THAT bun<3: dpmo jk

he shakes his head, but he’s properly grinning now. it settles easy on his face, like it’s been there a hundred times before — he finds that it comes easiest when he’s mid-petty argument with you.

you never pushed anything onto him — he could’ve easily said no. but he’ll never admit that he loved the way you admired him while he donned your favorite color, like he had invented the very hues himself.

bun<2: you’re never touching me or my style again

bun<3: see you say that, but you only got tattoos when i got them?? and the lip piercings too???? bun<3: who introduced you to guns n’ roses

he rolls his eyes so hard it almost hurts, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb over the dark patterns on his forearm.

he booked that appointment the second he noticed how pretty that little bat looked on your thigh. how impossible it became not to stare at your mouth once silver caught the light there.

bun<3: and now you’re copping my freaking SKULLPANDAS. bun<3: you just love having me all over you huh?

his fingers still over a dry insult. your message sits there like it just — like it didn’t mean anything. like you didn’t mean anything by it.

“you’re so annoying.”

he goes in to type.

backs out.

comes back.

his gaze flicks up to the three figures sitting in his lap.

then to the reflection of himself in the black screen of his tv. he’s a mess. his eyes are blown wide, he’s surrounded by skullpandas, your hoodie is on his back — fuck.

it’s one he grabbed off your couch not even a week ago, among all your other belongings he probably has meshed into his closet. it still smells like you, too.

his jaw shifts, chewing on something he can’t quite swallow.

bun<2: stop saying crazy shit

bun<3: whatever helps you sleep at night, bun

the nickname you’ve been calling each other for as long as he can remember, it sits different this time. he stares at the message longer than he should.

“yeah..” he’s dragging a hand over his face, trying to erase the ache in his cheeks and mouth and chest — what the fuck is going on?

that night, jeongguk throws his three new companions onto his sheets next to muffin. he then feels bad for chucking them so harshly, muttering soft apologies as he fixes them to sit upright.

the two muffins are placed beside each other.

“great. you’ve multiplied.” he mumbles, lips pursed with his hands on his hips.

the two identical pink figures share that evil look, sitting side by side like they’ve formed an alliance.

in the span of two days, jeongguk’s king size had been split in half. instead of succumbing to sleep facing a dull, grey ceiling; it’s various balls of pastel fluff that bid him goodnight.

before he slips out of consciousness, his barely-there mind manages a small realization.

he didn’t even get his ramen.

it’s unclear when this turned from a you thing into an ‘us’ thing.

all he remembers is your voice — entirely too loud through the tiny speaker of his phone at eight in the fucking morning. “get your bitchass up,” you bark, sounding wide awake and entirely too happy about it. “i need to fuse our luck together again.”

jeongguk responds with the calm, measured patience of a man being spiritually persecuted.

“i hope you fall into wet cement.”

“you say that like you wouldn’t jump in right after me.”

neither of you mention it, but he’s on his feet in seconds.

toothbrush wedged between his lips, hair sticking up in every which way as he shuffles through his home half-conscious. the floor is cold beneath his feet. his oversized shirt hangs off one shoulder. somewhere behind him, nine pairs of beady eyes stare from the edge of his bed like debt collectors.

moldy muffin and her little clique of rapidly multiplying siblings are propped against his pillow in silence. the muffinettes — as you’ve affectionately dubbed them — have regrettably grown since his last pop mart visit.

in the last three days, ghostie, cerberus, pranky peanut 2.0, and moldy muffin 3.0 and 4.0, have joined the family.

he turns — slow, for dramatic effect.

“..a good morning would be nice.”

they continue looking at him exactly like that.

he points an accusatory toothbrush at them. “you’re as rude as your mother.”

“HELLO???”

the squawk cuts through his half asleep haze like a shot of espresso. he nearly chokes around the toothbrush before spitting into the sink, broad shoulders shaking with quiet laughter.

“i swear! they’ve unionized and are preying on my downfall.” the foolishness isn’t lost on him, a global icon, standing in wrinkled designer with a bird’s nest on his head, debating politics with a collection of vinyl toys and someone who’s been driving him insane since 2015.

and yet, he's grabbing his keys. putting on shoes. plucking the original muffin off his bed — “this is our third attempt, i still don’t understand why you won’t just let me order them in bulk —”

“because!” you sound more insulted than when he told you to fall into wet cement.

he can hear the shuffling on your end as he starts the car, keys jingling, drawers opening and closing somewhere in the background, the familiar tap. tap. tap. of your heels. ed hardy. the ones that make your legs look amazing. he’s picturing you automatically.

you’re probably planted in front of your vanity mirror right now, brows furrowed in concentration as you reapply that kiko lip gloss for the hundredth time. he can practically see the pout you make when smoothing it over your lips.

worse — he knows what you taste like, the spicy vanilla sweetness of it from when you’d pressed your thumb to his lips two weeks ago to ‘test’ it.

his grip tightens on the wheel.

that’s dangerous.

“mhm?” he hums, distracted.

“like i said,” your voice crackles through the phone as he pulls into the parking garage, taking on that sing-song tone you use when you’re rushing. “it ruins the fun! i know it’s like the most convenient option cause you’re crazy rich, but feeling like the chosen one just gives you that rush!”

you carry on, completely oblivious to your best friend listening with a bitten lip and tight fists. he has barely enough time to really clear his mind of it’s haze before your voice is suddenly next to him instead of inside his speakers.

“— and if you just buy entire sets every time, eventually your brain stops producing dopamine correctly.”

you slide into the seat in a blur of perfume, studs, and oversized sunglasses, black tote bag hitting the floor by your feet — to which, he notes, is decked out in pastel creatures, all unblinking, like they know something.

honestly, they probably do.

jeongguk fakes a cough, “— bullshit.”

“it’s science.”

“you failed chemistry.”

you peer up at him past the chunky frames. he looks back, knowingly.

“you literally didn’t attend a single chemistry class.”

the car ride is short. can’t say the same for your lecture, unfortunately.

“the joy comes from the experience,” you continue as you walk side by side through the street, hands gesturing, entirely too animated for this early in the day. “the shaking, the guessing, the suffering — the whimsy!” he really needs that wet cement right about now.

“the whole point is not knowi — shut up!”

jeongguk hasn’t uttered a word in the past five minutes. his lips form a thin line as your fingers latch onto his sleeve.

the automatic doors slide open. warm light spills over the floors and he’s already tired.

“they restocked!” there’s glitter on your cheeks, and glitter in your voice, and he stares at you for half a second too long.

“..jesus christ, doll.”

“what?”

“nothing,” he clears his throat, letting you drag him deeper into the store. “you’re terrifying when you smell a restock. like some predator looking for fresh meat.”

“don’t act like you’re not seated for this,” you say, picking up two boxes and shaking them next to your head.

he decides against arguing.

you’re right. but you’d end up getting your rare dog toy before he ever says that out loud. so he trails after you, slowing down when you do, speeding up when you drift too far ahead without noticing.

which is how jeon jeongguk finds himself spending the next forty minutes carrying increasingly concerning amounts of cardboard boxes around a pastel-colored store like someone’s (your) deeply disgruntled husband.

“bun,” he says flatly as another small box lands in his arms. “i can physically feel my testosterone dropping.”

“good. builds character.”

you don’t even look at him when you say it, too busy squinting at another box by your ear like a jeweler appraising diamonds. meanwhile he’s standing there buried in enough skullpandas to start his own damn pop mart.

he even understands some of it now.

not the whole shaking ritual — that still seems entirely placebo-based and nonsensical — but the little sparkle in your eyes every time you try to narrow down the possibilities. the way you gasp when the box sounds “heavy on the right side.” the devastation when you’re wrong.

he’s watching you more than the shelves, his tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek. that’s not good.

eventually, the pile in his arms becomes unmanageable enough that he has to dump everything near the register while you crouch on the floor beside a fresh display like a woman possessed.

“this is your seventh box.”

“eighth.”

he stares.

you stare back.

“you said you were only getting two.”

“and you said skullpandas were ugly. people change, jeongguk.”

that nearly gets a chuckle out of him. nearly.

by the time you pay for the first haul, the cashier seems one minor inconvenience away from recognizing him despite the glasses and mask. he can feel your smugness radiating beside him as he grabs the bags before you can.

“don’t even,” he warns.

“i didn’t say anything!”

“your face did.”

outside the store, the air feels cooler against his skin. he leans against the wall beside the entrance, shopping bags gathered around his boots.

he adjusts one of them with his foot when it tips too far toward the pavement. and you’re crouching down in front, instantly tearing into one.

“you literally could’ve waited until we got home.”

“and you could literally mind your business.”

foil crinkles. your eyes widen. then you frown.

“fuck.”

your reaction has his broad shoulders shaking before he could stop himself, dimples flashing briefly. “that bad?”

“i got the pensiveness.” you hold it up to him, the figure’s eyes are closed like they’re just as done as he is.

“isn’t that the one by your bed?”

“mhm.” your voice is small. distracted. you’re not even looking at him anymore, attention already drifting back toward the storefront, a world away.

that does it.

he exhales through his nose, pulling down his mask and reaching his hand out before he really thinks about it. his fingers brush your cheek to guide you back for half a second. you don’t resist.

he leans down and presses a quick kiss to your forehead — soft, almost absentminded, muscle memory.

“it’s okay, bun,” he starts, voice hushed. steady. “we can —” your eyes are elsewhere again, his tongue clicking as you pull another sigh from his chest. “..no.”

you blink up at him.

he straightens slowly, hand still lightly resting near your face like he forgot to let go.

“koo,” “absolutely not,” “koooooo.”

you’re halfway gone, fingers tapping at the torn foil packet like an addict contemplating relapse. he’s watching the battle in your head happen in real time, and how you’re losing not even three seconds later.

“you just don’t get it.” your bottom lip juts out, the silver bar awfully tempting. he has to look away, taking off his glasses as a distraction.

“thank god.”

he lets out a laugh under his breath, one that ghosts over your face. and his hand’s left your space to fish out his black card.

“woah, are y—?” your eyes widen, like this is the first time (it’s not), but his expression leaves no room for protest. “just take it.”

soon enough, you’re disappearing back through the glass doors with the card wedged dramatically between your fingers like you won the lottery.

jeongguk watches you go.

looks down at the pastel shopping bags around him.

then at the receipt in his hand.

then at moldy muffin hanging off the side of his backpack.

“you’re all criminals.”

if you were to tell jeon jeongguk six months ago that his five-story, all-black, hyper-luxurious mansion would one day become home to fifteen aggressively bright fluff balls, he would’ve mickey-mouse-laughed in your face until he turned purple.

but alas, that’s exactly where he finds himself now.

one chained to his gym bag.

one on the dashboard of his porsche.

two by his gaming setup.

five are piled on his couch, nestled against your sleeping form while you snore loud enough to rattle his floor-to-ceiling windows.

and six are keeping him company, or rather, silently torturing him in the kitchen. one with a crooked bow hangs from his belt loop, and the rest are on the countertop, watching him make tteokbokki.

six. moldy. fucking. muffins.

not a single buddy doggie.

the pot bubbles angrily on the stove.

jeongguk stirs with one hand while the other reaches down to straighten muffin’s ribbon at his hip for what has to be the fifth time since he started cooking. the bow keeps twisting sideways no matter how carefully he fixes it, stubborn little thing.

behind him, you shift between cushions with a soft noise, tightening your arms around your priceless treasures. your makeup has smeared slightly into his pillowcase, your heels are abandoned somewhere near the carpet like you’ve always lived here, and one of your thigh-highs is missing entirely.

he bites the inside of his cheek.

domesticity is a disease. and he thinks he’s already terminal.

it’s in the way his dish is a deeper shade of red than usual, extra spice added because he knows you like it that way after a nap. it’s in the way he threw in more rice cakes, knowing you’ll steal from his plate anyway. it’s in the way he adjusted the ac the moment you flopped onto his couch, you always run cold when you sleep.

it’s in the way your obsessions now occupy corners of his home like they belong there.

he’s halfway through stirring when his phone starts vibrating against the marble counter, insistent enough that he finally glances at it. it’s been going off for a while, ignored on purpose because for once he wanted a peaceful afternoon where nothing needed him except you.

jimin hyung.

he answers with a distracted hum, still fishing for a rice cake.

“wanna explain why dispatch has you posted outside pop mart looking like a divorced dad of three?”

the rice cake slips straight back into the pot with a splash.

there’s shuffling on the other end, then jimin loses it. full-body laughter, the kind that sounds like it hurts. “they got your ass bad, dude. hold on — i’m reading the comments —”

cold dread creeps up jeongguk’s spine.

he reaches for the remote almost mechanically, the television stuttering to life, youtube loading.

and there he is.

at the top of his homepage.

dispatch photos, grainy but unmistakable, one after another: jeon jeongguk in all-black designer standing outside pop mart, arms weighed down with pastel shopping bags like evidence of a crime.

one shot of him glaring down at a blind box with the concentration of a man diffusing a bomb. another of him rubbing at his forehead while surrounded by pink packaging like he’s contemplating walking into traffic.

and then —

“oh my fucking god,” he whispers.

moldy muffin basically posing for the camera, completely visible on his bag.

his friend is wheezing so hard he can barely speak. “you look like she got the house in the divorce.”

“hang up.”

“the comments are saying she took the kids too —”

“park jimin.”

the line disconnects immediately, which somehow feels worse because now jeongguk knows for a fact he’s screenshotting everything.

the cheerful anchor continues talking about his “unexpectedly relatable shopping trip,” but jeongguk barely hears it. the voice coming from the television feels distant, detached — like it belongs to someone else’s life.

his gaze drifts, slow and uneasy, toward the couch.

toward you.

toward the bags still sitting near your sleeping form.

and something shifts in his stomach.

“shit.”

he opens the site instinctively, the same one that had become part of your shared gambling routine.

SKULLPANDA: YOU FOUND ME

SOLD OUT.

his heartbeat stutters. “no.”

refresh.

SOLD OUT.

refresh.

SOLD OUT.

“no, no, no —” his voice comes out quieter this time, less denial and more disbelief. he turns so fast toward the couch it nearly hurts. you’re still asleep. thank fuck.

he lunges for the remote and mutes the television before it can wake you, then starts pacing the kitchen with sharp, restless steps, hands dragging through his hair hard enough to sting, looking moments away from a psychiatric evaluation. “okay, okay..”

he can fix this. he fixes everything.

he’s jeon jeongguk. if something doesn’t exist, he can make it exist. if it’s sold out, he can find it somewhere else. if it’s impossible, he can flash a grin and a wink and the world will cooperate.

it’s just a toy.

just a stupid, ugly dog thing with blue eyes and a bone collar.

so why does it feel like this much?

“koo?”

he almost fucking screams.

you’re sitting up now, hair somehow perfectly messed up, voice thick with sleep, one skullpanda smashed against your cheek. your lashes blink slowly as you squint at him in confusion. soft, safe, comfortable here — comfortable with him. and he ruined something for you.

his hands smooth over his sweats too quickly, too nervously. “why are you awake?”

“why are you doing that thing again?”

“what thing?”

“standing like you committed manslaughter.”

a strained laugh escapes him. “..rude.”

but you’re not smiling.

your eyes shift past him, toward the muted screen. toward the dispatch headline. toward him, standing outside pop mart.

jeongguk feels his soul attempting to eject out of his body.

you sit up more slowly now, expression changing as pieces click together. “jeon jeongguk.”

“before you rea—”

too late. “you caused a skullpanda shortage?”

“allegedly,” he offers as a small relief, but it doesn’t stop your jaw from dropping.

you grab your phone, and he has half a mind to flick it out of your hands and buy you ten new ones in return, but he can’t. he watches the exact moment it hits you. your eyes scan the page once. your shoulders slowly sink.

“buddy doggie.”

his chest caves in. “bun —”

you stare at him in a way that hits him in the sternum. the lack of dramatics kills him.

“i never even got her.” you whisper.

for a second, he just looks at you.

at the sleepy disappointment tucked into your expression. at the way your fingers still wrap protectively around the fluff in your lap despite everything.

you wanted one thing, and he accidentally made the entire world want it too.

suddenly he remembers all the little things tied to this — the way you shook boxes beside your ear with complete seriousness, the bounce in your step whenever you swore you could “feel the luck,” the excitement in your voice every time you talked about the dumb wolf thing.

he remembers laughing at you for it while secretly loving every second.

a small chuckle leaves you after a second, but it sounds thin. wrong. “ah,” you mumble, glancing back at the screen. “you’re so popular.”

jeongguk swallows.

“i’ll get it for you.”

your eyes lift. “koo, it’s fi—”

“no.” firm. immediate. “i’ll find it.”

“they’re sold out everywhere, it’s okay.” the way you stretch over to curl around his forearm has him holding his breath.

“then i’ll look everywhere.”

you search his gaze for a second, plush lips opening and closing like you can’t decide whether he’s joking.

he isn’t.

the next week becomes a genuine downward spiral.

at first, jeongguk tells himself it’s nothing. just bad timing. just fans crowding the usual pop mart near his route because dispatch caught him lacking with a moldy muffin clipped to his backpack.

he slows down outside the store twice anyway.

once after practice. again after dinner. watching strangers drift in and out beneath pastel lights while the skullpanda shelves sit completely wiped clean.

by the third day, he locks in.

“it wouldn’t hurt to try,” he mutters, already typing flagship locations into his phone like it’s a schedule instead of a war.

the first store is quiet.

he stands in front of the near empty display with his hands shoved into his pockets, pretending he’s just looking around instead of fighting for his life internally.

“just one.”

he picks up a box. shakes it. nothing.

again, still nothing. you’re in his head — that’s not how you do it, koo. you have to listen!

he leaves empty-handed.

the second store is worse.

people recognize him — not fully, but enough for whispers to start following him through the aisles. he nearly leaves before even reaching the shelf.

then he remembers the defeat on your face when he sold them out, and he buys their last four boxes.

this must be the greed they talk about in the bible.

the group chat starts tweaking before he can even make it back to his car.

jimin: jk not again 😭😭

namjoon: why are you getting spotted in public every day

taehyung: somebody get him OFF the streets

“you’re all useless,” he tosses his phone into the passenger seat before checking to make sure the boxes don’t tip over during the drive. when he gets home he finds another moldy muffin on his bed.

the fourth stop feels different.

mostly because this time, you’re with him.

you climb into his passenger seat in a tiny pink dress with three muffinettes clipped to your bag “for luck,” and he already knows he’s doomed.

this store luckily has ten boxes left. he buys five.

plus hironos, because you smiled at them.

you open them together in the car — moldy muffin again.

both of you stare at it in silence before immediately opening another at the same time, like combined stupidity might finally beat the odds.

it doesn’t.

you end up giving the duplicates to a bewildered barista during lunch. he leaves with strawberry matcha, two hironos, and no closer to beating the flawed system.

by the sixth stop, this stops being casual. he now has nine moldy muffins to his name.

he doesn’t remember deciding to drive this far. only that he’s here now, exhausted and standing beneath fluorescent lighting that makes everything feel slightly unreal.

the employee watches him approach the shelf with the kind of sympathy reserved for gambling addicts and divorced men.

jeongguk grabs one box, then another — wait.

one feels.. different.

he narrows his eyes at it.

“okay,” he sighs like a prayer, negotiating with god himself. “don’t fuck me over.”

he buys it without grabbing extras this time.

the employee gives him a look on the way out that feels suspiciously like confirmation.

jeongguk doesn’t even make it back to the car before tearing the foil open.

“found you.”

the second the door opens, he knows you’re expecting him.

“you’re early.” you don’t even turn from the screen when you hear the jingle of the spare keys and the sound of those worn down boots.

your apartment is dim except for the tv glow flickering across the walls, bathing everything in muted blues and golds. the same episode of that house of usher show plays in the background — one he knows you’ve seen enough times to recite word for word — and there you are, curled sideways into the sofa like you were poured into it.

a tiny black dress hugs your body, fabric riding slightly up your thighs where your legs are tucked beneath you, and he can see that small outline. one bare foot swings absently over the edge of the cushion. your makeup is dewy — liner smeared, gloss faded from your lips except for the lingering shine at the center.

pretty, painfully so.

jeongguk just stands there for a second, watching. the place smells like vanilla and fabric softener and something fried from hours ago. there’s clutter all over your otherwise monochrome space — plushies, makeup, open packages, little traces of you bleeding into every surface.

in his pocket, his gift presses against his palm. you don’t look at him, too busy gasping at a scene you already know is coming, mouthing the words before the actors can even say them.

the corners of his lips are curling. fond and helpless.

god, he’s so gone.

without making a sound, he pulls it free, feeling around the fur.

“catch.”

your head whirls around so fast he almost laughs.

“huh —”

it lands directly against your chest.

whatever it is he throws — it looks like a giant fucking spider. you shriek, not cute-startled either — genuine panic.

“JEON JEONGGUK —” you’re about to start flailing when something warm and fuzzy tumbles into your lap, cutting you off effectively as it stares at you with big, icy blue eyes.

you freeze.

he watches realization spread across your face in stages — confusion, recognition, disbelief. your lips part, your breath hitching. no fucking way.

the silver bone collar glints beneath the television light. grey wolf ears. it’s silly little puppy companion rolls off your lap.

buddy doggie.

“oh.. my god.”

the words leave you like air escaping punctured lungs, you don’t even realize the way your hands start trembling, wetness gathering at your waterline.

jeongguk physically cannot stop smiling now. it takes over his whole face, dimples cutting deep into his cheeks, eyes crinkling at the corners. you make him feel so dumb, standing there grinning like a teenager over a toy.

“no fucking way,” you whisper again, staring at the plush like she might disappear if you blink too hard. then your gaze snaps up to him, wide and glassy and so openly emotional it nearly knocks the breath from his chest. “koo.”

he shrugs, trying for casual. “don’t start crying now.”

your mouth opens. closes. opens again. “how?”

“trade secret.”

“how many stores did you go to?”

“a normal amount.” suddenly your kitchen island is so interesting as he tries not to melt into a puddle right in front of you.

your head shakes in disbelief, a sniffle leaving you as you turn the plush over and over and over in your hand. “that is NOT a number.”

“a few.”

“you’re lying.” you deflate.

he laughs softly through his nose, then you’re suddenly launching toward him. the impact hits harder than he expects.

your arms are around his middle instantly, buddy doggie crushed safely between your bodies as you bury your face against his chest with a sound halfway between a groan and a giggle.

“oh my god,” you mumble again into his shirt. “you actually found her.” the crack in your voice has a lump forming in his throat.

he’d been pretending this whole thing was ironic. pretending they were just another one of your obsessions he happened to humor. but somewhere between years of shared clothes and piercings and tattoo appointments and these dolls, you stopped feeling separate from him.

his life has your fingerprints all over it, and now this does too.

large hands settle at your waist automatically. too naturally.

one broad palm spreads against the small of your back while the other steadies your hip with an odd familiarity, fingers flexing slightly against the fabric of your dress. you can feel the hard chill of his rings through the material.

his thumb drifts lower without thinking, brushing absentmindedly over the bat at your upper thigh. his touch stills there for half a second too long.

you fit there so easily.

dangerously easily.

he can feel your heartbeat through the pressed warmth of your body. feel your breath against his chest. smell your perfume beneath the lingering scent of your shampoo.

it isn’t sudden. something soft just unfurls deep in his ribs, like it’s always lived there.

“you looked so sad, doll. couldn’t stand it,” he admits quietly, rolling his lip rings. you have to to tilt your head back just to gape at him. and you’re both so close. way too fucking close.

your lashes flutter, searching his face with this unbearable tenderness that has his throat going dry. the metal on your lip catching the light every time you move. neither of you can breathe.

“you’re insane,” you choke, a finger pushing up his glasses over his nose bridge.

jeongguk chuckles, but it sounds shaky now. “you’re the one who got me addicted to gambling.”

your fingers dig into his shirt, almost like you’re pulling him in. “that is not what this is.”

“it absolutely is.” he follows anyway.

“no,” you murmur, fingers curling tighter. it makes his heart stumble. the reverence you always saved for your figurines was now aimed dead at him. “you literally looked everywhere.”

the room feels static despite the television still playing behind you both. like a little pink bubble has formed around you.

“you would’ve done the same thing.”

“i know.”

something shifts visibly in his expression then — subtle, but nothing ever gets past you. your voice lowers even further, he watches your tongue drag over your slightly swollen bottom lip, and he swears he’s going to die.

“thank you.” when he glances back up, you’re already staring at him.

his hand slides higher along your waist until it cups the side of your jaw. you don’t resist, leaning in, trusting.

his lips brush your forehead instinctively,

but then you’re tugging on his clothes,

directing him right where you both want to be.

your lips are unbelievably pillowy beneath his, tasting faintly of strawberries and something devastatingly familiar. his head spins the second you lean closer with a tiny sound against his mouth — quiet, needy, affectionate enough to have his knees weak.

you kiss like satisfaction. like home. every restrained glance and swallowed feeling finally found somewhere to go.

he’s everywhere, cradling your jaw carefully while pulling you closer by the waist until there’s no space left between your bodies at all. even your piercings slot gently against each other. he can feel your heartbeat hammering against his chest now, fast enough to match his own.

“bun —” he tries, but your fingers disappear into his hair and he breaks.

a faint sound leaves him — helpless, wrecked — as you gently tug at the strands. the kiss deepens naturally after that, slower now, more consuming than frantic. his mouth parts against yours with a trembling exhale, trying to memorize the feeling.

every tiny thing overwhelms him yet makes him crave more. more. more. and you’re chasing him like you can’t get enough either. you’re both drowning.

and by the time you finally pull apart, neither of you get very far.

your noses still brush. your lips still ghost together with every huff of air.

his forehead falls against yours, eyes closed as he completely fails to steady his breathing, and he can feel your smile.

“can we get the secret hirono next?”

jeongguk lets out a breathless laugh that melts straight into another kiss.

est 15.05.26. status. ongoing 2/?. words. 9.4k

note. korean gothic? horror series because i am insane. this all started from when i did a deep dive on the references the boys wrote into arirang, i fell down a rabbit hole and did so much research and i hope to portray everything respectfully! my love letter to culture and history

IF YOU HEAR A CAT AT NIGHT,

PROLOGUE: the night hears you the city opens its mouth, though if it’s trying to swallow you or spit you out you’re not sure. welcome to seoul !

CHAPTER ONE: the offering is accepted seven months working corporate hasn’t made you hate seoul; but maybe the city’s decision to ignore you while you tend to an injured man will.

. . .

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