Not Sure If This Has Been Pointed Out Already But It's Interesting How Rindou Consistently Calls His

HELLO?! THIS NEW ILUSTRATION IS IMPLANTED IN MY BRAIN NOW AHHHH!!!

APARTMENT 345 — EP TWO : WEDDINGS

feat. karasu, otoya, yukimiya || wc: 9.4k synopsis: moving into a new apartment with three men isn't exactly the most easy feat, but you think there's something quite unusual about your new roommates that makes life seem a little more fun. ↳ episode synopsis: when otoya asks you to be his plus-one for a wedding, you find out that there's more than him that meets the eye. so much so, that it somehow wounds you accidentally locked in a bathroom alone together. contains: fem!reader, she/her pronouns, roommates au, modern au, fluff, slight crack, forced proximity, reader wears a dress and heels, subtle classism, family issues series masterlist ☚ previous next☛

Otoya Eita is a curious case of someone who you suspect isn’t who he seems to be.

Something bugs you about him, something gnawing in a little crevice of your mind. Perhaps it’s that seemingly nonchalant exterior that you think is a little too lax for someone with adult responsibilities like him. Or maybe the way he’s much smarter than you think he was initially. Something of the sort, there’s a lot of peculiarities about him that just don’t seem to add up to what he thinks he’s trying to convey to you.

He says he earns the least out of the four of you—yet he owns a Lexus, multiple expensive colognes, and he’ll show off some new pieces of Chrome Hearts or David Yurman he bought. You figure that one watch of his is at least a third of your salary.

He says he’s not looking for something serious in a relationship—yet you’ve seen him wallow in his misery a few times when some girls wouldn’t call him back. Then he’ll get back up in a matter of two days or less to find someone new to play with.

He says he can't pay the rent this month to you and your other roommates dismay—yet he somehow always pulls through with the money at the last minute to a mysterious degree. Where he gets it from, you think you’re better off not knowing… especially since you’ve eavesdropped on a few of his conversations with someone shady on the phone, asking about a boon of some kind.

Otoya, to you, at least from a few months ago, was the most open roommate out of the other three. Now, you’re not so sure. Unlike Karasu and Yukimiya, who have gotten closer and more amicable as times went on, Otoya seems to have shut himself in with you to your dismay in the past weeks, despite him being the first roommate you were truly comfortable around. He seems to be an enigma to you more than anyone you’ve ever met—you don’t know how to decode him. And to be honest, you’re not sure if you should. Maybe you’re best placed in this pool of ignorance you’ve been trying to get out of to understand your roommate, absorbing it and letting it linger around you.

He has this outer layer to him; a mask of a seemingly chill guy who goes with the flow, someone who lays back and lets life do its work for him. He’ll just simply follow along wherever the wind takes him. 

But something eats at you, that gnawing feeling always just lingering about. A gut feeling whispers in your ear that there’s something deeper, more intrinsic about him. You’ve acknowledged the suspicion, but you’re not too sure if you should try and operate on Otoya to properly pluck out his brain. After all, there might just be nothing there and you’ve been paranoid this entire time. Maybe it’s best just to stay out of his business (though, you sometimes find it hard not to, especially when you sometimes find him talking to someone on the phone with pinched brows when you enter the apartment, only for him to hang up the call when he notices you, his default face placing back onto his visage.).

And you’ve been doing a good job at it. Until now, when an opportunity presents itself for you to prod your nose around the hidden secrets of Otoya Eita. All because of an extended wedding invitation from him.

“I need a plus-one from my cousin’s wedding next Saturday,” he had said to you a week prior, scratching the back of his neck lazily. “I’d ask Tabito or Kenyu, but uh. I don’t want my folks to get the wrong impression, ya know?” 

You had snorted under your breath, laughing, but said yes without thinking of the consequences at the time. It was only yesterday that it hit you that you’d be meeting Otoya’s family despite only knowing him for a few months whilst nothing absolutely nothing about Otoya’s personal life despite what he gave to you, much less what kind of people his family were. 

So you ran to Karasu, who had known him the longest, and in a panic, asked him what sort of people they were. Unfortunately, he wasn’t much help, only giving you a sheepish smile and telling you, “They’re quite the weirdos, ‘s all I’ll say—at least from when I met ‘em. Sorry, sugar.”

When you asked Yukimiya, you ran into the same dead end. The brunette also only gave you a pitiful look. “Just try not to talk to them too much. The less you know, the better.”

Their responses did nothing to calm your nerves. If anything, it amplified the apprehension from twice it was before. You wish you felt it earlier in the week, however, since that at least allowed you more ample time to actually buy a better dress than this dusty rag that you had worn for a friend’s garden party a few years back. 

You think this is the longest you’ve stared at yourself in the mirror that you’re becoming an eyesore to yourself. The baby pink dress with puffed short sleeves and layered tulle feels out of date; it’s weird around your waist and just doesn’t seem very elegant for the type of wedding Otoya had described. Too casual, too childish. 

A knock comes at your door suddenly.

From the door reveals a dressed-up Otoya Eita before you, uncharacteristically sharp in his crisp grey-black suit and pistachio green tie. His hair is parted neatly, his bangs usually grazing his face now pushed to the side to show the entirety of his features. 

A smirk displays itself on your face. “Someone looks rather handsome.”

Otoya hums with satisfaction at your approval, taking a singular finger and dragging it along his jawline. Something called mogging, if you call correctly. “It all comes naturally to me.”

He lets himself in your room, whistling at your messy bedroom littered with disarrayed clothing that you were trying to pluck out and make a nice arrangement with. “A little birdie told me you were having trouble choosing an outfit.”

Your shoulders droop when you spot yourself in your mirror again, your dress looking like it was just plastered on you rather than fitting you. 

“I’m assuming my groans of despair were louder than I thought they were,” you sigh despondently, hands attempting to try and fiddle with the layers of the dress so it seems right at least in the mirror. 

“I know you said to dress nice, but this is all I have…” you turn to Otoya, who curiously pinches one of your business dresses in his fingers. “I’m sorry, I would’ve totally gone shopping sooner had I known it’d be a big deal.”

Otoya gently places down the dress and turns to you with a barely-visible quirk of his lips. “It’s not bad but I might have something else in mind that might help ease your mind.” 

He excuses himself out of the room and returns back not even a moment later with a large white zippered bag hung by a hanger. It’s thick and padded, clearly a bit of weight to it. You’re a little appalled, not expecting Otoya to go out of the way and quite literally get you a dress of his own means. But this also meant that if Otoya was doing more than what he was used to, swaying from his normal route of winging it and actually doing proper preparation for this, it ultimately meant that this was a much bigger event than you anticipated it to be. And you surely had to be ready to size yourself up for such a manner.

Otoya delicately places it on the mountain of clothes on your messy bed, carefully unzipping the bag to reveal a magnificent, floor-length, pear green sequined dress that reflected light so elegantly, it almost created a natural spotlight on itself. Held by thin straps, the chest area was highlighted from all the sequined and carefully-placed cherry blossoms speckling about that brought out a certain uniqueness to the dress. It looked preciously handmade, as you think no machine could delicately craft such petals from fabric and sequins. 

It was magnificent and mature, something that clearly contrasted with your current dress. You couldn’t deny that Otoya had great taste when it came to fashion, both for men and women it seems, only second-best next to Yukimiya, though he came damn close to taking over his position on the podium.

You gasp aloud at it, clearly impressed at its meticulousness. 

Otoya holds it up by its hanger, showing its full glory to you. “I’m really hoping it’s your size, but d’you like it? You wanna try it on?” 

“I—” you falter. The dress was just so elegant that you don’t think someone like you should be adorning it; it was clearly fit for someone more high-class like a socialite or an actress. “Where did you even get this?”

He shrugs, nonchalant as ever. “Bought it on my way home yesterday. Thought you might want to wear it as a backup just in case.”

“I’m really hoping this is a rental,” you worry about, biting at your fingernail. Something seems rather ominous about all those sequins flashing about, like they’re warning you not to touch such preciosity. “How much was this?” 

“Mmh, not telling,” Otoya says and slips the dress off its hanger to your panic. “Just know I’ve got it covered.”

You frown.

“Rent’s coming up soon,” you warn, “so if I find out you chucked some money out the window just for a mere dress, you’ve got a storm coming, bud.”

Otoya chuckles fondly. “Relax. I already gave my stuff early, so don’t stress about it anymore and just try it on.”

Ignoring your protests, he forces the dress in your hands and makes his way out, waving his fingers as he leaves you in the desolation of your room. 

A pull of his neck releases the tension from it, rhythmic cracks from bones echoing in the hallway your room was located from. Otoya sighs, the weight on his shoulders heaving down on him more than ever today that he hopes will expel from himself once this day is over. 

He feels bad, dragging you into this mess. But Otoya thinks that he can’t handle the masses by himself, he needs some sort of stabilizer, someone to help him keep on his feet. Karasu and Yukimiya knew about everything already, so they knew about the trials and tribulations that he faced back then, and clearly didn’t want to go through them again. He couldn’t drag someone from his roster either—he didn’t even know half of their last names. 

It wasn’t his fault you just happened to be right there. With your grace and presence, you were the perfect person to have at his side for those hours he’s going to have to face head-on. All he has to do is just pivot his attention to you, knowing that it’ll be his that you’ll be yearning for as well in a room of strangers. It was an equal exchange. 

Still. Even though you’ll be at his side, it doesn’t shake off the unease that lingers about. 

Otoya settles himself on the couch, feeling tension stiffen his joints again. A warning sign to expect the worst, he assumes. Whatever. It’s just a few hours. He’ll reset and return back to normal in no time. This too shall pass, or whatever bullshit Yukimiya spews.

He cracks his neck again, making Karasu, who sits lazily next to him, cringe. 

“Don’t do that near me,” he mutters, averting his attention to the soccer match on the TV. “Freaks me out.”

“It’s just bones, don’t think your two-hundred six are any different from mine,” Otoya insists, going to crack his knuckles to Karasu’s displeasure. 

In the corner of the couch, Yukimiya throws some popcorn from a bowl in his mouth, grinning when he sees such a dapper Otoya in front of him. “You look good. For once.”

Otoya mopes, a light offense grazing him. “‘For once?’”

Yukimiya shrugs, still stupidly smiling. “Guess you wanted to look good for (Y/N).”

He frowns. 

“This is a wedding. Why wouldn’t I try to look good?” Otoya remarks, clearly unamused. He’s not sure if he’s up for a childish banter right now, not when he’s got too much on his plate. 

Karasu snickers at his appearance. Normally it was him and Yukimiya that looked rather tidy in their outerwear, so it came as comical to see the person who donned himself in the first clean thing he blindly plucked from his closet to be adorned in such fashion. “Took some money outta yer trust fund to get that suit o’yers, huh?” he slyly asks, nudging Otoya with his elbow.

Otoya rolls his eyes. “I’ve always had this, dumbass,” he insists with folded arms. “I just don’t like to wear it unless I have to.”

Yukimiya is next to chortle. “Maybe he used the money to buy (Y/N) that dress. Looked pretty expensive to me.”

Otoya thins his lips. Then looks away, the tip of his ears revealed by his slicked hair dusted with red.

Karasu and Yukimiya clearly take notice of his reaction that clearly can’t guise a lie even if Otoya tried to create one, bursting out into laughter when they make eye contact with one another.

“Aw, lookit this loverboy over here!” Karasu hollers and grabs Otoya by the neck, making him wince at Karasu's strength. “Didn’t know ya liked her that much!” 

“I don’t…” Otoya grits his teeth, “I just… wanted to get her something nice.” 

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Yukimiya cackles and lightly kicks at Otoya whilst he throws some popcorn his way, speckles of yellow-white fireworking over the living room floor. “Get your non-girlfriend plus-one a real fancy dress out of the blue, yeah? How much did it cost Prince Charming?” 

Otoya sighs. “You idiots can’t decipher the fact that this is all for a wedding, can you?” he states with a flat voice. “You both know how my family is… I just don’t want her—”

Heels click softly suddenly, a shy pattering coming from the hallway. 

“I don’t mean to interrupt but…” your voice breaks through the playful atmosphere, making all the men pause and look in your direction. “Er, sorry Otoya. Is this how it’s supposed to fit?”

Three spotlights turn to you from the coach from your roommates at once, suddenly drenching you in shyness at such vapid attention. Otoya is stunned at what he sees, breath hitching slightly when you present yourself before them. 

He has to give himself a pat on the back because not only does the dress fit you right, it fits you so perfectly that it looks like it was made just for you. You’re going to blend in perfectly, he thinks. 

Otoya abruptly stands up from the couch, clearing his throat and sending a soft smile your way—a rare feat considering how stony Otoya’s face could be.

“Fits like a glove on you, babe,” he compliments. 

You warmly smile at him, relieved. Karasu and Yukimiya glance at each other, suppressing some teasing smirks, shoulders shaking.

The clock is ticking, and Otoya figures that you and him have to get to the venue soon before traffic starts. You wrap up some last minute adjustments to your outfit before you and him bid Karasu and Yukimiya goodbye with a wave. 

“Get us some goodies if they’re offerin’ any!” Karasu shouts. 

“Give my warm wishes to the couple!” Yukimiya calls out just as Otoya closes the door. 

His sedan looks sleek as ever in the parking lot and you think this is the first time that Otoya actually looks the part to own such a luxury vehicle. He seems to be the gentleman tonight, seeing as how he opened up your car door for you to let you in, a hand holding yours to help keep you steady from the imbalance your heels might offer.

“Am I getting the princess treatment tonight?” you ask playfully as Otoya settles himself into his car. 

“When do you not?” inquires Otoya as he slings back one of his arms on the back of your headrest, veering his head to help him reverse despite having a back camera with sensors. You roll your eyes jovially at his antics, supposing that his flirting tactics just come a little too naturally to him even when he wasn’t trying to do so. 

The car ride is not too long, the venue being a lot closer than you thought initially. And clearly, a lot more grand, the pictures you saw from Google not doing it justice as you drive by it to its back parking lot. 

It’s a large garden conservatory, filled with lush flora all over both inside and out and glittering the place with natural color and textures. A large window dome ceiling looks overhead the space, all the windows letting the setting sunlight in in a manner so majestic that you think it was haloed by the hand of the Sun itself. Two large ponds sit before the entrance on the grass, koi fish swimming about the many lilypads and lotus flowers that bloom before you.

Weariness grows within you when you stare at the building. You want to ask Otoya if you’re sure this is the right venue when he moves forward in the line of many cars to get a parking ticket, seeing as how you’ve never seen such a lavish venue before, but when you pass by a banister that reads a familiar last name of the groom, your words falter. 

Welcome to the Wedding of Otoya Teruo & Hirai Hiromi, the banister states. 

Up comes the gnawing feeling of suspicion again, like Otoya is hiding something, especially when you see his eyes narrow at the banister. Something is off. His mask is slipping, you think. 

You know you should stay cautious and try to mind your business about him, but you’re just his friend and roommate after all and you’re not as close to him as Karasu or Yukimiya. But you feel pressured by an unknown force to try and squeeze something out of him that can help you gain a sense of the true Otoya. 

Your fingers itch to lift the mask off of him, to truly see him for who he is and not just the nonchalant, flirty roommate. 

“This wedding is pretty extravagant,” you admit after Otoya gains his temporary permit from the parking attendant. “I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me.”

Otoya drums his fingers on the steering wheel of the car, blowing some spare hair out of his way. “Yeah. There is.”

Your eyes go to glance at him, body unmoving. “Well…” you start, fiddling with your fingers when he doesn’t elaborate, “are you gonna say something?” 

“You might not like it,” he says honestly, his own gaze focused on trying to find a space, his car moving at a snail’s pace. “You seem stressed enough as it is.” 

He’s observant, a trait you’ve picked up from him over the course of the months. Almost a little too much so… were your anxieties that obvious that they leaked out without your knowledge? 

Your lips pull a frown. “I can handle it. I’d rather know too much than not know enough. I’m meeting your family, after all.”

The mention of the word “family” irks him a bit, a slight tick from his jaw. A sigh drifts out from him, like he was expecting this from someone who’s mindset was so head-on for most things. “You should be careful about what you wish for.”

“Otoya,” you declare a little more sternly. He purses his lips at your calling of his name, akin to a mother scolding a child. 

“Fine then, you asked for it,” he mutters, swerving his car suddenly into a blank space and jutting his gear stick into park. He leans his elbow on the center console and somehow forces you to look at him without touching or commanding you. You stay still where you are, but you focus on the droning look of Otoya’s green hues that bore into you, warning you almost.

“My family owns a subsidiary business of a large investment management company,” he begins with a tone so robotic, it sounds almost generated. It doesn’t sound a bit like him. 

You were planning to uncover the true essence of Otoya Eita and why he’s been rather shut-in recently from you, but you never expected him to reveal everything about himself all at once because he spits out everything to you in the matter of seconds, leaving barely any for you to stay curious since he seems to ask every question you have in mind immediately. 

“Specifically, we handle index funds. Yes we’re wealthy. Yes, I’m a trust fund baby. I just try to earn money my own way since I don’t want to rely on my parents that often. No, I can’t just give you money flat-out. No, do not ask me if you can dabble in them through me—Karasu already tried. I’ve got barely any knowledge in business and I want it to stay that way.

I have two sisters. Both of them are following my parents’ footsteps, which makes me a black sheep in the family. Stay away from them if you can, same with my parents. I don’t keep in contact with my family a lot for that reason and I only came here because Teruo is the only relative that I’m close with and that gets me.”

An apt pause goes by in the car. 

“Ah…” you mumble, eyes wide as you nod slowly.

You thin your lips, not sure if you should say something at the moment, an exponential flurry of questions constantly rising to thoughts that you think you should hold yourself back from asking in the meantime as clearly this was just too much information to digest at once. 

Otoya snaps you out of your thoughts with an actual snap of his fingers. You blink. 

“This is important, so listen carefully,” he states, atypically serious. There’s almost this pleading look on his face if you look deeper into it. “All you need to do is keep your pretty little head down and let me do the talking, yeah? Don’t try to pretend to be someone you’re not if someone asks you who are—rich snobs can sniff out a phony in seconds. Just don’t give them too much information. Any questions?”

This is very unlike the usual Otoya you saw, and you think this is finally the real version of him that he’s finally allowing you to see; this more vulnerable, more historical side to him that you would’ve never guessed the current Otoya you knew (or thought you knew) well came from. 

“Uh… who else should I avoid other than your sisters and parents?” you ask. 

“Quite literally almost everyone on my side of the family, ‘cept for Teruo and my great aunt Hisako. She’s weird, but chill. Everyone else?” Otoya rolls his eyes. “Chances are if they look like me, then just stay away.”

You affirm with another nod. “What are your sisters’ names? Just so I can be wary.”

“My oldest sister goes by Eimi, my baby sister goes by Eiko,” Otoya describes. “Avoid nee-san the most—she can see through people easily. Eiko’s got a baby-face, but don’t be fooled. She’s a spoiled brat and a bitch if you tick her off.”

You wince at the insults he throws at his sisters, but you have no room to judge. Otoya grew up with them, you did not. 

“Er, how about your parents?” you inquire. 

“You don’t have to worry about them,” his shoulders sag a bit, “‘cause they’ll probably avoid me if anything.”

Otoya suddenly turns to you and you can see this foreign tiredness to his eyes; it’s not the normal lethargicness you see him being casted upon, but rather from exhaustion. 

That’s what happens, you suppose, when you come from such a family of prestige—you can’t even imagine the amount of expectations he probably had to live up to prior to being your roommate. You’ve never seen him in this way before, seeing him almost defenseless before you.

Eyes closing, he breathes slowly, trying to regain his natural lull again as best as possible. Otoya cracks them open again, a familiar glaze over lime green.

“Just stay close to me,” he mutters almost beseechingly. “Okay? For both our sakes.”

Otoya was right. Money really makes people much too vain for your liking. 

Despite looking the part of the family, Otoya himself had an aura that made him stand out in all the wrong ways, drawing side-eyes and whispers from people that knew about him and his reputation as you and him walked about the conservatory, trying to find the groom. You’re a part of it too, his notoriety stretching to you. Every time you try to sneak a glance at one of those dirty looks you think is being thrown your way, just when your vision clears up, they go back to talking in nonsensical manners amongst themselves and laughing much too sweetly. 

An older middle-aged woman in a yukata suddenly begins to approach you and Otoya, a faux smile on her face that he doesn’t return. Her face is placidly smooth, eerily so, but the botox can’t always hide the essence of bitter time, and you think that smile is just as fake as her lips. 

“Eita, what a pleasure to see you here,” she greets. “Teruo will be happy to see you.”

“Auntie Kazuko,” Otoya replies simply. “It’s good to see you.” 

Her smile doesn’t falter and she draws her beady eyes to you, lighting up in mischief. “Hello there. I’ve never seen you before.”

You can feel Otoya stiffen before you, but you squeeze his arm in reassurance that you can temporarily handle yourself. 

“My name is (Y/N) (L/N),” you greet with as much false compassion as you can muster, giving her a slight bow of respect. “I’m his plus-one for tonight. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“(L/N)...” Kazuko draws on her tongue, tasting your last name delicately. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of such a family. What do you all dabble in?” 

“She’s not one of us, Auntie, she’s just a friend of mine,” Otoya cuts in before Kazuko can make a judgement. His tone is so much sharper than normal, serpentlike, almost equivalent to his aunt’s. 

Kazuko’s smile stretches wider, eyes widening and you swear her pupils constrict themselves like a cat venturing for its prey. You swallow. 

“Ah,” she murmurs, lilting her head to examine you fully. “My apologies. I just thought with your looks and your dress that perhaps I just wasn’t akin to your name. Seems I’ve been mistaken.”

Your dress suddenly feels constricting on your body, too tight. “Oh, I just—” you start, shuffling.

“Oscar de la Renta’s Summer 2023 collection, yes?” she asks you. A shiver runs down your spine when his aunt refuses to move her formidable gaze away from you, almost testing you.

You go rigid. No wonder why you felt so intimidated by the dress; a piece crafted by a distinguished fashion house was given to you by Otoya. And while you’ve dabbled in the world of high fashion before, you’ve never been in a status that allowed you to just casually wear $2,000 pieces like they were nothing. 

Words fall heavy on your tongue, trying to compose yourself so as to not seem small in front of her. “I don’t really—”

Otoya beats you to it first, swooping down to save you before you accidentally embarrass yourself. 

“His Pre-Fall 2025 collection, actually,” he says, face still blank.

Your throat feels dry. Kazuko had a trap set up ready for you and if it weren’t for Otoya’s quick reflexes, you probably would’ve ended up dead meat not even fifteen minutes into this wedding.

Kazuko’s smile falters a bit. Her gaze hardens at you but pivots to Otoya. “I’m sure she has a voice of her own, Eita.”

“Where’s Teruo?” he inquires boredly. “Just wanna give him some support before the big show.”

Kazuko huffs, but silently points to the right corridor of the hallway, her eyes cold and sharp and daggering when they burn into the back of your back as Otoya leads you away from her. 

“I’m assuming she’s one of yours…?” you ask softly, noticing how Otoya’s own gaze softens and body loosens when she’s out of view.

“She’s his mom,” Otoya admits as you trail down a hallway of doors as you approach the large door at the end of the hallway. “It’s crazy considering they act nothing alike. Or look alike. I can’t tell if it’s because of all the botox or if just being a bitch ages you quicker.”

A stifled giggle muffles itself under your hand, a small bit of humor distracting you from the tension in the room. 

True to his word, you meet the rather outlandish and loud Teruo, whose naturally extroverted nature is a breath of fresh air in comparison to everyone else. He shakes your hand warmly, telling you thank you for being here with Otoya, who many thought wouldn’t even show up, with a date nonetheless. You can understand why he and Otoya get along so well—they’re quite the oddities in the family. 

He tells you and Otoya to go get settled soon in the venue with a shining smile, clearly excited to meet his shining bride. A lovesick man is always a treat to witness you think. 

Skittering eyes are on you when you and Otoya settle down in your chairs and he can sense that your unease has amplified. It’s not like the same eyes that scan you aren’t observing his every move as well. Oddly, your out-of-place disposition that just seems to draw more attention than him than he would’ve liked brought him this solace—knowing that he wasn’t alone in not quite fitting in with the rest of the crowd. It was cruel to perhaps place you in a co-dependent position with him for the time being, but he figured he had to be just a bit selfish to keep his sanity. 

You lift your gaze a bit and suddenly make accidental eye contact with a man in front whose head is turned ever so slightly to examine you, only breaking it when you notice him. There’s a few other eyes on you and Otoya, some even going to whisper behind their hands to share gossip.

You swallow dryly again, hands feeling clammy until a warmth slithers its way to one of them, squeezing it lightly. 

You turn to Otoya, who idly gazes at you from the side and gives you a comforting nod. 

“You’re fine. We’re fine,” he mutters softly. “Just ignore them. They won’t remember you tomorrow, anyways.”

The Otoya you’re familiar with somehow creeped back into this persona Otoya has been guising under, that coolness he’s notorious for bringing you comfort in knowing that this feeling won’t last for long. Relief in knowing that part of him isn’t entirely buried for the time being warms your nerves.

The lights dim. 

You breathe steadily. Otoya squeezes your hand again and you return it, a silent agreement that you and him just have to stick it out for a few more hours together.

Despite the evident class and structure of the reception’s venue, the reception itself is rather rowdy. It’s too close and personal with the families, so you and Otoya have stowed away somewhere isolated and quiet, where you watch him play rhythm games on his phone intently. 

“You suck,” you state as he misses a note. 

“You swa—” 

Otoya pauses mid sentence, closing his mouth.

You stare at him intently with a plastic grin, eyes wide and unblinking as he tries his best not to look at you and focuses his gaze on his phone. The douchebag jar was nearing its halfway point, if you could recall correctly.

“Finish that sentence, I dare you.”

“I’m good… thanks,” he mumbles. 

“Good choice,” you cheerily state to his dismay as he begins another level. 

The low hum of the game echoes through the part of the corridor where you and him settle yourselves in, the quietness lulling you both from the apprehension earlier. You can hear the cheers from the reception, but you and Otoya are better off just absorbing it rather than partaking in it. It’s not like they wanted you there anyway.

He’s much more relaxed now, ever since you and him moved away from all the commotion of his family that you witnessed in full light were just as everything Otoya had said they were. Judgemental, proud, and conceited. 

“Hey,” you begin softly, resting your head on his shoulder and watch his thumbs prance about. “How come you didn’t tell me any of this before…?”

Otoya hums questionably, feeling the warmth of you radiating onto him. “What? My family?”

You nod. The fervent taps of his phone and echoes from the party are the only things that ring out into the silence for a bit, but Otoya eventually breaks after choosing his words carefully. 

“Unless I’m forced to, I don’t like telling people about them,” he says, monotone and unfeeling. “For reasons you obviously saw. Also ‘cause I hate associating myself with them.”

That’s understandable, you think to yourself. You don’t think that you would be able to live with yourself if fate forced you to be a part of such a snobbish collective of rich folk without trying to break it off and make a name for yourself. 

“It’s why I refused to go into the financial business field in college and chose music instead,” he continues to your astonishment. Not necessarily a man of many words in regards to himself, Otoya was always more of a secretive person to you, especially in consideration of recent weeks, so to hear him unsheathe truths of himself without you prying came as a small surprise. 

But this is good, you think, to let him be vulnerable around you. To take that mask off.

“Your parents weren’t mad?” you ask.

He snorts loudly, shaking his head. “Oh no, they were pissed. Threatened to cut me off and everything.”

You perk up. “But you said you’re trust fund baby?” 

“I am still,” he confirms with a nod. “Because I told them if they did, I’d reveal to the press all the scandals they covered up. And there’s more than enough to hand out to properly damage their reputation.” Otoya shrugs loosely. “My uncle on my mom’s side especially has quite the stack. Really likes that one gentlemen's club down on Twenty-Eighth.”

Your eyes widen at his quiet ferocity. Only a few hours prior, you would’ve never thought that Otoya you saw on a day-to-day basis would dabble in such matters, only doing his own business as he liked. But seeing this new side of him stirs sparks of interest within you, seeing as how there’s this undertone of determination and ambition he nurtured himself, very much unlike the lethargic, easy-going roommate you saw. 

Otoya, without averting his eyes away from his phone, senses your shock and cracks a grin. 

“Surprised?” he inquiries, a subtle slyness in his voice.

You’re nothing but. You let out a brief laugh in astonishment. 

“A little bit,” you murmur. “Sorry, I just kind of always took you as—”

“—a slob? A sloth? A laggard?” Otoya lists down. “You can say it, I’ve heard it all before. They’re pretty much true anyway.”

“I was going to say ‘laid back’,” you mutter, shoving him a bit to his amusement. “‘Care-free’ even, you dunce.”

He cringes at the familiarity of the nickname. “Gross. You’ve been hanging out with Tabito too much.”

You’re about to hurl an insult back at him but Otoya stands up abruptly when two feminine voices suddenly trail through the hallway. His face remains still, but there’s a seriousness to his eyes that narrow when they grow closer.

“I feel as though Teruo went over his budget,” a familiar voice drawls steadily, two pairs of heels clicking in synchronicity. “All for a commoner girl?”

“Well, Teruo-nii has always been like that,” the other, younger in intonation, replies in what seems to be an attempt at comfort, but comes off as standoffish. Otoya’s brows knit in concern at the second voice, clearly accustomed to it. “Always loud and grand. Explosive, some may say.”

“I hope your brother won’t be doing that with that girl he came along with,” Auntie Kazuko’s voice chides. “Then again, I doubt he’ll ever get married anyway. He doesn’t seem like the type to do so.”

The younger voice laughs in amusement. “It might be better for us anyway. We don’t need more drama from someone who’s stirred up quite a storm already.”

Your eyes soften in pity at the implication of Otoya, who just stares at the two approaching shadowy figures in the hallway. You want to refute their statement, but your words falter when Otoya suddenly grabs your arm and pulls you further from them, your heels rapidly clicking against the floor. 

“Hey!” you exclaim with a slight yelp in pain from his grip. “Where are we—”

“Just away from them,” he grimaces. “I don’t feel like talking to nee-san today.”

His older sister. Eimi, if you could recall, the one who was able to see through people. You’ve never heard of her until today, let alone know what she looks like, but you can already tell from Otoya’s urgency to get away from her that she’s not a force to be reckoned with. 

Otoya leads you down one of the corridors leading to the entrance but hisses out a swear when he sees a cherub-faced woman talking politely with an elder, a head of long snowy white hair with that strike of green mimicking his own. He turns back, only to see the shadowy figures from earlier approach you both closer and closer as the seconds pass. 

He groans out loud. He hates things like this—problems that require too much worrying. It was such a waste of time dabbling on things that were out of his control, such as this scenario before him, and Otoya thought he had gotten away from the hazards of it when he left the family but he supposes that he’s doomed to face such troubles whenever they’re in radius.

His eyes scan his surroundings for a way out, not finding any that won’t lead him to cross paths with people until he spots a certain door. 

“Sorry babe,” he mutters lowly to you and pulls you to the men’s bathroom to your horror. “This won’t take long, I promise.”

You gawk at him when you see the male symbol on the door. 

“Dude!” you shout in protest, but to no avail does it work in changing Otoya’s mind seeing as how he slams the door shut and locks it, pressing himself up against the door as a barricade. 

To your relief, it was a single stall bathroom with no one in it to bother you both, one gold-plated toilet sitting next to the door and a marble sink across from it. Otoya swallows thickly, pressing his ear up against the wall to properly hear outside. He can hear the semi-condescending voices of his sisters murmur through, his name being bounced around once or twice to his displeasure. 

A small velvet stool sits right in front of the door and you let yourself take a break from the stress of your heels, watching closely as Otoya observes the outside within the inner safety of the bathroom with his ear.

“I think we’re all good,” he asserts when turning back to you.

You don’t enjoy seeing him like this—it felt uncharacteristic of him to be so restless around people he was supposed to have fun with. It’s clear that he didn’t want to come from the very beginning.

“Hey,” you start, “I get that Teruo is your cousin and everything, but we can go home if you really want to.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t. I promised him I’d stay for at least the majority of the reception. Just until the toasts. Said I didn’t have to interact with anyone, but he wants me here. I owe him that much.”

“Well that isn’t worth being uncomfortable for nearly five hours, I’m sorry,” you remark tiredly. “You don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here. I think it’s just best if we leave.”

Otoya turns to you, a slight furrow in his brow. “He’s the only person in this family that I refuse to let down. Everyone else can go fuck themselves, but I’m doing this for him.”

You sigh, rubbing your forehead, a little vexed at this foreign stubbornness considering Otoya would usually go along with most things. 

“You haven’t let yourself breathe even once the entire time we’ve been here,” you point out with concern. “I’m sure he’d understand.

Otoya takes your words in for a moment to consider, but ultimately shakes his head again. “It’s just a few more hours. Let’s just tough it out.”

Frustrated, you get up and dust yourself off, moving towards the door. You’ve had enough for one night; you’re tired, your esteem has been kicked down from all the shady comments sent your way, and all you want to do is just take off this dress and makeup and sleep. Meddling around in rich folks’ business was not your ideal Saturday night. 

“You can stay if you want,” you huff, grasping the handle and whipping your head around to face him. “But I’m gonna grab an Uber. I’ll see you back home. I’ve done my part.”

Otoya shrugs loosely, unfazed as he takes your spot on the stool. “Go right ahead, princess.” 

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Fine!”

“Fine.”

You throw him another judgemental look, one that he doesn’t do much with except for give you a questioning raise of his brows as you tug on the doorknob to swing yourself out of the reception’s venue.

Oddly, however… it refuses to budge.

You pause. Then jerk it again. Nothing happens. The door stays where it is.

“What…” you mutter, pulling on the doorknob again, fiddling with the lock multiple times to get the right latch. With every turn of the lock, however, you run into the same problem. “You can’t be serious? It’s stuck?”

“No way bro can’t even open a door right,” Otoya snorts and stands up. His hand goes to grip the doorknob and give it a pull from his own means, but even he can’t seem to get it to open. 

“I’m telling you, it’s stuck,” you insist as he repeats your own methods, all reaching no avail.

Otoya constantly pulls on the doorknob, each yank being harsher than the previous. “It literally just opened a minute ago—hold on…”

“Don’t pull too hard,” you warn when he begins adding more of his strength. “You might—!”

Something clicks, and Otoya figures it’s the latch. He gives it one last harsh tug, only for the actual knob of it to snap off suddenly to your horror, a gasp pulling from your throat.

He steps back a little, examining the chunk of metal in his palm. He gives you a blank look. 

“So… we may be stuck,” he says all too obviously, making you smack your forehead.

“Well duh!” you groan out loud and examine the broken lock that seems completely hopeless to try and solve a way to maneuver it.

Otoya is quick to pull out his phone. “Lemme call Teruo and see if—shit, my phone’s dead.”

He shows you the empty battery icon flickering on his screen, your dread expanding. 

“I didn’t think rhythm games took up that much battery…” he falters, tucking it back into his pocket. “Try yours.” 

Thankfully, you have your phone still at 40% battery when you pull it out, the number keypad at the ready, only for you to whine miserably when you see the No Service text on the corner of your screen. Of course you somehow land in the only place in the venue that is just slightly out of service.

“First rule of thumb whenever you enter a place,” Otoya holds a finger up, one that you have an urge to snap from the irritation that boils within you. “Always ask for their wifi password.”

That’s not how it works… you hiss at him in your mind, trying to avoid escalating this situation. You stare at him darkly, his lax personality not doing much to help your unease in this moment and wonder how many hours it’ll take for you to go insane and strangle him. 

Two, you think. One, if he tested his luck.

Surprisingly, after three and a half hours have passed, Otoya still has a beating heart. He’s been the patient one out of you two, watching you as you pace back and forth to try and conjure a plan to get out while he was just riding on the wave of hoping someone would come by soon to try and use this bathroom. 

You’ve tried going on his shoulders to try and receive a signal, pushing the vent to see if you could spy-movie—only for it to be much too small for a human body to fit, and yelling for help whenever someone passed by, only for your shouts to be drowned out from the music.

The music has died down, but your voice is gone from all the shouting. You’ve given up at this point, just hoping that a custodian will somehow break their way through after hours.

“Has no one attempted to look for you yet?” you question wearily when you slump down next to him on the stool. 

Otoya gives another one of those loose shrugs of his again as he bunches up his suit jacket, plopping it on his lap. “Bold of you to assume that family gives a damn about me.”

The way he says it seems too casual, like he was used to this. Like this was normal for him. It’s unsettling to you, knowing that such a large and prestigious family would think of one of their own so scathingly that his existence barely mattered. 

He sees you giving him a pouted look and sighs. “You don’t have to pity me. I chose to leave that life while knowing the consequences.”

“But even so… it doesn’t bother you?” you question with sympathy laced in your voice. “When they talk about you like that?”

“Hah,” Otoya gives a smileless laugh, rolling his eyes. “I promise you, I could not have given less of a shit about what they think of me. They can say whatever they want; I got what I wanted at the end of the day while they’re stuck slaving away at an office.”

You give him a stony look, silently reminding him that you and his other two roommates worked corporate.

“My fault,” Otoya excuses with guilty haste. 

The rigidity in your face softens once more, your mind trailing back to all of those side-eyes that everyone had thrown in Otoya’s direction from before. 

The Otoya you saw today just seemed so different from the one you were used to at home, so much so that you still can’t decipher him out and if anything, the Otoya that you had witnessed today just even caused more confusion to you. The usual Otoya, the one you suspect is just a mask, is this composed and carefree guy that dawdled around the apartment as he pleased, doing whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted to do it. This Otoya however, was much more uptight, much more weary of his surroundings—you almost think that he’s mimicking his family in some manner.

Maybe that’s why he’s been so closed-off with you recently. Family can bring out the best and worst in people, so the days leading up to this event were the reason why he’s been so strayed from you lately.

“You know,” you start quietly, earning Otoya’s attention. “I wish you didn’t feel the urge to have to hide something like this from me. Unless I made it seem like you had to…?”

Otoya examines you in full, scanning how bleak your face is, how sincere it was. 

He remembers the first day you came into the loft—you, sitting there on the couch with your fidgety self squirming about. Originally, Otoya had not really thought that hard about you during the first few weeks you and him were living together, seeing you as no more than just a girl he wasn’t allowed to cross boundaries with to ensure nothing unnecessary would blossom. Even Yukimiya and Karasu had told him not to try anything funny, though he insists he wasn’t going to anyway.

But times change, as they always have. A crack was made in the wall he put between you and him from a specific day he saw you bring home a certain vinyl, one that he already owned from his own collection. That was his first break with you, your shared love of music—the start of everything. Of you and him. A unique relationship with a girl he’d never had before.

He thought it’d just be nothing more than that, casual chats over new albums and artists and whatnot. Until the small hangouts started to arise, where it’d just be the two of you venturing around places like record stores or flea markets. It was nice, being able to hang out with a girl without any other intentions. Perhaps that’s why Otoya allowed himself to get closer to you—you were a safe option. Someone he was able to breathe around just like Karasu and Yukimiya. 

Someone he saw as an escape from the roots of himself.

“I didn’t mean to keep it from you,” he says. “I just never brought it up because I thought I didn’t have to at first,” He shuffles his feet about, almost ashamed. 

He never even realized he was closing himself in from you when he received the wedding invitation all those weeks ago, a reminder to not forget where he came from, who he was supposed to be. That no matter how many times he attempts to bury it, that lost potential he never wanted to live up to was still a remnant of him. 

“I figured that if I possibly did, you’d view me differently,” he admits, “you’d view me as someone I’m not.”

He had a point; money does a plethora of things—one of them being the way people see each other. Whether one person saw the other as a walking piggy bank, or someone they could depend on financially, or someone they should envy, money was always attached to some sort of ugly feeling that you figured Otoya didn’t want you associating with him. Not from someone he had such a unique connection with.

“I didn’t want that,” he confesses and raises his head to face you in full. You can feel your heart skip a beat when he goes to directly stare into your eyes with those lime green eyes of his that hold nothing but genuinity. “Especially not from you, (Y/N).”

The way he says your name is delicate, like it’s fragile. The lack of endearment and nickname reveals the earnesty of his nature.

It comes to you suddenly, that epiphany you had been searching for.

You had spent all this time wondering about who the true Otoya Eita was that you didn’t even realize you had been face-to-face with him this entire time. That, in reality, the seemingly-fake Otoya was the one you saw plastered on his face when it came to his family matters, people that brought the worst of himself to light. He kept it professional, keeping them at arm’s length as to not let anymore of those feelings only they could conjure to light. He was just trying to bury that part of him on your behalf to keep letting authenticity bounce between you and him. 

But Otoya is a good man. A tad bit annoying, yes, you won’t deny you’ve seen some vices of his unfiltered self, sure, but at the end of the day, despite having that immense access to wealth, he still somehow lived humbly. It was ironic seeing as how he detached himself from his riches to become a happier person, but he’s clearly put in the work, seeing as how he seems to be content where he is. Everyone around him seems to be, as well. 

You give him a gentle smile. 

“I don’t think I would’ve viewed you in a different light even if I tried to,” you murmur. “You’re too much of a good person. I think everyone can see that, Otoya.” 

His eyes widen a bit from your tender response before softening. Your response is tender, an honesty he’s not familiar with, but embraces nonetheless. “Thanks,” he murmurs.

One of his legs shuffles around with yours, linking them together in a loose manner. Otoya turns to you. 

“You can call me Eita, by the way,” he proclaims quietly. “I don’t mind.”

The clicking of metal suddenly startles you awake, your body jolting so harshly, Otoya’s suit jacket falling to the ground from your body. Your head jerks up from Otoya’s shoulder, accidentally waking him up, whose own lied on top of yours for the small catnap you and him took, a groan rumbling out of him. 

“Awhuzz happening…?” he asks blearily, eyes half-closed.

It takes a bit for your vision to adjust, but the inner mechanics of the broken doorknob are suddenly moving on their own, a muffled voice outside muttering about. You tap on his arm rapidly, pointing your finger towards it. “Look, look!” 

Otoya’s drowsiness still stirs within him, but you go up and rap on the door, indicating to the person outside that someone was still here.

“Hello?!” you call out, hearing an exclaim from outside. “Hello! Sorry, but there’s two people trapped in here! Can you let us out please?!”

You watch eagerly as whoever is outside fiddles with the broken lock, the latch suddenly clicking and the door swinging open to your relief.

A custodian with his supplies appears before you, your unknowing knight in shining trousers. He widens his eyes at the both of you. “What on earth are you kids doin’ here? We’ve been closed for three hours already.”

I’m so sorry, the lock broke and we both got trapped inside since around eight or so,” you confess as you hand the custodian the broken knob. You check the time on your phone, the time reading 01:34 AM. “Oh gosh, we were stuck in there for that long?” 

The custodian eyes you both suspiciously, raising a bushy brow. “And exactly why did you both move into the same bathroom when clearly…?” he eyes you up and down, moving his gaze to the male symbol on the door.

It was your turn for your eyes to widen, a heat rising on your cheeks. 

“N-no sir, it wasn’t anything like that…” you stutter, shaking your head. “We just—will you shut up!” you snap at Otoya, who quietly snickers behind you to your disbelief.

The custodian sighs, dismissing it and just wanting his job to be over with.

“Y’all better get movin’,” he warns, checking behind his shoulder. “Security doesn’t take too kindly to who they think may be trespassers.”

When you both finally walk outside for the first time in hours from the bathroom and pass by the reception venue, it’s dark and completely devoid of all the decorations you saw earlier, eerily desolate. Otoya’s car is the only one that remains in the parking lot, with the exception of the night crew, and you couldn’t feel more relieved to be sitting on something other than a velvet stool for once. Who knew cold leather seats could feel so pleasant?

“It would’ve been easier if you just went along with what he was implying,” Otoya points out as he travels down the road, a smirk toying on his lips. “Would’ve been funnier, too.”

Your jaw grits, a familiar reaction whenever he says or does anything preposterous to you. He’s lucky he’s driving and not still stuck in the bathroom with you, because if he wasn’t, you most definitely would’ve strangled him by now. 

“Twenty bucks in the douchebag jar when we get home, Eita,” you hiss.

He stifles a chuckle, a warmth within him blooming when he hears his name falling from your lips. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

☚ previous next☛

a/n: this chapter sucked the absolute life out of me good god im glad it's over... a little bit of a serious one, but dw i'm pinning that clown nose on otoya again soon! also, this was the dress that otoya had reader wear; it's an actual piece from the oscar de la renta's collection otoya stated.

yukki's chapter is next, one that i'm quite excited for! i think that's where all the drama is going to start to happen so i hope you'll stay tuned (spoiler: they dance together aaa)

thank you sincerely if you made it this far, i hope you enjoyed reading! comments and reblogs are the best way to support your writers; they're always appreciated and never unnoticed <3

taglist (link to join): @okkotsuus @solaqes @cz19y @kiritokunuwu @/ilovenijironanase @cyberheartrebel @tecchouss @/inojinieee

*those with /, please turn on the ability to tag you in posts!

Alice in Borderland || Headlines Part 7

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6]

+ bonus: the cutest catto

minghao + kitten ☾ @97-liners ♡ from: your carat admirer ✧

i feel like mc is gonna die of a heart attack soon lol

fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline) — TWO.

SYNOPSIS. having fought tooth and nail out of high school, university, and law school, only to end up working for a law firm that basically serves as a clean up dog after the biggest organized crime group in the district, you thought you couldn’t get any lower than this. 

the bar is in hell, and yet you’ve managed to limbo six feet beneath that. alternatively— na jaemin is the personification of hell, and your very existence just makes him even worse than he already is. 

PAIRING. na jaemin x female! reader. GENRE. gang! au, lawyer! au, office! au, comedy, drama, romance, very light angst, this is a sitcom, hate to love(?), a somewhat questionable power dynamic, asshole! jaemin (my beloved…my kryptonite…) but he’s also an idiot, jaemin has an eye contact thing, inspired by the manhwas “weak hero” and “study group.” WARNINGS. an abundance of criminal activity (including but not limited to organized crime, fraud, blackmail, DUIs, unethical and illegal occupational practices, etc.), blood and violence, suggestive themes, eventual non explicit sex, jaemin with a tattoo, legal inaccuracies because i am not familiar with south korean laws, so i’m just using my own country’s as reference. also because this is just a stupid thirst fic. who gives a damn. WORD COUNT. 7.6k.

NOTE. i tagged this as hate to love. i meant it. na jaemin is an objectively shitty person and i’ve given myself the herculean task of trying to redeem him (if ever) HAHAHHAHAHAHA. also, i tried to cut as many corners as i could in the trial scene. don’t expect it to be accurate. anyway, hope this chapter is fun! please let me know what you think! NEXT CHAPTER TO BE PUBLISHED.

YOU DIDN’T THINK YOU’D EVER FEEL THIS KIND OF DREAD ON A MONDAY AGAIN. The usual dread borne out of starting yet another week as a capitalist slave is given. It’s nothing special. But the dread you feel today as you drive to Yeongdeungpo Police Station (yet again, to the point that you’re starting to feel like an inmate yourself) is a dread that you haven’t felt in a long ass while.

Specifically, eight years ago. You’re like a broken record at this point, but it doesn’t stop you from continually cursing Na Jaemin in your mind as you stomp through the echoing halls of the station. Officer Jung is leading the way yet again to the visitation room, all while suffering from the brunt of your temper.

“He didn’t decline your request today,” he starts, attempting to make conversation.

No fucking shit, you reply in your head. “Thank you for the patience, officer,” you vocalize with a constipated smile. 

It seems like Officer Jung managed to catch the eye roll you didn’t intend for him to see. He gives you one polite smile and doesn’t make any more attempts after that, speaking only once you’ve reached the visitation room to unlock it and wish you luck with a nod. 

You thank him, sucking in a deep breath as you force your joints to start creaking. Luck. The door clicks behind you. You damn need more than luck to get through this meeting and this entire case. You need the very devil’s mercy and cooperation.

“Good day, Na Jaemin-ssi.”

But the devil isn’t a merciful man. You swallow down a lump in your throat and force out a smile.

“How have you been?”

He stares you down with the weight of a thousand suns, stabbing you right in the gut with a pain enough to incite a wave of nauseous vomit. “Get on with it,” he rasps. “I don’t think you got Mark on my ass just for some stupid fucking small talk. Hurry up and get on with it.”

Your smile twitches. This guy has never learned how to speak nicely.

*‎

(You’ve established that your new seatmate is Na Jaemin. Yet that’s all you’ve come to know about him up until the bell rings to signal lunch time.

Carefully sneaking out of your seat, you peer down to see that he’s still deep asleep. You huff. Wow. Four classes have gone by, and this guy slept through it all. And none of the teachers even called him out— only going as far as sending a look of resigned acknowledgement at your direction, sometimes even relief. Sometimes fear.

Anyhow, that first half of your day was enough to answer why Natty gave you that warning earlier: that the seat you chose was the worst one possible— next to the very embodiment of trouble, even if you don’t know the details just yet.

Despite not knowing much, you’re already blaming him for the fact that you’re eating lunch alone. 

The heat from the stew broth pricks at the skin of your lips as you scan around the cafeteria. You notice a few familiar faces scattered around, all sitting either in pairs or in groups in their respective seats and tables. You even lock eyes with Natty at some point, who simply averts your gaze with guilt ridden twitch as she turns head to her friend, someone you don’t recognize was in your class. 

Seems like you were doomed from the moment you sat your ass down on that seat. Fuck’s sake. Whoever this Na Jaemin guy is, you don’t like him already. You decide to temper your annoyed steps with some ice cream from the snack bar, seeing that there’s still a couple of minutes left before the afternoon bell. You pick up an extra snack as well— a melon bread wrapped in green tinted plastic. Something to pick at from under your desk as you go through your afternoon classes. You grab a can of pink peach soda to drink on the way back.

Upon returning to your classroom, the first thing you notice is the fact that no one else is here when there’s only five minutes left before lunch.

The second thing you notice— 

“Hey, you.”

There is, in fact, someone here.

Na Jaemin had sat up from the cross-armed, sleep-ridden slump he’d been in all morning. He’s awake. Now that his face isn’t buried, you finally have something to match the name.

“Why the hell didn’t you wake me up?”

There’s a distinct scowl on his face as he sets his phone down on his desk, shoulders slacked and sitting with his legs apart, which pushed your seat away to the very edge of your desk space. 

You feel a twitch in your brow. The annoyance prompts your feet to move close, triggers your mouth to open and speak back. “What?” you start. “There’s—there’s a bell that—”

“I was fucking asleep, you dumb fuck.” Na Jaemin cuts you off, and you flinch. “You think I’d hear a damned bell when I’m knocked the fuck out?” 

A gut feeling kicks in, forcing you to preemptively stop, look down, and choke down the remnants of your words into a stifling silence. You try to take a peek at Na Jaemin’s expression, but the sound of a tongue clicking in annoyance and the reeling back of a chair forces your eyes to continue staring at the classroom floor, feeling your entire body reverberating with the loud sound of your heartbeat as Na Jaemin’s presence loom closer. 

“I asked you a fucking question.”

“S—sorry,” you sputter out. “I’ll…I’ll wake you tomorrow.”

For a brief moment, you manage to take a quick glance at na Jaemin’s face, standing right before you.

And the sheer disdain and annoyance in his eyes makes you instantly regret that very decision.

“Useless.” You flinch back down and  hear him release a huff as he snatches the half-drunk peach soda from your hands. Your feet are nailed to the ground, and Na Jaemin proceeds to down the remnants of the drink before tossing the empty can back to you, shoving past you as the bell rings— and you hear a fumble of apologies from outside the door as Na Jaemin saunters out of the classroom.

Finally looking up, you see your classmates crowding outside the classroom, some slowly trickling in upon noticing that the coast is clear. 

You don’t think you’re wrong to assume that they’d seen everything that happened in the room. You don’t think you noticed wrong either that they’re deliberately refusing to acknowledge it.

All of them make it to their seats. No one tries to talk to you after that, but that’s not the topmost thing that you’re troubled with.

You promised to wake Na Jaemin up for lunch tomorrow. You might have just become his personal alarm clock.)

*‎

In retrospect, that was a completely void agreement. God, it pisses you off thinking just how much of a doormat you were. Still are, considering you’re barely keeping it together sitting in front of Na Jaemin when you’re supposed to be the authoritative figure here. It pisses you off even more knowing that he doesn’t even remember you. 

His impatient taps on the wooden table echo and bounce off the walls of the visitation room. 

“Na Jaemin-ssi,” you inhale sharply. “Your hearing is this Thursday, two days from now. I’ve already made the necessary preparations for your defense, and—”

“So, you’re finally getting me out?”

Can this son of a bitch let you fucking speak? “Hopefully,” you promptly answer. “I’m confident in the case I’ve prepared. However, there’s…something I need you to do in order to ensure that the judge will rule in our favor, Na Jaemin-ssi.”

Here we go. You gotta tread this carefully. Very carefully, because you know damn well that Na Jaemin doesn’t like being ordered around. 

“It is very likely that the prosecution will call you to the witness stand. You have every power to invoke your right against self-incrimination. But in our case, allowing yourself to be cross-examined by the prosecution would actually be favorable for us as a testament to your innocence, so long as you stick to the script.” It’s hard to get a hint of how well he’s receiving this because you’re too scared shitless to look him straight in the face. All you can do is hope he’s actually listening and not picking his ears as you continue to prattle on. “You just have to agree to Atty. Jung Sungchan’s line of questioning— even the fact that you fought the witnesses. However, you have to say that you didn’t start the fight. You don’t remember how the fight started. And you sustained significant injuries yourself.”

Na Jaemin got out of that altercation with just a few bruises and scratches, but the doctor Mark Lee referred you to was able to turn that into a couple broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder. He agreed to attest to the medical report on the stand as well.

The only missing piece you really need right now is Na Jaemin’s testimony and cooperation. 

His lack of response does not bode well for you. The room swallows you up in its cold and eerie silence. “Do you…follow…Na Jaemin-ssi…?” you try to prod out a response. And you get a response, all right.

Just not the kind of response you’d been praying for.

“Are you saying that I have to go up there, pretend I took a beating from those sissy fucks, and act all pathetic and pitiful like a little bitch?”

There’s an angry kick against the table. You suck down a breath when you feel the wooden edge jam against your ribcage.

“Who the hell do you think you are to tell me what to do?”

Your eyes squeeze shut, ignoring the sharp pain on your torso because that’s the least of your problems right now. Why…why does he have to be so goddamn difficult? Fuck’s sake. “Na Jaemin-ssi,” you exhale. “I’m not—I’m not telling you to do all those things. I’m just saying that the only way we could see your full acquittal is if we prove that Yoon Naksung and his party were also at fault.”

“We? That’s your damn job, attorney. You want me to do your fucking job for you?” 

This is different from when he was trying to deliberately push your buttons last time.

He’s mad. He’s really freaking mad.

“Get out. Get the fuck out.”

You know a warning when you hear one. You waste no time gathering yourself and speed walking out the door— half out of fear, mostly out of angered frustration because holy fuck. This is a mess. You’re so fucking screwed. Sure, you managed to get Hong Hyunjae, and Ma Gildong to cooperate with you. Sure, you managed to get a doctor to fake his medical exam. But all that would be useless if your bastard of a client decides to run his mouth and brag about just how much he wrecked those idiots’ asses.

Say, you don’t force him to testify. Once the witnesses come out and follow the script you made, the judge might still compel Na Jaemin to take the stand to confirm things. If he says anything to the contrary, you’re as good as screwed. At best, you’d lose the case. At worst, you’d be charged with contempt of court, and you can kiss your license goodbye.

That’s how your meeting ends— with a looming sense of dread that follows you out the doorway.

You exit the visitation room as if you’d just gotten your life ripped out from your own hands. It doesn’t go under Officer Jung’s notice, who’d been waiting by the door. 

“JJS is always handling the tough cases,” he remarks.

You grunt. “Give us a call when you wanna get silly with your gun and try shooting at random civilians.”

Thank god he doesn’t attempt any more small talk, nor does he follow you out. You’re way too exhausted right now— mostly emotionally and psychologically, and you’ve almost broken yourself down to simply just admit defeat and abandon this motherfucker’s ass. He can continue being a bitch in jail for all you care. You’re done. You’re so fucking done. You decide that you don’t give a shit anymore and give Mark a call right outside the station.

Four rings. Then he picks up. “Hey,” you immediately start. “What will you do if I fail to release your dog?”

Mark Lee never even got the chance to greet you back when you tossed this question at him. “Hmm,” he ponders, leaving a gap for a quiet pause. “That’s not something I’ve even considered, attorney. I really value our relationship thus far.”

You don’t even give him a response before ending the call. Your arm falls limp on your side. Fuck. You’re so dead.

Either in the hands of Mark Lee, or Na Jaemin, should you continue trying to push him. You’ve only ever seen the lengths of the latter’s violence. You don’t intend on finding out just how much of a psycho the former is. So death by Na Jaemin, it is.

You bring your phone up and call Mark again and ask for another meeting with your client tomorrow. He says he’s always happy to oblige.

*‎

(At some point, after a whole week of being Na Jaemin’s alarm clock, you started to wonder— why the hell do you have to keep doing this?

Lunch bells. Dismissals. Having to leave the classroom for gym or for some other special class. He expects you to wake him up or else you’d get your fucking ass kicked, and even when you do wake him up, he gives you a nasty ass look as if he’s about to kick your ass, until you promptly squeak out that class has ended, or whatever your teachers’ instructed you to do that day.

It’s only after seven days of this bullshit that you realize that you don’t owe him. You’re under no obligation whatsoever to keep being his alarm lackey or answer to him in any way shape or form. He’s just a guy. He’s just a student, just like you. And you bet that he’s probably just bluffing. 

All he’s ever done is snatch your drink from you. He hasn’t even laid a hand on you.

So just as you march back to the classroom after having your lunch at the cafeteria— alone, because getting involved with Na Jaemin has ruined all your chances of making any friends— you decide that it’s finally time to put your foot down and tell him that you’re not his slave. You’re not doing this crap anymore.

Yet your newfound sense of will-power is promptly deflated when you slide open the classroom door and see that your seatmate isn’t snoozing in his usual spot.

In fact, no one is seated in their seats. Your brows furrow in confusion upon noticing that all your classmates are crowding the windows on the other side of the room, all pressing up the glass, gawking and gasping at the same thing.

“Is that Park Gunho from Class 9?”

“Yeah, dude. I heard him talking shit about Na Jaemin the other day, and— oh! Ouch. That’s gotta hurt.”

“Holy shit, is that blood?”

“Where the hell are the teachers?”

You managed to squeeze in between two of your classmates, looking through the glass and right at the crowded spectacle in the courtyard— just in time to watch Na Jaemin land a crunchy punch into Gunho’s nose that has you wincing, even when the fight is happening from several feet away. 

At this point, the other guy is barely standing on his feet. Practically limping when your demon of a seatmate twists his arm behind, only to shove a kick into his back, sending him straight to the dusty ground. You watch as Na Jaemin stomps a foot into the poor guy’s knuckle’s. You can’t hear Park Gunho from here, but you can feel his choked up yelp penetrating into your skin and shuddering into your bones. Holy shit. This guy is a fucking monster. And you almost just offered yourself up to him like an idiot.

The worst part about it is the fact that Na Jaemin looks like he’s having the time of his life. There’s this crazed look on his face as he walks up to Gunho who’s trying to lip away— only to be yanked by the hair and slammed back into the ground— pinned down by Na Jaemin’s foot as the latter huffs out a grin, and says something that fails to reach your ears.

Needless to say, you’re horrified. This could have been you. 

Na Jaemin seems to have heard your thoughts because right at that moment, he snaps his head up, pinstruck gaze shooting through the windows of your classroom— looking directly at you.

Your blood runs cold. You gulp.

Someone draws the curtains back down. “Fuck, you don’t think he say our faces, do you?” You feel yourself stumble back, and with lightheaded steps, you guide yourself to your assigned seat, and start praying to whatever’s up there that Na Jaemin did not recognize you from down there. 

Much to your relief, he doesn’t return upon the right of the afternoon bell. He comes back between fifth and sixth period, looking like he’s in the best mood he’s ever been throughout your first week here, and it drives an even deeper pit of dread in your stomach.

The classroom grows colder as he comes nearer to your desk. He haphazardly draws the chair next to you back, you flinch, and he sets himself down with satisfied huff, right before assuming his usual position— arms crossed on the desk, serving as his pillow for the rest of the class day. “Oi,” he muffles out to the only person he could be talking to right now— you. There’s still blood on his uniform sleeve. You start to feel nauseous. “Wake me when the bell rings.”

You thought that that fight between him and Park Gunho was the worst thing you’ll ever witness in Ganghak.

Turns out, things would just get worse from here).

*‎

“All rise! The court is now in session. The Honorable Judge Bae Joohyun, presiding.”

It takes all the strength in your body to get up and not fall over from a mere gust of wind from the courtroom’s ventilation system. You’re exhausted. You haven’t gotten any sleep last night from the crippling anxiety of what’s waiting for you today. It took everything in your power to just look presentable for today’s trial. 

You’re a shell of a human being— that much is obvious considering you’re one step behind when Judge Bae instructs everyone to be seated. 

“We are here on the case of Yoon Naksung, Hong Hyunjae, and Ma Gildong versus Na Jaemin. Is the prosecution ready to proceed?”

“Yes, your honor.”

“Is the defense ready to proceed?”

“Yes, your honor.” No, you’re fucking not. You did in fact manage to meet with Na Jaemin one last time yesterday, and you barely managed to acquiesce something of an agreement out of him— most likely because he was threatened by Mark. But you’re not sure if that threat was strong enough for him to actually cooperate with you today.

“Very well. Prosecution, you may make your opening statement.”

Speaking of the bastard, you notice from the corner of your eye Na Jaemin’s unabashed yawn while Jung Sungchan introduces himself and his clients. God. This is a sickening set up— him sitting directly to your right. It’s like this day was designed specifically to make you feel like you’re back in that hell. More than anything, you just want this over and done with. 

“Thank you. May I request the defense to make your opening statement.”

As you make your way to the designated podium, you cross paths with Jung Sungchan. He shoots you an over confident grin and walks past you with his nose high. You chew down a string of swears and curses. Every single man you’ve been dealing with as of late is determined to ruin your life. You hope they all run out of toilet paper every time they have to shit in a public restroom. You hope their zippers get caught every time they have to zip up their pants.

“Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen, the opposing counsel, a pleasant morning.” At this point, your soul is still completely detached from your body. Your mouth is practically moving all by itself as you do your introduction. “The prosecution argues that my client, Na Jaemin, is guilty for disturbing the peace and three counts of physical injury against Yoon Naksung, Hong Hyunjae, and Ma Gildong.” As you say this, your eyes and your eyebags trail across the prosecution’s table, locking eyes with the latter two as you scan past them. “We acknowledge that our party has done some injury to the witnesses. There is a fault in that. However, it is a well understood doctrine that two faults don’t make a right.”

If your client can’t cooperate to save his own ass, those two better do.

They’re smarter than Na Jaemin. They know what’d come for them if they don’t. 

“Your honor, the witnesses have acted in pari delicto, sustaining equally grave injuries against my client, and therefore have no right to seek legal relief. A verdict of guilt against my client would be a grave mockery to our justice system when the ones seeking justice are equally at fault. We hope that you will see the wisdom in our defense. Thank you very much.”

The moment you return to your seat and Jung Sungchan is called first to make their case, your brain continues moving in autopilot. You’re so tired. You’re so damn tired. You know that you should be setting Na Jaemin straight right now, but you can’t find it in yourself to even talk to him without bursting a blood vessel. Jung Sungchan continues to present their evidence— affidavits from his witnesses, a janky recording of Na Jaemin and the other three leaving a bar located right on the cusp of Yeongdeungpo and Mapo, separately where they’d allegedly first bumped into each other, and the same exiting the frame. 

Eventually, he calls Na Jaemin to the witness stand. The air refuses to enter your lungs as the bailiff leads him up the courtroom. You’ve re-oriented him with what he has to do yesterday. You close your eyes, press your palms together underneath the table, and mutter out pleas and manifestations that your instructions managed to get through his thick skull, that an angel would somehow possess him today and prevent him from screwing you over.

But you haven’t done enough good deeds in your lifetime to be granted this one wish.

Jung Sungchan asks him if he admits to being the person who caused Yoon Naksung and the rests’ injuries.

Na Jaemin responds with a shit eating grin saying, “Yeah, I fucking did it.” 

Your face contorts in horror. Your eyes fly wide open, blood draining from your cheeks. Oh, fuck. Oh, fucking hell, please no. Your demon sent client looks like he wanted to elicit his kind of reaction from you— smiling at you from the witness stand, and you feel your nails dig into your clenched palms, biting into the thin skin of your flesh.

To make matters worse, he doubles down. He’s determined to kill you right here and now. “That guy nearly pissed himself when I socked him in the—”

“Your honor!”

This is a stupid fucking move to make, but you’re panicking. And that very panic easily seeps out of your skin and burrows into the notice of your opponent from the other table. Jung Sungchan’s eyes are both sparking incredulously and victoriously at this pretty blatant concession. To think your own client would fuck you over. You’re about to cry. You’re fuming. You’re dying from embarrassment.

“I’d— I’d like to request a short recess to meet with my client.”

Judge Bae narrows her eyes at you. “Overruled.” Yeah, you didn’t expect that to be granted. Fucking hell. You sink back into your seat in defeat, the dread that had once only been creeping up to you now completely swallowing you whole. “Counsel, please continue with your questioning.

No, it’s okay. This is fine, you think to yourself. You still have your witnesses. You’re not totally screwed yet. Maybe that would be enough to dismiss this damned case. Maybe that would be enough to let you walk away scot free.

“Ahem,” Jung Sungchan clears his throat. “Na Jaemin-ssi. Can you tell us the events that unfolded after the four of you left the bar?”

Silence.

“Na Jaemin-ssi…?”

“I don’t feel like answering.”

You let out a muffled noise as you bury your face in your hands. Your face is burning. Not only is he trying to screw you over, he wants to mortify you in front of everyone here.

“Defendant.” Judge Bae Joohyun has decided to intervene. “Are you…invoking your right against self incrimination?”

You almost let out an anguished cry and slam your forehead against the table when Na Jaemin responds with a, “Sure.”

The bailiff escorts him back to your table, and he’s all smiles when he sits down. Is he happy now that he’s thrown a big ass fucking wrench in your plans? Does he not give a fuck that he might get incarcerated as long as he sees you miserable? What a sadomasochistic psychopath, you hope he burns in hell.

“You don’t look too good, attorney,” you hear him chipper from beside you. 

Your head snaps to the side. You hear a crash from inside your ears.

For the first time, you look this son of a bitch dead in the eye— and you might not have a mirror, but you don’t think you’re looking at him pretty pleasantly. In fact, you can feel your own self going lightheaded from the sheer animosity darting through blood vessels in your brain.

Jung Sungchan calls Ma Gildong to the stand, and you turn your head back to the front. Sure, the bastard next to you might have thrown a wrench into your plans, but you still have a few working cogs left— and they better fucking work properly. You think you still have that same, manic look in your eyes when you meet Gildong’s gaze from across the courtroom because he visibly gulps and clears his throat.

Jung Sungchan starts questioning him, and he does just as well as you hoped (unlike the last guy). That rookie attorney gets caught off guard when his client answers with a stuttering, “I—I don’t remember,” in response to Jung Sungchan’s request to recount who started the fight that night. “It all happened suddenly. It was hard to tell exactly who.”

“Witness Ma Gildog,” the judge intercepts once again. “In the affidavit you submitted, you stated that the defendant was the one who started the altercation without warning. What is the meaning of this?”

Ma Gildong looks at you. You look him dead in the eye and he promptly looks away with a hard swallow.

“I…I only wrote that because Naksung hyung told me to.”

Fuck yes.

“We—were were all drunk when it happened. It was hard to tell who started the fight. I didn’t even want to pursue this case, he—he was just pissed that that guy got more punches in.”

“What?! What the hell are you talking about?!”

“Order!”

You watch as the bailiff tries to settle Yoon Naksung down. You stifle down a smile. This whole trial wouldn’t have been necessary if he had only been as cooperative as the other two. God, you wouldn’t have needed to deal with this headache either. 

You hear Judge Bae set down the gavel.  “There seems to be some unresolved issues with the prosecution side,” she starts with a sigh. “In this case, let us have a short recess. We will reconvene after thirty minutes.”

Thirty minutes. That’s just fucking perfect.

“Recess? Are we having a snack break, attorne—”

“Please allow us to use one of your conference rooms.” You quickly shoot up and cut off Na Jaemin, a polite stance directed at the bailiff near you. “That would be alright, right?”

The way the bailiff looks at you makes you come to the conclusion that you don’t look exactly sane right now. Nevertheless, he humors you and leads both you and Na Jaemin to one of the available conference rooms in the district court. It’s hard to grasp the fact he is being very docile right now, lazily looking around with cuffed hands before him as he trails beside you, under the watchful eye of the court sheriff.

A door is opened before you. The moment the bailiff allows you and your client and closes the door behind, you swivel your heels, grab Na Jaemin by the fucking collar, and ram him against the wall with a loud rattle.

Your years and years of disdain for this guy just came to a breaking point today.

You’ve had fucking enough of his difficult attitude.

“Listen.” Your voice comes off as a hiss more than anything. You hear the sound of his handcuffs clatter when you shove him harder against the wall. You feel your nails dig into your palms through the collar of his shirt. You’re beyond livid. “I am trying my god damned best to get you out of here, Na Jaemin-ssi. You’re the last person I want to help. You’re the last person I could give a shit about, but here I fucking I am— fighting tooth and nail for you, for christ’s sake. I literally had to build up a defense out of nothing just to clear you from incarceration. All I asked is for you to not throw a fit, to follow my damned script, to sit still and still pretty for the rest of this stupid trial, and you couldn’t even fucking do that?”

Much to your surprise, Na Jaemin looks pretty much caught off guard. Not intimidated by any means, but he does keep his mouth shut, repeatedly blinking his somewhat widened eyes at you— the only other expression you’ve ever seen from him other than a scowl and that bastardized grin of his.

Another beat of silence. Your upper lip twitches into a snarl. “Useless fuck.” 

You roughly let go of him with a grunt and roll back your shoulders, facing your back to him and release a sigh. Whew. That felt so fucking good. 

Without another word, you take quick strides out the conference room, greeting the bailiff outside with a sweet and refreshed smile, maintaining that same air as you return back to the courtroom, an uncharacteristically cooperative Na Jaemin in tow.

The trial resumes. He doesn’t do anything stupid again after that because you’ve decided to completely remove him from the equation. Ma Gildong and Hong Hyunjae submitted new affidavits as evidence. Jung Sungchan and Yoon Naksung are red-faced and look like they’re sitting on burners from hell— even more so when it’s finally your turn to present your case, speaking before the court with a now clear head and your cards in place. When you call Dr. Qian Kun to the stand to attest to Na Jaemin’s physical exam result, the prosecution table is practically deflated in defeat by then.

You return to the defendant’s table. Your shoulders haven’t felt this light in weeks. Even lighter when the court finishes deliberation, and Judge Bae announces the final verdict.

“In light of the criminal charges against Na Jaemin—”

You inhale sharply.

“The court finds insufficient evidence to declare his guilt beyond reasonable doubt.”

Yes. Yes. Fuck, yes.

“Now, the civil liabilities attached to this case— the witnesses’ participation in the aforementioned offenses creates a unique situation. When both parties are at equal fault or in pari delicto, neither the courts nor law will grant relief to the parties. Although the defendant, Na Jaemin, had indeed inflicted less serious physical injuries against the witnesses, the witnesses have inflicted the same upon the defendant.”

Oh, fuck yeah.

“This court hereby dismisses the case without prejudice for want of prosecution. Court is adjourned.”

There is no one happier in this court than you right now. You lock eyes with Jung Sungchan from across the room. You stick your tongue out because you don’t give a damn anymore.

You’re free. You don’t have to deal with Na Jaemin ever again. You’re fucking free.

*‎

Well, you spoke too soon.

“What...what are you doing here…?”

Four days later, you see the very bastard sitting on your chair at the JSS office. He’s swiveling around, stopping the turn with a foot down to look at you. “Oh,” he starts. “Took you fucking long enough.”

Seriously. What have you done to deserve this? Nevermind, you’ve done a lot of things to deserve ten years worth of bad karma, but that’s neither here nor there. You’d just gotten back from a meeting with one of your clients— a normal client: a sweet, old lady who was drafting her last will and testament to make sure none of her nutjob sobs get even a percentage from her estate. 

The meeting ran longer than expected because the lady kept trying to ask you if you’re single and would be interested to meet one of her nephews. So, you’d just returned back to the office at 6 p.m., most of your co-workers having clocked out already, only to be bitch slapped in the face with this psycho again, not even a week since you’ve last seen him.

You ignore him, eyes flitting up to the direction of your boss’s office. The light is still on. You grit your teeth. This son a bitch’s entry was permitted by the other son of a bitch. If he’s miserable, he should keep his misery to himself.

“Hey, attorney. I’m tryna talk to you.”

“Y—yes?” you choke out, taking a step back when Na Jaemin rises to his feet. God damn it. Your outburst mid-trial was an isolated case as a result of your pent up emotions. You can’t be brave anymore— and he notices.

There’s a slight raise in his brow when you flinch back, a barely visible smile playing on his face. It’s almost like this bastard can smell fear, and you’re completely lathered in it. “You were pretty gutsy enough to swear at my face and shove me around the other day,” he says, voice low. “What happened to all that spunk, attorney?”

You bite down the swear at the tip of your tongue. “I sincerely apologize for my inappropriate behavior that day.” You’re doing your damn best to keep your head down, but it’s increasingly difficult when this guy is trying to get all up in your space. “Any—anyhow. What business do you have with JSS, Na Jaemin-ssi?”

A flip switches. Na Jaemin suddenly looks very annoyed.

“Ugh. Right,” he grunts, digging into his inner jacket pockets like it’s a chore before pulling out an envelope. A really thick envelope. Your eyes widen. He hands it over to you. “The boss wanted to give his extra thanks.”

Extra thanks for risking your life to release one of his mutts. Holy shit. You say nothing as you take the envelope from his hands, the weight of the paper bills pulling you down heavier than they’re supposed to be. You clear your throat and stuff it into the bag you’ve yet to set down on your desk. “Why didn’t he come in person?”

“He’s out on business,” Na Jaemin flatly replies. Then, there’s a twinge on his tongue when he follows it up, “Why? You want to see him that badly?”

The fuck? That very through slips through expression for a second. Na Jaemin clocks this. 

A grin takes over his expression. He releases a bare laugh when he walks past you with a hand on your shoulder. “I gotta hand it to you. You’re pretty damn good at pulling shit out of your ass out of nothing.” 

Your breath hitches when you feel a firm squeeze. Na Jaemin releases you with a hum and a pat and finally starts fucking leaving.

“See you around, attorney.”

When you’ve confirmed that the psycho has finally left, you immediately lunge for your chair and release a long and hefty breath.

Jesus fucking christ. How many times do you have to tell these Nalkeutta bastards that you never want to see their faces again? Not enough, apparently. Because the next day, Mark Lee makes a visit to your office again. He greets you a good morning and you quietly tell him to leave you alone and never talk to you again. He laughs and disappears into Doyoung’s office for the next two hours, before stopping by at your desk again to inquire about your desk nameplate preferences.

“Do you prefer acrylic or marble?” he asks, peeking out from behind your desktop computer.

“Gold,” you soullessly respond. “Avenir font. Engraved. Heavy enough to knock a man unconscious with one blow.”

“Very particular.” Your eyes flit up to see his pleasant smile, and it just ruins your day further. It gets worse when Kim Doyoung follows not long after him. “Oh, Mr. Kim,” Mark greets. “I was just about to head out.”

“Yes, allow me to accompany you down to the lobby, Mr. Lee,” Doyoung chimes in. You look up at him as he leers down at you, noticing that you are, in fact, here. “Congratulations on yet another winning case, attorney.”

He’s five days late. “Thank you. Are you gonna give me my own office yet?”

“You know very well JSS isn’t in the position to grant you that.”

Very expected response, but you’re annoyed anyway. They finally leave you alone so you can mentally curse them once you die from overwork and overexertion. Indeed, you know very well that JSS isn’t in the best spot right now. Your firm’s reputation has been slowly nosediving lately— fully getting tanked recently because of your latest acquittal of Na Jaemin.

The general public has been questioning your integrity as a law firm. That much is fucking expected when you’re partnered with the biggest crime organization in the district. It’s not that this partnership is a recent thing. But with the establishment of a new law firm within your territory, the GP now has a point of comparison to notice just how many obvious criminals JSS has helped to subvert the rule of law.

These articles and nasty forum posts have been the source of Kim Doyoung’s stress as of late. During the next few weeks, you watch his mood sour and sour by the day after every meeting with the higher-ups.

The source of the problem is obvious, but it’s not like JSS can just cut ties with Nalkeutta to clean its name. In fact, it would the dumbest move ever, practically industry suicide considering Mark Lee and his company is your highest paying client. Not only that. All of the firm’s employees practically have immunity from the hefty protection fees all Yeongdeungpo residents have to pay weekly just to pay the streets. And you don’t want to make an enemy out of Nalkeutta either by cutting them off. Your firm is caught in between rock and a hard place with no easy way out.

“I think the boss has started to grow white hairs lately,” Jungwoo tells you over coffee in the breakroom. 

“Why…are you looking at his hair?” you ask, almost worriedly. Jungwoo simply shrugs and you two watch as Kim Doyoung stomps into the breakroom in a fit again to angrily snatch a glass and nearly rip the fridge open for the pitcher of lemon water you started to make every morning, overpouring into the glass before chugging it clean and slamming the glass down on the counter.

He didn’t even ask for permission. What a monster.

Anyhow, you could give less of a shit about JSS’s steadily dwindling reputation. This ain’t your problem to fix. It’s your higher up’s problem. It’s Kim Doyoung’s problem, and— quite frankly— the peak of your week is seeing his grumbling swears every time he stomps out of another admin meeting, watching him scratch at the growing grey hairs at the back of his head through his private office like it’s your own personal TV show. 

It’s such a great sight to see. Added to the fact that you haven’t received a call from Nalkeutta lately, whether it be for consultations or just simple blotter charges, they haven’t been bothering you at all. In short, you’ve been having the best two weeks of your life. 

It comes to a peak when Kim Doyoung calls you to his office one day, prompting the assumption that JSS’s reputation situation has become way, way worse to the point that the firm needs the help of its rank and file employees like you to settle the matter. 

“Damn, good luck. Let me know what’s up,” Jungwoo sends you off.

Honestly, you’re looking forward to having a front row seat to Kim Doyoung’s meltdown, if things have gotten as bad as you think. Your knuckles tap against the wooden entrance to his office, and you’re filled with a longing envy when he tells you to come in because damn— must be nice to have an office of his own. Why does he always have a stick up his ass when he’s got his own 150 square feet kingdom where he can do whatever he wants?

“Come in.”

Muct to your surprise, however, Kim Doyoung looks well rested today.

The moment you step in, you notice that his usual constipated expression is nowhere to be found on his face. In fact, his skin is perfectly clear. His white button up is crisp and tidy. His glasses are shining. His hair is neat and styled— as though it hasn’t been run through a million times today.

Whoa. What the hell? Who is this? Who is this man in front of you?

“How has your work been, attorney?” he starts, elbows on the desk, chin resting on interlocked fingers. 

You tentatively make your way closer to his desk, slightly unnerved at this sudden disposition switch. “The same as usual.”

“That’s good to hear,” he hums. He’s humming. Kim Doyoung is humming. What? He sets his fingers on a folded piece of paper that’s been sitting on his desk, promptly pushing it forward to you. “Read this.” You’re beyond creeped out. You have no idea what’s going on, but you follow instructions anyway, inching a step closer to peel the paper from the glass surface of his desk, and unfold it in your hands. 

He wants you to read it. So, you do.

The moment your eyes register the heading, your neck cranes, squinting. “Sir,” you say, holding the paper down. “Are you sure you gave me the correct sheet?”

“Yes, yes,” he affirms, waving a hand in the air. “Please continue reading.”

You do. You read the heading once again. LETTER OF RESIGNATION, in bold and all caps. Followed by today’s date. Followed by your fucking name.

The paper wrinkles in your grasp. Haha. You don’t remember writing a resignation letter. “Sir,” you start again, voice coming off as a weak wheeze. “There must be some kind of mistake.”

“There’s no mistake,” Doyoung confirms, spinning a pen between his fingers before pushing it forward to you in the same manner as he did with the resignation letter in your hands— your resignation letter. The letter that says you’ve found better prospects elsewhere and sincerely value the experience and growth you’ve had with this firm. What the fuck is this bullshit? You don’t fucking understand. “Would you please affix your signature at the bottom, attorney? I didn’t have your e-signature. That’s why I had to call you out today.” 

Your stomach drops to the very depths of your gut. “You can’t just fucking do this,” you say with gritted teeth. Kim Doyoung readjusts his glasses and responds with a sigh.

“Attorney,” he starts. “You’re well aware of the problem our firm has been facing as of late, correct?” You nod. He continues. “It’s a difficult situation. However, Nalkeutta and JSS have managed to reach an amicable compromise.”

Oh no. Oh, god, do. He can’t do this to you. He can’t fucking do this to you.

“Starting today, you will no longer be JSS’s Junior Associate. You will be working as a private lawyer for Nalkeutta Security Company.”

“You fucking sold me out!”

“I did not ‘sell you out’. Think of it as a promotion.”

Your mouth is hanging open. Your blood is boiling to the point of evaporation. The resignation is a crumpled mess at this point. You slam it back down on his desk. “I can’t even get my fucking severance pay if I sign this damn thing!”

“I’m sure the benefits you’ll receive at Nalkeutta would outweigh any amount of a severance pay that JSS can offer you,” your boss— former boss— flatly replies. “Now. Please sign the letter.”

Your head is spinning. You’re nauseous as fuck. It’s not like you can just run away. Mark Lee would have your fucking head. Sure, you hate working under Kim Doyoung, but at least it made you feel like an actual lawyer, serving only as an occasional cleanup dog for that damned wretched company. With this, you’re not just dipping your toes into organized crime. You’d be fucking drowning in it.

“Sign right there— yes. Perfect. Thank you for your cooperation, attorney. It was a pleasure working with you.”

Nalkkeutta has officially ensnared you in its burning jaws, and you’ve got no way of getting out unscathed.

fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline). © hannie-dul-set, 2025.

★ 【Salmon88】 「 アーニャ!! 」 ☆ ⊳ anya // SPY X FAMILY ✔ republished w/permission ⊳ ⊳ follow me on twitter

FL spotlight: Penelope Eckhart

MISSION: WANNA LINK? (NRK) | 나랑 사귈래? (西村 力)

KOREAN TITLE: 나랑 사귈래? (meaning: wanna go out with me?)

SYNOPSIS: Just as you were about to end your shift for the day, a tall boy suddenly approached you with a silly mission in mind that almost got him a restraining order.

GENRE: humour/crack, fluff, strangers to enemies (for a few minutes) to lovers

PAIRING: nishimura riki x fem!reader (who works at an ice cream stall hehe)

WORD COUNT: 1.7K+ words

WARNINGS: one terrible attempt at flirting (riki why 💔), sarcasm, gen z humour, mentions of playful slander directed at sunghoon (sunghoon stans, don't come for me please 😔✋ /j), mentions of murder (in a light-hearted way!), and riki being a simp.

KEYWORDS: (H/L) is Hair Length, (H/C) is Hair Colour. Words written in italics are thoughts and words written in bold are normal words but with dramatic effects (lmao)!

AUTHOR'S NOTE: this is a terrible attempt at making a humour/crack! i've never written this genre before but i'm trying my best to expand!! if you have any tips or constructive criticisms for me, my inbox is always open! 🌹AND with that aside, i will now put on my clown costume i promise i'll be back 🤡😔‼️ /hj

[5:37 PM] Such sunny weather. You could’ve been anywhere in the world, done something that would've filled your heart with joy — but here you were, scooting over to the shaded corner under the roof of your ice cream stall where the direct sunlight wouldn’t burn your skin. Your uniform was uncomfy against your skin and your apron was making it even worse, no matter how much you tried to loosen it.

Yet, in order to earn valuable pieces of paper or the utmost tool of capitalism more famously known as 'money', you had to stand in the heat just a bit longer until the end of your shift. Although, the roof above your head could even barely be considered a proper roof. The roof was doing little to no efficiency in covering you from the blazing sunlight. Such was the life of a struggling worker at an ice cream stall.

"Thank you, miss!"

But seeing the smiles on children's faces as you gave them their orders always managed to make it a bit better. Although as soon as their cheery presences were gone, the scorching heat made itself known once again as the reason you regretted choosing this job. You watched the kids skitter towards their parents, cones of ice cream in their hands and a pep in their steps. Were they the last customers? You spared a glance at the watch on your wrist, 5:37 PM.

Alright, time to close up the shop— "Ahem." Just as you were about to let out the biggest sigh of relief, a gentle screech across the counter alerted you. You would be lying if you said you weren’t prepared for fight or flight. Finally, the scooper on the counter would have other uses — until you looked to see a boy you had never seen before leaning over the side of the counter, wearing a smirk way too smug for your own liking. “Hey there.”

Nope.

No.

Dear God, take the wheel. You did not get paid enough for this. Absolutely not.

Hearing his questionable words and deep voice, you were expecting a man in his thirties with dark sunglasses and a Hawaiian shirt who was looking for a sugar baby. Your scrutinizing pupils scanned his figure up and down repeatedly, you almost thought you were seeing things — since this boy looked like a whole giant fetus, insert slash, manchild.

Painfully oblivious to your derogatory impression of him and the dumbfounded look on your face, the said male cracked an even wider grin. “Wanna link?” Was this karma for pretending to fall asleep when your landlord came knocking on the door yesterday?

You knew what he meant, yet you literally had to resist the urge to play dumb and just say if he was trying to ask for your Google account. Despite your momentary existential crisis, you still managed to slip out a dry response. “...Let's not. I am literally burning under the sun right now.”

He blinked.

Again.

And again.

And again.

That was the end for him.

Aight, Sunghoon-hyung is gonna pay for this. Yet, it was partially Riki’s fault for even thinking this was a good idea. Now, he just felt as if he wanted to dig his own grave right in front of the girl he had a crush on for a few months. Normalize not trusting your friends for dating advice.

The blank look swept over the smirk he had earlier, now the tall boy just looked like he was zoning out and regretting his entire existence in those few seconds. Meanwhile, you were looking with a raised eyebrow at his sudden quietness, the previous confident expression on his face fading into a… dead one.

Does he want some free eye drops or— The stranger let out a cough, albeit an awkward one that caused your eyes to thin suspiciously. "Fair point. Anyways, a cone of mint choco, please."

"...You literally tried to flirt with me a few seconds ago."

"Yeah, and I want ice cream."

Rude, the word was left hanging at the edge of your tongue. It took you all the self-control you had not to sprinkle some of the eye drops in your bag into his mint choco cone. But you'd rather not go to prison for poisoning a customer, although you would've gladly brought up his little 'wanna link?' stunt to court (not really). You mused silently your thoughts as your hands nimbly prepared his order, already well acquainted with your long experience working at an ice cream stall — yet when making it for this giant boy at the other side of the counter, you were particularly salty about it.

You kept your thoughts to yourself however, the concentrated frown on your forehead being the only sign of expression from you. All the while, you were oblivious to the adoration adorning your reflection in the boy’s eyes. Riki couldn’t help but stare at you, slightly taken aback by your (H/L) (H/C) and your adorable frown (at least, he thought it was adorable even though you looked like you were mentally strangling a person). All the while, he was oblivious to the murder plots you were secretly planning in your head (that you weren’t actually planning to commit but this stranger really had a way with getting on your nerves).

"Hey.” Too distracted (not so discreetly) admiring your features, he didn’t even notice that you were done with his order. “Here you go.” Yet, your tone was as cold as the ice cream you were handing to him. Riki almost flinched at your tense gaze. He really messed this up, didn’t he? This wasn’t the way Riki imagined his confession to go through; he was expecting you to laugh and find him hilarious, not look at him as if he just stole your unborn child and claimed it was his.

Suddenly, Sunghoon-hyung’s shiny figure skates would look very pretty in the trash.

The smile on Riki’s face wasn’t as assertive as the smirk that he first wore a few minutes ago. It was as if there was a dust of pink sprinkled across his cheeks, his attitude now more sheepish than before. “O-oh, yeah, thanks.” The ice cream he ordered was already in his possession, yet he seemed to linger a bit longer. Just a bit longer. You tilted your head slightly, scanning him again in wonder. Was this the same person you just planned to throw off a bridge just now?

You didn’t know whether it was the shy smile on his face, or the way his eyes drifted towards the ground. For some reason, there was an ounce of sincerity radiating from him. "...On second thought, it’s free. My treat.” The tall stranger immediately picked his gaze up and looked at you with eyes as wide as the cheap saucers you saw at IKEA once.

“W-what, h-huh?” Jumbles of words mixed with confusion escaped his mouth, you felt slightly amused. The corners of your lips curled up into a playful smile, “Well, shouldn’t you be on your merry way now? I’m about to close the shop.” The look of sheer panic that flashed across his face almost pulled a giggle out of you as he stuttered, his hand that was holding the ice cream subtly shaking.

“W-wait! Uh, before I go…”

You let out a hum, a sign for him to continue. The boy let out a small sigh, yet not the kind of sigh that sounded feigned, more of the regretful kind. "I just wanna say sorry... What I did earlier was stupid."

"—Extremely so."

Shoot! That was definitely your mouth slipping. Just as you were about to justify yourself from possibly an upcoming restraining order (no matter how cute he is, who knows if this guy has a mafia CEO as his dad, right?), you heard a sarcastic snicker.

"Yeah, my hyung told me to say that.” It surprised you for a second, but you quickly recovered by letting out a little ‘pfft’. You already learnt not to trust your friends for dating advice, but it seemed he was a victim. “Really? To be honest, it was kinda funny but the smirk just wasn’t cutting it for me, personally.” Hearing your remark, he let out a groan of remorse. “Ugh, I knew it! He told me to do that too.”

“Your hyung is really questionable.” You commented with a snort, and he only shrugged his shoulders with a grin. “Well, can’t disagree with that.” Huh, he definitely wasn’t as bad as you thought at first.

You held out your hand over the counter towards him, eliciting a ‘huh?’ from the tall boy. All this time, you had only been dubbing him as the ‘tall giant fetus manchild’ in your head, maybe learning his name wouldn’t be so bad. "The name's (Y/N), by the way." Although secretly, he had already known your name, but it didn’t stop him from feeling giddy all the same. The way his eyes seemed to light up in realization tickled your heart into a flutter, he placed his hand in yours, shaking it a little too estastically. "Riki, Nishimura Riki."

“Nice to meet you, Riki.” With a grin on your face, you retracted your hand back to untie your apron. You took a look at your watch once more. “But I think it’s finally time for me to close the shop.” The glint in his irises swiftly dimmed into one of disappointment but it immediately disappeared as he allowed his hand to fall back to his side. “O-oh, right… Yeah, it was nice meeting you too… Thanks for the ice cream.” He was about to turn around (albeit he really wished he could stay longer), but the sorrow in his voice caught your attention. "Actually, hold on—.” It was an impulsive decision to call out to him, but you went on anyway. “I know this is my second answer and very hypocritical of me…” The grin on your lips stretched wider as you spoke, “But sure, let's link."

It’d be an understatement to say that Riki almost dropped his ice cream on the ground. Did he hear you right? He almost thought he was hallucinating, but the way you chuckled at his astonished expression affirmed him that he really did, he did hear you right.

When Riki went back home that night, he didn’t know whether to threaten or thank Sunghoon — but that didn’t matter because he was too busy screaming into his pillow; ‘Mission: Let’s Link’ accomplished!

thank you so much for reading.

© meraniki. all rights reserved. do not repost, plagiarize and translate. likes and reblogs are extremely appreciated!