ASH

ASH she/her 25(⁠/⁠^⁠-⁠^)⁠/ Carat Stay Atiny Genshin Anime

[foxinnie8]

*Me*

Do checkout mine and @bahng-chrizz 's blog- @rae-ash143

you can call me Ash

She/her<3

Twenty five

@bahng-chrizz is the loml(⁠灬⁠º⁠‿⁠º⁠灬⁠)⁠♡

Taurus

dni

i sometimes reblog mature content/smut so please dni if you are under 18

i block nameless/ageless blogs

[synergy27]

Me at 13: “god I can’t wait to go home and read fanfic”

Me at 17: “god I can’t wait to go home and read fanfic”

Me at 21: “god I can’t wait to go home and read fanfic”

[starkissedxav]

drunk!caleb who immediately gets sooo emotional and pathetic when alcohol hits him full swing

drunk!caleb who is telling you over and over again how much he loves you and needs you in his life, face flushed both from the alcohol and his pure want of you, eyes glossy as he stares at you

drunk!caleb who practically whines at the slightest touch of yours, feverish body leaning into the caress of your fingers and melting into your embrace

drunk!caleb who confesses and apologizes profusely for stealing your underwear, tears welling in his eyes as he begs you not to leave him, telling you he just loves you so much he needs you with him at all times

drunk!caleb who gets sooo giggly at anything you say, laughing way too loudly at a terrible joke and doubles over when you look at him with an amused smile; “caleb you’re drunk, I’m not letting you hit tonight” he almost bursts into tears, throwing his full weight on top of you as he begs

drunk!caleb who forgets how huge he is, all corded muscles and broad shoulders as he wraps his arms around you, kissing your face and mumbling a mantra of “i love you, you’re everything to me" pinning you beneath him like second nature, only to let you flip him on his back with the softest touches

drunk!caleb who gets pouty if you’re on your phone or paying attention to anything that’s not him. he lets out a small huff, bottom lip jutted out slightly before he decides enough is enough and takes the phone out of your hand

“caleb!” you scold, putting your hand out so he can return your phone.

“no, pay attention to me, no more phone for you tonight pips,” he tries to sound like his usual self, stern and self assured, but his words slur together as he tries to make the room stop spinning as he squints.

“‘leb im ordering the takeout you just said you wanted.”

oh. he gives you a sheepish smile as he places your phone back in your hands, lips finding your cheek as he whines.

“i love you, please never leave me.”

drunk!caleb who stares at you with all the love in the world as you change him out of his clothes and help brush his teeth, who would wag his tail if he had one when you give him gentle praises for following your directions

drunk!caleb who is extremely compliant when you tell him to stop making a fuss and go to bed, “one more shot!” “put the bottle down or i won’t kiss you again” caleb hadn’t moved that quickly since his rookie DAA days

drunk!caleb who holds you a little closer as he sobers up while the two of you lay in bed together, eyes closed as you run your fingers through his hair while he explains things about the ship he pilots for the fleet, excitement lacing his words when he tells you of any new tech or advancements.

drunk!caleb who falls asleep to the sound of your voice and your gentle touches, mouth slightly open as he snores softly, mind completely at peace for the first time in a while

caleb who wakes up the next morning hungover but immediately gets up to make the two of you breakfast, heart squeezing when he sees the note you must’ve written before helping him to sleep.

i know you’ll somehow wake up before me >:( take these before you even try and make me breakfast i love you <3

a/n: i love him bad </3

taglist: @hirayalia @violasepals @txtworlddom

[innercityghettodysfunctional]

Tagged by the beautiful and lovely @cleverbabyghoul

Post the song you are currently listening to:

Will tag 🤔…. @98cherub, @borninthe80sandlovingtheladies, @daddyysparkles, @delicatelylivingloudly, @deliriumista, @dvndyl, @fading-in-to-you, @gaznulll, @gh0stbunnyy, @jenntonic, @killahwhale91, @kronic-panic, @lezpocalypse, @partsindifferntplaces, @pillowwprincesss, @rainbow-skittles, @rootedinwander, @swaddle, @throatofdarkness, @xemptyxasxmyxgravex, @xii-xxiv

And no pressure 🖤 share if you’d like or don’t ☺️

[hanjinology]

feel free to ignore, but hi! i tagged you here because i wanna start interactions with you all. indulge me < 3

@sithskz @kloversung @channlust @hnsbxby @lynsbng

[moved-to-kloversung]

thankyou for the tag !! (i would love interacting w you sweets, dw about it hehe)

i've lately been onto some old skz songs so here we go:

tagging some of you cuz you all too cute (no pressure !)

@joyracha @ghostlyscripture @cinhomi @bugeater101

[joyracha]

thank you for the tag bb @kloversung <3

one of my fave unreleased songs by han and seungmin 🥹 been listening on repeat lately!!!

tagging moots i love and ones i would love to interact with!!! no pressure at all bbs feel free to ignore <3

@binniebb @starlostjisung @sourtae @skzcodered @hanverse @pvppymin @hardskz

[skzcodered]

ooh love this! thanks for including me :) currently listening to Charmer, always a fav

some no-pressure tags to some mutuals @astrayapple @lynsbng @midnite-fiction

[midnite-fiction]

thank you so much for the tag bby i love these games sm >< also tagged by my favs @kloversung & @yawwni here have some kissies from mee mwaahh

i'm currently ykwhstm?w?hwl,ysr&iwlbditlicc?icecl!hahaha— oholic >< no pressure tags @sithskz @channlust @aeri-skzver @jisunggy @toastmenace @cosmoseyie ♡

[jisunggy]

Thank you for the tag, darling 💕

I love this album, props to the gorgeous @cepheus3 who introduced me to it 😘

tagging @cepheus3 @fly-you-dam-fools @dearbisky @firstdivisiongirl @inlovewithstraykids @strawberriesoup @hityoulikebahng @vernorica123 @minniebbang @hannieslittlerockstar and anyone else who wants to join!

[minniebbang]

Thank you for tagging me <33

Was listening to 'STAY' before this ❤️‍🩹

Tags: @angelwings-fly @inkandtension @thebibleophile @fivestaralien

[fivestaralien]

you’re so sweet for the tag😭🫶🏼

no pressure tags !! @foxinnie8 @httpdwaekki @jyunhology @bamjjwi

[foxinnie8]

lovee these tag thingyss thankyouuu hehe<3

lowkey fire song😛👍🏼

tagging my precious @raeisms

[writingdose]

© _ADWills

[luvzayne]

caleb isn't sure if he's doing a good job at this dad thing.

sure, he prepares her food, plays with her, reads her bedtime stories, and even lets her paint his nails and put makeup that tasted oddly of artificial strawberry, trust him. it tastes disgusting. he's been poked in the eye by the fake eyeshadow brush from his daughter's toy makeup too many times to count.

but still, it feels like he wasn't doing enough.

he's even submitted an appeal to file for leave in the fleet. which was thankfully approved.

he feels as though he isn't spending as much time with his daughter as he did with his sons. and to him, who has always wanted a daughter, feels like blasphemy.

caleb looks over to his daughter who was now giggling while adding silly faces to a coloring book page. she even took out her stickers, placing multiple in places that she thinks fit them best.

caleb takes a shuddering breath as he shuts his eyes, willing the negative thoughts of not being enough as a father to go away.

he's doing his best. his sons see it, his daughter sees it, you see it.

the thoughts shouldn't eat him alive like this.

but it does. and he doesn't know how to do better.

"dada?" he peels his sunset eyes opened, looking at his daughter who mirror your eyes.

"yeah, princess?" caleb sits up from the couch, his hands falling on her daughter's cheek, pinching it slightly.

his daughter grins as she climbs up the sofa with his help.

"hand!" caleb complies, albeit confused as she slaps a sticker on his palm. his eyes slowly tear up.

in his palm is a sticker shaped like a star, golden in its hue and contains a phrase with a goofy, childish font.

"you're the best!"

caleb blinks back the tears that were slowly forming.

"i-is this for me?" he chokes out, cringing at himself.

his daughter nods, a proud smile on her face as she points to the sticker then at him.

"best dada ever! i love you!"

caleb pulls her into his shaky arms, gently. as if he were holding something fragile, and for him, it probably was.

"i love you too, princess." he presses a kiss on her forehead, he holds her with one arm as he takes a peek at the sticker that was in his other palm.

yeah.

he's doing his best. and his family could see it.

it was time for him to see it too.

note/s: idk why i felt kinda soft and fluffy tonight,, this is such an impulsive write. this was not proofread or preplanned at all, hope u guys love dadleb 🫶 it's been a minute since i've written for caleb.

[luvzayne]

sylus feels like he’s going to lose his mind. 

it has been eight days since he felt your lips on his skin. it was driving him insane. 

and it was all because he beat you in kitty cards. he can clearly recall your pissed-off expression as he beats you for the seventh time in a row. it wasn’t his fault that the kitty cards god blessed him. 

but clearly, you were beyond reason as you declared that he won’t be getting kissed until you cooled off. 

sylus thought nothing of it, thinking that it would only take a few hours and some coaxing until you relented, only to be mistaken as you intentionally dodged every attempt at a kiss. 

first, it was you pushing his face away, then it turned to you avoiding his touch, and now, you were flat-out avoiding him. 

enough is enough. sylus thinks to himself as he marches to your shared room, throwing open the door before stopping in his tracks. 

you were on the bed, wearing his shirt, hands holding a crow plushie that was smothered in stains, with your lips as the imprint. 

“well,” sylus stood in front of you, his arms crossed against his chest as a frown played on his face. “what do we have here, kitten?”

sylus looks closer, seeing that the shades differed. all shades varied from the ones you wore the past week. 

you were kissing the plushie every time you wanted to kiss him. 

sylus was pissed, not at you. never at you. but at the thought that he could’ve been on the receiving end of all your kisses. and based on how the crow was covered in kiss marks, he could’ve been kissed by you a lot. 

you say nothing, sylus steps forward to grab at the plushie, flinging it to the side of the room with a careless flick. 

“you’re telling me, that you have been wasting your kisses on an inanimate object, when i’m right here?” sylus invades your space, you let him. 

his arms cage your body as your back meets the soft bedding. 

“don’t you think that it’s time to end your cruelty, hm?” sylus eyes the smudged glittery lip gloss on your lips as it parted. 

“syl—” he cuts you off, a soft kiss on your temple. 

“you’ve deprived me, kitten.” he mouths, tracing your cheek to your neck, sucking a small mark. 

“won’t you end my suffering?” he places one last kiss on your chin before he pulls away just enough to look at you. 

he was waiting for you to make the first move. he wants it, needs it to be your move.

you try avoiding his gaze, but his hand comes up to lift your chin. 

“please.” 

how could you say no when you had the fearsome leader of onychinus beg for a kiss? 

you reach to pull his face down, lips meeting yours. you can feel him exhale out of relief as he kisses you back, gently at first, then the week’s worth of craving for your taste gets the better of him as he kisses you deeper, his tongue peeking out to trace your lips. 

you pull away, needing to breathe, but sylus pushes down his body weight on yours, trapping you underneath him. 

“not yet.” he huffs out, his pupils dilated, ruby eyes bleary. he dips down once more to capture your lips, his hands reaching to intertwine yours as he holds it above your head. he pulls away to whisper, voice raspy.

“we have a week’s worth to make up for, sweetie.”

note:yearner!sylusyearner!sylusyearner!sylusyearner!sylusyearner!sylusyearner!sylusyearner!sylusyearner!sylusyearner!sylusyearner just give him a kiss damn

[woncheolisms]

look after you. (hansol vernon chwe x reader)

summary: courting gifts can be anything. a pretty necklace. a bracelet. maybe even a ring, if you’re bold. but vernon gives you socks, and you don’t know what to make of them.

pairing: alpha!vernon x omega!reader

word count: 7.2k

warnings: omegaverse au, abo dynamics, fluff, some humor, best friend!omega!seungkwan, misunderstandings but not angsty, mentions of heat and pre heat, smut, nsfw, fingering, thigh riding, multiple orgasms, knotting.

Hansol Vernon Chwe takes being an alpha very seriously. But not in the way conventional alphas would.

For example, when someone asks Vernon what he thinks an ideal alpha should be, he has some points that he will count off, a checklist of sorts in his head, requirements of being a good alpha, in his opinion. An alpha has to be strong, not physically, but mentally. He needs to be reliable, stable, someone the people around him can lean on. An alpha has to be intelligent and aware. He has to anticipate his omega’s needs and provide accordingly. Not just financially, but with thoughtful actions. An alpha must be nurturing, and he knows this is the point everyone around him gets hung up on. ‘Nurturing’? That’s typically a term associated with omegas. But Vernon stands by it. Alphas have to care, to be there emotionally, to make sure their omegas have them not just physically, but to love them for their emotions as well, to shift and release pheromones that will calm their omegas. Alphas have to be providers past the actual, financial implications of the word.

So Vernon vows to himself that if he ever gets the opportunity to be an alpha for someone, he would be the one that fits his exacting, rigid standards. That opportunity comes when he meets you.

You’re Seungkwan’s friend, which isn’t surprising. Pretty much anyone Vernon knows, he knows because they are Seungkwan’s friend. Vernon can’t understand how in hell Seungkwan can keep up with such a large friend circle. He knows everybody. But it helps indirectly because Vernon doesn’t go out of his way to meet people, so Seungkwan almost acts like the proxy for his social life.

That’s exactly how he met you.

Vernon almost didn’t go, since it was just supposed to be some kind of game night for Seungkwan’s study group. But Seungkwan insisted, really insisted, and Vernon had bailed on the last two social events Seungkwan asked him to come with, so he had to give in. He’s so glad that he did.

Just the scent of you makes him stiffen, which is very unlike him. Vernon isn’t usually much affected by omegas, hell, his best friend is an omega. But you smell so sweet, in this light and fresh way that almost energises him. Your smile is so bright as you introduce yourself, hair swaying when your head moves, and Vernon’s fingers twitch with the urge to touch. He has to visibly shake his head and blink, quickly introducing himself and shutting up so that he doesn’t act like a fool. You’re so pretty, and your voice is so calming and friendly. Vernon has this deep feeling in his chest that he wants to stay around you. Right by your side.

He hangs out with you twice more after that, all in big groups, but he manages to get near you anyhow. You’re so interesting to him. You talk about your major with a passion he can never muster, a fire in your eyes, your long term plans laid out already. You’re energetic, not as much as Seungkwan, but you know how to match the omega’s energy. And you’re also quieter with Vernon, like you understand that he’s laid back and deals with things differently. Only someone truly empathetic and kind can be like that, and Vernon’s heart soars. You’re so perfect, you’re perfect, and he will be damned if he won’t be the perfect alpha for you.

And so Vernon makes a resolve. He will prove himself. He will be the one for you, to take care of you the way someone with your spirit deserves. And he is absolutely not the kind to just pussyfoot around. So Vernon watches. Vernon observes.

When fall starts bleeding into winter, he notices how you love to be bundled up. The biggest coats and jackets, the most layers of anyone else in the group.

“Cold?” He asks when you show up at the campus gates where everyone agreed to meet so you can go to dinner together. You give him a sheepish smile and nod under your heavy hoodie.

“I get cold very easily.” You admit. “My hands and feet specifically.”

Vernon knows exactly how to fix it.

That night, he rummages through his closet and finds three sets of wool socks. His grandmother knits so many for him and his sister, and keeps sending them. Vernon wears one pair and keeps the rest for later use when his first ones are worn out. He swears by them, because she uses the finest wool for knitting. He contemplates between a navy blue pair and a grey one, ultimately going for the blue. He hopes you will like them.

When he finds you in the hallways the next morning, just before classes, he feels like his heart will beat out of his chest. He’s so nervous, and he worried himself sick last night about whether or not you would accept his gift. He wants to be there for you, to provide for you and understand your needs and take care of you. To be your alpha. This is it, the big moment.

He pulls you aside and away from the prying eyes of other students before slowly pulling out the small bag he put the socks in. You take it curiously, peering inside.

“You said your feet get really cold.” He quickly explains. “These are merino wool. My grandma makes them. They’re very warm, I promise.”

You look so surprised, blinking at the item in your hand. He watches your thumb run over them, feeling how soft they are.

“A-are you sure, Vernon?” You ask. “I was just complaining about the weather, I didn’t really think….”

Vernon immediately nods. He’s so sure. There’s no one else for him except you. You look a little hesitant, Vernon holds his breath, and then finally, you nod.

The air escapes his chest with a loud whoosh, and joy takes his place. He nods, more jerky this time, trying to tamp down his giddy smile.

“Thank you so much.” You look truly touched at the gesture, and that satisfies the alpha inside him. He took care of you, and you accepted his courting gift. You want to give him a chance. And as Vernon looks into your bright, warm eyes, he’s determined to never, ever let you down.

Vernon feels like he’s on cloud nine for the rest of the day, and when he lays in bed that night, staring up at the ceiling, he’s already planning other ways to convince you that he is the perfect alpha for you. He has watched you intensely (in a non-creepy way), and he knows what habits you have, and how he can enrich your life with his own presence. His top priority is giving you as much love and care as he possibly can. His phone buzzes beside his pillow, breaking him from his thoughts. His heart kicks hard when he realises who the message is from.

[you]: i love the socks vernon thank you so much!

He grins so wide he feels like his cheeks might split. Your response encourages him so much. His alpha hums, settling like a warm weight in his chest. He goes to sleep with that same, stupid grin on his face.

Vernon did believe he was good friends with you, but you warm up to him even more after that. You love to talk and catch up whenever you meet him. You love the cat videos he sends you, and when you realise he likes them, you send them to him as well. He feels particularly giddy when you caption them with something like ‘reminded me of you’. You’re so wonderful, and Vernon can’t help that deep seated catch in his stomach that tells him he is falling in love.

He doesn’t mind.

But Vernon is still courting you, and he takes being an alpha to you very seriously. He goes shopping with his sister for the weekend and picks out one of those thermoses that keep liquids warm for hours, and not the dysfunctional, knock off kind that just look pretty. Sophia thinks it’s too plain, so Vernon frets over that, but he wants this to be practical, something you really need. This is about your comfort, and he won’t compromise on that. It makes Sophia snort.

“I’m surprised you managed to court her. With socks of all things.”

That makes him blink. “She loved them. She uses them all the time.”

Sophia only laughs.

Vernon fills the thermos with your preferred preparation of coffee on Monday and gives it to you when he finds you on a picnic table on campus grounds before your first class.

“It keeps liquid warm for at least 10 hours.” He explains himself. “It’s got thicker insulation, see? I looked it up before I bought it.”

You stare at it. “Vernon, this must have cost a lot-”

He immediately cuts you off. “Don’t worry about the price. I just hope it’s good and you use it.”

You give him a wide smile, biting your bottom lip and avoiding his eyes. Are you feeling shy? Vernon’s alpha soars.

“Thank you.” You mumble. Vernon shakes his head.

“Stop saying thank you.” It’s my job. I want to take care of you.

You only let out a little laugh and nod. Vernon feels the urge to lean over the table and kiss you. It takes everything in him to not do exactly that.

The holidays come and go. Vernon talks to you often, even when you leave the city to spend the days off with your family. You wish him a happy new year, asking him about his resolutions. Vernon’s wants to say ‘to make you my omega’ but he holds back. He doesn’t want to come off too strong and push you away. So he keeps it silently in his chest, and instead asks for yours.

[you]: definitely to hit the gym. i need to get better about being healthy :(

Vernon is already planning.

When he sees you next time, it’s because you come to the dorm room to see Seungkwan. He isn’t there, but Vernon is, so you offer to wait for your friend. Vernon is eager to let you in, patting his bed down and quickly tidying up a bit. He doesn’t want you to think he’s a slob.

(He isn’t. But he also doesn’t want you to think he is.)

“I got you something.” He starts, rummaging through the bag he put your stuff in. You raise an amused eyebrow.

“Again? You really shouldn’t have…”

Vernon shakes it off. “It’s nothing much, I promise.” He walks to you with what he got.

“It’s an athletic band, for when you go to the gym.” He explains. “I wanted you to have your own. And here,” He puts everything in your lap, “electrolyte pouches. This is the good stuff that athletes use. Mingyu told me about them. The convenience store stuff isn’t very healthy.”

Your mouth is agape, and you let out an incredulous laugh. “You really go out of your way, don’t you?”

I do. Vernon wants to say. Because it’s true. He won’t spare any expense, any effort, when it comes to you. He hopes that these attempts show them to you. This is what the courting period is all about. He wants to give you proof that he is well capable of being everything you will ever want and need.

“Thank you.” You whisper. It’s so soft, so laced with warmth, and Vernon’s alpha almost preens. Almost. It’s rare for alphas to react like that, but for Vernon, this is acceptance on another level. He vowed to himself that he would be your biggest support, your only one. And he’s succeeding. He’s well on his way to being your everything, just like how you’re his everything already. He gives himself maybe a couple of more months, then he will officially ask you to be his.

He’s generally a patient guy, but he really can’t wait.

…………………………………

You have a dilemma, and you really don’t know anyone who you can talk to about it except Boo Seungkwan.

Initially, you wanted to hold off on it. You’ve known Vernon for a while now, and you know how genuine he is as a person. He is truly one of the people you trust the most, because he’s so attentive and kind. Your omega likes him too, maybe a little too much, and you always have to remind yourself that he’s just a friend, nothing more. But you can’t help being enamoured by him. He’s so different from how you are, but you gel with him so well. There’s something so charming about him, you can’t help but be sucked in.

But Vernon’s brand of weird might be getting a little…. too weird.

When he first gave you socks that his grandmother knitted, you were shocked, pleasantly so. You were half inclined to refuse, but they were genuinely so soft and Vernon looked like he really wanted you to have them, so you accepted. You did have a cold feet problem, and you complained to him about it. He happened to have a solution in his home, so he got it for you. It was very nice of him.

But then he got you that really expensive thermos. You know it was expensive because you looked it up afterwards, cursing under your breath. You love your friends and would help them any way you can, but this felt like too much. Vernon didn’t care though, adamant on you having it. And you didn’t have the heart to refuse when he kept insisting. And goddamn, it did keep your coffee warm and cozy for hours, so you could happily sip on it for a long time. You still use that thing every day.

Then there was the little stuff, like electrolyte packets and a gym headband, or the muscle patches he got you when you complained about being sore (it wasn’t even that bad, you just like to complain). It seems that no matter what you say, Vernon is always listening, like he wants any opportunity to make your life better. It warms your heart, it makes your omega keen, but Vernon is swimming very close to dangerous waters. All this is doing is making you more and more inclined to him, his thoughtfulness and care makes you want to melt right into him. Because at the end of the day, he’s an alpha, and you want him more and more with every passing day.

As you said, dangerous waters.

Things really take a turn when he shows up at your dorm with toothpaste, the same brand you use on a daily basis. You stare at it.

“Yours was running out last time I was here.” He says, and he’s so nonchalant about it, like friends just notice something like dwindling toothpaste and buy it for you. You’re so flabbergasted that you don’t even think of rejecting it, just thanking him quietly instead. He nods, smiling.

Okay, you need to talk to Seungkwan.

You text Seungkwan about meeting you for lunch at a café outside campus. It’s not too far, but enough that you know you won’t run into any of your mutual friends there. You really don’t want to talk to anyone who won’t help you, and while you’re very social on most days, you’re in no mood to deal with people right now. You ignore the urge to stay home in bed, because you really need to do something about this Vernon situation, so you push yourself to go, despite the resistance in your body.

Seungkwan just thinks it’s a normal catchup meal when he greets you, but when you start to slowly tell him about what Vernon has been doing for the last few months, his jaw just drops more and more, his plate completely forgotten.

“You’re not serious.” He mutters when you finish.

“I am.” You sigh. “And I love it, you know? I do. It makes me feel….. some type of way. But that’s why you have to tell him to stop. I can’t keep assuming that he’s doing it for some other reason. My heart can’t take it.”

You feel intense emotions rise up in you, and you have to swallow them down. It surprises you a little, how heated and charged you feel, but you push the thought out of your mind, trying to focus. Seungkwan’s face is pinched in thought, but you can see in real time as it smooths in realisation.

“Oh my god, wait.”

You watch him curiously. “What?”

But Seungkwan doesn’t say, shaking his head. Then, he goes back to his food.

“I’ll talk to him, okay?”

You’re a little confused at the weird reaction, but you nod. You’re already feeling a little tired, even though you haven’t even been out of the house that long. You wish you had just stayed in and put this off for another day.

“Just be nice about it. I don’t want him to feel bad. He’s been doing such kind things for me, I don’t want to come off as ungrateful.”

But Boo Seungkwan has a whole other storm brewing in his head as he waves goodbye to you and heads to his dorm. He thinks he has a pretty good idea about what the hell Vernon has been doing, but he needs to be one hundred percent sure about it first.

Vernon is sitting at his desk, headphones on, when Seungkwan taps him on the shoulder. The alpha turns around. Seungkwan decides not to beat around the bush.

“So I was on a lunch date with Y/N.”

Seungkwan can see the exact moment Vernon’s face lights up. He sighs internally. His suspicions are true.

“How is she?” Vernon asks.

Seungkwan plops himself down on the edge of the bed. “Wouldn’t you know that? Since she’s your omega?”

Vernon huffs out a laugh. “She’s not my omega yet.”

Yet. “But you are courting her.” He doesn’t frame it as a question.

Vernon nods. Seungkwan wants to groan.

“And it’s going well?”

“It is.”

“Right. Sure. It’s going so well that the omega you are courting doesn’t even know she’s being courted.”

Vernon pauses, blinking at Seungkwan owlishly. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Vernon’s mouth opens and closes a few times, not unlike a fish. “I don’t understand.”

Seungkwan feels a horrific laugh bubble up in his chest, but he doesn’t say anything. He watches Vernon’s face go through a million emotions, confusion being the predominant one.

“I gave her a courting gift. She accepted.”

“You gave her socks.” Seungkwan deadpans.

Vernon frowns. “She needed them. She told me herself, her feet are always cold.”

Seungkwan groans at that, putting his head in his hands. “Hansol….”

Seungkwan laughs then, but Vernon doesn’t find the situation funny at all. A mild panic is curling in his chest, his mind racing. Did you really not know? Were you really clueless? He hadn’t said it explicitly, sure, but he was certain you got his meaning. He was taking care of you, showing you he could be a good alpha. Was he not clear enough?

Seungkwan’s voice breaks through his thoughts. “A courting gift, especially the first one, has to be something romantic. Like a bracelet or a necklace. Jewellery.”

Vernon puts his head in his hands, his elbows on the table. “I- I just thought it would be better if I gave practical gifts….”

Seungkwan huffs out a laugh. “Practical gifts are great, but fucking toothpaste, man?”

Vernon wants to bash his head into a wall. He looks at Seungkwan with pleading eyes.

“What did she say? Does she not like me?”

Seungkwan shakes his head immediately. “The opposite actually. She thinks you only see her as a friend, and she feels bad about liking you more than that because of how considerate you are.”

Vernon can’t believe his ears. He can’t. You think he’s not interested? He couldn’t have made his interest any clearer. But obviously, he went about it the wrong way, and now you feel shitty because of him. Vernon’s alpha growls, disapproving. He doesn’t like this feeling, knowing that he is responsible for any negative emotion you experience.

He needs to fix this.

Seungkwan doesn’t stop him as he tugs his shoes on, grabbing his phone before he leaves. He’s contemplating on sending you a text that he’s on his way to you, but he remembers the exchange you had with Seungkwan, and he fears that his text might make you spiral. So he just sets off, hoping he can catch you when you’re not too busy so you can talk it out. He always believed he didn’t want to rush you, but if it’s causing miscommunication, then he needs to make his intentions crystal clear.

He reaches your door in record time. You don’t have a dorm mate thankfully, since your last one dropped out and a new one wasn’t appointed to you. This is good, because it means you two can talk openly. He knocks and waits, shifting on his feet. He feels anxious and uncertain, and he prays he hasn’t ruined anything between you two, especially after he tried so hard to make everything go right.

You’re not answering. Vernon tries again, wondering if maybe you have headphones on and can’t hear him. Maybe he should text you that he’s right outside. He’s just contemplating on it when the door swings open.

You have a scowl on your face, lips pulled into a pout as you stick your head out. Cute. Vernon gives you a sheepish smile when recognition dawns on your features.

“Vernon.” Your voice is raspy. He shuffles.

“Sorry. Were you sleeping?”

You blink a few times, rapid movements as if trying to clear your vision. Vernon shifts again, feeling restless. He’s been feeling restless ever since he first knocked on your door. He scents the air instinctively. You smell…. just as you always do. Maybe sweeter? He can’t place it. Something is off, not in a bad way. But he can’t put his finger on it.

“This isn’t a good time.” You say, and your voice is still strained and tired. Vernon’s early anxiety is gone. He feels concern sting at his chest.

“Are you okay?” He has to ask, because a voice inside him is telling him that you’re not. You pause before answering, and it’s a little too long for his taste.

“I’m fine. Just tired. Can we talk in a few days?”

A few days? Vernon’s eyebrows furrow. His nose won’t stop twitching because of the alteration in your scent. He watches you, really watches you, the barely noticeable line of sweat on your hairline, your breathing just slightly more rapid than usual, how you’re gripping the doorframe like it’s holding half your weight. Vernon’s alpha bristles.

“Pre-heat?” He croaks.

You swallow tightly, he can see it with the way your throat bobs. When you don’t deny it, his alpha howls. His fingers twitch. It takes everything in him to not reach for you.

“So, later?” You ask again. He blinks.

“I was courting you.” He blurts. “The gifts. I- I thought I was being clear about it. But I wasn’t. That’s my fault, not yours. I should’ve said it, I should’ve gotten you something prettier or nicer. But I didn’t.”

Your jaw drops at his words. Silence hangs in the air for a few seconds.

“You like me?” Your voice is so tiny, so unsure. Vernon wishes he could rip the heart out of his chest and give it to you to prove that he doesn’t just like you, but that he’s in love with you. But he settles for better words.

“I wanted to show that I could take care of you. That I could be a good alpha and love you the way you deserve.”

Your eyes are bright. Your mouth is slightly open in an ‘O’ shape. You don’t say anything for a long while. Vernon feels despair sink in his head.

“I’m sorry.”

You seem to break from your trance. Your eyebrows draw together. “What are you sorry for?”

Before he can reply, your voice dies and you wince. Vernon feels his chest squeeze, hands reaching out before he can stop himself when he sees your poster hunch forward a little. He hovers uncertainly over you. Being in your space makes your scent get denser, heavier. Vernon grits his teeth hard. His brain feels like it’s short circuiting.

“You should get back inside.” He chokes out. “You shouldn’t be standing up right now. Your cramps will get worse.”

You don’t reply, almost like your mind is fogged. Vernon makes up his mind, very carefully placing his hands on your elbows so he can shuffle both of you backwards into the room.

It smells even more intensely like you inside. Vernon’s eyelids flutter, and he has to stop himself from breathing in deep. He gently guides you to the bed and you follow without much hesitation. You sigh into the pillows once your body relaxes, and Vernon pulls the blanket over you. He notices just then that you’re wearing the navy blue socks he gave you. His heart skips a beat as he leans beside the edge of the bed.

“Do you need anything?” He tries to make a mental list. He’s never really helped an omega with their heat before. When Seungkwan goes into heat, university policy is to leave the dorm and room with someone else for the duration, so he just stays with another friend. But Vernon isn’t a complete idiot, so he thinks. Painkillers, a warm water bottle, sustenance of some kind, something high calorie-

“Just stay here with me.” You pipe up. He freezes.

“I can’t.” He tries to say as placatingly as possible. “Your heat will hit soon.”

You blink up at him, and he notes the thin, shiny layer covering your eyes. “So?”

He stares. “So….. I can’t stay.” Or I will lose my mind.

“Yes, you can. You said you wanted to show me you can take care of me, right?” Your eyelids hang low, eyes only half open as you peer up at him. “So take care of me, alpha.”

Vernon thinks his head is spinning. No, it’s the room. The room is spinning. He is completely still in place, like a statue, because he feels that if he moves, he will sway and topple over. His alpha is howling, a chorus of ‘yes, yes, yes’ that chokes any other thought in his brain. Instead, he clenches his jaw hard and reaches his hand up to rest it carefully on your head. He brushes your hair back slowly. You sigh at his mere touch. You’re heated, already almost burning up.

“Are you sure?” He whispers. “You’re close to heat. You can’t be saying this just because your omega wants an alpha here with you.”

You let out a small laugh. “I’m in pre-heat only. I know what I’m doing. I’ve….. liked you for a while now.”

Vernon can feel how hot the back of his neck is. “Really?”

You nod. He lets out a shaky breath. He can’t believe his ears, almost like someone went in there and scraped all his brains out, leaving his head hollow and light. But his chest is so full that he feels like it will explode.

“Okay.” He says with an air of finality. “I’ll take care of you, I promise. You won’t want for anything. I’m here.”

…………………………….

You don’t really remember much of your pre-heats, generally. Most of the time, you spend it dozing in and out of sleep, eating whatever you’ve stashed in your room beforehand. This one is the same. You’re very sleepy, so you hunker down on your bed and nap as much as you can. The difference this time is that you’re coaxed awake every few hours by an alpha hanging over your bed, helping you sit up and feeding you small bites of warm food instead of your usual packaged stuff.

Vernon leaves whenever you fall asleep, coming back with stuff he picks up from restaurants, all rich and dense food that puts you in a good mood and makes you sleep longer. Two nights after he first showed up, you feel uncomfortable again, so you ask for his hoodie. He doesn’t hesitate for two seconds before he pulls it off and tugs it onto you.

“Better?” He asks as you sink into bed again. You hum in relief. It feels amazing to be surrounded by his scent like this. Your omega settles and your discomfort wanes.

“Much.” You reply. He nods. You watch him putter around, cleaning up plates and looking at how much water you still have. You know that you’re only settling with his hoodie temporarily. As your heat hits, his clothes won’t be enough. You will want him. All of him.

Your face flames at the thought. You really never could’ve imagined that Vernon would want to help you like this. You always assumed he was being a good friend, hence why you wanted Seungkwan to stop him. Because you were getting too attached to him, and you didn’t want to set yourself up for future hurt. Turns out, he was courting you, in some characteristically Vernon way of his. And in a way….. it worked. It made you love him more.

Days pass in your pre-heat haze. When you wake up one day, your back drenched in sweat and your heart racing so fast it makes you pant heavily, you realise you’ve hit your heat. You sit up slowly, struggling to unfold your tense body. Vernon isn’t here, probably out to get more supplies or a change of clothes for himself. Your omega whines. You’re wet between the thighs already. You rub them desperately together. Why is your alpha not back yet?

You’re just psyching yourself up to leave the bed when the door to your dorm swings open and Vernon steps inside, arms weighed by bags. He blinks, surprised to see you awake.

“Hey. How are you feeling?” He asks, pushing the door shut with his heel and placing the bags on your study table. You let out a shaky breath.

“Alpha.”

Something in your voice seemingly registers, because his head jerks up. You can feel his nose twitch when you shift, throwing the blanket off your sweaty body. Your scent hits him. You try to shuffle closer to him.

“Need you, please.”

Vernon wastes no time in toeing off his shoes and walking closer to the bed, settling on it and letting you come to him. You crawl into his lap, sighing in relief when your skin meets his. He still hasn’t taken his jacket off, so you tug impatiently at it. He obliges by discarding it, leaving him in a simple shirt and jeans.

You tuck your head against his neck like it’s second nature, like you’ve done it a million times before. You nose at his scent glands, eager to have it invade your senses straight from the source. You feel his hand run comforting circles over your sweaty back.

“You’re drenched.” He murmurs, tugging at your shirt a little where it’s sticking to your skin. You huff.

“‘M hot.”

“Do you want a change of clothes?”

No. I want you to take them off entirely.

You don’t say it, just biting your lip and nosing at his neck more. You know Vernon is here to help with your heat, but you suddenly feel so shy asking him to. God, this was your idea, and you can’t even bring yourself to verbalise it.

When your silence stretches too long, you feel a soft hand on your jaw, nudging your head up. Your eyes meet wide, brown ones.

“I’m here for whatever you need. Just ask, okay? I can’t know unless you tell me.”

He’s right. He’s being so logical and so sweet about it while you’re wallowing. So you nod, mustering up the confidence to peer up at him and say, “I want you.”

Vernon nods. “Okay, baby. I’ve got you.”

When he leans down to softly brush his lips to yours, your omega whines. You inhale shakily and press closer, kissing him properly. He takes it so slow, like he’s savoring every second of it, running his hands carefully, reverently, down your sides before sliding under the hem of your shirt. His skin is so cool against your heated body, and it’s a welcome relief. You sigh into his mouth.

Vernon grips just a little tighter, your flesh dimpling under his touch. It makes your body shift forward, your core grazing over his jean-clad thigh. Your breath hitches as pleasure zips up from your core.

That sets a charged, lazy rhythm. Vernon guides the movement of your body with a firm grip on your hips, back and forth, back and forth, your cunt sliding over his thigh. The rough material of his jeans provides delicious friction, while your flimsy shorts might as well not be there. You’re soaked through, and if you looked down, you’re sure you would see a dark patch on his jeans. He seems to not care about the fact that you’re ruining his clothes. He moans into your mouth, tenses his thigh periodically in a way that sends a pleasurable jolt up your spine. Your legs are spread wide apart, your slit open, pressing your most sensitive parts to him. He kisses you senseless as the pressure in your core gets tighter and tighter, your movements more rushed, more sloppy. He bites your bottom lip the exact moment your orgasm hits, washing over your body like a tidal wave, leaving you moaning and shaking, Vernon’s sure grip the only thing holding you steady.

“Good. Good girl.” He whispers into your raw, bitten lips. “Perfect. There you go.”

Your trembling body goes limp against his figure. He holds you there for a bit, letting you come down. You process what just happened. This was not what you expected, though you’re not complaining at all. It was so hot.

You’re shifted backwards slowly. Vernon lays you on the bed and presses a sweet kiss on your cheek, pulling back.

“You really should change clothes now, sweetheart.” He says. You giggle breathlessly and nod.

Vernon finds a fresh pair of shorts and a loose shirt. He helps you change. You really don’t feel hesitant about being naked in front of him. Hell, you just rode his thigh and came all over him. Speaking of, his jeans are ruined, you can see it a mile off. Vernon excuses himself to the bathroom once you’re settled, and when he emerges later, he’s dressed in sweats.

You eat the food he brought, more like he feeds you and you let him. It feels nice, being pampered and taken care of like this. You say as much to him. He lets out an airy laugh and shakes his head.

“That’s what my intention was the entire time.” He confesses. “I wanted to be a good alpha to you. And in my opinion, a good alpha is someone who knows how to take care of his omega. I was trying to prove that.”

You smile, watching him set the empty plate aside and pour you a glass of water.

“I already know you’re a good person, Vernon. You didn’t have to do all that.”

He shakes his head. “There’s a difference between being a good person and a good alpha. You needed to know I would be there through thick and thin, and I could anticipate your needs and make your life easier. To be loved is to be known, isn’t that what they say?”

You stare at him, speechless. Your heart squeezes in your chest, and you try to look for words, anything you can say to tell him how much this means to you, how much he means to you. But you’re tired, and your heat is messing with your head, and you can’t think of anything that will properly get your meaning across. So you put down the glass in your hand and lean forward, laying a kiss on his lips.

You feel him stiffen only briefly, kissing you back when he realises what is happening. You feel his hand cup your cheek tenderly, slotting his lips deeper into yours. You sigh into this kiss, kicking forward to once again settle in his lap like you did previously. It’s almost like instinct. It’s comforting for you, and with the way his free arm curls around you, you know he likes it too.

You don’t know if it’s your heat, or just the fact that it’s Vernon, but the air charges quickly, and the kiss deepens. Your bodies undulate together, small moans and sighs until you can feel a familiar ache in your loins, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“Alpha.” You whine into him.

“I’ve got you.” He reassures you, like he always has. The world tilts, and you’re laid back on the mattress, his torso pressing you down deliciously. His mouth doesn’t leave you for a second, nipping and kissing, before his tongue licks into your mouth. Your pussy clenches around nothing.

Fingers dip into the waistband of your pajamas, tugging them off in one smooth motion. Fingers prod at your entrance, and you pull your knees up and apart. You’re already so wet, so ready, that he slides two fingers in immediately with next to no resistance.

“Fuck.” Vernon groans at the exact time you gasp. His fingers curl, pressing and rubbing, looking for that one spot. You moan and jerk.

“You’re so wet. You’re gonna ruin the sheets.”

He pulls back enough to look down at you. You watch in awe as the corner of his lip quirks up with a smirk you have never seen before. He looks so sexy like this, it makes your head spin.

“Soak my hand. Wanna feel it.”

You shriek when he presses into your soft spot, back arching off the bed. He coos, watching you with half lidded eyes, biting his bottom lip. You burn under his gaze, but it feels so good. Your orgasm is building up frighteningly quick, and before you know it, your legs are seizing.

You babble incoherently, trying to warn him, one hand fisting his shirt while the other tugs at the sheets. The knot in your core is so tight, ready to burst any moment, and he says the final words to get you there.

“Go ahead, baby. Be a good girl. Do what I said. Soak my hand.”

And you do, stars bursting in your vision at the same time that the knot implodes. You can hear how wet the sounds get, sloppy and filthy enough to make you flush. But you’re too preoccupied by how good it feels, washing over your entire body in waves. You know, even before you are fully down, that you are now addicted to this feeling, to him. His scent, heavy and reassuring and endlessly horny, you can tell. And his presence, sure and all encompassing. Your hands, still trembling, reach down, pawing and scratching at his pants.

“Alpha.” You’re surprised you can speak. “Off. Need- need you. Your knot. Please.”

Vernon doesn’t hesitate. With a few precise motions, his pants are pulled off and his shirt follows. You run your hands hungrily over his lean figure. He’s cut. You can trace the muscles, and it makes your mouth water. He’s so hard already, long and veiny and throbbing, and your pussy clenches pathetically. Your hips jerk.

Vernon wraps a hand around his shaft, pumping a few times. You see the precum leak from his tip and dribble down. Your legs twitch when he rubs his mushroom head up and down over your slit, gathering your slick. He groans.

“Look at that. You’re so ready for me, aren’t you?” You watch him bite his lip. You buck up again. Finally, he guides the head down, teasing your rim for a few seconds before sliding the head inside.

Your jaw goes slack as he slides in, inch by glorious inch, until you feel the base of his pelvis meet your skin. You can feel him throb even inside you, your walls squeezing and releasing over and over to try and get used to the massive intrusion. Above you, Vernon’s face is pinched, and he curses loudly.

“Don’t- please don’t do that.” His voice is strained. “I’m gonna cum too soon.”

You can’t help your breathless giggle, but you try to relax a little around him. You both breathe deeply, and finally, you feel the alpha move.

The pace is stable and reverent from the beginning, like he wants to feel every nook and cranny of your cunt around him. He fucks you like he’s making up for lost time, speeding up and then slowing down, watching his cock disappear inside your needy, sopping pussy and pulling out, the shaft shiny with your juices. Your eyes roll up at the feeling, how he carves through your opening, in and out, brushing over all the good spots as he moves. He changes the angle every couple of minutes, and you gasp loudly when he hits you just right.

He reads your body like an open book, immediately honing in on the spot and picking up speed. Skin slaps against skin, a plopping sound that fills the room and only turns you on even more, if that’s even possible. Vernon’s eyes run over every part of you hungrily, like he wants to commit all of it to memory, and you feel like you’re on fire under the heat in his gaze.

“I’m gonna cum again.” You whimper, feeling tears sting at your eyes as your pleasure crests to heights you have never felt before. Your whole body feels like it’s molten lava, bubbling up inside you until it overtakes your every nerve. Your hands scramble for purchase, and Vernon sees. He winds his fingers through yours and pushes up, pressing your intertwined hands above your head. Your back arches, body laid open for his eyes only. And under his watchful gaze, his soft words, you cum hard, wailing as you drench his cock with your juices, squeezing around him so hard that you almost black out. Something swollen catches on your opening. He thrusts rough a few more times before he surges forward, bullying his knot deep inside you. Your eyes roll. Your omega keens.

Vernon releases your hands, running his own carefully down your body, like he wants to milk the rigidity from your limbs. You breathe heavily, trying to blink the tears away. He nuzzles into your neck, nosing at it and inhaling deep. When you feel his tongue lick over your scent glands, you shiver.

“Sorry.” He whispers when feels it. “Too much?”

You shake your head and turn it the other way, baring your neck to him. You feel his shaky exhale. He runs his tongue over your neck again, scenting you properly. You bask in the feeling.

You’re so completely at peace here, with his knot inside you and his tongue on your skin. This is exactly what you needed. And it’s clear to you now that Vernon knows actually what you need, always.

🏷️: @picheolin-17 , @lovelylonelinesssvt , @scarlettveemin , @shad0wcast , @iluvhosh , @jimzk , @lucis-noctiana , @hannieweee , @xh01bri , @ilseamamuchoamingyu , @bleudandelion , @huihye , @markoplolo , @moondustmemories , @kaitieskidmore97 , @hocidust , @missaoki , @cheolwoo , @isaltedcarameows , @huiimoon , @tranquillitysoul , @weasleytwins-41 , @igetcarriedawaywithyou , @ateez-atiny380 , @piratekingateez2001 , @kpetts , @k4trinabluu , @sunnysidesins , @embrace-themagic , @escoupsue , @hxsxxk-180294 , @wxnderingthoughts , @meanieislife , @jiminie-08 , @w0nw0es , @lostinfakescenarios , @secret1234505 , @redemptions , @haoxiaoba , @junnhuisworld , @gojominn , @peachy-writings, @dreamingofpcy , @woozidreams , @booscafe , @tiffanylstrobel , @sannidokki , @evemds , @bramos91

[woncheolismsfics]

🏷️: @lostrandomfangirl , @eternalse7en , @andwilaaa , @livelaughloveseventeen , @fwairychlo3 , @mochisdayone , @aevenfics , @pearlyyshellintheocean , @cheoldeureo , @iameternallylonely , @jiimtaee , @starsstarss , @lovecoatedwords , @chilaaay , @smiileflower , @gaslysainz , @jeanjacketjesus , @foxinnie8 , @xreset , @starlight-night0 , @leilany97 , @soupstress , @jayegalaxy , @vettigirl , @codeinebelle , @nightshao , @cherryluster , @mangalovesanime-blog , @wonznme , @jihoology , @drunk-on-lemonade , @eskoupe , @user-0703 , @mayegjan , @missingjeonghan , @yethoughts , @dk-girlie , @georgj , @imisshua , @dibodibodib , @tungrymbai , @zealouscookierebeltrash , @nonuverse , @parakissss , @joongtime , @jeonghoneyoon , @astraleaa , @denzkie-alison , @integers

[foxinnie8]

HAVE I EVER MENTIONED HOW MUCH I LOVE WONCHOELISMS????

its always just so perfectt 😭🫶🏻🫶🏻

[belovedgyu]

the phantom of the cinema || hansol vernon chwe

⚬ pairing: cinema worker! hansol x fem! reader ⚬ word count: 9.8k ⚬ warnings: (pls read carefully) mentions of food, alcohol, homophobia, misogyny, themes of lavender marriage and class divide, major mentions of war (world war I) and war related injuries, main character death, smut. ⚬ genres: psychological horror, tragedy, romance, 1920s nyc setting.

credits: to @strangergraphics for the dividers, to literal angels on earth @gyuswhore and @shinysobi for being the best beta-readers ever!! This fic is written for the puttin on the ritz collab by @studiosvt, forever grateful to the team for coming up with such amazing collab ideas and being the most supportive fam ever! <3

playlist - lo vas a olvidar by rosalia and billie eilish - exile by taylor swift and bon iver (!!) - safe and sound by taylor swift and the civil wars

author's note: part of my valentine's day event, lmk if you'd want to be tagged :) i really recommend reading this one very carefully akshually there are a lot of easter eggs i left hehehe

Prologue 1918, the western french front

He somehow stumbles into a makeshift safe-house. The bullet that had pierced his upper chest is still lodged somewhere between his rippling flesh. Warm, sticky blood oozes out of the deep cut slashed across his chest, splitting his skin apart.

Outside, it is a cacophony of shots being fired and the constant thuds of bodies that follow. He doesn’t remember when was the last time he inhaled air that wasn’t saturated with soot and the metallic scent of blood…or when was it that he looked up and saw a clear sky instead of the orange fumes of fire, death and decay.

There is no sensation in his left leg anymore...just angry violet skin hosting several broken bones within. The iron smell of his own blood and that of others around him swarm his senses as he waits it out.

Just a few more hours.

Ceasefire for the day.

Someone would come and help him. They ought to.

For now, he must find some way to avoid attracting attention with his garbled moans of pain. His fingers shake, or perhaps it’s his vision wobbling with intense agony, as he reaches down in his pocket to retrieve a long, sweat soaked strand of wool. It must’ve been white someday, but now, it is more rusted from dirt, blood and overuse. Yet he holds it reverently between his fingers and begins looping, spinning and tangling it between his digits. The machine guns dull, his vision clears and through the dense war around him, something soft and pure envelopes him.

Between his fingers is now stretched a smiling string figure. A doll. The tear that clings to his lower lash is thicker than the rest, heavier with meaning and memory and love. He carefully bunches the thread up and places it back into his pocket. His chest feels warmer now.

Or perhaps, it's just his shirt soaked with his blood.

(three years later) Manhattan, New York, 1921

The woman in the turquoise cloche hat rolls her eyes when her weepy husband demands yet another napkin from her. She reaches for her purse regardless, shoving another bunched up piece of clean fabric in his fist for his damp cheeks. 

“Keep it down, will you?” she hisses, embarrassed eyes darting around apologetically when he sniffles again. 

But the man grumbles something fleetingly unkind about women and their inability to interpret and empathize with art, and ruins another one of her lacey handkerchiefs with an abhorrent mixture of snot and tears. 

The woman only shakes her head. 

He has always been like this—loudly and pretentiously emotional over things that might barely jerk a half-hearted wince out of her at best. 

Now, before one labels her apathetic—she has tried...heavens know how hard. 

For him, she has pretended to laugh until her cheeks hurt at the unfunny displays of rowdy caricatures of foreigners at the theaters. 

For him, she has dabbed corners of her drier-than-the-Arizona-summer eyes after his colleague’s daughter’s revoltingly off-tuned piano recitals. 

For him, she has ooh-ed and aah-ed at the paintings of things that don’t matter simply because he rejoiced when someone validated what he deemed was the reasoning behind the choice of a certain hue by the artist. 

But it’s not the early 1900s anymore and she’s no longer his shy, teen bride. They’ve been married for over twenty years, and even the most skilled actresses can perform for so long. 

Now she only waits for his seemingly endless sobbing to halt so that she can focus on what remains of the film casting greys and blacks on the ivory sheet. 

The movie—sensational among the crowds of her husband’s likeness, and laced with a very predictable ending—that plays in front of her is named ‘Fool’s Paradise.’ 

What an appropriate name, she thinks to herself while eying her husband clench the fabric in his wrinkled fists and stare wide-eyed at the screen as if it were some holy revelation. 

She grows wary of the sight pretty quickly, and returns her focus back on the screen only to be ambushed by the sudden appearance of half a dozen alligators whom the once blind hero tries to fight to win over his lover. 

Exasperated, the woman wrings her head away from the screen, from her husband, from the lazy reconciliation that’s bound to happen on screen, counting down minutes until she can leave her seat. 

A rosy valentine’s evening—wasted. 

As she mulls over her fate, still soured over the now wasted tickets to a new and emerging jazz singer from the orient, Lee Seokmin's show that she had wanted to attend instead of coming to the cinema, a brief movement outside the flapping wooden paneled door catches her eye. 

The figure looming outside is hidden under a huge hat, an enormous tweed coat and looks fragile and small…perhaps a young boy?

Strange. 

It’s the last show of the day. Then what is he waiting outside for?

His occasional peeping through the gaps puts her on alert. Something about the jittery energy, the nervous fidgeting, the constant hiding and seeking makes her conclude that it must be a pickpocket—there have been way too many of them in Manhattan lately. 

The thunderous round of applause, the final few sniffs and the spluttering compliments as the movie ends drown out the alarms ringing in the woman’s head. But she’s already on her toes, determined to corner the supposed crook before he can wipe his hands on the bulging wallets of New York’s nouveau elite. 

“Hey, you!” she calls out as soon as she bursts out. 

She gears up her throat to scream for help in case the figure attacks her or makes a run for the exit. But her angry exclamation only makes him flinch. He buries his flushed face deeper into the scarf. 

Behind them, the cinema-goers have already begun milling out of the stuffy, dark room—immersed deep into the discourse about the actress’s beauty and blissfully unaware of what’s unfolding at the entrance. 

The woman takes a closer look, or attempts to, because her captive is already fleeing. But instead of running away, he seems to be sliding towards where she has just emerged out of. 

Taking advantage of his lithe body, he attempts to slip inside the now emptying room—no visible solicitation of theft or mischief. 

But the woman is smart enough to grab onto the sleeve of his coat, even though he begins wringing his hand. 

Something is not right about the person in front of her. 

It takes her a moment to realize what it is that grated on her about this overenthusiastic attendant in the first place…the softness of face, the swell of chest under the low buttons of the coat, the doe-eyes…

No.

That’s an absurd thought. 

The community here is still too conservative for that.

So she presses on:

“The show has ended.” She exclaims, “you cannot go inside now.”

Another short lived struggle. Another hand tightening over the coat. The flesh under her fingers seems too soft to belong to a… 

“Let me go.” The person grumbles. 

Any doubts that were holding the woman away from believing what her gut had concluded melt away the moment her captive lets their voice slip out. The person in the woman’s stronghold isn’t some naughty pickpocket or a bony little servant—but a young girl dressed in a man’s clothes. 

The woman lets her go at once, and when she does, a soft strand of the girl’s hair escapes from her hat which she quickly tucks back in and disappears inside the dark room leaving the woman more confused than she was before. 

The projector inside the room is dying slowly—nothing more than a haggard glow trembling in the stale air—and her husband is glancing impatiently at his pocket watch as he waits for her outside the theater. 

“What was that about?” He asks, only having witnessed a sliver of the encounter. “Who was the boy?”

“Pippa’s son.” The woman lies, tightening her shawl over her shoulders. “Told him to say hi to his mother for me.”

⸻

You look around one last time. 

Fifty odd seats. All empty. 

Still, just for precaution, you crouch down and search underneath them too. 

Once you’re satisfied that you’re alone in the room with a flickering projection of ‘Thank you!’ on a washed blanket, you finally clutch the hat in one hand and the scarf in another and free yourself from the claws of their itching, swampy heat. 

Your skin sighs deeper than your lungs, the scarlet flush watering down to a faint pink as you begin unbuttoning the coat several sizes too big on you. The air inside the room is stagnant and salty with all the tears it has witnessed today, but it seems as good as a fresh morning’s breeze when it settles in your hair. 

Maybe it’s the freedom from your hefty paraphernalia, maybe it’s the tingling, funny feeling beginning to climb its way from the butterflies in your stomach to the fireflies in your chest—but you find yourself giggling mere moments before he creeps up behind you to cage you and pull your back flush to his chest. 

“Hansol!” you laugh, even when nothing about the little kiss he presses against your temple is funny. 

But perhaps laughter is the only sound of homecoming. 

“You almost got caught there.” He remarks, resting his chin over your shoulder and slipping his fingers over your own to undo the last few buttons of your coat. 

You help him take it off you by shrugging your shoulders out, “I thought she was about to screech and cause a scene.”

“Well, you are unchaperoned and cross-dressed in Raymond’s cinema house.” He drapes the coat over a seat lazily, “and if that’s not scandalous enough, you’re trespassing at midnight.”

“Oh, please.” you huff out, plopping onto the cushiony seat and tapping the one next to you for him, “there’s women out there finishing off their evening shifts right now and having a smoke in the parlour next door. Not my fault your employer is still stuck at least half a century behind.”

Hansol tries his best to block your view of the giant pamphlet peeling off a corner on the side wall that reads, ‘NO UNCHAPERONED WOMEN ALLOWED PAST SIX IN THE EVENING’  among other outdated rules. 

But you read it out loud, like you do every night you come and visit him. Always alone. Always disguised.

“You know Raymond only keeps that up because he’s terrified his clientele will complain…the people around here are still too traditional about stuff like that,” he mutters, sinking down beside you. “If it were up to him, he’d let dogs and ghosts in, so long as they paid.”

“And yet,” you say, plucking an invisible piece of lint from his lapel with theatrical delicacy, “here I am. A woman. A scandalously unaccompanied one at that. And your ghosts-and-dogs-loving boss would have a fit.”

Hansol brushes a hand, warm and careful, against your jaw. 

“You aren’t unaccompanied. Not anymore.”

“That’s what makes it worse,” you tease. “I’ve been accompanied by a criminal.”

“A criminal?” He blinks. 

“Aiding and abetting, Hansol. Harboring a fugitive in your cinema of all places.”

He laughs quietly—soft, pressed-through-his-teeth, the kind of laugh he only ever lets out when he knows the walls won’t listen. The lamp behind the projector sputters one last time, dimming the room into an amber-tinted hush. Outside in the street, taxis honk and someone shouts a drunken goodbye; the world moves on without knowing you’re here, perched between shadows and the sweet leftover scent of celluloid.

He leans back, shoulders touching yours, knees angled towards you like he’s always been pulled by your gravity. For a long moment you listen to the projector cool, clicking and shrinking as metal contracts.

He reaches for your fingers—tentatively, as though asking without words—and you let him lace them between his.

“You looked so terrified when she held you,” he murmurs. “Sure you’re alright?”

“I am…now,” you assure him, resting your head on his shoulder. The rhythm of his heartbeat under your cheek slows your blood down. His shirt smells faintly of the oil used on film reels—sharp, metallic—but underneath it is something familiar, something that always softens the parts of you the world keeps trying to harden. His shirt brushes your jawline as you curl instinctively closer.

He adjusts you slightly in his arms, like it is nothing and everything all at once.

Hansol hums. “I hate that you have to hide like this…by dressing up like—”

“A man?” you supply. “I think I make a fine one.”

“You make a terrible one,” he corrects, grinning now. “You’re too pretty for it.”

That makes you kiss him. Just a quick peck—short, but oh so sweet. 

“Happy Valentine’s day, Hansol.” 

You begin to pull away, but his hand cups your face—calloused yet gentle—stationing you nearer for him to kiss you better. Deeper. Tentative yet passionate at the same time. His breath shudders before it mingles with yours, warming every single fibre of your physicality.

The kiss is slow…so slow that it makes you feel every single movement, every single touch, with such profoundness that it almost aches. Almost. Because Hansol has this way of dulling every pain that exists in your being until it withers down into nothing but a blossoming warmth in your spine. 

And just like that, something scarlet blends into the night-sky. 

“Happy Valentine’s, my love,” he mumbles against your skin. And then, as if the kiss was still unfinished in his books, he recaptures your trembling lips with his scorching ones. This time, more territorial and surer, like a dying flame leaping right back onto a new, diesel drenched log. Your knuckles shiver as they graze his jaw, too stimulated by his kiss.

By the time your bodies detangle, your toes hurt from curling too much inside your shoes and the perfume on your wrists has fully bled into his collar. 

Instinctually, you suck your bottom lip in, wanting to soak whatever it is of him that’s lingering on them. 

An affectionate titter escapes him at the sight of you so wrecked and gone by a simple kiss. He cradles your head, resting his forehead against yours, “I need to show you something.”

You take a moment to catch your breath before whispering: “Go ahead.”

The knot in your belly tightens with anticipation when he gives you another little kiss, gets up and disappears behind the seats. You hear the familiar whirring of metal and plastic as he skillfully loads a strip of film on the reel, adjusts the apparatus and after a few short minutes, the once ghastly white sheet in front of you is drenched in sepia tones again. 

“Is this some new movie?” You ask when he reappears. 

“Yes, I want you to be the first one to see it.”

“Oh, lovely,” you squeal, winding your arms around his bicep when he leans closer to you, “what’s it called?”

“Rites of Passage.”

Displeased, you scowl, “what an unfortunate name.”  

You had expected it to be a romantic melodrama—they’re all the rage these days. 

As if sensing your unease, he assures, “it is a love story.”

“I hope it doesn’t have a tragic ending.” 

Hansol stays silent at that. 

And then, “it ends the way it needs to.”

“Do they find happiness in the end?” 

He smiles, “yes…yes, they do.” 

“Then I have no qualms with what happens in the rest of the story.” 

Before you, the first flicker of a vibrant amber light quivers on the makeshift screen. Dust motes drift lazily through the projector beam, catching gold as the picture sharpens into focus. You lean further into Hansol’s chest, watching it half-heartedly, expecting the familiar grand opening shot—rolling hills, a train station, something suitably dramatic.

But the opening is rather quaint and even though it is a new one, you feel like you’ve seen this film before. 

A serene shot of a garden tucked somewhere between a row of terraced houses—narrow, almost secret, the sort of place only two kids would know how to find. The projection is all black and white, like new movies always are before they rot into sepia. But you think you know just exactly what the color of flowers that the little boy picks in a little basket is, or what shade of green is the little girl’s coat. There is no sound, but you’re already in on the jokes the boy tells to make the girl laugh. 

Not like an imagination. But like a memory. 

Hansol rests his cheek on the crown of your head, his warm breath brushing over the wisps of your loose hair. 

The boy on the screen tangles a long strand of wool between his little fingers, spins it around skillfully, and in a matter of seconds, conjures up what seems like a string doll between his stretched palms. 

“Remember when you used to perform these string tricks?” you ask him, fondly remembering all the different stars and animals and figures he’d entertain you with. 

He laughs, soft and balmy, “yes, and you’d always ask me to make a doll at the end of them all.” 

“I loved the string-dolls you’d make.”

“I know, dolly.” You feel his fingers tighten over your shoulders when calls you by the name only he ever calls you by. 

Before you, childhood matures into teenage—an uneven mix of awkward yearning and silent confessions. Distances grow, but so do the depths of feelings. Glances in public squares or intense staring under the old pine tree on a hill-top—as if the juvenile hero wishes to etch every curve and blip in the heroine’s face into his psyche.

It is so saccharine, so dreamy. 

Yet you feel a build-up…like any moment now, the bubbling potion of love is going to tip over and spill into a dark, rotten goo. Like every little dream that floats over a cloud for so long, this one too is about to meet its scorching fate when it crosses the sun. 

Your breath hitches and with the sudden tension in Hansol’s jaw, you wonder if he feels it too—this near dread. 

But before anything could happen—a villain bursting in and kidnapping the girl, or the ground splitting open by some ancient curse and swallowing the hero whole and leaving her to embark on a quest to bring her lover back—the reel stutters. 

The sound is jarring, like something snapping between the rusty metal but refusing to let up. A rhythm of defiance to break, but also a refusal to let the pictures move forward leaving you stuck with a static scene where the hero is halfway through a door as the heroine holds his hand back. 

“It’s stuck.” Hansol announces, gently unwrapping you from around him to go examine the projector, “I guess we overused it.”

“But we couldn’t even make it until the intermission.” You pout, a bit too upset over not finishing a movie you had no intention of seeing in the first place. 

“Next time, dolly,” he promises, still fiddling with the film-strip. 

You stay at the cinema for a little while after that, carefully vigilant yet carelessly in love at the same time. You whisper the happenings of your weeks to him so softly that even the room seems to shrink smaller for the walls to be able to hear you clearer. But the very next moment, you fail to swallow in your overenthusiastic squeaks when Hansol shares just what new movies Raymond plans to showcase at the theater next week. 

He shushes you, barely controlling his own beaming smile at your fanatic spirits. 

“Ah, Rudolph Valentino is so charming in the posters,” you exclaim, clasping your palms together, “I’ve heard it got a background score so romantic that it makes the audience weep!” 

“We plan on handling the weeping by playing the new movie of that Chaplin fella right after,” he says, “what’s it called…’the kid’?”

“Oh Hansol… I feel so alive these days.” You have no idea where it comes from, but the sparkle in your eyes is enough to light up the whole midnight. “These films…these flickering little miracles—they’re not just stories. They’re… they’re the city.”

He tilts his head, and you lift your hands as if sculpting the feeling out of thin dust motes drifting through the projector beam.

“New York is growing so fast I can hardly ever catch my breath. Every week there’s a new building stretching higher, a new crowd pushing through Times Square like they’ve been summoned by some invisible conductor. And these movies…they move just like the city moves. Quick. Restless. Unafraid.”

You turn to him and aren’t surprised when you find his face mirroring the utter reverence your words hold for a place that others might brush off as nothing more than an amalgamation of concrete and blinding lights. Maybe this is why you hold all your words, all your thoughts within yourself all day long—as excruciating as it is—because you know no one that’s not him would ever listen to you with this relevance. 

There seems to be this invisible thread that ties the centre of your chest with his and syncs your heartbeats until they’re nothing more than a background score for the movie that is the city you both grew up in. 

“Sometimes I think New York is dreaming right through us. That she’s sitting in these seats with us, humming along to the Valentino score, laughing with Chaplin. She’s becoming something bigger than any of us can grasp, and the cinema… it’s the only place I can hear her properly.”

Hansol watches you, the corners of his lips tugging upward with a quiet awe. You feel a blush rise, but you continue, unable to stop now that the words have burst open.

“I love this city like I love you,” you confess. “Like a friend, or a secret, or something I’m afraid to lose. And when I watch these films…these new, daring, impossible films, I feel like I’m watching someone I adore so deeply grow up in front of me.”

Outside, a distant streetcar clangs its bell—sharp, urgent, alive. The sound threads into the stillness of the empty theater.

“Ah,” you breathe, sitting back with a little laugh. “Hear that? That’s the city reminding us she’s awake. She never sleeps anymore.”

“She never sleeps,” he agrees, something softer than mere amusement in his eyes…deeper and more sincere, like devotion. “But I know she sighs when you talk about her like that.” 

Your lips dip into an irrepressible smile. He always does this—effortlessly putting these profound conclusions to your spirited ramblings as if putting a final bow on a bunch of randomly picked wildflowers and turning it into an expensive bouquet.  

It only motivates you to carry on with a discourse that many would brush off as nothing more than a nonsensical love letter penned by a dramatic, young girl towards something so inanimate. “People say the rush in the veins of this city is unbearable now…this maddening passion—they think it's ruinous.”

“Isn’t that exactly what they used to say about us when we were growing up?” Hansol prods, “it is always unnerving for them to see life stretch and expand in its own skin. The city, just like kids, isn’t pliant anymore…you cannot hold it back from chasing what it seeks.” Finally, his eyes settle on yours, “just how they couldn’t hold us.”

Your lashes flutter shut, your face inching further closer into the curve of his shoulder. Your voice is half muffled into his sweater when you speak, “I wish we were as brave as New York. I wish that we didn’t have to hide, that we could just run wild like her.”

Hansol doesn’t immediately answer, he lets your rueful grief settle down in the air around you—breathing it, soaking it. And once he can feel the shallowness dissipate from your inhales, he speaks, “you know why the lights here shine so bright now?”

There are a hundred logical explanations to that, but you’re aware that logic is long forgotten in this exchange between you and him. 

He continues, “you light a flame to illuminate something. But it also means you’re casting a shadow at something else at the same time—something you don’t want to see. It only makes you think, there could be so many secrets New York nurtures in these shadows behind its bright lights.”

“Just like us?” You ask.

“Just like us.” he affirms, his low voice the only evidence of his existence in the pitch darkness that envelopes you. 

You wonder what would happen if someday the spotlight tilts and shines directly at the two of you, when no matter how hard you try to outrun it and seek the shadows, it catches up to you. Because that’s what light does, doesn’t it? Finds and blinds. 

But for now, you choose to hide here—shadowed enough that the world can’t quite catch you, yet bright enough that he can. 

⸻

Lee Seokmin’s birthday arrives every year with a reminder of whom he shares it with. 

He tries to cheer up, attempts to brighten the gold in his smile even more on this particular day, answers all the letters and cards he receives. But always, in the back of his mind, there’s the shadow. His shadow. It’s been over three years, yet there’s no escaping the truth behind the life that he lives now. The ring on his finger. The woman who resides in his guest-room.

On this particular day, she sleeps until late noon.  

Good, he tells himself as he pretends to read through the details of the show he is supposed to sing at the upcoming week, it’s good that she’s resting. 

The flimsy curtains do little to stop the breeze that carries the remaining frost of the East-coast winter inside his townhouse. Seokmin stutters, contemplating shutting the glass-panels up, but ends up deciding otherwise and rather walks towards the open balcony to feel the sun on his skin. 

It’s a serene neighborhood, safe, suburban and saturated with greens—of nature, and of money. The houses all around are occupied by people like him, people whose life flourished when the city began flourishing a few years back. Bankers, performers, business owners, hoteliers…he’s the only celebrated Jazz singer around, though. 

So celebrated, in fact, that the glimmer of his raw talent and the honey in his voice drown out the color of his skin. There’s white men begging him for tickets to his shows now—can you imagine? 

He should gloat and yet, he doesn’t. Because Seokmin, before anything else, is someone who is aware. He worked hard for this, trained until his throat felt akin to sandpaper, sang like a madman at gigs that paid him in half a loaf of bread. But he also knows that all that talent, grit and experience can only mask so much about his identity that the people in this country are ‘willing’ to tolerate. 

His fame and riches helped him gloss over his foreignness, but he can never overlook the significance of the attribute that the woman fast asleep right now adds to his life. 

Slotting himself into the New York high-society as a Korean man with nothing but sheer luck and acumen to back it up is one thing. 

Trying to explain why he had no wife or fiancee or any romantic inclination towards women without painting himself red like a target is another.

Thus, there’s nothing for him to gloat about without first acknowledging the lifeline he has been given by his ‘wife’, even if it means that he has to—

“Good afternoon,” your voice is softer today, yet strong enough to pull his attention back inside the house, “and happy birthday, Mr. Lee.”

You’re all dressed up already. A giant coat that hides whatever it is that you’re wearing, only a hint of your stockings and the new pair of your low-heeled Mary Janes visible for him. Despite all the color that you’ve dusted over your face, the softened edges of your features and the droplets of water still clinging on to the tips of your hair make you feel strangely unfinished. Like a painting waiting for its final stroke. 

“Thank you,” he smiles, clearing his throat. 

This…arrangement, carefully crafted and deliberated on by the both of you, has allowed the two of you to co-exist for almost half a decade now. Yet, he still finds himself at a loss of proper words that he can say to you. Where are the lines here? What are the oddities? 

You seem more at ease around him than he does, though. Because you’re beaming, extending something towards him. That’s when he notices it—the tray full of little sweet treats clutched between your palms. 

“Oh, right.” he stutters, quickly grabbing the first dessert his fingers reach and scarfs it down whole. 

Thank God, they had been on the cooling rack for a while, or else he would have put himself out of business for a week by burning his throat with molten sugar straight out of the oven. 

That makes you laugh. This awkward, nervous energy which you’ve tried to soothe out of him through repeated assurances and affirmations. You always tell him that you feel safe around him and that you can just exist like friends. Perhaps, siblings? 

But he finds it hard to come around. 

And considering just how grave his situation already is when it comes to definitions and labels, you let him be. 

You place the tray back onto the counter but box two pieces of cakes into a tin container, clearly planning on taking it out with you. 

“It’s his birthday too, you know?” You inform Seokmin, even though he doesn’t ask. 

Seokmin considers his words for a long moment, still standing in the middle of the room, his hands sticky with the powdered sugar. 

“Ah yes,” he finally says, “I remember. Vernon—”

“Hansol,” you correct him sharper than you intended. 

Seokmin blinks, watching you uncertainly as this strange rage surges and ebbs within a split second between your brows. 

“I…I’m sorry,” you stutter, “he just…Hansol is his true name, you know?”

“Yes,” Seokmin nods, “yes, indeed. We ought to respect that.”

“I am glad you understand.” You lower your gaze, feeling impossibly ashamed of your little outburst. 

The next few moments pass in thick silence as you press the lid shut and move towards the coat-rack to fetch your hat. 

Seokmin tries to ease what just happened there. 

“It’s a bit too obsolete,” he points at your enormous hat, clearly teasing, “don’t you think?”

You scrunch your nose in faux annoyance, “but I love it. Even though it's a thing of the past.”

Seokmin’s smile flutters at the corners but you miss it completely, too busy smoothing over your outfit one last time before you leave. 

“Things of the past…” he mumbles, strolling back inside the kitchen. “Things of the past.”

⸻

You meet Hansol again on his birthday, four days after the eventful valentine’s evening. This time, you don’t have to crossdress as a man to enter Raymond’s cinema-house. 

‘I took special permission to have you here today.’ Hansol had told you, while gearing up the projector to reload the movie, ‘The rite of passage’, that you had left unfinished from your last meeting. 

Strangely enough, the reel ended up getting stuck again, this time, a mere thirty minutes before the ending. That wouldn’t have dejected you as much had you not been left hanging at a rather depressing part of the story—a scene where the boy gets drafted to be shipped off across the Atlantic for war. 

Turns out, the plot twist whose dread you could feel in your bones ever since the movie began only took a mere five minutes to play out on the screen. A letter, a summon—decisive and final. 

A crest in the budding romance. A tearful goodbye. An anxious audience. 

Uncharacteristically, you had burst into tears…not when the scene played out, but when it got stuck on the creased forehead of the heroine. Almost like you were being made to wait with her for her lover’s return. 

“Do you…do you think he’ll come back?” you ask, the wet patch under your temple on his sweater beginning to dry now that you’ve gotten a better hold over your tears. 

Hansol’s voice reverbates under your cheek pressed to his chest, “people do not always return from wars, dolly.”

“But you did,” you whisper, “you came back.”

You begin to sit up, the damp strands of wild grass poke into your skin through the flimsy fabric of your stockings as you shift from his lap and onto the ground. 

Hansol follows you, sitting halfway up and leaning back against his palms planted over the mud. 

The hillside he brought you on for a stroll after seeing just how wrecked the abrupt interruption made you is a mere blip against the New York skyline. The city throbs below you like it is preparing for bed, muted pastels washing over every building as the sun begins to soften. The skyline stands tall, quiet and sure, like it has seen generations of lovers unravel and rebuild on the very patch of soft foliage you are sitting on. 

He watches the infamous city-lights begin to flicker to life, one-by-one, before finally answering you. 

“I came back, but not the same.”

You shift to look at him, but he’s staring into nothingness, like he’s also still remembering that movie scene from before. The frozen moment of grief suspended in dim light. A soldier arrested in time, a girl paused at the edge of loss.

You don’t know whether he’s thinking of his own war that shaped him, or the years between then and now.

But after a moment, he turns to you, eyes gentler than his voice.

“Not the same…” you hate the way his words tremble, like he has to forcibly wring them out and leave them to find their own meaning. 

So far, your lives have been shaped by circumstances so colossal and way beyond your control that persistence is not just a trait, but a mechanism of survival. It is the only way you know how to keep moving—through grief, through joy, through the quiet, brittle moments that fall somewhere in between. 

Thus, even in the fragility of this dipping evening, your persistence to make this better stands its stubborn ground. 

“Things don’t have to remain the same for them to be good.” You eagerly cup his face between your cold palms, “don’t you always say how change is the only constant?”

That reminder of hope, of those tid-bits of philosophy that have somehow succeeded in not letting his smile succumb to the horrors that life has thrown at him—it gently guides him back to you. 

The veil of the past grows thinner and thinner over his eyes, and it only encourages you to distract him more. 

“I mean look,” you laugh, trying your best to mask the nervousness as you begin unbuttoning your coat. “You always make fun of me for wearing those drab, shapeless garments, don’t you?”

The coat slips off your shoulders, pooling around your knees pressed on the soft grass. Underneath, the curves of your body sway shyly under a weightless fabric that, surprisingly, ends at your mid-thighs. 

You had felt too brave putting it on earlier in the day. The dress, a gift from your friend Mildred who insisted it was all the rage these days, was so unlike your usual tailored attires of long skirts and lace-colored blouses. The thin straps barely holding the attire together make you feel so naked to a point that the blush on your cheeks flushes down and settles over the exposed skin of your shoulders, prickling it with this strange sense of heat. 

“It’s the flapper look,” you explain to his gawking eyes as Hansol watches you as though you’re something holy and forbidden. “I thought it was time for some change in myself.”

For a long moment, he says nothing. Just looks.

His throat bobs. Once. Twice. Like he’s trying to swallow down everything he’s feeling in the moment—wonder, fear, longing, the aching edges of a man who doesn’t know if he’s allowed to want something soft again.

Finally, quietly, he murmurs, “You look like trouble.”

You huff a laugh, pretending it doesn’t shake. “Good trouble, I hope.”

“The best kind,” he says, more like a revelation to himself than a confession to you. 

Your fingers brush over the loose fabric skimming your hips. You curl them into fists, trying to subdue the itch which makes you want to grab your coat and put it back on and just bolt away—but not before making Hansol promise that he’d forget what he just saw…what you made him witness…what you just offered... 

But his fingers work faster than yours, curling over your waist and pulling you flush until your chest mashes against his. Little knots of burning desire bunch up and explode all at once in every single inch of your body when he does that. Your lips part at the audacity—of his, and that of yours—and the sight of you like this…shell-shocked and wild-haired twists something carnal in him. 

Instead of pulling you out of this state of collapse, he only submerges you deeper when he kisses you like he has never before. Hungry, open-mouthed, lustful. You don’t even attempt to fight it when his tongue slips inside your mouth, stealing away the sweetness that lingers inside of you. 

And that act of submission only seems to fuel him further into searing his touch deeper into the form of you. 

“Divine,” he pulls away just enough to whisper that, his voice dark and hoarse, “that’s what you are.”

He worships you with his words and his tongue some more before he’s pushing you around until your back meets the ground with a harsh impact. It’s not enough to hurt you, but just right to make you moan. 

“Hansol,” you plead. For what? You have no answer. 

His lips come down on whatever trembling flesh he can find—your wrists, your collarbones, your shoulders, the slight swell of your chest. 

He moves lower and lower until your thighs press together with the foretaste of what’s about to follow. 

No matter how many times you’ve been here in this exact state, the sight of his face pressed between your legs—curious eyes gaging every little scowl, every little whimper that escapes you while his parched tongue laps at you, prods against you, cajoles you to let him in deeper—never fails to ravage your sanity. 

Hansol can’t help but grin when the much shorter, looser skirt pools around your hips on its own. His fingers have already worked through the layers of fabric that shield you from him and when the slickness that has gathered at your apex coats the tips of them, his head spins. 

“Oh, heavens,” he huffs out, dipping his finger deeper into your fluttering walls. The warmth, the soft clench, coupled with how you clasp your eyes shut but the tears still roll down—it almost undoes him right then and there. 

His breaths turn ragged with every plunge of his fingers that make you convulse and arch off the ground. Air, he needs some air in his brain to better remember what is unfolding before him until eternity. He half-heartedly unlatches his fingers from your weeping core after a particularly passionate stroke against your nub to remove his sweater. All through it, you continue to tremble on the ground, cold mud clinging onto your skin as you attempt to reach out for him with your arms. 

“Hansol,” you call him back, “please…”

“I know, love, I know.” He muses, still lost in the fierce gravity of you. 

You feel something small and hard pelt against your skin—the buttons of his shirt as he wildly rips it open. 

The white linen finally gives way for your vision to settle on his skin—taut with labor and illuminated just by the moonlight under this pine tree. 

The need to touch him that emerges out of you is so palpable, that it makes him lean down a bit, allowing your fingers to rake all over the hardened ridges on his abdomen to the smooth expanse of skin over his chest. His heartbeat turns chaotic and relentless when your touch lingers on the long, scarlet scar that runs across his sternum—a ghost of his skin that they took away from you. 

“You’re perfect,” you admit, regardless. 

“I’m yours.” He echoes, like that somehow concludes the whole truth of him. 

You don’t falter, “then make me yours, too.” 

A guttural sound escapes from the back of his throat as he half undoes, half rips your undergarments and kisses you down there with this undeniable hunger. You can only arch further into him, offering more. The taste of you never ceases to tip him over the edge of control. 

He eats you out greedily, alternating between long stripes and shameless, open-mouthed kisses to a point where every exhale of yours comes out with a desperate moan. He sucks you so hard that you feel he intends to break you. 

Your fingers fist around the strands of something—his hair or the grass, you can’t discern anymore. As a matter of fact, you don’t want to. Because that would mean shifting a part of your attention from him towards something that’s not him. And you don’t want to do that, not even for a split second. 

“I wish you could see how you look right now,” he mumbles, the vibration of his voice amplifying your pleasure tenfolds. “So ruined already…yet begging for more.”

That prompts you to imagine—your body, lying dishevelled and open on a patch of grass somewhere so public as clay accumulates underneath your fingernails while he buries his face deeper and deeper between your legs like a parched man searching for an oasis. 

You feel your limbs beginning to go limp under his ministrations, a telltale sign of the arrival of something that snatches all your coherence away from you and leaves you a blushing, blubbering mess of Hansol. He makes you welcome it with open arms with a final, scorching kiss on top of your aching folds, right over the little root of pleasure that has been bearing the delicious torment of his calloused fingers. 

By the time the coil of tension snaps, you are sobbing. Tears flow freely down your face, collecting the dirt that has gathered on your face from the struggle.

A molten blush crawls up from the column of his neck and flushes throughout his face when he re-emerges from between your legs that lie listless on either side of his body. From one side, the city lights cast just enough illumination across his face for your half-lidded gaze to catch the thick arousal that coats his gleaming lips. 

The sight makes you shut your eyes close for good before you lose your mind. 

Strong hands wrap around your thighs, angling your ankles to settle around his waist while he holds you down with his body weight. Your lips part with an involuntary moan as humiliation of reveling in the feeling of being overpowered this way begins shrouding your mind. 

Hansol calls your name under his breath, then his hand departs from fondling your chest in favor of his rock-hard length.

He lines himself up with your entrance, the blunt head positioned right by your gaping, quivering hole. He nips at your skin once, perhaps to distract you from the overwhelming pleasure laced with pain as he pushes deeper into you. 

But the ache doesn’t subside, not when your hips gyrate against him eagerly, effectively pulling him halfway inside of you. 

You mewl, suddenly too aware of the fact that you can never get used to the feeling of that first stretch, that delicious ache. 

“Doll…be patient.” He begs. 

“N-need you…Hansol.”

“I know, love, it’s written all across your body.” He slots his fingers with yours, “breathe for me, go on, breathe.”

You obey, or try to. Because every single one of your inhales crests, and every single exhale splutters. The only thing you can do without struggling is calling out his name again and again. 

Hansol whimpers when you cry, the pressure of your walls around him an intoxicating bliss. He plunges his remaining length inside of you with a breathless gasp causing your vision to blur. 

The fact that you can’t determine where pain melts into pleasure and where you end and he begins is already so nervewrecking. So when he begins rocking in and out of you, gentle one moment and reckless the other, you find yourself scrambling for control before Hansol can drive you to utter lunacy. You don’t know how it happens, but you succeed in pushing him until he’s on his back. His length slips out of you in this brief tussle, making you whine. But you don’t stay at loss for long because the very next moment, you’re climbing on top of him. His whole body jerks as he pants and the only thing that makes sense is for you to push him back inside your sensitive core.

The lust on his face makes you shiver when you brace your hands on top of his broad shoulders for support. 

Grass and dirt dig deeper into your knees as you begin moving up and down over and over again on his hard length. Your entire body convulses with every debauched plunge, your breaths breaking before they can even make it out of your throat. 

Below you, Hansol watches you with actual stars in his eyes, his mouth still wet and pupils blown out yet gleaming with the brilliance of a thousand moons even in the exhausted darkness. 

It is a trance—nothing more, nothing less. 

He smoothes his palms under the hem of your dress to clutch either side of your waist, providing you additional support with your erratic movements. The action aids you gain better control, but your desperation is no less frantic. 

You clench him like you’re proving some claim. You call out his name like that’s the only prayer you ever learnt. 

You begin to find a rhythm in how to roll your hips in a way that pleasures you both, but your lover offtracks your entire train of thoughts when he begins angling his hips to meet you halfway up. Even from underneath you, he dominates this sinful act as he begins pistoning in and out of you, forcing you to adjust to the pace he sets for the both of you. 

You have no choice but to clamp your drooling mouth over his and oblige. His grip over your waist tightens like a punishment as he penetrates your tight heat, making you succumb entirely to his mercy.

This isn’t just sex, this isn’t some fleeting desire. 

This is love, finally given an act…and boy does Hansol make you perform. 

The hot, white daze rapidly expanding from the corners of your vision quickly overtakes your senses, choking you with overwhelming pleasure as he continues to sink in and out of the messy wetness between your thighs. You shatter with a broken gasp on top of him and like he had been waiting for just that, he quickly follows suit. Warmth and bliss bloom into something tangible and thick inside of you as he fills you with all he has to give you in the moment. 

“I love you,” you break apart, sure and unwavering even when his eyes turn into a shade of onyx that you cannot recognize—such is the intensity of this moment. 

“I love you,” you drawl, your eyes rolling behind your lids as your bodies sway in tandem in the aftermath of this heat. 

“I have loved you,” he says, long after your world has suspended. “And I will always love you.”

⸻

The water instantly turns murky with dirt when Seokmin rinses the washcloth in it. 

The household helper changes the basin almost instantly, bringing in another set of fresh towels before leaving the couple in the privacy of their bedroom. 

Seokmin tries again, softer this time. The water is warmer, but the grime plastered behind your ear is impossibly stubborn—won’t come loose unless he applies at least some pressure against your raw skin. 

Your face scrunches up in pain and you hiss, the sound is so soft, so little, that it shatters him all at once. He pauses, letting you shift into a more comfortable position. There are no visible injuries on your body, just a weary kind of damage.Your skin is chilled to the touch, still holding onto the bite of a cold night’s wind even though you’ve been inside for nearly an hour. Tiny goosebumps pebble your arms and legs, never fully settling. The dirt isn’t just on your face; it’s dusted throughout your hair, accumulating under your nails and in the little crevices of your arms. 

“Shall I?” he asks, long fingers fisted over the damp, warm towel. 

Meekly, you nod. 

He pats your skin with utmost tenderness, wiping away the little trails of mud with his thumbs, picking the dried bits of dead leaves and shriveled flowers from your hair. The tactile act provides the benevolence needed in this moment against the things that hang heavy and unsaid in the air between you two. 

“Staying out all night like that,” Seokmin finally thaws the uncomfortable ice, “I thought you were smarter than that.”

The light rebuke isn’t that of annoyance, but rather disappointment. Your lashes cast down with a prickling sense of shame. 

“Your temperature is abnormal,” he continues, quite concern weighing his expressions down, “there’s a possibility that the scratch on your knee is infected…we need to—”

“It’s not fair.” 

Your voice comes out so hoarse and jagged and you immediately wince when your throat burns. 

Your statement startles Seokmin. What exactly is unfair—his rightly placed concern? The cruel gossip amidst the servants outside? 

“What is not fair?” he asks quietly. 

Your lips part, but your voice betrays you—still too raw to be overused. 

Seokmin shakes his head pitifully, offering you a cup of warm water and honey. But you don’t even attempt to reach for it—your wild eyes focused in a corner of the room where the carpet peels off the floor. 

Just when he tips the cup closer towards your cracked lips:

“It’s not fair that Raymond keeps him away from me all the time,” you begin to complain, “he had to leave for work before I could even wake up.”

The cup almost slips out of Seokmin’s grasp, but he quickly recovers. By now, he is very well versed with the drill. 

You barely even notice that though, because you’re already off on a tangent of your own. 

“I must talk to Raymond about this,” you declare, fumbling with the blanket draped over your knees, “this is simply cruel and inhumane!”

Your resolve doesn’t falter when you finally look at a very stoic looking Seokmin with this impervious hope, “say, Mr. Lee, you’d employ Hansol to work for you, won’t you? I don’t know how that never crossed my mind—”

Before he responds to you, he abruptly gets up from the bed and asks the servants waiting for his next orders outside of the room to just take it off for the day. 

Then, he marches back into your bedroom and opens the curtains wide. 

You squeeze your eyes shut at the onslaught of sunlight, your lids flutter as they struggle to adjust to the sudden brightness. They feel impossibly dry, yet brimming with tears at the same time. 

Seokmin calls out your name—not like a command, but more like an urge. He’s holding your elbows, you realize. By the time you finally recover, the first thing you gage is the absolute anxiety over Seokmin’s face. This pale look of utter horror and discomfort like he’s choking onto something—perhaps his own words. 

“Mr. Lee,” you whisper, it comes out like a question. “Why are you holding me back? I need to—”

Seokmin says your name again, softer this time. And then, “please, listen to me.”

“But it’s—”

“No, please. Just breathe for a moment.”

“But Hansol—”

“Isn’t here anymore!” Seokmin didn’t mean to blurt it out like that, but he does.

And with how the color drains from your face, he instantly regrets it. 

He can see the truth that you’ve stitched deep inside your bones, in an attempt to forget, curl its way up your spine and towards your head. But there’s still that stark defiance that your heart pumps in your very veins—one that you’ll let yourself be blinded by, even if it means never seeing even a speck of light ever again. 

Seokmin tries to fight it on your behalf, “he isn’t here…hasn’t been for years. Ever since—”

You jerk your arms away from his hold. 

“Stop lying!” you scream, “all you do is lie. Your entire existence is a lie!” 

Seokmin knows exactly what’s happening—this provocation, this reflection of pain turned outward because your mind cannot hold it in any longer. It’s the same script every time, but it never gets easier to watch.

“You just…you just don’t want me to be with him because that ruins your perfect little plan,” you speak more to yourself than to Seokmin now, “because if Raymond lets him go, you’re afraid you’d lose your pretend-wife and hence, your reputation. People will know you only married me to save face! That you prefer men over women!”

“Hansol is not here,” he repeats, barely audible. “You know this. You do know this, even if you—”

You press your palms over your ears, cheeks completely soaked with hot, uncontrolled tears. 

“Stop it! Stop lying to me Mr. Lee…” you stumble off the bed, away from him, “for the love of God, stop being so cruel!” 

Seokmin can feel his own composure beginning to fracture, but he pushes through it, because someone has to stay steady. And it will never be you.

He takes a step forward as you struggle to put your coat back on, his hand carefully extended towards you. But you gasp with sheer horror, your eyes bulging wide as you flinch away from him like he’s your predator. 

“I can’t—I can’t do this anymore.” You shake your head frantically, “I can’t stay married to you to save your face while the love of my life rots away in a dingy cinema-room loading and unloading love stories that he might never get to live.”

Seokmin watches you helplessly as you put your shoes on with this haphazard urgency. Like if you don’t act now, something precious and pure will once again be swallowed into the belly of the Earth. A vicious act of thievery, a cruel annihilation of love. 

“I need to finish watching the movie…” you repeat, “I must finish watching the movie…”

Seokmin knows better than to stop you right now, so he waits for a beat until you disappear down the stairs and then, he follows you to the theater where your childhood sweetheart Hansol once worked before getting forcefully conscripted into the army half a decade ago. 

⸻

Raymond sees her every time when she pretends to sneak in, but never stops her. His weathered, grey irises are full of sorrow for the poor girl. 

Today, she rushes in unabashedly. No disguise. No attempt to be invisible. 

Her steps are erratic, her coat half unbuttoned. Her hair sticks to her sweaty forehead in rivulets and if anyone saw her eyes, they’d be flinching away from her as if she were a rabid animal. 

Raymond considers going after her when she barges inside an empty cinema-room, one that she always slips into. The same one that her lover once helped operate. 

Sometimes, she stays there for a few minutes. Most times, she spends hours. 

Just when he’s about to check in on her, a hand clasps his shoulder. Lee Seokmin, the jazz singer…her husband. 

“Please…just, let her be.” He pleads, reaching inside his pocket to settle whatever loss this interruption would cause Raymond. 

Raymond doesn’t accept the wad of cash. 

Just walks up to the chalkboard and erases all the schedules for the day.

⸻

The screen is already drenched in the images stuck where you had left them. Hansol must’ve loaded the projector already. Hopefully, this time, it won’t stop…even though you wish it did.

“Hansol…” you call out in the dark, this little beacon of naive hope shadowing what you already know—that perhaps, now, he won’t show up. 

Persistence—the language of your love letters to him. 

You try to wield its powers again. “Hansol, love, don’t hide now. I have enough saved…even if Mr. Lee refuses to help us, we can go—”

A loud screech, the tell-tale sound of plastic reel spinning against metal. 

The movie…the rite of passage…begins to play again. 

What a grotesque name. 

You refuse to acknowledge it by prying your eyes away from it even though the faces on the screen begin morphing into the ones you recognize. Yours. His. Seokmin’s. 

You try to run away, but something cements you on spot. 

‘I need to show you something…’

Lovers severed by war and tethered by longing. 

‘...it is a story of love…’

And one of loss, too.

‘...it ends the way it needs to…’

An ending stripped off contentment for anyone involved. 

You feel a strange sensation—something whirring inside your ears and making your focus wobble…a weird vertigo. Almost like you’re peering down the edge of a cliff, your naked feet sweat-slicked and taut over the loosening sand. 

The world seems like a single flip away from something irreversible…yet, inevitable. Time. Like you’re one with the clock. No coming back. No bringing back. 

On the screen, the hero is plucked out of his lover's arms and given an anglicised name. 

Vernon, a name that traces back to an alder tree. Hansol, a name linked to a pine tree. 

Did everyone who ever named him felt his presence akin to a balmy shade of a tree as well? Away from the blinding lights…a soft life that tumbles and giggles in the shadows. 

At the end of the movie, the hero dies. 

The heroine goes mad. 

The once opaque, ivory sheet of the projector turns into a mirror. 

There’s a gap inside of you now…like something scooped out of you. Something akin to a sweet poison which had to be sucked out or else it would have melted your insides. 

You wonder if you would have liked that gradual necrosis. If that heaviness that seems to have been vaporized out of you was the only thing harnessing you here. 

The hinges of the door creak when it opens and Seokmin enters, the matured yellow of the afternoon sun slanting its brilliance on you. 

But you don’t shrivel away anymore…you don’t close your eyes. 

fin.

author's note: i am genuinely sorry.

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special tag for @luvrung for this one <3

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[jehovahhthickness]

Praying that $1500 randomly comes to you when you need it the most this year.

[jehovahhthickness]

Okay inflation is crazy.

We bumping up the price to $15,000 for 2026.

[sailorsoons]

On the Clock | (c.hs)

PAIRING: Vernon x f. reader SUMMARY: Modern problems call for modern solutions, including naming a random stranger in the book store as your boyfriend to avoid an embarrassing encounter with your ex. The problem? The stranger is Vernon and he’s not supposed to be a stranger at all - he’s your coworker, and now everyone at the office - including your ex - thinks you’re dating.  WC: 20,296 AU: Faking dating, Coworkers to Lovers, Romcom GENRE: Smut, some fluff and crack RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately. WARNINGS: Reader has some insecurity about how her working hard is perceived, some ranting about Being A Girlboss, a little bit of inner angst, my bad attempts at humor, reader’s ex boyfriend SUCKS sorry to all the Minho’s of the world I named him after, explicit language, some minor commentary on power dynamics, Star Wars Lore, explicit sexual content including unprotected vaginal sex (never do this), oral (f. receiving), nipple play, vaginal fingering, multiple orgasms, a little bit of a handjob, some cum eating if you squint, Vernon was supposed to be a freak but I made him soft instead, mutual pining. A/N: Thank you to @camandemstudios for allowing me to be a part of the Lonely Hearts Collab. I’m honored to be among such amazing writers and I cannot wait to see what everyone else wrote.  A/N 2: Thank you to the (w)hor(e)anghae squad @daechwitatamic @eoieopda and @jihopesjoint for beta reading this and letting me blind pass it over so I wouldn’t have to read it again because I don’t like it :)  

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WHOSOEVER SLAYETH CAIN SHALL SUFFER TENFOLD... OR WHATEVER IT IS THAT THE BIBLE SAYS. You haven’t slayed Cain and you’re not really sure you believe in anything in the Bible, but you’re certainly suffering sevenfold. Eightfold. Ninefold. 

Sevenfold had been earlier this morning when you dropped your glass of coffee on the ground, shattering your favorite cup and staining your white tile. Several Clorox wipes later, there is still brown stuck to the grout, looking a bit like you had an unseemly accident in the middle of your kitchen. 

Eightfold had been when you decided to fix your weekend by heading to the bookstore. Surely purchasing books that you were going to let sit on your shelf months before reading would fix your day - until someone rear-ended you in the parking lot, leaving a good dent and an apologetic exchanging of numbers and insurance information.

Ninefold comes when you least expect it, standing in the aisle with a stack of books in your hand, eyes flickering over the different titles and ornate covers. You already feel better than you had this morning. The smell of paper, the whisper of turning pages, and the hum of the cafe brewing coffee in the distance immediately puts you at ease. 

You swear nothing can put a damper on a good hour spent between shelves - until ninefold walks around the aisle corner. 

The stack of books in your arm nearly drops to the ground when you see your ex-boyfriend hand-in-hand with his new girlfriend. You wheel around so fast you slam into the person behind you, which does knock all the books from your hands onto the floor. 

A hissed curse leaves your lips followed by a quick apology. You drop to your knees, picking the books up as quickly as you can. The dude you’ve collided with has also dropped his books, the amalgamation of your soon-to-be-purchases making it more difficult for you to pick up your shit and leave the scene before Minho sees you. 

Minho says your name, surprised. 

“Fuck,” you whisper, fingers going rigid on the stack of books in your hand. You shoot to your feet and spin around, breathless as you come face to face with Minho and the new girlfriend that you definitely didn’t look up on social media a few weeks ago. “Hi, Minho.” 

“Wow, it’s nice to see you not in the marketing department for once.” 

“Well, I work there…” You offer a bit sharply, tapering to adjust to a nicer tone. “Hence, you know - finding me there.” 

“I meant you rarely leave there.” He laughs and you feign a grin, eyes flickering over to the rosy-cheeked and very glossy-haired girl on your ex’s arm.

Good for her, you think. I wonder what hair product she uses. 

“This is Mina.”

“Mina?” You ask, sticking your hand out as you shuffle your books awkwardly to the crook over your elbow. She smiles - god she has good teeth - and shakes your hand. “Mina and… Minho. Easy to remember.” 

“It’s nice to meet you. Minho tells me you’re the only ex he’s ever left things on good terms with.” 

Your eye twitches. 

Good terms was a serviceable way to put it, you suppose. Sure, there had been no fighting or infidelity or long distance that put a strain on your relationship. In fact, you hadn’t been aware that there was a strain on your relationship until Minho was sitting you down on his couch and letting you know that it just wasn’t working for him anymore. 

That had been confusing. You hadn’t asked any questions though, opting to sit and stare at him while clenching your teeth, nodding along while he explained that your inability to leave work at work and enjoy home while at home was wearing down on him. 

You’re not saving lives, he’d said. He had been earnest too, which is the crux of it. You’re in marketing. You need to take a breather. 

As if he didn’t come home in a bad mood after shitty sales calls all day, as if he wasn’t stressed when he didn’t hit quota, or didn’t complain about how long the department meeting went - you know. You were there, too. 

So sure, you were on good terms. But only one of you seemed to have been unhappy with where things were going, and only one of you seems to have moved on to someone with really good hair genes and great dental hygiene. 

Your tongue runs over your teeth, suddenly worried that you’d forgotten to brush them this morning. 

“Yeah,” you agree, clearing your throat and choking a bite. “Good terms are always the goodest - best way to end things.” 

“He’s really hopeful you’ll find someone,” she sighs, looking up at him dreamily. “He’s always wanted the best for you.” 

A vein bursts in your head. Well- no. You wish the vein you feel throbbing in your head would burst and knock you out so you’d no longer have to suffer through this ninefold moment of suffering. Perhaps, even, a very attractive medic with glossy hair and good teeth could come save you and fall in love at first sight. 

The genuine way that Minho and Mina look at you tells you that they’re serious, that they see you as something that deserves love too. Said in a cooing voice, said patronizingly, said with a pat on the head and a firm pout. 

You turn with your free hand, grabbing the sleeve of the man who is hovering behind you and pull him over to you, grin growing sevenfold. Eightfold. 

“No need to worry,” you assure them. “My boyfriend is right here! The stars really did align for me, just like you hoped and dreamed.”

Your seconds-old-star-crossed-lover looks entirely startled, looking between you, Minho and Mina. His books are cradled against his chest, his brown eyes wide. He’s actually incredibly cute, his glasses a little askewand his brown hair a little unruly. 

“You’re dating Vernon?” 

You look at Minho, blank. “What?” 

Minho looks at your Very Real Boyfriend. “You’re dating Vernon? From IT?” 

Ninefold, meet Tenfold. 

“Of course,” you answer slowly, looking at your partner of now thirty seconds. “I am dating Vernon… from IT.” 

Vernon (from IT) looks like he would rather be anywhere else than standing in the middle of the fantasy novel aisle with you at a bookstore, your nails digging tighter into his sleeve and your crazy eyes telling him to get with the program. 

Vernon (from IT) clears his throat and nods, looking over at Minho. “Yeah. Hey, Minho.” 

“Wow. This is really unexpected.”

“It sure is.”

Your nails dig in harder and Vernon (from IT) tries to pull away from you but you step closer, leaning toward him while flashing Minho and Mina a smile. “Anyway, no need to worry about me finding a relationship. I am very happy.” 

“Figures you found someone at work again.” He laughs, but the comment lands like a blow. You feel yourself flinch, smile going too tight. “You really don’t leave enough to find anyone else, huh?” 

Vernon (from IT) seems to notice, shifting toward you to slide his arm around your waist. The move startles you, drawing your attention to his face. He really is pretty this up close, his lips the perfect shade of bubblegum pink, his cheekbones high and hidden beneath the rim of his glasses, the tangy scent of citrus on his clothes. 

“I like women who work really hard,” Vernon (from IT) assures Minho. “I’ll never get tired of resetting her password over and over again because she loses all her sticky notes everytime the cleaning crew comes through.” 

If Minho senses the shift, he doesn’t let on. He’s never been great at social cues anyway, which is what makes him a decent salesman. Still, you’re eager to get out of their way and the glare of Mina’s shiny hair. 

“Well,” You state. “We have to get going.”

“For sure. It was nice seeing you outside of work!” 

With a final nod, Vernon (from IT) tugs on your waist. You both navigate awkwardly down the aisle, steps not quite in time and hips bumping. It’s uncomfortable and uncoordinated, but as soon as you’re around the aisle and away from your encounter, the two of you separate. 

Vernon (from IT) looks anywhere but you. His cheeks are tinted pink as he looks up at the ceiling, shifting from foot to foot while you regain all your books in your arm. Embarrassment and gratitude both well up inside of you, one beating the other out.

“I am really sorry,” you blurt, voice a little loud. The people around you startle and you lower your pitch when Vernon (from IT) looks at you, chewing on his lip. “Thank you - I don’t even know how to say thank you for doing that.”

“I didn’t have much of a choice.”

Your cheeks heat. “Right.”

“Happy to help, though. You can thank me by swapping books with me, though.”

“What?”

He gestures to your books. “I was standing behind you because you grabbed my books after you ran into me.” 

Oh. Right. You look down at the pile of books in your hand and see a few titles that you own, but did not plan on buying today. You divest yourself of his selections, taking the ones he’d collected off the ground from there. 

“So you really work in IT?”

He snorts. The sound is… a little off. You glance up at him, but his face gives away nothing. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t know.”

His smile is off, too. “I know.” 

You’re unsure how to reply to that, but you’re also uneager to let him go, suddenly. Vernon (from IT) stands there for a second, lips pressed in a firm line and studying you. He really is beautiful, the light hitting his eyes in a way that turns them molten gold and-

“Alright well,” he interrupts your thoughts. “See you later or something.” 

The urge to stop him strikes you, your mouth opening and closing. No words come out. You don’t know what to say - or why you want to stop him, just that you do. He walks toward the front of the store to purchase his books, leaving you standing in the middle of the store and wishing you’d met Vernon (from IT) under different circumstances. 

-

Routine is important to you, especially during the weekdays. Wake up, snooze your alarm for at least fifteen minutes, get up when the second one goes off. Groan as you feel every single joint in your body pop after sitting up in bed. Wonder if you really need a corporate job to pay your bills (decide the answer is yes), and get up to feed the furious beast yowling from the bed. 

The ferocious beast in question has a routine as well. Perhaps not as important as yours, the cat knows when he’s supposed to be fed and when it’s even a minute past feeding time. Halloween takes his meals very seriously, which you respect. 

Your morning continues with the monotonous rhythm you’ve learned to appreciate: make coffee, shuffle back to your room into the ensuite bathroom for skin care, start your morning proper. The only thing that isn’t the same thing every morning is your playlist and your outfit of choice, leading both items up to fate to decide. 

A hint of spring is in the air when you step outside. It’s that kind of sunny day with a cool breeze that promises longer days of sun ahead, despite still being brisk in the morning and biting when the sun sets. 

Mornings during the days that hang between winter and spring are your favorite. You roll the windows down a little on your drive to work, fingers drumming against the steering wheel as you crawl along with all the other commuters. 

Buildings shoot up toward the sky on either side of you. Dozens of banks, private firms, buildings with multiple different businesses and food courts become your entire world as you navigate to the parking garage. It’s already full of cars, but you get special parking.

Well - special as of your promotion just a few weeks ago. The designated parking spot and title bump was all that had come with the promotion, though, much to your dismay. 

Still. You’d worked for this particular publishing house in the marketing department for close to a decade now. You weren’t quite as far up the ladder as you wanted to be, but you were trying to get there little by little. 

So close. No cigar. 

The elevator of the parking garage opens to reveal other office workers already filling the mirror-walled space. You step in as everyone makes room, clutching their bags and briefcases a little closer. You see Mingyu from creative and flash him a polite grin, which is answered with a bright one of his own and a small wave.

When the people not associated with your company shuffle off on other floors, Mingyu slides over closer to you. He’s one of the many designers in the art department, and definitely several rungs below your position, but you started the company at the same time together.

“How was your weekend?” He asks, wagging his brows up and down. 

You frown. His questions suggests there’s something salacious to your wild weekend spent reading books with Halloween, but you don’t think burning the bagel you ate for girl dinner or staying in the same shirt for forty-eight hours straight is what he’s looking for. 

“It was fine?” It comes out as a question. “How was yours?” 

“Hm. It was good. We went out to catch the big game. Seokmin got so drunk he vomited, and Vernon won all of the bets we placed before.” 

Mingyu leans forward, looking at you like you’re supposed to understand something. You don’t get it, looking him up and down with a pinched brow. 

“That’s nice?” Again, it comes out as a question. “Not for Seokmin, I guess.” 

His eyes narrow. Pin you to your spot against the elevator wall.

Then the elevator dings, signalling that you’re at his floor. Creative is an entire level down from marketing, all dim lights and glowing screens for the designers hard at work. Mingyu gets off, still looking suspicious as the elevator doors close and you shoot up another floor. 

Instead of focusing on it, you shrug it off. Mingyu has a penchant for being weird - a creative thing, in your opinion. As soon as the elevator door opens, his behavior is long forgotten as you slip into work mode. 

Everyone greets you with a polite smile or small wave on the marketing floor. The main office is filled with grey-walled cubicles, employees popping up to peer over walls with mugs of coffee and protein shakes and breakfast items as they ask their neighbors how the weekend was. 

A glass wall in the far back denotes the executive and director offices. You head for the one in the back, right corner. Instead of turning on your lights, you let the natural lighting from the floor-to-ceiling windows filter in, keeping the ambiance muted and relaxing. The only additional lights you flick on are the monitor light at your desk and a small salt lamp wedged between the books on one of the many shelves behind you. 

Your office is still slowly being decorated. You’d only moved in after your recent promotion, and it’s still bare of personalization, save for the salt lamp and a few things you’d moved in from your cubicle. 

And the coffee machine - your own private, blessed coffee machine in the corner on a small bar cart. That might be your favorite thing about your office. You like your coworkers - for the most part, anyway - but being able to bury yourself in your work without having to interact with all of them every time you want coffee is nice. 

Sitting down, you roll your shoulders. When your monitor flashes to life, you see the number of emails in your inbox and try not to groan out loud. You’re thrilled to be the new Senior Director of Marketing, but you’ve gone and made the mistake of becoming too important at work, most things unable to move forward without you playing some part in it.

In theory, that was one of the reasons Minho had broken up with you in the first place. Too buried in work, too many late nights at the office, too many dates or movie nights interrupted by the blue glow of your phone screen on your face while you answer urgent emails. 

The thing is - you don’t mind. It doesn’t bother you to pause and send a quick email, or to stay late and help get something launched. You like the intricacies of being a problem solver, and with as fast as your company is growing and publishing new titles, you’ve got challenge after challenge ahead of you. 

It’s easy to fall into the monotony of answering emails, joining virtual meetings and striking your pen through your to-do list. It fills three pages, but it feels good to cross something off, even if you’ve only completed two things. 

By lunchtime, someone is knocking on your window. You look up, surprised to see Seungkwan sticking his head in. He’s the Manager of Digital Marketing and Social Media and he’s dubbed himself as your assistant. 

Other duties as assigned, he always jokes, but you are thankful for him. 

“You have to eat,” he reminds you in a singsong voice, crossing his arms over his chest. His glasses are pushed up into his blonde hair. “Maybe you can take me to lunch and divulge every detail about your new romance.” 

That makes you sputter. “My what?” 

Looking like the cat that ate the canary, Seungkwan slips into your office, clapping his hands together. He sits on the edge of the couch in front of your desk, bounding with energy. 

“Come on,” he whispers, looking at you earnestly. “Everyone knows - you don’t have to keep it a secret anymore!”

“Keep what a secret?” 

He rolls his eyes. “You’re dating Vernon!”

You stare. “Who?” 

“Vernon! From IT!” 

It comes back in tunnel vision. Ninefold meeting tenfold, Minho and Glossy Hair Mina, Vernon (from IT). Suddenly you’re hot all over, feel it creeping up your neck and blooming across your cheeks. You clear your throat, leaning back in your chair as your fingers reach for your water. 

“I’m - oh!” You escape answering for a second by gulping down copious amounts of water, trying to cool the panic that is licking flames up your skin. “Right. Vernon… from IT.” 

“Honestly, he’s cute.”

“Ha. Ha. Yes. Um. Yeah.”

“You’re so cute when you’re flustered. How long have you been dating?”

“Uhh very new. Yes. Super new. I’m sorry - how did you hear about this?” 

“Mingyu told me, but Soonyoung told him and Joshua in sales told Soonyoung because Minho told the Always Closing group chat.” 

“The what?”

He sighs. “Ugh, do you keep up with anything? The sales floor has a group chat. It’s where Soonyoung gets all his tea because he and Joshua room together.” 

“Who the fuck is Joshua?” 

Seungkwan stares. “It is a wonder you even know who Vernon is. I swear you don’t know people you’ve worked with for years.” A thought seems to strike him and he gasps. “Oh my god is that why you’re always going to him for your fucked up passwords?” 

Something Vernon said comes back to you vaguely. Something about forgotten passwords when the cleaning crew throws out your sticky notes. Of course, no one would throw out your sticky notes if you weren’t dropping them all over the floor, but that’s neither here nor there. 

Bolting from your seat, you startle Seungkwan, whose brows disappear in his hairline as he stares up at you.

“Actually, I can’t do lunch today.”

He sighs. “Boss, you have to eat.”

“I am! I am going to lunch with my…. Vernon from IT.”

“Oooo.” He leans back, shaking his head and grinning at you. “Go on then. Make sure you wrap it before-”

“If you finish that sentence I will revoke your privilege to my coffee cart.” 

Seungkwan’s grin only gets wider. “Enjoy, boss.” 

In a flurry, you leave your office. Eyes follow you as you go and suddenly you’re unsure if people are looking at you because you’re walking so fast that you’re almost running, or if it’s because they think you’re dating Vernon). 

Your finger nearly breaks as you slam the button over and over again to shoot a few floors down. It doesn’t make the elevator go any faster. When the doors finally close and you begin to descend, you turn to the mirror walls and panic, tucking stray pieces of hair back into place and trying to fix the mascara smudges from staring at your screen for four straight hours.

A knot forms in your stomach. You press your damp palms against your dress pants, wiping viciously to try and keep the moisture at bay. When the elevator dings and the doors open to the silent hum of the IT department, you think you might vomit.

Unlike the marketing floor, no heads turn as you go. You try to maintain a normal pace this time, marching down the rows of cubicles before you realize you have no idea where Vernon sits. You pause awkwardly, standing on your tiptoes to try and see over the walls of cubicles to spot him.

“Can I help you?” A man sticks his head out of his cubicle, his headphones around his neck. He looks you up and down critically. “You’ll have to have proof of submitting a ticket before-”

“Vernon,” you interrupt him. “Vernon from IT? Where does he sit?” 

For a second, the guy narrows his eyes. Then a lightbulb seems to go off and he grins, leaning back in his chair. He looks far too pleased with himself, and there’s something oily and slick you don’t like about his gaze. “You’re her.” 

“I’m a senior director, yes.” 

That changes his tune immediately. He sits up, clearing his throat. “To the back on the left.” 

“Thanks.”

Following his lead, you pass by several empty cubicles, everyone seemingly at lunch. You take the corner as instructed and find a handful of men sitting in the same cubicle, one sitting atop a desk and swinging his legs, another leaning against the cubicle wall, and the last one sitting in the seat.

The one sitting in the seat is the quarry you seek, his eyes going wide when he sees you storming toward him. He goes rigid in his seat, clearing his throat and slapping the leg of the man sitting atop his desk. He kicks at Vernon before spotting you and immediately jumping down, straightening his shirt. 

Nervous energy crackles as all three sets of eyes settle on you. You stop right in front of his cubicle, trying to put on your bravest smile. 

“Hi?” Vernon asks, looking at the two men on either side of him. “Did you forget your password again?”

“What? No. I don’t do it that often.” He looks unsure, brows raised behind his glasses. You huff, putting  your hands on your hips. “Okay, I forget it sometimes. But no, that isn’t why I’m here.”

“Does your software need updating?”

“No, I-”

“Oh. I did forget to give Seungkwan that new phone he asked for on behalf of the social team. It came in last week - I’ll finish setting it up and-”

“Lunch!” You all but yell, startling all three men. “I came here for lunch.”

There’s a long pause. Vernon’s coworkers look like they’d rather be anywhere else than trapped by you. You ignore them in favor of a quick study of Vernon. He’s in dress pants and a button down shirt that is untucked and a little wrinkled. It’s a far cry from the casual way he was dressed at the bookstore, but it’s still not totally work appropriate. 

Still he pulls it off. There’s something casual and cool about it, aloof in a way that still looks good. His hair is even styled neatly, though a brown lock falls over his eyebrow as he leans forward and asks, “Lunch? The cafeteria is on the first floor.”

The man who had been sitting on his desk kicks him. “She’s asking you to go to lunch, dude.” 

“She’s not-” Vernon pauses and looks at you. “Are you asking me to go to lunch?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Your patience narrows to a tight smile, your words pinched between your teeth, “Because that’s what loving girlfriends do, sweetie.” 

The words land and have an immediate effect. Vernon flushes from the neck up, mouth opening and closing as he presses his palms against his thigh. The man who kicked him snickers and tries to hide it with a thinly veiled cough.

Your gaze narrows and he notices you watching, clearing his throat to stretch his hand toward you. “I’m Chan. It’s nice to meet… Vernon’s girlfriend?” 

You shake his head and say nothing, eyes drifting to the man leaning against the wall. He gives you a small salute. “Seokmin.”

“Oh.” You blink. “The puker?” 

His charming smile drops immediately as he looks at Vernon, smacking him on the shoulder. “You told her about that?”

“I didn’t tell her anything.” Vernon stands, shrugging away from both of his friends’ wandering eyes. “Sure, sweetie,” he answers you, giving you a plastic grin. “It’s your treat this week, right? At that very nice, very expensive steakhouse down the block.”

There’s a glimmer in his eyes that tells you Vernon will only play along if it’s by his rules. You’re at a disadvantage, so you grin and nod, willing to go by his rules for now. “That’s so right, darling. Let’s go.”

“Enjoy lunch!” Chan calls behind you as Vernon shuffles behind you, quickly trying to tuck his shirt. “Don’t do anything I-”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Vernon warns, quickening his step to match yours. “Sorry about him.” 

“Don’t worry, I’ve got my own version of him sitting in my office.” 

The elevator ride down to the first floor and the walk out onto the busy street is silent. It’s not the comfortable, easy silence you might have with Seungkwan or Mingyu - if Mingyu could wrap his head around silence. It's awkwardly silent, both of you looking anywhere but one another. 

You don’t know where you’re going, but Vernon leads you to a Michelin steakhouse down the block, true to his word. You glare at him when you step into the dark entryway where a host with hair as glossy as Mina’s greets you. 

“Two?” You both nod and she grins. “Right this way.”

Vernon follows her first, shuffling behind her as she leads the two of you into the dining room proper. It’s a beautiful establishment with lacquered floors, rich wooden tables draped with fine tablecloths and the kind of glassware that looks like real crystal. 

When you both sit down with menus in hand, the hostess leaves you and you lean forward, hissing, “How much money do you think I make?”

“More than I do in IT,” Vernon answers breezily, eyes roving the menu. For a second, his gaze flickers to meet yours over the top of the menu. It’s the first time he’s really looked at you since you marched into his office. “Consider it an apology meal for the mess you’ve got us in.”

“Hey! You played along?” 

“You’re right, I guess I could have just super embarrassed you in front of your ex-boyfriend. That would have been very polite of me.” 

That stumps you. You open and close your mouth, feeling a bit like a fish. You suppose that’s fair - what was Vernon supposed to do when you’d grabbed him in the middle of a bookstore and staked your claim? 

Sighing, you lean back as your server gives you a moment of respite, filling your glasses with water and going over the specials. When they leave, you grab your glass and take several gulps of water, trying to cool your head. 

It only works a little.

“I didn’t know Minho was going to tell the entire world.” 

“Really? Minho has the biggest mouth at this company. You should see his Teams messages.”

“You can do that?” 

“On the clock?” He asks. When you shake your head, assuring it stays between you, he nods. “Yeah, we can see everything you do.”  

“Oh.” You think of all the terrible things you’ve searched on your work computer like how to get over a breakup and how to tell if my ex still likes me. “Anyway, I didn’t know he was going to say anything.” 

The server returns to take your orders. You order some sort of steak salad at random while Vernon orders something blessedly modest. As the server parts ways, Vernon leans back in his chair and looks at you again, expression unreadable. 

“Well,” he eventually says. “No harm done once you tell everyone we’re not dating.”

“Once I what?” 

“Well you’ll have to-”

“No way.”

“What?” 

“Do you know how embarrassing that would be?” 

He raises a brow. “More embarrassing than grabbing some dude in the bookstore and claiming he’s your boyfriend.” 

The air leaves your lungs and you melt into the seat, your misery showing. “I already said sorry.” 

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Just tell everyone you broke up with me.” 

You snort. “No one would believe that.” 

“Why?” 

Instead of answering him immediately, you busy yourself unraveling silverware. It’s a hard question to answer, not because you don’t know the answer but because you don’t want to tell him. Vernon is quiet, though. Patient. 

He doesn’t press you for an answer, happy to wait you out until you’ve folded your napkin and placed it on your lap, and once again drained the rest of your water. It does nothing for your nerves as you fixate on a spot atop the table. 

“I don’t… date.” 

“You dated Minho.”

“Yeah. That’s uh… it. It’s kind of a running joke that I am undateable.”

He frowns at that. “Respectfully, I find that incredibly hard to believe.” 

“Thanks. I think.” You pick at a string in the tablecloth. “Anyway, no one would buy that I ended the first relationship I’ve had since Minho. I didn’t even end the last one and sort of clung to it in a way that was sort of embarrassing.” 

“I see.”

You’re unsure if he really does. When Minho had broken up with you, you’d attempt to make arguments to keep him around. Offered less work hours, even said you’d go to therapy to talk about your insane need for success. He hadn’t wanted any of it, and you’d eventually realized that he just… didn’t want you. 

They never did, when people realized what dating you entails. Everyone wants a woman who works hard. They like the illusion of it, the woman who gets up early in the morning and goes to workout before going to her corporate job and girl bossing all day long. They desire the woman who dresses fashionably, who wears designer tags and commands a room all day before coming home to make an effortless dinner followed by a luxurious night routine. 

And you get it. You want to be that too. But the truth is most days you wake up past your alarm and rush to the office wearing shoes that don’t match, and sometimes you come home so late and burned out from your job that you eat a handful of shredded cheese over the sink with a stick of beef jerky, only to do it all again the next day.

That wasn’t what anyone wanted. At least, not in your experience. 

“Anyway,” you clear your throat. “You’re right, or whatever. I should just tell them I lied. I’ve given worse news. Just you know - less personal.” 

For a few minutes, Vernon is quiet. You don’t look up to meet his gaze. Instead you watch the ice cubes in your glass melt, little beads of condensation zigzagging down the curve of your glass. 

A sigh makes you look up at Vernon. “What if we dated for like a month or something?” 

“What?”

“I don’t mean really date,” he offers quickly, sensing your surprise. For some reason, that stings a little. You swallow it down past the knot forming in your throat. “It’ll get people off your back or whatever and we can just mutually end things.” 

“Really? You’d do that.” 

He shrugs a shoulder. “I guess, yeah.”

“You can break up with me,” you promise eagerly, leaning forward with the new promise of a solution to your problem. “Everyone will believe it. Just say I work too much and I’m too obsessed with my career.” 

An uneasy gaze flickers in Vernon’s eyes. “It can be mutual,” he says firmly. “That way it ends nicely.”

“Fine. Everyone will think one thing anyway, you’ll get out without a scratch, trust me. Are you sure you’re willing to do this? I can… suck it up and tell everyone I made it up.”

“Do you really want to?” 

“No,” you admit.

“Then it’s settled.” He shrugs, heaving a heavy sigh. “I’ll give you a month and then we can mutually end things.” 

Sticking your hand over the table, you offer it for Vernon to shake. His mouth twitches a little as he smiles, leaning forward to take your hand. His is warm and softer than you imagined, enveloping yours firmly as he shakes. 

“Deal,” you smile, feeling a glimmer of hope. 

Just like that, Vernon (from IT) becomes Vernon (your boyfriend). 

Sort of.

-

Vernon doesn’t consider himself anxious. He’s never really dealt with anxiety, and there are only a few things that can make him nervous in the world. The few times he remembers being nervous were when he was in a bidding war for a limited edition Millenium Falcon model, in line at a meet-and-greet for his favorite band when he was sixteen, and when he lost his virginity to Carley Waters in his sophomore year of college. 

He’d won the bidding war and managed to not sound like an idiot meeting his idols, but he definitely came immediately after putting his dick inside Carley. Two out of three were pretty good odds, all things considered. 

Vernon is more nervous than all three of those events combined as he checks himself in the mirror for the millionth time. Usually, he doesn’t really think twice about what he wears to the bar on the weekend. He has fifteen of the same shirt in the same colors, and his jeans all look the same, even though he thinks they’re different. 

Now, though, he has the added element of you. He cannot recall a single time that you’ve ever agreed to go out with your work friends - and to your surprise, not his, you do have the same work friends - but tonight is different. 

Tonight, you’re supposed to be dating. 

It’s weird. Chan and Seokmin agree it’s weird. He keeps no secrets from them and had already told them about the encounter at the bookstore. They’ve sworn themselves to secrecy, though Vernon cannot fathom how they just go with it. 

She’s really hot, Chan had said after a few sips of beer. Fuck it, right? 

She’s the third most executive person in marketing, Seokmin warned. Be careful. 

Both are true. Vernon had acknowledged Chan’s point the first time he’d seen you in Information Technology a little over two years ago. You’d been dating Minho then and entirely untouchable - still are, kind of - and Vernon had been the only person at the office early enough to help you out. He’d been new then, and often came in the earliest to get started on the overload of tasks he was always given as the junior employee. 

Even then, Vernon thought you were the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. Sure, you had on mismatched shoes and there was a breathy chaos to you that would probably stress most people out, but he sort of liked it. Thought that it was different in a good way, and spoke to the sort of person who worked really hard and didn’t fake their way through the day. 

Vernon had realized Seokmin's point right after he’d learned Chan’s. As soon as he helped you login to your computer, he’d realized you were a Senior Manager of Marketing. Not a huge title in a company so big, but high enough that Vernon thought twice about his attraction to you. 

Now, both of their points are moot. You’re still attractive but that doesn’t really change the situation - makes it harder, even. Vernon had never really dreamed of an actual relationship with you and now that he’s found himself in a fake one, he’s not really sure what to do with the acknowledgement that he’s attracted to you. 

Worse is that he doesn’t actually know if he’s allowed to date you. Vernon is a senior coordinator in the IT department and you’re a senior director. Perhaps not in his department or directly overseeing him, but it’s a high enough position that Sekomin is right - it could mean trouble if this goes poorly. 

So why the fuck did he offer to fake date you for a month? 

As someone in Information Technology, most people think Vernon is smart. He doesn’t consider himself to be above average intelligence, and as he slides his sneakers on his feet to go pick you up for a night out, he thinks everyone is wrong about him - he’s fucking stupid.

Looking in the mirror one more time, Vernon decides it’s as good as it’s ever going to get. Jeans, a black shirt and a hat facing backward is all he really knows how to style. He shoves his keys in his pocket, a tiny vial of contact solution just in case, and grabs his phone as he heads out the door. 

Your apartment complex isn’t that far from his. He finds it with ease, surprised that you don’t live in one of those high-rise apartments that all the other executives live in. The apartment is pretty modest with only three floors and rows of respectable Toyota Camrys and Honda Civics. 

When he spots you coming down the stairs, his traitorous heart does that same little staccato it had last weekend when he saw you at the bookstore. He hadn’t expected to run into you outside of work and only panicked for a split second before he realized that you didn’t recognize him. 

And then you’d called him your boyfriend. 

Recovering from the memory of it, Vernon stares as you open the door to his car, flashing a tight smile as you slide in. He doesn’t know what he thought you might wear on the weekend, but he’s surprised to see you in jeans, a black form-fitted shirt tucked in, and a simple purse on your arm. 

“What?” You ask, a little breathless. He sees the sticky shine of lipgloss on your mouth and squeezes the wheel, fighting the urge to lean over and taste it. 

Insane, he thinks as he puts the car in gear. He’s gone insane. 

“Nothing. I guess I just thought you’d live somewhere nicer.” 

“Oh.”

Your shift in tone makes him realize how it sounded. “Sorry - not like that. I thought it would be somewhere really fancy. You’re a senior director and all that.” 

“I only got promoted a few weeks ago. And it was not a pay raise, trust me.” 

“Seriously?” You glance sidelong at him, pausing like you’ve said something you shouldn’t. His lips twitch and he says, “Not on the clock.”

That gets you to grin, leaning back into the passenger seat. “Only came with an office and title bump. I was already doing all the work of a senior director so they felt like they needed to bump my title to protect themselves, I think.”

“That’s kind of shitty.”

You hum. “Is it like that in IT?” 

“I think it’s like that anywhere.”

“Good point.” 

A comfortable silence falls over the car. It’s not at all like the awkward, stilted lunch the two of you had at the beginning of the week. He had been sweating through his shirt that time around, though you didn’t seem to notice. He’d been a little angry with you too, for getting the both of you into this mess. 

But… it had been his idea to help you save face. He didn’t have to. He didn’t owe you anything, and he believes you when you say you would come clean and admit you lied through your teeth. Maybe that’s why he offered to help anyway, your willingness to swallow the pain of embarrassment to relieve him of the facade. 

Library is a hole in the wall bar that Vernon and his friends from work like to go to on Saturday nights. It’s sort of a funny joke, a bunch of professionals from the publishing industry getting drunk and eating shitty bar food in a place named for the very buildings they dedicate their life to, in a weird, roundabout, mathematical way. 

Vernon has friends outside of work that come too, but tonight it’s just the usual crowd: Chan, Seokmin and Seokmin’s girlfriend, Mingyu and Soonyoung from creative, and some of the people from the sales team. The sales team is only there by virtue of Joshua, who is the only person from sales Vernon remotely tolerates. 

Vernon isn’t exactly sure what a sales team does at a publishing company anyway. 

When Vernon parks, he sees you take a deep breath. He averts his eyes, feeling like he’s intruding on a moment before you brace yourself and get out of the car suddenly. He makes a noise and panics to follow you. You’re already plunging ahead like you’re storming into battle, and perhaps in your mind you are.

He jogs to catch up. “Wait!” 

You stop, turning to face him with a dubious expression. “What?”

“We should walk in together.”

“Oh.” You blink. It’s a bit cute but Vernon shoves that down. “You’re right. Sorry. I sort of… set my mind to the task and forgot.”

“You can’t approach this like you approach work.”

“I can’t?”

He laughs. “No. Relationships aren’t jobs - so a fake one isn’t either. You have to try and appear like this is natural. If you come in all to-do list and checkmarking the boxes, it’s going to look weird.” 

“Oh.” 

The confidence you had a second before deflates. He feels a little guilty, reaching out to take your hand before he realizes what he’s doing. Your hands are cold in his but he doesn’t mind, wrapping his fingers in yours as you stare at him like he’s grown three heads.

Maybe he has. 

“We should walk in together. Maybe holding hands.” 

“Right.” You lick your lips and he tries to give you a smile more confident than what he’s feeling. His heart is hammering in his chest, both at the way your hand squeezes his nervously and at the preposterousness of it all. “You’re kind of good at this.” 

“I just have a different perspective.”

“The perspective of someone who knows how to date versus… whatever I am.” 

He hears the joke in your tone so he lets himself laugh a little. He starts walking, tugging you next to him. “Not exactly. I just watch a lot of movies, including romances.” 

“Really? What’s your favorite one?” 

“Uhhh.” He thinks about it as you both approach the door. He doesn’t answer for a second while he flashes the security outside his ID. “I really like The Proposal. With Sandra Bullock.” 

Instead the bar is filled with modern music at a reasonable level and small, wooden tables with chipped tops. There is nothing about the bar that actually looks like a library, save the single shelf shoved in the corner with beat up comic books and an insane amount of hentai that Soonyoung put there. 

“You mean the one where the boss fake dates her employee… and they work at a publishing company?” 

As soon as you ask the question, Vernon realizes the irony. He looks at you with a wide gaze, pausing at the entrance to look at you. Your mouth folds on itself, trying not to laugh as you too realize the irony of the movie. 

“Yeah, so that’s weird I guess,” he admits. He tugs on your hand. “Come on, we always sit in the back.”

You follow him wordlessly. The crowd isn’t big inside, but there are enough people that you have to shuffle a little closer to him. He catches the scent of your perfume - it smells like sweet tobacco and vanilla, something that is subtle with a little bit of spice. 

Turning around the corner of the bar, you see a wall entirely taken by booths with pool tables in the open space. Mingyu and Seokmin’s girlfriend are already fighting over the felted green as she points a pool cue at him, threatening. Seokmin is lounging in one of the booths, watching on with a dopey grin that makes Vernon roll his eyes.

Everyone else sits in in a variety of booths, an entire corner dedicated to the dozen or so of them who have made this their home for the last two years. Vernon keeps you close, feeling his hands go clammy when all the eyes turn to the two of you. Despite the rumor having spread far and wide, it’s clear that surprise ripples through the crowd at seeing evidence of your relationship. 

The fake one, that is. Naturally. 

Instead of going directly to the safety - or danger, in this case - of his friends, Vernon heads to the bar. He needs to take the edge off immediately, though he knows he can’t get too crazy. The drive home is short, but even if you weren’t in his car for the evening, he doesn’t like to tempt fate. 

Next to him at the bartop, you drop his hand to press your palms against the sticky wood. You make a face and he laughs before ordering a simple rum and coke. You order the same but with a lime and the bartender flashes you a charming grin.

Vernon glances at you and realizes you don’t even register the bartender. You’re chewing your lip and fidgeting, pulling at the sleeves of your shirt and shifting from foot-to-foot. A pang goes through him. 

“Relax.” You look up at him, eyes wide. “We’re going to do fine.”

“What if I fuck it up?” You ask, voice barely audible as you lean in. “They’re going to see right through me, Vernon from IT. They’re going to have one conversation with us and be like ‘no way is he dating that lunatic.’” 

“For starters, you’re not a lunatic.” You give him a look and he amends, “Not in the way that’s bad, anyway.”

“How do you know? We barely know each other.” 

You’ve got him there. The bartender comes back with your drinks and you take yours, draining half of it before remembering the lime. He watches you squeeze it into the drink while he contemplates his answer. 

“I guess I just have a feeling for these things. You don’t seem very crazy to me.”

“Thanks.” 

“And I guess I’m getting to know you, so there’s that.” 

You sigh. “Right.” 

“You’ll do fine. But maybe don’t call me Vernon from IT.”

“Right.” 

“Come on.” 

With wavering confidence, you follow Vernon over to the crowd from work. Everyone greets you warmly, though a little unsure. He notes the comments about being shocked to see you outside the four walls of your office, a joke you take in stride. 

It’s clear you don’t know how to interact with everyone at first. It’s not to say that you’re stiff or awkward, but Vernon can see the rigid set in your shoulders and the way your eyes follow the conversation but don’t actually contribute. 

You have an effect on others as well. For those who are a little more unfamiliar with you, they can’t seem to puzzle out why one of the higher ups is here guzzling down rum and cokes. And you are guzzling them down, carving a path to and from the bar at a rate that impresses Vernon. 

“How are things going?” Chan slips into the seat you just vacated to march to the bar again. “She seems surprisingly normal.”

“Why is that surprising?” 

Chan gives him a look. “She’s a suit.”

“I don’t think so,” Vernon laughs. “Trust me on that.” 

Chan hums unconvinced, watching you at the bar. “She’s nice, at least.”

“Very.” 

“Don’t fall in love with her or anything.”

“Weird thing to say, man.”

“Yeah, well. She’s attractive, nice, and no offense, a little weird. She’s exactly your type.” 

That makes him frown. “What’s weird about her? Also, would that be so bad?”

“She knew the radius of the sun and the verbatim definition of parsecs. I’m not answering that second question because I shouldn’t have to.” Chan claps him on the shoulder, looking over Vernon’s head. “She’s coming back, but seriously. Be careful.” 

Chan scoots away, flashing Vernon a look that makes the single drink Vernon has had sour in his stomach. Then you’re there, sitting down next to him, swaying a little bit. He smells sweet tobacco and vanilla, his eyelids fluttering for a second as you shift a little too close - or what would be too close, if you weren’t fake dating. 

“What’s that look on your face?” You ask, sipping your drink. He wonders if it’s appropriate to ask if you need water.

“What look on my face?” 

“You know, like-” You try to pinch your brows together and your mouth puckers downward. He feels himself smile and he shakes his head. “Sort of frowny.” 

“Nothing.” You look at him skeptically. “Hey, I have a question.” 

You pause, looking a little panicked. “Okay.”

“What’s the radius of the sun?” 

“Oh!” You visibly brighten and it’s like watching the sun spill over the lip of the horizon, all gold and liquid, warm and bright. “432,690 miles. Surface temperature is about 5,772 Kelvin.” 

Suddenly, Chan’s warning feels very, very real. Vernon tries to hide his smile, looking down at the table. Meanwhile, you start rattling off facts about the sun, not taking a single breath as you explain you memorized them from when you were working on the marketing for a line of textbooks about space early on in your career. 

Vernon lets you talk. Lets you somehow divert back to work, watching as you animatedly walk him through the process of what you do. How you think. It’s fascinating, and he’s not really sure how anyone else could find it tiresome, seeing the way you light up when you tell him about a project that Seungkwan’s team killed it on. 

Your pride is palpable, your energy shifting from unsure to confident. 

Suddenly, you pause, leveling Vernon with a hard stare. He says nothing, watching the way you drink him in, something beneath the surface of your gaze he can’t quite read. “Can I say something?” 

“On the clock?” he asks, grinning. You shake your head and he gestures for you to continue. 

“You have pretty eyes. I still like when you wear glasses, though. They suit you.” 

Yeah. Vernon thinks Chan’s warning is very real. 

-

Running in heels is hard. You don’t know how anyone manages to do it in movies. Not that you think anything that happens in movies is real, but you can’t imagine how they make it work for the scene. You nearly break your ankle three times on your sprint to IT and you’re sure you scare the daylights out of Chan when you come tearing around the corner.

You shout a greeting over your shoulder but don’t stop until you’re hissing Vernon’s name while rushing into his cube. He flinches, turning around to look at you mid-task. You’re heaving, putting a hand on your hip as you straighten, trying to suck down air. 

“Say no!”

He’s visibly confused. “To what?”

“Just say no!”

Before Vernon can ask you another thing, you hear Minho’s voice. Your heart thunders in your ribcage as you try to lean against the wall of Vernon’s cube, nearly missing it. You stumble a few steps and he catches you by the elbow, lightning quick as he helps steady you. 

When he drops his grip, the place where Vernon had held you moments before is warm. You try not to think about it, heart thundering doubletime as you watch Minho approach, a lazy swing to his step and a smirk on his face. 

“Funny I found you here!” 

“Why would that be funny? My Vernon - my boyfriend is down here.” 

From the corner of his eye, you see Vernon wince. You’re not doing a great job at keeping it casual, but you’re also still out of breath from sprinting down the stairs to beat Minho here and warn Vernon. Seungkwan had barely been able to give you the heads up that Minho was going to ask for a double date, and you simply couldn’t have that.

Even as you near the end of your second week dating - fake dating - Vernon, you’re unsure the two of you can get through a date with someone who actually knows you. Vernon might be able to give some details on the surface, but you dated Minho for a year - how could Vernon ever hope to keep up? 

Minho leans against Chan’s cube. Luckily it’s vacant of its usual occupant - Chan hates Mihno, as you’ve recently learned through a lunch with him and Vernon. 

“Glad I caught you together, then,” Minho says, though you think he’s not that glad. But what do you know? “I wanted to see if you were busy on-”

“Yes.” You flash him a too-wide grin with too many teeth. 

“I didn’t even give you the date.”

“We’re always very busy.”

“Ah.” Minho scratches the back of his neck and gives Vernon a look akin to sympathy. “Never has time, does she? Always all work, no play. I wanted to see if you guys wanted to go to dinner with Mina and I tomorrow night, but…” He shrugs. “Same old.”

You try not to let your exterior crack, but Minho’s words cut right through your outer shell to the softness of you. Without fail he manages to highlight this obsession you have with work, making it sound worse every single time. 

Behind you, Vernon shifts closer. You become acutely aware of him suddenly, warmth radiating from him as his chest presses against the back of your arm and his hand slips to the middle of your back, featherlight, like he’s afraid to touch you. He smells like ocean driftwood and salt, something that makes you think of warmer days. Fresh fruit. Cold water. 

Fighting a shiver, you freeze up, hyper aware of him. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Vernon says gently. “She doesn’t work that much. She makes plenty of time for me.”

Minho’s eye twitches, the only sign he’s annoyed. As a trained salesperson, his tells are always subtle, nearly undetectable. But you know him inside and out, can see the sliver of annoyance there.

Satisfaction rules supreme, a smile tugging at your lips until Vernon adds, “We can make time for them, right?” 

You snap your head to the side, eyes meeting his. Vernon has beautiful eyes. You’d said as much the other night when you had a little too much to drink, staring up at him without his glasses. He looks good without them, but you like the way the frames sit on his nose, the way they reflect light against the liquid brown of his iris. 

Now, those eyes are staring back at you straight on. There’s something fierce in them, and though you barely know him, you have a sneaking suspicion Vernon is annoyed. Not with you but with Minho. 

Still… 

“Are you sure?” 

Your question is gentle. For a moment, you forget Minho is there at all. You’re looking at Vernon, trying to puzzle out why he would say yes to something insane again. It was lucky enough he’d offered to participate in this little charade to save your pride, and now here he is doing it again, unprompted. 

Vernon’s mouth twitches. He nods, hand pressing into your back a little firmer before he drops it away. You turn to Minho, who watches the two of you with a peculiar expression. “Alright,” you tell him. “It’s a date.” 

“Great. I’ll send you the details.” 

When Minho leaves, you turn to Vernon, the question on the tip of your tongue. He doesn’t give you a chance, shooting you a sidelong glance as he says, “Why is he always bringing up your work schedule?” 

You wince. Vernon either doesn’t notice or is nice enough not to say anything. Instead of answering right away, you sit on top of Vernon’s desk, feet dangling a little. He makes room for you, turning his chair to face you and give you his full attention. 

He’s dressed the same as always today, but you notice his shirt is ironed and tucked in neatly. Rubbing his brow, he slides his glasses up on his head, pressing his fingers along his eye sockets like they’re strained. 

“What kind of stuff do you do?” You ask instead of answering his question. You gesture to his multiple computer screens. “Besides help me figure out my passwords.” 

“Lots of stuff. It’s mostly small things like remoting into people’s computers to help them solve their issues. I spend a majority of my day showing people how to unmute themselves on their virtual meeting software.” 

“Do you like it?”

He shrugs. “It’s got a rhythm to it that I like. I like having a to-do list every day and I can pretty much always know what to expect.” 

“That does sound nice. And you can spy on everyone’s messages right?”

He raises his brow. “On the clock?” That makes you smile and you shake your head. “I could, but I don’t. There are a ton of people who forget us and HR can see all their shit, though.” 

“Ooo like what?” 

He sucks in air through his teeth, “Man, I don’t think I can tell you.”

You can tell he’s teasing and you scoff, kicking out with your foot toward his knee. He dodges you easily with a playful grin. “Come on!” 

“I’ll tell you off the clock. Real off the clock.” 

“Fine. Speaking of - are you busy tonight?” He raises his brows in question. “We should probably meet up and try to flesh out some details of our uh… relationship. I know some things about you but not a lot. Like, when is your birthday?”

“February 18.” 

You slap your hand on top of his desk. “Vernon! That’s super soon! Are you doing anything for it?”

“Nah. I don’t ever want to make a fuss and it's close to Valentine’s Day so sometimes people are doing things retroactively.” 

You hum, displeased with the answer, but you file it away for later. “So are you free tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool, you can come over to my place. Do you like pizza? You have to like pizza, right? You’re a boy.”

“A lot of boys like pizza, yes. Specifically me.” 

“Good. Seven?” 

“Seven.” 

-

A knock at the door makes you look up from your computer. It takes a second for your eyes to adjust, the light outside the office windows long fading with the setting sun and the only other source the salt lamp behind you and the burn of the safety lights in the main cubicles.

Vernon leans against the door frame, resting his head against it as he peers at you. For a second, you forget about everything except the way he looks leaned against the frame, his glasses perfectly perched on his nose and hair soft with wear from the day. 

Then, you lurch with realization, gasping and looking at your watch. “It’s seven.”

“It’s seven,” he agrees, laughing gently. 

You bolt from the seat, groaning and grabbing things to shove in your bag. In the process, you knock over a cup and a curse flies out your lips. He pushes off the door, walking over to help you tame the chaos. 

“Easy,” he admonishes. “All good here, don’t panic.”

“I’m really sorry. I got stuck working through this media plan that someone asked for and I completely lost track of time.”

“It’s okay.” 

The panic welling up inside you calms down as you look up at him. Vernon says nothing further, picking up your cup and righting the pens that you’ve knocked over. His movements are casual, straightening the things on your desk until he’s satisfied and steps away. 

You prepare for annoyance, for the same expression you’re used to when you’re late to an event or have missed a thing, when you’ve yet again lost track of time holed up in your office and yet… Vernon just gives you an easy smile and a shrug.

No annoyance. No judgment. Just… Vernon. 

Perhaps tenfold isn’t so bad. 

“It’s not pizza, but there's a tiny little bar a few blocks down that I really like. They serve food.” 

“Yeah?”

He nods and hesitates. “It’s… themed, though.”

“That’s okay. I like a theme.”

The theme in question isn’t so much of a theme as it is an entire franchise. You stand in the doorway of Cantina Far Away, mouth parted as you drink in the sights and sounds of the Star Wars themed bar. 

A circular bar sits in the middle of the small establishment. There isn’t a ton of room to recreate the iconic corner of the world where you were first introduced to Han Solo as a kid, but there’s just enough to make the magic work. 

Kegs and other apparatuses hang from the ceiling of the stone top bar. Lights track underneath the bar top and in the ceiling, giving the dim illusion that it’s permanently dusk inside. Small, round tables fill the main space, with three booths lined against the back wall. An R2-D2 replica stands beside C3-PO in the corner, and a familiar soundtrack plays through the sound system.

“If you want to go somewhere else-”

“Do they have blue milk?” 

Vernon pauses. “What?” 

You look up at him, grinning. “Do they have the blue milk?”

“They have something on their menu like that, yeah. I don’t know what it is.”

“I always wanted to drink the blue milk as a kid.”

“Alright.” He gestures to the bar, which is mostly empty. “Let’s get you blue milk.”

Popping up on a stool, you can’t help but crane your neck upward to look at the bar from this angle. It truly looks like every part of it was taken from the movie set. You run your hand atop the bar’s surface to realize it’s actually wood that looks like stone, marveling at the smoothness. 

Behind the bar, two bartenders move in sync, dressed in Jedi robes. When they approach, you both order the blue milk - you, because you demand to know what it tastes like, Vernon, in solidarity. 

Vibrating with excitement, you turn to look at Vernon. “When I was a kid, watching Star Wars was one of the few things my mom and I got to do together.” 

“One of the few things?”

You nod, clapping your hands excitedly when the bartender brings you whatever concoction the blue milk is. It comes in a tall glass and is clear, baby blue and frothy at the top. Leaning over, you take a whiff. It smells vaguely coconutty and you narrow your eyes, leaning forward to take a tentative sip.

Coconut rum hits your tongue and you cringe. Vernon does too, making a face and sticking his tongue out as he immediately shoves the drink away from him. You laugh, not even caring that you hate it. It tastes nothing like you expected and you don’t really like coconut, but it strikes a nostalgic chord. 

“My mom was a single parent and worked really hard at a law firm,” you eventually answer, taking another sip and cringing. Vernon orders something more generic - a rum and coke for you both. “But she always made time on the weekend if I really wanted to do a Star Wars marathon and she took off work for all the prequel releases to take me.”

“That’s cute. My mom was really into it too. Want to know a secret?”

“Yes.”

“My first name is Hansol. A little inspired by Han Solo. I prefer to go by Vernon with everyone who isn’t my family, though.”

That makes you smile. “I like it, though. Your mom has good taste like mine. Think they’d be friends?”

He blushes. “Maybe.” 

You realize how forward of a question it is. You avert your gaze to your blue drink, sipping it and grimacing. Vernon chuckles and says, “You don’t have to drink it.”

“I don’t have to do a lot of things but I do anyway.” 

“Hmm. Like what?” 

“Ugh. I don’t know? Attend meetings all day?”

“I think you do have to do that.”

You scrunch your nose. “Alright, fair.” 

“Tell me about your job.” 

You glance at him, brows raised. “You want me to talk about work?”

“It’s obvious you like what you do, and by the sounds of it, working hard runs in the family. Tell me what you like about it.” 

That makes you sigh as you push the ice around in your glass. What do you like about your job? Well, you like a lot of things and you hate a lot of things. So you start listing them, telling Vernon that you like the routine and you enjoy having a rhythm to your day. You like feeling proud when you can solve a problem no one else can, or when you lead your team through chaos and they look at you like you’re a god who showed them the way.

You like that you can be an authority in the room but you don’t feel like a dictator, and that now when you talk, people listen. Your team is your favorite, loving the way you and Seungkwan work in tandem, and the way the creative department likes to pick your brain. Mingyu and Soonyoung are always asking for your feedback, even if your opinion doesn’t matter in the hierarchy of their world.

The dislikes though… well, you dislike that you never have enough time in the day. That you’re always in a meeting and feel like you leave your team drowning in work picking up the slack. Hate that you get time blindness and sit in your office for hours past dinner to get something right, to get something perfect.

Hate that because you like what you do, everyone thinks you don’t have a life or don’t want a life. And that leads you to the center of the entire issue with your relationship with Minho. 

You pull away like you’re approaching a particularly purple bruise when you near the topic of Minho. Your blue drink is gone and you order something more normal instead. The coke and rum sizzles on your tongue as Vernon looks at you expectantly. 

“I’m doing all the talking,” you mutter, a little defensive. “What’s your favorite color?” 

“Blue.”

“What kind of blue.” 

“Blue like that very nasty milk you just drank.” You stick your tongue out and Vernon smiles. His smile is like a burning star at the center of a solar system, glowing and bright and warm. It gives life. “What’s yours?”

“Deep red. Like… wine or burgundy. What’s your favorite movie?”

“Ah, not that question. I’m a bit of a cinephile.”

“Too bad. You have to pick one.” 

Vernon thinks about it. The tip of his finger traces the condensation of his glass lazily and you hyperfocus on it, watching the way he catches the bead of liquid every time. He has nice fingers, you realize. The thought makes you clench and suddenly wonder if you need to walk out of the bar down to the church to confess the sin of your mind.

Not that you’re religious, but maybe you should be, with where your mind has wandered. 

“I like The Princess Bride.”

You gasp, grabbing him by the wrist and shaking it excitedly. “My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father, prepare to die!” 

Vernon’s laughter is infectious. You both fall into a fit of giggles, quoting your favorite parts of the movie. It’s nice - this is nice. It’s unexpected and you’re a little unsure how you got here, but Vernon makes the pressure of getting to know one another in preparation to fake date in front of your ex fade away.

Until, of course, you remember that’s why you’re at the bar and the thought suddenly sobers you. 

Straightening, you ask, “Why’d you want to go on a double date, anyway? You don’t owe me that.” 

“He seemed kind of smug. I thought it was annoying.” 

You hum, studying him. “It’s a bit risky. I dated him for a year… if there’s anyone who knows anything about me, it’s probably him.” 

“I can always just hack into your data and learn everything about you.” You stare at him, mouth opens. His grin grows. “I’m kidding. I mean I probably could but I’m not a hacker.”

“Are you sure? You’re a bit suspicious, Vernon Chwe.” 

“Hansol.” You frown in confusion. His tone is gentle, eyes soft when he murmurs, “You can call me Hansol. You know… to make it um. Seems legit.”

“Hansol.” You try out the name, liking the way it fits on your tongue. His eyes are dark and you feel like you could fall into them - you kind of want to. “Hansol. I like it.”

Maybe you don’t need to go to that church to beg for forgiveness after all. What you think you need might be divine intervention to stop the butterflies in your stomach when you say his name, or the nervous shake in your hand when you see him smile. 

Not Vernon (from IT) but Hansol. 

-

Hansol (from IT) is late when he picks you up. For once, you’re just glad it’s not you. Your heart beats a little faster when you see him pull up in his nondescript, black RAV4. He waves through the window when he sees you, a shy smile on his face as he reaches to turn down the music. 

Inside the car smells distinctly like Hansol - driftwood, salt, a little bit of the air freshener that has long since dried but still sways under his rearview mirror. He looks good tonight, dressed in ripped jeans, a black shirt and a black leather jacket. He’s sans glasses, and though he looks good, you miss them a little. 

Hansol without the glasses is a little intimidating. Especially this version of him that grins when you settle into the seat next to him, his brows slightly raised as though to ask if you’re good. When you nod, his grin tilts upward again and he puts the car and drive, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gear shift tapping to the beat of the music. 

It feels like you’re radiating nervous energy, but you relax as Hansol asks about your day. He’s good at that, eliminating whatever weight is sitting on your shoulders or whatever residual stress you’ve got from work. You don’t feel so… well. On the clock. 

The thought makes you squirm in your seat, pulling the edge of your dress down your thighs a little. You picked it out as a last minute choice, unsure whether you’re trying to dress to impress or dress to show you don’t care what Minho thinks of you.

Hansol notices you fidgeting. “You alright?”

“Kind of nervous.”

“Any reason in particular?”

You blow out air, your head smacking against the headrest. “On the clock?”

“Off,” he says with a grin.

“I feel like I’m going to fucking blow it.”

“How so?”

“What if he asks me to kiss you?”

The words are out before you can stop them. It isn’t until you’re met with silence that you realize what you’ve said. You’ve certainly stuck your foot in your mouth on more than one occasion. You do it often, and quite wonderfully, truthfully. It has taken years of practice to stop flubbing presentations and pitches at work, but that doesn’t mean you don’t say insane shit.

Like right now, when you tell Hansol that of all the things you’re nervous about, the very slim, tiny percent of a chance of being asked to kiss him is at the top of the list. 

And yet, because it’s Hansol, he grins and says, “Damn, Minho’s a freak like that? He likes to ask people to kiss so he can watch?”

Just like that, the tension eases. You laugh, hand flying your mouth to try and suppress it. His eyes are on the road, but they glitter when you catch a glimpse of his face in the headlines, flashing from dark to liquid gold for a split second. 

“Okay,” you admit, laughter dying down. “He’s definitely not going to ask that. It’s just one of those irrational fears, especially with him.”

“Why especially?”

“I feel like he’s always trying to prove that he was right when he broke up with me. Or I guess, in general. He loves being right and sometimes it’s like he’s trying to force a gotcha moment.” 

Hansol is silent as he turns into the parking lot. You say nothing, watching as he navigates to find a parking space. The restaurant is busy and there’s a valet, but Hansol is determined to find his own. He does - very close to the entrance - letting out a happy noise as a car backs out.

Car in park, he turns to look at you. “Can I say something? Not on the clock.”

Your heart skips a little. “Sure.”

“Minho is an asshole.” You smile, looking down at your hands folded in your lap. “And you’re going to get through dinner just fine because he’s an asshole, and you’re not.” 

“Are you sure?”

His laugh is full. “I’m actually pretty confident in this. And if he does ask us to kiss, you have my full consent to lay one on me. Come on.” 

You wish you felt as confident as Hansol seems. He slides out of the car easily, coming around to your side as you get out. He reaches out a hand almost instinctively, waiting for you to grab it. You look at him in surprise to find that he looks equally stunned at his own gesture. 

Grinning, you take his hand. It’s warm in yours and he gives you a squeeze as you drop your linked fingers between you, walking toward the establishment like a real couple.

It feels real. You’re not sure what to do with that. The sudden realization of it churns in your stomach as you approach the dark interior of the steakhouse, immediately hit with a romantic ambiance that feels far too big for this tiny thing brewing inside of you. 

Twelvefold? How many times have you suffered since that first day you ran into Hansol at the bookstore? You think it might continue through the evening, especially when he glances over at you on the way to the table to check on you, hand tightening for a split second. 

As soon as you spot Minho and Mina, you’re glad that Hansol has a steady grip on you. Mina’s glossy hair is nearly blinding under the glow of the soft lighting and her smile is brighter still. You almost want to shield your eyes as they wave you over. 

Neither of them seems to know if they should stand and greet you or what the protocol is. Good, you think, happy to see them as off kilter as you feel by this very weird and very unnecessary dinner date. 

Why had Hansol agreed to do this again? 

“She keep you late?” Minho asks Hansol, immediately reminding you why Hansol had said yes in the first place: he seemed kind of smug. I thought it was annoying. “You’ll get used to it!”

“Actually, it was me,” Hansol answers smoothly. He pulls out your chair for you, startling you again. You try to fein admiration - it’s not hard - and sit, looking up at him with a little bit of awe. Hansol sits, adjusting his seat so that it’s a little closer to yours. “I was working on an infrastructure request and lost track of time.”

That seems to shut Minho up for a moment. Then he laughs his businessman laugh and you wonder if it’s always sounded that way, hollow and fake and… well, annoying. “Damn, so you’re both like that?” 

“Yep.” Hansol leans back in his chair, stretching his arm so that it rests over the back of yours. He doesn’t explicitly touch you, but you feel the warmth of him radiating like a furnace, a shiver snaking through you at how close he is. “Works well for us.” 

You try not to frown. He’s not going to make it easy for your fake breakup. You’d assumed that you’d tell everyone you just didn’t have time for him, but with the way he’s talking to Minho now, you’re worried it’ll make the impending breakup a little less believable. 

“That’s good, then,” Minho says eventually. “Just don’t schedule any vacations or you’ll both miss it.”

“I never did that,” you scowl. 

Before he has time for a rebuttal, the server is there welcoming you to the restaurant. You shift in your seat, feeling irritated. Hansol senses it, the tips of his finger brushing against your bicep as if to tell you it’s okay. You relax, but only a little, still frustrated. 

Again, you can’t help but feel like your faults are being exacerbated, like Minho is drawing them up to be far grander than they really were. You had missed some dinners and cancelled on some things, but you’d never gone as far as to miss a vacation or a birthday - never the big things. Never the milestones. 

If the server can tell the energy at the table has shifted, they don’t let on. They pour glasses of wine that you let Hansol order while you’re spiraling in your head, and leave with the promise of coming back to take orders when the table is ready. 

It’s Mina who restarts the conversation, glancing at Minho who sucks down the entire glass of wine in a single go. “So,” she says. “What is it exactly that you do?”

“Careful with that question,” Minho jokes. “She’ll talk to you about work for hours.” 

“Which is what makes her good at her job.” Hansol’s voice is even. Smooth. Almost severe, a tone you’ve never heard from him before. Tension ripples from him for just a moment before he looks at you and smiles. “Her job is very cool.”

Unlike her blockhead of a boyfriend, Mina seizes the chance for normalcy and asks, “Marketing, right?” 

Mina (with the glossy hair) is really nice. You like her almost immediately and strangely enough, you’re glad she’s there. Minho is like a stormcloud at the edge of the table, a little pocket of pressure that everyone can feel but tries to ignore. 

Hansol makes your fake relationship look effortless. You have to mask your surprise when he recounts a detail about you that you didn’t expect him to know, or makes an observation that has you warming, ducking your face to hide the smile tugging your lips. 

You know little things about him too. It’s almost like you weren’t aware until you’re saying them, all the small things about him bubbling to your lips like an instinct. 

“He’s such an Aquarius!” You laugh, finish the rest of your steak. “The IT department is full of them, even and they’re all so effortlessly cool and have different interests. Hansol has the coolest case full of Star Wars collectibles and-” 

“Hansol?” 

Minho’s question catches you off guard. You blink at him a few times, confused until Hansol interjects, “That’s my legal name.”

“Damn. Should we be calling you Hansol?”

“Nope. Reserved for my mom and my girlfriend.” 

“Wow.”

Minho sits back and observes the two of you. The plates have been cleared away for the evening and the glasses of wine have dwindled. You’re a little sleepy, ready to go home, but the appraising look in Minho’s eyes as they flicker back and forth between you and Hansol has you on edge.

Hansol seems unbothered, finishing his water. His arm rests against your back properly now and you almost melt when his fingers start to trace a pattern on your arm, almost absently. You’re so acutely aware of him that you’re nearly vibrating, telling yourself over and over again that this is just him committing to the bit. This isn’t something to overthink. His touch is for show.

You don’t want it to be for show. God, you don’t want it to be, but you try not to let it unravel right now, instead finishing your water under the heavy and calculating gaze of your ex-boyfriend, who, over the course of dinner, has made you realize you are so grateful is your ex. 

“Huh.”

“What?” you ask, voice coming out a little more challenging than you intend. He has that look on his face like he’s trying to figure something out, like he’s trying to position himself in a way where he’s not wrong. 

“You guys are really together.”

That makes you stiffen. Hansol’s fingers go still on your arm. “What do you mean?”

“You just didn’t really seem like you were dating at the bookstore. It didn’t even seem like you knew who Vernon was.” 

“It was still new,” You lie. “I also wasn’t expecting to run into you both. That’s all.”

“I guess. Just… find it surprising, I guess. Figured you’d never have time for someone.”

It’s Hansol who says, “She has plenty of time for me. Speaking of time, it’s time we head home. I have to finish up some stuff for work tomorrow and she just finished an insane project and deserves some sleep.”

Again, Minho seems thrown for a loop. You could get used to seeing him like a fish out of water, trying not to let an evil smirk take over your face when Hansol beats everyone to the check. 

There is an edge to Hansol’s movements. You observe him quietly, noting the way his mouth is pinched at the corners and the way his eyes darken when he looks at Minho. But when he looks at you, it’s like the world stops. Hansol’s eyes soften and his lips turn up at the corner, a gentle smile for you.

Only you. 

You’re fucked. You’re fucked fucked fucked and it’s nearly all you can think about as dinner wraps up and Minho and Mina thank Hansol for paying. You want to smack him for offering to pay for the insanely expensive bill, but he takes everything in stride.

Outside, it’s a little cold. Hansol shucks his jacket off immediately, wrapping it around your shoulders while giving Mina some sort of computer advice that goes over your head because all you can focus on is the way Hansol smoothes the jacket over your shoulder, his hand dropping to your waist to keep you close.

You’re dizzy with it. Dizzy with him. You can’t recall a single time you ever felt this affected by Minho, much less anyone else. Despite having two glasses of wine, you know it’s Hansol and not the wine that has you buzzing. Hansol who has you warm, Hansol who makes it feel like there’s static in your brain when he glances at you to make sure you’re still okay after you’ve gone silent. 

Hansol gives you a quick smile and turns to say farewell to the other couple. You’re happy to say goodbye - though perhaps you should have asked Mina her haircare routine - and you wave as Hansol leads you into the parking lot, fingers intertwined.

He turns to you, making you look up at him. “I’m going to kiss you,” he murmurs, barely giving you a warning. “Unless you say no.” 

“I - okay.” 

There is the barest of smiles on Hansol’s face before he leans in, pressing his lips against yours. It’s brief and gentle, so quick that you barely register he’s kissed you at all. He’s already pulling away when you blink, nearing his car as he does. 

“He was a dick,” Hansol explains. “And he was staring at us when we left. So. Let him question what’s real now.” 

Minho isn’t the only one questioning what’s real. You’re hung up on the kiss, despite it being nothing more than a peck. Your mouth is warm, thoughts spinning as Hansol helps you into the car. You say nothing, completely consumed by the feel of his mouth, the smell of driftwood and salt, the barest taste of wine. 

The drive home is quiet but not uncomfortable. Hansol’s hand grabs yours instinctually over the center console, fingers tied together loosely as he drives. But there’s no one to perform for her, no one to show off too. No one who needs convincing. 

It’s just you and the burning desire for him bubbling up inside of you.

You’ve lost count of how many folds you have suffered, but somehow, this one is a little less worse than the others.

-

Hansol cannot stop thinking about you. He’s pretty sure the last time he had brain rot this bad about another person, it was Larcy Dodsen in his senior year of college who had blown him to heaven and back. He’s had better (and worse) blowjobs since then, and doesn’t really think of Larcy Dodsen ever anymore.

But you. You. 

You occupy every corner of his mind. He wavers back and forth between thinking about the way you smell or the way you laugh (a little reedy, but cute) and thinking about how bad he fucked up by kissing you that night. 

Things aren’t exactly weird. The very basis of your relationship - or lack thereof - is weird. He’d agreed to be your fake boyfriend for a month, but with zero terms. No contract outline. No do’s and don’ts. No guidelines. No rules. No regulations. Just an agreement and a fucking dream. 

Now, he’s wishing he had something to go off of, because what started out as an agreement to help someone out has turned into something else entirely. 

Chan was right. Hansol is desperately trying to hide that fact from his best friend, but the way Chan side-eyes Hansol at lunch when he stares off into the distance, he thinks that the younger  man might be onto him. 

It doesn’t help that Hansol is buried in Help Desk tickets the weekend following kissing you, and you’re six feet under in a pile of projects. It isn’t until he goes a few days without talking to you multiple times that it’s occurred to him how much he texts you during the day. 

Hansol finds himself checking his phone again at lunch, swearing that he felt it vibrate. This time, Chan catches him, putting down the fork and clearing his throat to gesture at the phone. “So it happened, right?” 

“What?” Even Hansol winces at his own defensiveness. “I can’t check the time?”

“Do you check the time three times every five minutes? I know you can do math.” 

“Just checking to see how her presentation went.”

Chan laughs and crosses his arms over his chest. “Right. So it did happen.”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

He doesn’t. Chan knows it. Hansol knows it. Chan gets more specific anyway. “You like her. As in, you have feelings for her after… well. This weekend will make it a month. So wouldn’t that be your deal coming to an end?”

Hansol wants to think about anything other than that. “Everything is fine.” 

Chan holds up his hand, a white flag. “You’re an adult. You can do what you want. Just make sure you know what she wants too, is all I’m saying.” 

And that’s the crux of it. Hansol isn’t sure what you want. He assumed that you just wanted to get through this month and your fake breakup, but now he’s not so sure. He thinks of the way you’d look at him during dinner last weekend, the way your expression gets dreamy with a soft smile, eyes glowing. 

Hansol doesn’t think he made it up - his creativity is good but not that good. He had been so sure that you felt something too, swears that you melted into him every time he touched you, every time he turned to check in on you.

And the kiss… it had been brief and born from wanting to rub it in Minho’s face, but Hansol had wanted to do it, too. Wanted it for himself. Wanted to allow himself a single, greedy thing. You’d been surprised but leaned into him, almost instinctual. It had been so short but it haunts his dreams, the phantom press of your mouth keeping him up late at night. 

Even now, Hansol’s fingers trace his mouth, as though he can remember the feeling of your mouth against his. So maybe Chan is right. Hansol likes you - has feelings for you. There is a lingering sense that you might too, but he’s not sure. 

He needs to be sure. 

Finding a window to make sure, is tough, though. He only hears from you once throughout the rest of the day, and it's to shoot him a quick text that the presentation was moved to Monday and that you have to work all weekend on it. 

He feels more disappointed than he lets on. He wonders if you remember his birthday is on Saturday. Not that you owe him that since you’re not actually dating, but in a perfect world Hansol thinks it might have been a good day to tell you how he feels. That he kind of wants to make this thing real. 

On the bright side, you do remember his birthday. On the shitty side, he can’t spend it with you. You’re working on your presentation for the foreseeable future, and Hansol had hesitated to make plans with his friends knowing some of them were celebrating Valentine’s Day late with their partners and because he’d hoped to maybe spend it with you.

It feels stupid, thinking about it now. Of course you weren’t going to spend it with him. He knew what this was when he offered to do it. You were a bright burning star at the top of the company, and Hansol had been someone you barely registered. 

By the afternoon, he’s still sullen. He’s thinking about just spending the evening eating pizza and playing video games online where he’ll get bullied by a bunch of high schoolers when he hears his phone ring and your name flashes across the screen.

Hansol’s heart soars. He all but throws the control across the room, diving to pick up the phone and answer, “Hi!” 

“Please don’t hate me,” you rush out, completely out of breath. “I am panicking right now. My work laptop randomly got the blue screen of death and I’m in the middle of my project and-”

“I’ll come look at it.” He cringes, realizing how down bad he is. It’s his birthday and he shouldn’t have to work, but he’d rather come solve a problem for you than have a bunch of thirteen year old’s tell him that they’re fucking his mom. “I can come over in fifteen.” 

“Oh! Uh… can you make that twenty?” 

Weird. “Sure?” 

“Great! Text me when you’re here and I’ll give you the unit number.” 

Twenty minutes ends up being perfect, because Hansol goes through the mental anguish of what to wear, which is new for him. He showers as quickly and efficiently as he can, hopping with one leg in his jeans and the other missing the hole multiple times. He nearly runs into the wall as he’s pulling on a band tee over his head while also looking for his flannel. 

Hair still damp, he pulls on a hat and twists it around backward, grabbing his glasses because he doesn’t feel like wearing contacts (and because you said you liked them) as he barrels out the house, radiating with nervous energy. 

Hansol wonders if it’s appropriate to tell you how he feels today. It will be face to face but… no. You’d sounded stressed on the phone and he knows how important this presentation is for you, despite not knowing what it’s about. 

He barely remembers the drive to your apartment, blinking and realizing he’s parked and texting you that he’s there. You give him directions to your unit and with shaky hands, Hansol turns off the car. He takes a few steadying breaths before getting out and heading to the stairs, his heart hammering with each step. 

When he finally gets to your door, he double checks that it's the right one. His hands shake when he knocks, and he has to remind himself several times that he’s just here to fix your computer. Sure, he’s thrilled that he gets to see you, but this is on the clock. Not off.

You’re breathless when you open the door. “Hi!” You say a little too loudly. He raises his brows but you open the door and step aside, ushering him in. “Come on in.”

Hansol gives you an amused grin as he walks into your apartment. He’s confused as to why it’s completely dark, a question that he’s about to ask you as you shut the door, but you flick on the lights and he’s met with the world’s loudest shout of surprise he’s ever heard.

He flinches, hand flying to his chest in terror as the lights flood on and Hansol realizes that the reason they were off is to hide the obscene amount of Star Wars decorations covering every part of your apartment. He can’t even picture what your home is supposed to look like, just that it’s covered in streamers and paper Luke Skywalkers and RD-D2s, and filled with familiar faces.

Hansol’s mouth pops open as the crowd screams at him. Chan and Seokmin are at the forefront, phones in hand capturing Hansol as he stands there, dumbfounded. Soongyoung and Mingyu are blowing through noise makers with so much force that the paper on them breaks, and Seungkwan is leading an off-key rendition of happy birthday with Hansol’s friends you’ve never even met.

Slowly, Hansol turns to look at you. You’re standing behind him, hands clasped nervously and tucked under your chin as you watch him, terrified. You’re chewing on your lips, entire frame vibrating with energy. 

He wants nothing more than to walk over to you and kiss you stupid. The flame of desire that licks through him is borderline impossible to tamp down, staring at you like the eighth world wonder as you slip over to him, scanning his face.

“Surprise?” You squeak.

“You did this for me?”

“Well, yeah.” 

You say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He wants to pin you against the island counter behind you, but it’s fill with food and beverages and blue fucking milk. “Is that okay?” you ask, suddenly nervous. 

Hansol softens and starts to laugh. “Yeah,” he shakes his head. “It is more than okay.” 

Before he can say anything else, the crowd of people crashes into him. Seokmin and Chan are screaming in his ear, grabbing him and yelling for shots. Mingyu and Soonyoung are chanting his name and his best friend from college manages to squeeze in and give him a hug and a birthday greeting.

How did you even know Minghao existed? Or how to contact him? Hansol has no idea, but before he can ask you any questions about the how or the why, he’s swept into your kitchen for birthday celebrations he thought would never happen, orchestrated by the single person he wanted to see most. 

Fuck was Chan right more than ever. 

-

The thing about being a bad liar is that you found it nearly impossible to hide what you were doing from Hansol. The thing about everyone thinking you’re always busy, is that it was an easy facade to shield the sheer stress of trying to plan a surprise party for him. 

Your apartment is filled with more people than you’ve ever dared to let inside. It makes you a little nervous for all of these people to see this new part of you, but with a little bit of rum and the released pressure of Hansol looking like he’s enjoying himself, you decide it’s worth it. 

Squished in the corner of your couch, you watch as Chan leads a game of cards that he is losing very badly at. Most of these people in your apartment are casual friends, with the exception of Seungkwan who is playing DJ in the kitchen, but they’re all friends that Hansol would want at a celebration for him.

At least, that’s what Chan and Seokmin said. Recruiting them had been pretty easy, but during the process of them helping you plan this, you’re pretty sure they’ve caught on to the AT-AT Walker-sized elephant in the room: you are very much into their friend. In a very Not-On-The-Clock appropriate way. 

Now, you watch as Hansol makes his way over to you, dodging people who stop to talk to him. He seems pretty determined to reach you, clapping someone on the shoulder and moving them aside to continue his journey to you. 

Your stomach flips when he sits on the arm of your couch, perched perfectly next to you. He looks good today, dressed in jeans, a soft looking tee and a flannel. The backwards hat does wonders for you - which you will not be psychoanalyzing now - and his black frame glasses. 

“How did you do all this?” He asks, shaking his head in wonder. “I just… what?” 

“It wasn’t easy, but it worked, right?”

“Is this the presentation you’ve been working on all week?”

“Yes. Please don’t be mad at me for lying.”

He laughs. “I couldn’t be mad at you if I tried.” 

An argument breaks out over cards, Chan and Mingyu yelling at each other about someone cheating. Hansol winces at the noise and you scoot a little closer to avoid the deck of cards Mingyu throws in Chan’s direction.

“Is there anywhere quiet we can talk?” Hansol asks, though he’s laughing at them. “They’re giving me a bit of a headache.” 

You grin. “For sure.” 

Getting up, you lead Hansol down the hall to your bedroom, which is off limits to the rest of the party. The good thing about adult festivities is that no one is a weirdo about going into rooms they shouldn’t, staying exactly where it’s appropriate to be. 

Shutting the door behind you, the noise of the party dies down immediately. It’s dark in your room, save for the single lamp burning in the corner at a low setting. You realize it’s a bit messy, apologizing to Hansol as you kick clothes out of the way. You hadn’t intended on bringing him in here, and suddenly the implication of Hansol standing in your room tingles down your spine. 

“I, uh-” You stammer, looking at him. “Sorry it’s a mess. I didn’t intend on anyone seeing this.”

Halloween yowls, getting up off your bed. Hansol makes a surprised sound and you apoogize again, “It’s just Halloween. He likes to sleep in here. Out, kitty!”

You open the door and Halloween bolts out, going to find Seungkwan who will give him snacks. 

Hansol grins and wanders over to the bookshelf, looking over the titles. You take a few steps to follow him but keep your distance, suddenly very nervous. He points his finger at a title and looks at you, inviting you to step closer to read it in the dim light. 

You recognize the title - you’d bought it the day you’d crashed into him and got some of your books mixed up. 

“This one one of the books you accidentally swapped with me,” Hansol notes, running his finger along the spine. You zero in on his finger - his hands, in general. They’re pretty. You swallow hard, looking up at the ceiling instead. “Have you read it yet?” 

“Not yet. I started one of the others but I’ve been having trouble breeding - reading lately.”

Hansol presses his lips together in a flat line and you can tell he’s trying not to laugh at you. Warmth floods your face and you want to die on the spot, especially when he turns to face you head on, leaning against your bookcase. 

His eyes are dark, drinking you in. Your pulse skyrockets, thinking about that quick kiss he had given you the other night. It’s all you’ve been able to think about, too afraid to ask him if it was just for show and too busy trying to plan this party to work out what to say about it.

Now, alone in your room, the questions fizzle on your tongue at the nearness of him. 

“Thank you,” Hansol says eventually. “For planning this. I… would never have expected you to do that.”

“I wanted to celebrate you.”

He blushes, ducking his head. “It’s sweet. It did make me nervous, though.” 

“Why?”

“I thought you were avoiding me, kind of.”

You blink. “Why on earth would I be doing that?”

“Thought that maybe I took it too far with the kiss.” 

“No. You didn’t.” 

Hansol’s gaze falls on you. It’s razor sharp and there’s something there, burning just under the surface. You swear it’s something like desire, but you’re too afraid to name it. Too worried that it’s just what you want reflected in his glassy gaze, and not his. 

Then, “Did I not take it far enough?” 

The question hangs in the air. You cannot hear anything but the pounding of  your own heart. It’s just Hansol in this dark room with you, looking at you with exactly the same hunger that’s been churning in your gut. 

You don’t know when this hunger started. All you know is that the last few weeks, it’s been there. Every time you look at him you feel it ignite, the desire so raw that you don’t know what to do with it. 

Now, you know he feels it too - see it, in the way he waits for your answer. Patient. Calm. Steady.

“On the clock?” You ask, voice shaky. He shakes his head no. “You could go further.” 

That’s all Hansol needs. He’s gentle when he reaches for you, cradling your face in his hands. You barely get to suck in a trembling breath before he’s kissing you.

This kiss is entirely different from the peck he gave you in the parking lot last weekend. This kiss steals the breath from your lung, his mouth confident and sure as he slots his mouth against yours. He smells like the sea, all driftwood and salt and his lips taste like the tangy drink he’d been sipping on earlier.

Everything else fades to the background. Your hands twist in his flannel. It’s soft, but nothing compared to the softness of Hansol’s tongue as he licks at the seam of your lips. You let him in and he groans, pulling you in impossibly closer as the kiss turns more desperate.

You melt. He kisses you hungrily now, sucking your tongue into his mouth. It makes your head spin, the party long forgotten as you press further into him. The bookshelf wobbles under the weight of both of you leaning against it, making you break, both of you panting.

Hansol’s mouth shines with your spit in the low lamp light and you have the urge to lean forward and lick it. You resist, only for him to give into his urge. He leans forward, tongue pressing to the corner of your mouth gently. 

“What about now?” he mumbles, voice muffled against your mouth. “Too far?”

“No.”

He makes a sound in the back of his throat, hands dropping to your waist. You let him grip you, backing you up toward your bed. It’s a bit clumsy but you don’t care, hands looping around his neck to keep him close.

“Tell me what you want,” Hansol mumbles. Your knees hit the bed and you let yourself fall backward. He follows you, caging you in with both of his planted on either side of your head. “Tell me how far you want me to go.” 

“On the clock?”

“Fuck no. Nothing I want to do right now is on the clock.”

“Good. I want you to go as far as you want.”

He drops his mouth to your neck. A moan slips between your lips when you feel his tongue scrape across the soft skin of your throat. He sounds strained when he says, “You gotta tell me, baby. I need to know what you want.”

“You.” It’s the most honest thing you’ve said all month. “All of it. Everything. But for real.” 

Hansol nods. He presses messy, wet kisses up your neck, along your jaw, stopping at your mouth. His nose nudges yours and he smiles against your lips, giving you a chaste peck. “You’ve got me. For real.” 

Grinning, you slide your hands underneath his shirt. He moans, throaty and delicious. He twitches under your exploration but he lets you brush your palms up the warmth of his stomach, reaching around until your hands are gripping his lower back. 

His mouth attaches to yours again. The kiss is messy and addictive, Hansol filling your senses as he lowers himself so that his weight is rested on top of you. It’s comforting and wanted, your knees squeezing his hips to hold him in place. 

One of his hands leaves the mattress to drop to your hip, squeezing before he scratches his nails against your thigh. You shiver, feeling the stimulation through your jeans. His hand slips under you, gripping the curve of your ass to lift you a little, pressing you closer to him.

A moan slips through your mouth to his when he rolls your hips against him. The stimulation isn’t remotely enough but you like this version of Hansol. His touch is confident, his lips intentful as they leave a trail from your mouth to your collarbone. 

With one last squeeze to your ass, Hansol traces his fingers over the tops of your thigh to drop between your legs. He presses his fingers to the apex of your thighs, working you through your clothes. You let out a desperate sound and you feel the way he smiles against your skin. 

His touch sparks a flame. You tear at his flannel, peeling it from his shoulders. He helps you get it off of him but he’s just as eager to peel you out of your jeans and shirt. A deep curse leaves his mouth when he sees you in just a bra and underwear, your chest heaving as you pant, staring up at him, mouth swollen and tender. 

Reaching for him, you grab the hat and throw it. “Hat is very hot,” you admit. “But I wanted to do this.” 

You slide your fingers in his hair, curling them through the strands to tug him back to you. He smiles into the kiss, tangling his tongue with yours. His hand skims up your thigh, fingers leaving a trail of goosebumps as he goes until he slides his hand back between your legs.

A gasp leaves you as he presses his fingers back to your cunt, pressing the fabric into your aching clit. He whispers a string of curses when he feels how damp you are, resting his forehead against your shoulder for a moment as he teases you over your panties.

“Please,” you whisper, hips rising off the bed. “Want more.”

“Mhmm.” He lifts his head and gives you a quick kiss to the cheek. “I’ve got you.”

Hansol doesn’t make you beg. You like that about him. Your breath catches when he drops to his knees, reaching his arm up to pull the back of his shirt over his head, tossing it. The sight of him between your knees in just jeans, his hair mussed and mouth swollen is enough to make you dizzy.

You prop yourself up on your elbows, watching with hooded eyes as Hansol grabs you by the calves, spreading you a little more. His hands are gentle and warm, rubbing up and down while he takes his time pressing a myriad of kisses up the right side of your inner thigh. 

It feels so good. Your lashes flutter a little, breath coming in quicker. Everywhere his mouth touches tingles, a little path of buzzing electricity as he makes his way closer and closer to your heat until he switches sides.

You make a sound of protest and Hansol looks up at you through his lashes, grinning. He looks smug, leaning forward to bite your thigh playfully. It stings but it feels good, making your fingers twist in the sheets. 

“Feel good?” he whispers, pressing his tongue to soothe the sting. You nod, mouth parted, unable to speak. He smiles again, dragging his tongue down your thigh. You think you might die right there. 

Hansol makes his way back up. He drags his burning gaze up to meet yours, deliberately making eye contact as he presses the flat of his tongue against your underwear. If it wasn’t soaked before, it is thoroughly drenched now. You suck in a sharp breath, knees closing on instinct to squeeze against his shoulders.

He chuckles, dragging his tongue upward where it presses against your clit momentarily. He brings one of his hands up, pressing his middle finger right against your hole. You feel yourself clench around nothing and you know he knows, his grin wicked. 

"What do you like?"

"I... don't know."

He looks at you, pausing. "You don't know? Like what makes you come?" You shake your head and realization lights his eyes. "That jackass didn't make you come, did it?"

You shake your head and he groans.

“Don’t worry,” Hansol promises with another languid lick to the soaked fabric. “I will make up for all the times you didn’t get to come.” 

“Fuck.”

Vernon (from IT) has been replaced with Hansol (the Menace). He hooks a finger in the crotch of your underwear, pulling them to the side. He drags a knuckle against your pussy on purpose, both of you groaning in unison. 

Eagerly Hansol leans forward, giving you a teasing lick. Your fingers dig into the mattress anyway. You can do nothing but stare at him, watching the way Hansol drags his dark eyes up to watch you as he drags his tongue through your folds again. 

“Shit,” you hiss at him, a shiver wracking your body.

He seems pleased, shooting you a quick smile before he brings his mouth to you again, sucking gently. He avoids your clit at first, working you up slowly. Hansol eats you out like he has all the time in the world, like there’s no where he would rather be than tonguing your pussy. 

It drives you mad, his name slipping from your lips in little gasps. His tongue circles your clit, applying pressure indirectly, working you up and up until finally, he closes his mouth around the throbbing bundle of nerves, suckling. 

“Ohhhh,” you laugh, half delirious. “That. Whatever that is.” 

He hums, parting only to say, “You got it.” 

You see God when he fastens his mouth to you, sucking your clit gently. Dropping back against the bed, you twitch and gasp under Hansol’s ministrations. He sets a rhythm, adding his fingers to the mix as they press against your entrance. He doesn’t push in, but rather traces a pattern, making you squeeze. 

Panting, you drop a hand to his hair. He hums in delight as you tangle your fingers in the strands, bringing him closer to your cunt. You feel like you’re burning up, your sheets sticking to your skin, the room spinning as Hansol eats you out in earnest now. 

No one has ever seemed this dedicated to your pleasure. He doesn’t let up for a second, fingers and mouth working in tandem to bring you to a cliff of insanity. All you have to do is jump and dive head first into an orgasm. 

You do. Hansol works you right to the very edge and you topple over, falling into it hard. You go taught but he holds you down, fighting your spasm as you come hard. He doesn’t miss a beat, the obscene sounds of him slurping at you drowning out the pitiful, high pitched whine that leaves you. 

In a wave of exhaustion, your orgasm subsides. You flop on the bed, still shaking as he removes his mouth in favor of pressing slick, cum-stained kisses to your thighs. You lift your head and his eyes meet yours, flashing wickedly. 

He pauses, looking at your wet, messy cunt back to your face. “Want a taste?”

Hansol (the Menace) is going to kill you.

You nod and he smirks. He runs his tongue generously up your pussy, making sure to dip into your entrance just a little before he stands up and leans over you to press a filthy kiss to your mouth. You suck at his tongue greedily, tasting yourself and him, a combination you’ll never get tired of. 

One of his hands snakes up to your chest, tweaking a nipple gently, testing the waters. You nod, breaking the kiss with a gasp, “Yeah.” 

“Gonna work you open with my fingers,” he slurs. He kisses down your neck again, working his way to your chest. “That okay?”

“More than okay.” 

“God,” he whispers. “You sound so fucking good when you come. Want to hear it again.” 

There is no doubt he will. Hansol rids you of your bra before returning to suck greedily at your chest. Your nails bite into his shoulders, dragging down his sides as he presses a finger into your warmth. 

“God damn,” he laughs. He plucks at a nipple with his teeth and you curse. “You’re so fucking wet.” 

“On the clock?”

“Fuck no. My finger is in your pussy.”

“I am really turned on.”

He gives your other breast a playful bite. “Good. Now I want you to come apart on my fingers.” 

That won’t be an issue. Hansol gets you there embarrassingly fast. He finds the sensitive spot inside of you with ease and doesn’t hold back, pressing another finger in. He works you toward another orgasm like it's easy - and maybe for the both of you, it is. Maybe Hansol was meant to have you like this, gushing around his fingers and babbling nonsense as you come again, his mouth pressed against your hammering heart. 

Maybe he was meant to have you fucked out and light-headed by the time you’re helping him out of his jeans, sliding his briefs down his muscular thighs to free his cock. The tip is dark and sticky, weeping with precum when he pins you to the bed, catching you in a bruising kiss.

Gone is the patient Hansol who had started with gentle kisses to your thighs, replaced by his need to have you. To consume you. You let him, willing to let him do whatever he wants. You want his pleasure just as much as he wants yours, slipping your hand between your bodies to palm his cock, heavy and warm in your hand.

He whispers your name and it sounds like a prayer. His forehead presses against yours, letting you pump him slowly. His hips twitch as though he’s fighting to control himself, letting you have your fun before he growls and grabs your hand, lacing your fingers to pin above your head. 

Hansol scoots you up the bed, putting you where he wants you. Gone is the sweet guy from IT, replaced with whatever this is. You like this side of him equally, listening to him when he asks you to lift your hips so he can slide a pillow under your ass.

With a kiss to your brow that feels sweeter than the moment allows for, Hansol lifts your leg, prying you open for him. His cock is heavy against your cunt and he ruts a little, making you both whine in tandem. 

“You still want this, right?” He asks, voice shaking. “For real?”

“Yes.” You squeeze the hand he has laced with yours, pinned to the mattress near your head. “On the clock. Off the clock. Literally all of the hours.” 

“What if I refuse to change your computer password?”

That makes you laugh. He gives you a glowing smile, kissing the tops of your cheekbones. “Even then,” you promise. 

“Good. Try breathing for me when you come this time.” You give him a look and he smiles. “Did you think you were done? I told you I was making up for lost time.” 

He doesn’t give you a second to retort, his cock pressing in at that exact moment. “Ohhh you fucker,” you moan and he laughs, which makes things worse. You squeeze around him hard, barely breathing as Hansol slides in to the hilt, the pressure and stretch divine. “You did that on purpose.”

“I did,” he admits before trapping you into an uncoordinated kiss. 

With one hand holding yours to the bed and the other sliding under your ass to help lift you with the pillow, Hansol sets a slow pace. You continue to kiss him, just as slow as he fucks you. He is deep, cock brushing against your g-spot on every upstroke. 

Your free hand slides to his lower back, urging him to keep going. His tempo is measured, perfect, the angle of his hips just right. You start to feel insane, mumbling his name, whining between kisses, making a pathetic noise when he increases his pace. 

Hansol fucks like he knows exactly how you like it. Of course he does. Even from the moment in that bookstore, he had you figured out. No one else has been able to adjust to you like he has, no one else has been able to understand - to see you. 

“Fuck,” he hisses when you start squeezing on him for harder and longer. He’s pushing you toward that edge again, so close you’re already seeing stars. “Pussy feels so good.” 

He shuffles up the bed more, folding you a little. You make a wild sound, gasping as the angle pushes his cock in deep. “Holy shit, Hansol.” 

“That the spot?” he asks, and you nod. He starts fucking you in earnest, pace picking up. “God damn I could do this all day.” 

“Keep doing that and I’ll let you.”

He laughs and kisses you again, all tongue and teeth. You start to spasm, feeling the way your muscles clench as you near your third orgasm. This one is tight in your stomach, a pressure that is so compact you feel like you’re going to combust.

“Breathe through it,” he reminds you, out of breath as he chases your high. “You can do that, yeah?”

You nod, saving your breath for when he tells you to use it. 

A few more hard strokes and you’re doing exactly as instructed, taking in a deep breath as your orgasm hits. You see white, shaking underneath Hansol as the warmth of your high blooms in your lower stomach and expands. It’s better than the first two, stretching longer, the feeling reaching to your toes. 

You manage to breathe all the way through it, barely hanging on as he fucks you through the entire length of your high. He presses his mouth to your temple, slowing his pace to let you recover. You feel melted, like your bones and muscles have all gone on vacation, leaving Hansol to do the work for you.

“Good?” he asks, breath fanning your face.

You nod and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close. “You,” you mumble. It’s not a complete sentence, but he gets what you mean, kissing you quickly before chasing his own high, gritting his teeth. 

As spent as you are, you do your part to help him get there, squeezing with what strength you have left, whispering his name, pulling him in close with a leg around his hip. It works, sending Hansol over the edge and spilling into you within a few seconds. 

He curses into your shoulder, pace turning sloppy until he finally stops, hips pressed to yours, cock sheathed to the hilt. Both of you stay like that, trying to catch your breath in a sweaty pile of limbs.

Hansol recovers first, shifting so that he can lay next to you. He pulls out, a mess of cum and fluid going with him. You don’t care, rolling to your side to kiss him slowly. Softly. He rests an arm over your hip, keeping you connected. 

“This is a great birthday,” he jokes, voice hoarse. “I uhhh, forgot there was a party. No one will think we’re fake dating now.” 

You grin. “Whatever. We’re not on the clock.” 

He kisses you again. “Thank god. Cause I really want to do this again in fifteen minutes.”

You smile, really glad that Hansol (the Boyfriend) is on the same page as you.

[achillesinhighheels]

[woncheolisms]

ABYSS. (choi seungcheol x reader) - CHAPTER 2

For decades, the Choi family has dominated the underground trade and criminal enterprise of Korea, and largely, Seoul. But the Choi sons start dying, until all that’s left of the empire falls to Seungcheol, the last Choi son. There is a new competitor rising to take over his territory, and Seungcheol is desperate to do anything to keep his dying empire alive.

Biting and mating with his competitor’s sister, a sheltered, treasured omega, might just be the drastic measure he has to take to keep his hold.

pairing: alpha!choi seungcheol x omega!reader

genre: omegaverse, mafia au

word count: 11.8k

warnings (for this chapter): swearing, fluff, omegaverse jargon like scenting and biting, member x member, angst, betrayal, anger, lying, manipulation, self doubt. descriptions of psychological and emotional abuse and control.

series masterlist

Seungcheol decides to show you his office on a random Tuesday morning.

You’re barely out of bed when he’s knocking on your door and asking you to get ready to come with him. You’re a little shocked that he’s doing this, but you’re excited nonetheless, mostly because you love leaving the house now that you can. You’re also very curious about the place where Seungcheol spends nearly twelve hours a day. So you get ready to leave quickly while Seungcheol waits downstairs.

You run into Jihoon in the hallway as you’re leaving your room, and he is quick to remind you to keep your eyes and ears peeled for anything that can help him. To be fair, you’re still not quite sure what exactly you’re looking for, what Jihoon needs, but this time when he reminds you, it makes a tendril of guilt wrap around your throat, a sickening feeling that you can’t shake away.

Things with Seungcheol have been…… stilted. You feel like you’re walking a tightrope when it comes to him, balancing on the thin line between hating him and not wanting to be without him. You have dinner together every night, and then you walk around the gardens together. The colder it gets as the weeks pass, the closer you want to be to him. You’ve realised he runs very, very hot, which is why he doesn’t feel the chill and walks around in just one or two layers. When you curl under the blankets at night, you wonder how good it would feel if he was there too, warm and inviting against your back.

You don’t know if it’s the mark on your neck that makes your omega want him, or if it’s just you.

You aren’t exactly experienced in romance. Seokmin is the only alpha who you have ever thought of in this way. He was warm too, but a different kind. He was bright, dazzling almost, like someone who can carry your happiness as well as his own. Seungcheol is more muted, still warm, but the kind that makes you settle instead of bristling up. The kind that wants to give all his happiness to you instead of carrying any himself.

You identify with him, in a twisted, tragic way. It shouldn’t make sense. You’re poles apart, both in who you are and what you’ve been through. But when he looks at you, something in his eyes resonates. You want to be around him all the time. The same thing he said to you that day. That he wants to be around you. It makes your chest squeeze with giddiness.

Seungcheol is standing on the front porch, his phone held up to his ear, when you finally exit the house. He gives you a smile as he talks to whoever it is on the phone, gesturing to Mingyu, who is standing by the car. You say hello to the alpha as you walk towards where he stands.

“You’re coming with us, right Gyu?” You ask. You’ve grown fond of Mingyu over time. He’s very intimidating at first glance, but he’s the sweetest person you’ve ever met. His omega will be very lucky. He nods.

“Wherever you go, I go.” He says simply, giving you a smile.

You don’t have to wait in the car for long, as Seungcheol joins you minutes later and the car peels out of the driveway. There’s another right behind you, with Mingyu inside, following right after you. You peer out of the window as you leave the estate and travel to the city.

The Choi family actually has a very successful legitimate business outside of their underground activities, as Chan told you some time ago. It’s a tech company, one of the largest in Seoul, and it provides a very easy front for everything else they do. You’re sure if Seungcheol wasn’t dabbling in illegalities, it would still be very good, but what makes the empire great is everything shady that augments it and nearly quadruples its fortune.

The building is huge, in the middle of the business sector, and frankly intimidating. Seungcheol is quick to guide you inside, his office all the way on the top floor. There’s someone sitting at a sleek desk outside Seungcheol’s door, the phone receiver pushed between his cheek and ear as he quickly scribbles something into a notebook. He looks up as you arrive, looking at Seungcheol first before he spots you, eyes widening as he takes you in.

“Seungkwan, messages in five minutes.” Seungcheol mumbles, tapping the reception desk lightly with his knuckles. The man nods rapidly, still talking to someone over the phone.

Seungcheol’s office is massive, spanning over an entire corner of the building. The marble floor gleams, just as the mahogany desk does. There are framed certificates on the walls, some pictures you can’t see clearly from afar, two bookshelves, one that holds thick volumes of something about business as well as tiny trinkets, and another with a wide array of different books. To the right of the actual office, two steps lead down to a sitting area with grey and white couches, a coffee table and shaggy rugs.

“It’s beautiful.” You manage to say, truly in awe of the space. The windows span two whole walls and give a bird’s eye view of the city. You’re so high up it almost takes your breath away. When you turn to look back at Seungcheol, he’s smiling at you, hands in his pockets.

He nods his head towards the corner of the room created by the bookshelf that overlooks the windows. An armchair is fitted into the corner, tilted to the side so whoever sits in it can enjoy the view. It is draped in a soft, fleece blanket, with a smaller table beside it already set up with a plate of sweet treats and a coaster to hold a mug. You gape at it, beelining to the chair immediately.

“You have a reading nook in your office?”

Seungcheol shakes his head. “I had Seungkwan put it in a few days ago. For you.”

Your head whips around in shock. You can’t believe it. Seungcheol watches you process it, and you take a shaky breath when you realise he’s serious.

“Thank you.” You manage to whisper. You truly don’t know what else to say. His actions are so loud that it’s deafening. He wants you here, with him, because seeing you for maybe an hour when he gets home isn’t enough. He made sure to create a space within his own that would make you feel comfortable. He didn’t have to do this. He could’ve just dragged you along and told you to stay, and it’s not like you could refuse. But he took care to accommodate you in the best way he could.

You almost want to cry.

Seungcheol’s nod is a little jerky, and you can see even from the distance that his ears are turning pink. You look away, fighting not to smile.

The receptionist, Seungkwan, comes in a few minutes later when Seungcheol is settled behind his desk and you’re browsing the bookshelves. He has a tablet in his hands and three different sticky notes on his arms. He walks Seungcheol through his agenda for the day, the messages he has, and appointments that need to be scheduled with his approval. When you scent the air, you’re shocked to find out that he’s an omega.

Once he is done with Seungcheol, he turns and walks closer to you, offering you a hand to shake.

“Hi.” His smile is radiant. “Boo Seungkwan. It’s nice to meet you.”

You can’t help but return his smile. It’s contagious. This close, you can see a pin in his blond hair that is shaped like a tangerine. It’s so cute. Under the collar of his shirt, you spot a mating mark similar to yours. Oh.

“Y/N.” You manage to speak. Seungkwan nods.

“It’s so nice to meet you, finally. Seungcheol never stops talking about you.”

You can’t help but giggle as you hear Seungcheol’s annoyed huff behind Seungkwan’s back. Seungkwan’s hand is soft and warm in yours as you shake it.

“If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to tell me, okay?” He adds. You nod again, grateful.

“Get her a coffee please, Seungkwan.” Seungcheol mumbles from where he’s poring over a stack of papers. “Cream and sugar.”

Your face feels hot as Seungkwan nods and leaves quickly. You have never had breakfast with Seungcheol. You haven’t even touched coffee with him around, only with Chan in the mornings, yet somehow he knows how you like your coffee.

Seungkwan comes back a while later with not only coffee but banana muffins as well. Seungcheol refuses when Seungkwan sets food down at his table too, which makes Seungkwan pout and insist.

“I don’t want a cupcake.” Seungcheol scowls at the screen of his computer. Seungkwan rolls his eyes.

“It’s a muffin, first of all. And second, it won’t kill you to feel a little joy.”

“Will you shut up and leave if I agree to eat it?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Shut up and leave.”

There’s no malice in either of their voices. You watch the interaction from your armchair in amusement. They feel like brothers who bicker and not like a secretary and boss at all.

“Seungkwan is very nice.” You say when it’s just the two of you again. Seungcheol looks at you and gives you a brief smile.

“He keeps me sane, frankly. He takes care of all the above ground business. He’s pretty much running it at this point. I don’t know what I would do without him.”

You feel a twist in your stomach, and it shocks you. You reprimand yourself in your head immediately. Seungkwan is mated. You can’t be thinking negatively about him like this. But praises for another omega from your alpha’s mouth make you feel queasy.

“I saw that he’s mated.” You manage to say, trying to rid yourself of the ugly green emotion inside you. Seungcheol nods, unaware of the war in your head.

“To Mingyu.”

That shocks you. “Really?”

He nods again, eyes focused on the screen. “They met through Chan, who has known Seungkwan since they were kids. That’s why he’s so good at what he does. He’s been around for years, and he knows how to juggle both sides of the business. He’s family.”

The nausea inside you immediately settles. Seungkwan being Mingyu’s mate is the best news you have gotten all day. You sip your coffee, relaxing into the chair, staring at the cover of the book you picked out. If you weren’t so lost in your own head, you would see Seungcheol’s tiny smile as he picks up the slight sourness in your scent. You’re jealous of Seungkwan, even though you’re trying to hide it.

The thought makes something in his stomach squeeze.

The day goes by at an even pace. Seungcheol leaves the office often for the conference room on the other side of the same floor to attend meetings, making sure to let you know each time how long it will take him. You appreciate the consideration, since being alone in his office does make you a little anxious. Around noon, when he’s in another meeting, the office door opens, and instead of Seungcheol, an unfamiliar man steps in. He has dark, brown hair that’s cut short at the sides, and you immediately spot a silver ring wrapped around the helix of his ear.

He smiles when he sees you, but he doesn’t look surprised at all, like he expected you. “Hi.”

You don’t smile back, turning to your book, shifting slightly. You don’t know who this person is, and you don’t know why he is here, so you would rather ignore him. You don’t trust anyone who works for Seungcheol. You aren’t even sure if you trust Seungcheol himself. He certainly shouldn’t trust you, considering the little scraps of information you are feeding to the person hell bent on destroying him completely.

You try not to think about that.

“You’ve settled in well.” The man comments, walking down the two steps and dropping down heavily on the couch. He’s chewing gum obnoxiously loud, and it’s like nails on a chalkboard for you. The couch is closer to where you are, but his scent is still not too strong. He’s a beta.

You jerk your head down in a nod, staring down at your book without really reading. After a few moments of silence, the man chuckles a little.

“I can smell your discomfort all the way here, omega.” He says.

You stiffen at his words, but you don’t look up. You don’t really know what to say to him, so you stay silent. You can’t stand up and leave, because you will have to walk past him to do that, and you really don’t want to. Seungcheol should be back from his meeting soon. You’re not sure he will be too happy about a stranger talking to you like this.

If he even cares.

“It was your brother, you know.” He says. You freeze. “He was too big of a threat. He had to be taken down a notch, so Seungcheol mated you to keep your brother on a leash.”

Your grip on the book tightens to the point that the page crinkles under it. Your heart hammers loudly, and your breath is caught in your throat.

“Worked out great. Hoshi won’t dare expand now. He’ll have to make do with whatever scraps we leave for him.”

The sound of the door opening is loud, and it breaks this thick, dreadful current that runs in the room. You quickly turn your head away towards the window when you smell cinnamon and oak, hoping Seungcheol won’t see the thin film of tears coating your eyes.

But he looks distracted. He’s got his phone pressed to his ear, Seungkwan holding up a file for him to sign, and when he catches sight of the man on the couch, he immediately scowls and gestures to him. The man stands up smoothly, greets Seungkwan with a smile and nod, and puts a hand on Seungcheol’s arm to lead him out of the room again, probably down the hall to the conference room. Seungkwan follows them silently.

Seungcheol’s voice, still talking on the phone, gets farther and farther before disappearing altogether. You sit like a statue where he left you. A single tear breaks free from your lash line to roll down your cheek as the man’s words echo in your head.

You feel a little stiff as you lower your feet to the ground and stand. Before you can think twice, you beeline to the desk. The computer is still on, and the desktop is filled with multiple tiny icons.

You don’t sit down. Reaching for the mouse with shaky hands, you start clicking and reading.

…………………………………….

“I can’t thank you enough. Really.”

The wind nips at your ankles. You wish you had worn socks. Jihoon waits for you to say something. You don’t.

“I know it can’t be easy, giving me all this information.” He says, softly. “But trust me, you’re doing the right thing. Once I tell my superiors, we can plan something and stifle his operation once and for all.”

You stare blankly down the backyard. The sun is setting, the sky angry with hues of red and orange. You wonder if you are seeing anger in the clouds because that is what is brewing in the pit of your stomach. The strange man’s words are still fresh in your head, like he’s whispering them to you right now.

Seungcheol wanted nothing to do with you. You were a means to destroy your brother. That’s all.

“How long will it take?” You ask.

Jihoon looks a little uncertain, shifting in the lawn chair he is occupying. “I’m not sure. We will send some men to verify the schedules you gave us. Extensive stakeouts at the locations you told me. Our timing needs to be exactly right if we’re going to intercept the exact ships you mentioned. That cargo has to have his paws all over it. If there’s any doubt about who is calling the shots, then his men will take the fall and he will get off scot free.”

You sigh, a little dejected. “Why are they all so loyal to him?”

Jihoon shrugs. “Beats me. They’re all like that. Ready to lay down their lives. I don’t know what he is holding over their heads.”

He stands up then, giving you an encouraging smile. “It doesn’t matter though. We don’t need any of them. You gave me everything I could ever have asked for. You did good.”

You don’t say anything, watching him leave, the cold grass crunching under his boots. You stare at his back, feeling your heart sink.

You, the only one to ever betray Seungcheol.

You know you’re doing the right thing. He took away your agency, he used you for his own personal benefit, knowing he was destroying your entire life to do so. Why? Because he wanted more money? Because of greed that made him crush all your hopes and dreams in the palm of his hand?

You could’ve had it all. You could’ve been Seokmin’s omega. You could’ve lived a good life with him. He could have mated you, given you pups. You would still be able to see Soonyoung every day, considering that the two were best friends. You could’ve had a family.

Now you’re just sitting outside this unfamiliar house, feeling nothing but cold.

When the maid comes up to your room later to tell you dinner is ready and Seungcheol is waiting, you are wrapped in blankets. You tell her that you’re not feeling well so you can’t make it down. When she leaves, you try to get some sleep, but your thoughts, the contradictions inside you, plague your mind like poison. More thoughts creep in, the anger mixing and swirling now with doubt.

For every single day after he marked you, Seungcheol has given you no reason to hate him.

You know now that he brought you here not because of you, but because of your brother. You are nobody to him. He could’ve locked you up in a shabby basement cell and called it a day. But he didn’t. From day one, he has cared for you. Through Chan, through Mingyu, through Dayoung. Even through Jihoon, though he doesn’t know that Jihoon isn’t who he thinks he is.

And through himself, with all those dinners, walks and conversations. He has opened up to you, trusted you with what goes on in his mind and in his business. You have felt his touch, although very fleetingly, on the mark on your neck or the small of your back. You have smelled him, the scent of cinnamon and oak now ingrained in your very bones.

Why would he do any of that, if you were nothing but a pawn in his game?

You hear the door open, and you smell him immediately. You stay very still, closing your eyes. You hope he will see that you’re asleep and leave. You hear footsteps walk closer to the bed, then a dip in the mattress by your side. You don’t move. There’s a small, light sigh, and then Seungcheol finally speaks.

“I know you’re only pretending.”

You can feel your jaw clench.

“For some reason, you don’t want to be around me.” He keeps going. “I don’t know why. Maybe taking you to the office was too much. You’ve been quiet ever since the afternoon.”

A pause. “If someone said anything to you, tell me. They’ll answer for it, I promise.”

A shiver runs down your spine. Slowly, you open your eyes.

Seungcheol is perched on the edge of the bed, his suit jacket discarded, and the sleeves of his plain blue shirt rolled up. He’s watching you already.

“Tell me what happened, sweetheart.”

The petname makes your chest flutter a little. You finally speak.

“Tell me why you mated me.”

You assumed he would be shocked by your words, that he would try to lie to you, but his exhale is one of resignation.

“One of my biggest trade markets is at Busan Port. Over the last few years, because of what happened to my family, we lost pretty much all routes except Busan. All my men were diverted there to keep the trades going. They moved their families down there and settled. Then, your brother started sneaking into my operations and attacking my ships. Killing my men.”

You don’t interrupt him, watching his face closely.

“If I didn’t do anything, all those men out there would lose their lives, their families abandoned. Even most minimally, they would lose their only source of income. Jeonghan suggested I hit Hoshi where it would hurt the most. You.”

He stares blankly at the wall. “Killing you to send a message wasn’t an option. Only this was.”

A shake of his head. “I didn’t want to. I knew I was sacrificing you, but in my head, I thought I could justify it if your sacrifice saved hundreds of families. I regret the way I did it, but I don’t regret having you as my mate.”

His eyes meet yours, pleading, pained. “I don’t know how to apologise for what I did. I don’t know how to make it up to you.”

You look at him only for a few more seconds. Then, you let your eyelids fall shut.

“You should have just killed me.”

You can’t see it, the way his face crumples, or the way he blinks rapidly against the wave of wetness that coats his eyes. He looks away, hands balling into fists.

“I’m sorry.”

He stands up and leaves before you can say anything else.

……………………………….

On your twenty-first birthday, your mother told you that your father had been speaking to his advisor, and they would both love for you to be mated to his son.

You were shocked, to say the least, but not in a negative way. Seokmin was one of Soonyoung’s best friends, so by extension, he knew you pretty well too. He had always treated you kindly, unlike any other rare alpha that managed to cross your path at your home. He was a little condescending at times, but that is an unsurprising trait in your family’s alphas. They are all assholes, but Seokmin didn’t look down on you, and he treated you with respect from the moment he knew you as a child as well as into adulthood.

You were okay with him as a life partner. You were happy, even. And from what Seokmin always said, he was happy too. He came to the house more often after it was made official with your families, with flowers or sweets or anything else he thought you might like. He never touched you, never kissed you. You think a part of him might have felt awkward that you’re his friend’s sister. So he always made sure you were comfortable first and foremost. He gave you a bracelet for your twenty second birthday almost nine months after your official betrothal to him, a courting gift. You wore it every day, only taking it off to sleep or to bathe.

You forgot the bracelet on your bedside table the day Soonyoung shook you awake and rushed you out of bed. The day Seungcheol came.

You often wonder about him now. Three months since you were mated to someone else. You’re absolutely sure he knows. You’re sure everyone in Seoul’s underground circle knows by now. Seungcheol is a big name. The last Choi son. This can’t be hidden news for anyone.

You wonder how he feels about it.

Seungcheol doesn’t ask you to come with him to the office after that night. He doesn’t ask you to join him for dinner. You stay in your room, not feeling any desire to leave. You wallow in your emotions, that now feel like they’re too big to even fit inside your mind. Sometimes you think you might sink into the earth under the weight of them, swallowed up until you’re suffocated, no longer able to breathe.

You miss him.

Just the thought makes your mind twitch and squeeze, pained. How can you miss him? How can you even think about the earth and the oak, the feeling of his hand warm on your back, or that little dimple that tugs on his cheek? He ruined your life. You should have no feelings towards him other than raging, burning discontent.

But then you see the bite mark on your neck in the mirror, and you miss the way he ran his thumb over it, and the shiver that traveled down your spine when he did that.

Two weeks after that night, you hear a knock on your door early in the morning. You’re brushing your teeth, body going rigid when you walk out of the bathroom door to see a head poke into the bedroom. Jeonghan looks amused, watching the way your mouth is foaming, your eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights.

“Get dressed, doll. Twenty minutes. Pack an overnight bag.”

He doesn’t say anything more, disappearing as quickly as he had appeared. You don’t have any opportunity to question him, and you suspect he did that on purpose. Your heart hammers as you move quickly. An overnight bag? Why the hell do you need that? You haven’t been away for the night….. ever. Not since the day you were born, and even your birth was at home.

You fret over what to pack, so you just shove as much as you can into a small luggage bag you find in your closet. True to his word, Jeonghan is back in exactly twenty minutes on the dot. He nods and takes the luggage, gesturing for you to follow him. Hesitantly, and with a little bit of nervousness, you do.

You’re happy to see Mingyu outside, and he gives you a bright, comforting smile. You think he knows that you and Seungcheol aren’t doing well, because he’s extra gentle as he helps you into the car. And he might sense your jumpiness too, because just before closing the door, he leans down to look at you.

“Relax.” He whispers.

You nod slightly, comforted by the fact that he’s there. Jeonghan climbs into the car on the other side, immediately sliding down a little to rest his head on the back cushion.

“Get comfortable.” He says. “It’s a long journey.”

“Where are we going?” You ask, because you don’t know if you should have followed him, even if Mingyu is there. Seungcheol isn’t, and that puts you a little on edge.

“Busan.”

Your heart pounds. You did not expect that.

Jeonghan is busy almost the entire time, answering multiple phone calls and making notes on his tablet. You know how involved he is in the business. He is Seungcheol’s right hand man. From what Jihoon has told you, he is as important to the empire as Seungcheol is. He is to the underground dealings what Seungkwan is to the legal side.

He also makes you incredibly nervous, but you don’t really want to tell him that.

You drive for around four or five hours. You shift often, wincing when your hips and legs start aching a little. You aren’t used to traveling. Jeonghan seems unbothered, but he digs into a bag and offers you snacks. You watch out of the window for most of the time, engrossed in the view and deep in thought when Jeonghan finally says, “We’re here.”

Through the open window, you can hear the sound of the sea. Jeonghan isn’t on his phone for once, and he points things out for you as you drive into the city. The view is spectacular. Waves crash white against rocky cliffs, and fishing boats drift in and out of small harbors. Haeundae Beach stretches wide and bright, its sand pale gold under the sun. High-rise hotels line the edge like glass towers watching the tide. Busan is mountainous, so the city rises and falls in steep layers, hugged tightly between the rising hills.

You drive for a little longer, after which the car pulls down the coast and up a winding, narrower road. You can’t even begin to keep track of the unfamiliar drive, so you focus only on whatever you can see. Finally, the car stops in front of what looks like a beach house, a muted wooden pathway going through the sand to the steps leading up to the front door.

Jeonghan opens his door and gestures for you to get out as well. You wince as your limbs straighten, but you’re too preoccupied by the sight and smell of the beach, fresh and cutting against your lungs. You take a deep breath, feeling almost invigorated after the sleepy ride.

A man is walking down the steps towards where you and Jeonghan are. He’s wearing light clothes, breathable so as to let the wind in. Thin, wire-rimmed round glasses sit in the bridge of his nose. He gives Jeonghan a grin and a pat on the back in greeting.

“This is Wonwoo.” Jeonghan introduces him to you. The man gives you a muted smile. Clearly an alpha, but he looks nearly docile. You manage to smile back at him.

From the car behind yours, Mingyu steps out, stretching and groaning. He grins when he sees Wonwoo, walking to him and giving him a crushing bear hug. The man groans.

“Wonwoo runs things out here in Busan.” Jeonghan leans towards you to mumble. You watch Mingyu and Wonwoo scuffle around and laugh with each other. “He also takes care of the house for when Seungcheol visits.”

“This is Seungcheol’s?” You ask, staring up at the place. You shouldn’t be surprised. It’s not as grand as the home back in Seoul, but there’s a very cozy, very light and welcoming vibe to it. You think you might actually prefer this one to the house you live in.

Jeonghan nods and gestures forward, guiding you inside. The other two men follow. “You’ll be staying here for the night. Wonwoo, you set a room up for her?”

Wonwoo nods. “End of the hall. I’ll show you.”

Jeonghan hums. “We can rest for a bit before heading out again.”

You go along with Wonwoo when he gestures at you to follow him. The place is very well maintained, almost like a fancy bed and breakfast. The room at the very end of the hall is where he stops, opening it with a key and asking you to step in. You do.

It’s very neat, cleanly made. It’s obvious no one has touched anything for a while, but a very faint, familiar scent lingers.

“This is Seungcheol’s room. Best one in the house. It has a great view of the sea.” Wonwoo says, pointing to the window. He’s right, the scenery is breathtaking. You bite your lip. Of course you will stay in Seungcheol’s room. You’re his mate. You don’t suppose Wonwoo knows the exact circumstances or where your relationship stands with his boss. So you simply nod.

Mingyu drops your luggage off, and they both leave you for a while. Mingyu tells you they will go out for lunch in two hours, and you assure him you will be ready. You lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering why the hell Jeonghan brought you here.

A couple of hours later, you are walking down the long and wide wooden pier overlooking the Gamcheon Port of Busan, Jeonghan and Wonwoo right in front of you and Mingyu behind you. You shiver a little as the wind blows, making your skirt flutter against your legs. It carries with it the smell of sea salt that stings pleasantly at your nose. You cross your arms, taken aback by how blue to water is, how colorful the boats are, and how far it extends, more than your eyes can see.

Many men greet Wonwoo and Mingyu enthusiastically, more stiff when it comes to Jeonghan. When you give Mingyu a questioning look, he jokingly tells you that everyone is always a little nervous when it comes to Jeonghan. You giggle at the thought.

“I’m not the only one then.”

Mingyu laughs.

The port is lively, bustling, with people trudging back and forth with unmarked boxes. The sailors are loud as they toss cargo into and out of their ships. Wonwoo is holding a tablet in his hand, pointing and gesturing as he gives Jeonghan a rundown of everything, most of which you don’t understand. There’s a gaggle of what look like young boys laughing and singing as they work, and you try to tamp down your smile at how cheerful they sound.

They all watch you, curious.

You know their eyes are on you, but the second you turn their way, their heads abruptly jerk to the other direction. It makes you feel a little jumpy and uncomfortable, and when you ask Mingyu why they’re acting weird, he snorts.

“They won’t dare look at their boss’s mate. Not in the eyes, anyway.” He says, casually. “Seungcheol’s a naturally possessive person. Even convincing him to let you come down here was a whole thing. Not because it’s dangerous, no. This is his territory, no danger here. But because that’s too many alpha eyes on you. He’s protective of what’s his.”

You shiver a little, caught off guard by Mingyu’s words. You didn’t expect that Seungcheol’s dislike for people ogling his mate would translate even when he’s not here in person. You can’t help but think of how it speaks volumes of his authority that he’s hundreds of miles away, yet no one here would dare do anything that could tick him off.

You remember Jihoon’s words, his frustration that all of Seungcheol’s men are willing to lay their lives for him. So much loyalty, but why?

Jeonghan is gesturing to you where you stand, beckoning you to him. He’s going back up the pier with Wonwoo, and you rush to follow him. Down the path from the docks, they lead you into a small, rickety looking building, with a wooden sign that has a fish carved on it.

“It doesn’t look like much,” Jeonghan whispers to you, “but Seungcheol always stops by here during every trip. He fucking loves spicy fish stew and grilled mackerels.”

The place is really modest, and completely empty. You suspect they cleared it out because they knew Seungcheol’s men from Seoul were coming. There’s an elderly woman sitting at the counter, who looks up when the tiny bell above the door rings, signaling your entry. Her face breaks into a large smile.

“Hannie!” She gets up slowly, her figure slightly hunched as she shuffles around the counter. Jeonghan is already taking long steps to meet her there, bending down to let her hug him. It’s a warm sight, and you can’t help but smile. When they break the hug, the woman reaches up and smacks Jeonghan hard on the head, making him wince. You can’t help your gasp.

“Nearly four months since I’ve seen your face, boy.” You had no idea her frail voice could sound so stern. “I’m that easy to forget about?”

“Not at all, halmeoni!” Jeonghan whines, whines, as he rubs his head, and you twist your mouth so you won’t grin with amusement. “I was just really busy.”

She scoffs, spotting Wonwoo right behind Jeonghan, who just shrugs sheepishly.

“And Seungcheol? Where is that fool? I have a bone to pick with him. Took a mate and didn’t even tell me-”

“She’s here, actually!” Jeonghan is quick to interrupt her. You stiffen, feeling dread creep on you as Jeonghan walks back to where you stand. You widen your eyes at him, as if to say ‘don’t you dare’ but he just gives you a mischievous grin and steps behind you, grabbing your shoulders and nudging you forward a bit. You smile shakily.

“Good afternoon!” Your voice is way higher than normal. Behind you, you can hear Mingyu snort. You wish you could kick him.

The woman blinks, eyes huge behind her thick rimmed glasses. You fiddle with your fingers nervously as she eyes you for a second. Then, her face breaks into a large, warm smile.

“Well, aren’t you just the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in years.” Her voice is so soft and inviting. Behind her, Wonwoo grins. You blink a few times, feeling your cheeks warm.

“Come and sit, honey. What are you standing there for?” She gestures you forward, ushering you to a low table in the center of the room. Your heart is still racing a little, but you sit down regardless, crosslegged on the mat. The woman sits down with you.

“Let me look at you.” She says. You just smile politely and fidget a bit as she stares. You’re not used to being around elderly people. You never knew your grandparents. But there’s such a comforting air about her, like coming home after a long day. You can’t help but feel a bit at ease. She tuts a little after a few moments.

“That fool doesn’t deserve you. Can’t even come and see his halmeoni, didn’t even tell me about you. He’s just like his father.”

You blink, realisation hitting you. Is this Seungcheol’s grandmother?

Before you can reply to her, she’s already rising to her feet again, flustering about getting food made quickly, and that she wasn’t expecting you. The other men seat themselves around the table as she disappears behind a curtain, but Mingyu follows her to the back, offering his help.

“Is that really his grandmother?” You ask Jeonghan, eyes wide. He smiles and nods.

“But-” You have so many questions, you don’t even know where to start. You stare around at the place again, how ancient it looks, how nondescript. Jeonghan chuckles.

“She hates Seoul. Says she can’t fathom living in the place. She wanted to stay by the coast, something about not being able to sleep if she can’t hear the sea. She never moved down there, no matter how much Seungcheol’s father insisted. So he just stopped. This is the safest place in all of Busan, right next to the port. The place is teeming with our men. No one can harm her here. The family just tried their best to make it here every other week to visit. It’s become a bit tough when it’s just Seungcheol running everything now, so he hasn’t been down here much. I kind of get why she’s mad.”

He shrugs and rubs his head again. It really was a hard blow. You huff out a breath.

She comes back quickly, Mingyu in tow holding a large, steaming pot. She shoos at Jeonghan to move so she can sit beside you, and you smile shyly when she fills your plate herself.

She asks you all about you and Seungcheol, and you try to keep the answers as moderate and easily digestible as you can. She’s so incredibly sweet, filling Jeonghan’s plate too, gesturing for Mingyu and Wonwoo to eat as well. You can’t possibly imagine telling her the circumstances of your mating, so you just tell her that Seungcheol knew your older brother, and that’s how you met. She coos over the story, and Jeonghan looks on in amusement as you smoothly lie through everything she asks.

When she fills your plate for seconds, you politely try to refuse, but she just tuts and swats your hand away.

“You need to eat more!” Her voice is stern, but you can hear her love and concern bleeding through. “Look at you. Is he not feeding you right? That fool. You can’t carry his pups like this!”

You flush at her words, effectively going silent and just letting her pile on as much food as she wants. It’s not difficult to eat even more, since it really is absolutely fantastic. If you were Seungcheol, you would drop everything to come down here, if only for how delicious her cooking is.

You stay there for a long time. Dinner is followed by dessert, and then the men have to tend to some business. She takes you out back to a small garden, proudly showing you all the vegetables she has planted. You enjoy her company, genuinely, because the longer you stay with her, the more you learn about Seungcheol.

“You know, his mother was convinced she was having a girl.” She whispers to you almost conspiratorially. “She had all these pretty dresses made. Even chose a girl’s name. And then poof! Out popped another boy.”

She chuckles. “She couldn’t let it go. So she would keep treating him just a little bit like a girl. She would coddle him so much! My son always told her to tone it down a bit, but she didn’t.”

She tilts her head as if in thought. “Sometimes, I’m glad she didn’t. I think the reason Seungcheol is so caring now is because he was never forced to be the big, bad man.”

You are silent as she speaks, trying to absorb her words. She takes your hands gently, staring down at them. Hers are wrinkly, more soft, more scarred. The contrast makes your heart squeeze.

“I don’t know what it is, but you are a little mad at him.” She says.

Your eyes go wide. When you open your mouth to protest, she gives you a stern look.

“I may be old, but I’m not a fool. Something is stilted between you. But that’s okay. It will fix itself, because you are his mate. The mark might just be on you, but know this, child, he is yours just as much as you are his. He might be the alpha, but you call the shots. You tell him what to do, you tell him what you want, and he will fold. Trust me. I know that boy. He will give his life to protect his mate.”

You don’t know what to say, so you just stare at your hands in hers. You are hit by a wave of sadness, sweeping over you as her words float in your head. How do you tell her the reality of what’s really happening? How do you tell her that you are struggling to trust him?

And how do you tell her that he absolutely cannot and should not trust you? Not when you are about to be the singular agent of his destruction.

You are still lost in your head as you say your goodbyes to her. The sun has completely set now, stars twinkling over the curtain of the dark sky. She gives you a shawl, a deep maroon, soft cloth that feels glorious against your skin, and you thank her. She kisses your cheeks.

“Don’t be a stranger.” She smiles. “And next time you come, bring that idiot with you.”

You can’t help but laugh, nodding. Jeonghan is waiting outside, Mingyu and Wonwoo nowhere to be seen. He gives her a hug too, promising to come more often, and then you both trudge back to the docks, waving at her one last time.

Your chest feels heavy as you walk. You pull the shawl tighter around your shoulders.

“Jeonghan?” Your voice is weak.

“Hm?”

“Tell me about Seungcheol.”

He hums, not at all surprised by your request. It seems that nothing really catches him off guard.

“I met him in college.” He begins. “I knew of him way before then. My father worked for his father. You know how it is, generational bonds.”

You nod.

“But I really, properly met him in freshman year. The first thing I thought of him was how boisterous he was. Smart, but loud. He walks into a room and immediately makes his presence known.”

You nod. It’s true. Seungcheol has that aura about him.

“But I didn’t count on how insightful and perceptive he was. He doesn’t seem like the type, you know? He’s rough around the edges. But he’s caring. He cares. Sometimes, I think he cares too much. I tell him he can’t survive in this life like this. But I think his care is why it all somehow works for him.”

“Is that why everyone is so loyal to him?”

Jeonghan smiles down at you. “I think so. On principle, most crime families aren’t overly involved in the lives of their men. Most of the time, someone works for you and you pay them. Simple. But Seungcheol…”

He huffs, but it’s more amused than anything. “He wants to know what his men are up to, what they need. He feels personally responsible for all of them. It’s a huge weight to carry, but he still does it. There’s a fight in him to make sure the people under his name are all cared for, even if it means making sacrifices.”

“That’s why he marked me.” You mumble.

Jeonghan hums. “He regrets it, you know? Every day.”

You stop at the pier, watching the port. In the dark, the lights twinkle as people still move around, wrapping up for the day and preparing the night shipments that need to roll out. At one of the boats, Mingyu is laughing with a man you don’t know, helping him lug a huge crate. Someone drops something and curses, his partner bonks him lightly on the head.

“That’s why you brought me here.” The cogs in your brain are turning. “To show me what he did all this for.”

Jeonghan nods. “I know things haven’t been good with you two. And I suspected they wouldn’t get better if you just stayed in that house all the time. You needed to come out here. You needed to see why he did what he did.”

The breeze blows over your body again, cold and nipping. But you remain warm under the weight of the shawl, and the feeling that blooms in your chest as you watch on. You don’t say another word, and Jeonghan doesn’t push on it. He stands with you, hands in his pockets, as you both bask in the cool night air, letting the salt fill your lungs.

…………………………………….

When you re-enter Seoul the next afternoon, after another five hour car ride, you ask Jeonghan to take you to Seungcheol’s office and not home. He merely nods, but you can see the little uptick of his lips. He makes a call, and when you pull up to the high rise tower, you find Seungkwan waiting for you at the entrance.

“Hi!” He chirps, his smile as bright as ever. You can’t help but return it. It softens when he sees Mingyu, who lays a quick kiss on his mate’s forehead. He hasn’t seen Mingyu in over a day as well, considering he was with you in Busan. Your heart flutters at how cute they are.

Seungkwan and Mingyu lead you up, standing quietly in the elevator with you. You realise you haven’t seen Seungcheol since that night, when you told him you would rather be dead than be with him, and guilt tears at your ribs. You spent all of last night wide awake in his bed in Busan, asking yourself over and over where you want to see your life going. And after everything you’ve seen, everything you’ve heard from people, and the very limited time you’d spent with Seungcheol yourself, you had come to a conclusion.

You want to at least try.

You know you’ve made a huge error by telling what you did to Jihoon. But you can come clean about it. You can tell Seungcheol the truth and apologise. They are just shipment dates. You’re sure Jeonghan can change them, shift them around so that Jihoon is thrown off and back to square one. You can tell them all the full truth and pray that Seungcheol will forgive you.

“Relax.” Mingyu says suddenly, breaking the silence in the elevator. He always does that, tells you to relax when he can feel that you’re nervous. And strangely, knowing that someone senses your anxiety, acknowledges it, does help. You swallow tightly.

“What if he doesn’t want to see me?”

Seungkwan scoffs. “That’s ridiculous. He’ll be thrilled. He’s been looking like a kicked puppy for the past couple of weeks.”

You managed to laugh shakily at that. Your heart hammers when you step out of the elevator. Seungkwan nods at you to go ahead, so you walk towards the office, standing at his door. You take a deep breath before tentatively knocking. You hear a distracted hum of affirmation, so you open the door and poke your head in.

Seungcheol looks shocked to see you, his hands freezing over the keyboard. He blinks a few times.

“Hi.” Your heart is hammering so loud, you wonder if he can hear it. “Can I come in?”

“Of course.” He replies immediately, standing up. You step inside, looking around a little. Everything is just as it was when you first saw it.

“Did you just get back from Busan?” He asks.

You nod. “Yeah. We uh, we came straight here.”

You try not to flush hot at the confession, but you can see his own ears color pink, and that eases you a little.

“I met your grandmother.”

Seungcheol groans. “I bet she had a lot to say about me not visiting.”

“She smacked Jeonghan.”

That makes him laugh, his stiff shoulders easing a little. You feel your lips lift in a tiny smile. He watches you for a few moments.

“Are you hungry?”

You shrug. “A little.”

“Okay. There’s a good place not far from here. I’ll have Seungkwan-”

“I’ll eat if you eat with me.”

He freezes, head raising to look at you. You feel a bit embarrassed, being bold like this. But your guilt and your need to make things right is pushing you. So you keep plowing forward.

“I want to apologise for what I said that night.” You stare at your feet, feeling nervous. “I was too harsh on you.”

Seungcheol shakes his head. “Please don’t. You had every right.”

You let out a mirthless laugh. “I was just…. angry. I was very angry.”

He nods solemnly, silent.

“I want to forget about it.”

You can see the moment his eyes soften, beautiful melted chocolate orbs. He nods more resolutely this time.

“There’s nothing I would like more.”

Seungkwan makes a call, and almost an hour later, you’re sitting in the balcony of a beautiful restaurant not too far from Seungcheol’s office. There’s no one else on the balcony, though there are people eating inside. He rented the whole space out. You love the view, and the fresh air. You tell him about your Busan trip, how much you loved the beach house and how calming you found it.

“It would be so wonderful to live there.” You say offhandedly, but Seungcheol nods with complete seriousness.

“We can do summer trips. The beach is wonderful around that time.”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “I thought you didn’t have time to go down there?”

He shakes his head, a small smile on his face. “I’ll make time.”

Your stomach erupts in butterflies. You don’t know what to call this feeling.

The moment is tranquil, with soft wind blowing through your hair and Seungcheol’s eyes warm as they look at nothing but you. It’s almost like you were never apart from Seungcheol at all, and conversation resumes from where you left off. You are so relieved, so happy about it, that you convince yourself you will talk to him tomorrow, tell him about Jihoon and what you did. You can’t destroy this moment right now. You just made up with him. You don’t know if you could bear his hurt.

The fatigue of the drive starts catching up to you when you return to the office, so Seungcheol calls Mingyu and tells him to get the car ready to take you home. He walks you out himself, helping you into the car as Mingyu climbs into the passenger seat.

“You’ll come see me when you get back?” You phrase it like a question. Seungcheol smiles and runs a delicate thumb over your wrist. It makes you shiver a little.

“Of course, sweetheart.”

You don’t stop smiling the entire way back.

…………………………..

Things settle into somewhat of a routine for a while. You don’t go to the office with Seungcheol, but you visit in the afternoon and ask him to have lunch with you. He always makes time, even if it is while eating in his office instead of driving somewhere. It warms your heart that he is indulging you like this, even though he is unbelievably busy. He bids you goodbye after lunch with a smile and the softest touch of his fingers brushing the scent glands on your wrist. When you hold it up to your nose and inhale later, you can smell cinnamon and oak. It makes you giddy.

The end of a business quarter is approaching, which keeps both him and Seungkwan very occupied. You don’t know when to bring up the Jihoon thing, your fear and the circumstances making you hesitate. Briefly, you entertain the idea of telling Jeonghan instead, but you quickly dismiss that. For one, you know Seungcheol will feel some type of way about you going to Jeonghan with this instead of him. And for another, a part of you is still very nervous around Jeonghan. So that option goes out of the window.

You restart your evening ritual of dinner and a walk in the backyard. The winter chill is breaking a little, so it’s more pleasant outside now. It is on one of these walks that you bring up to Seungcheol something that you have been mulling over in your head for a long while.

“I have a favor to ask.”

Seungcheol hums. “Anything.”

You hesitate, feeling how your heart is pounding. Seungcheol must sense it, because he stops your walk with a light touch on your hand, tilting his head so you’ll look him in the eye.

“Anything, sweetheart.”

So you bite your lip hard, and then you speak.

“Can I see Soonyoung?”

Seungcheol blinks, as if he didn’t hear you right, and then he lets out a light laugh. “Your brother? Of course.”

You gape at him. “Really?”

He gives you a reproachful but gentle look. “When have I ever stopped you from doing whatever you want?”

That’s a good point. Seungcheol doesn’t really care about where you go during the day. His only requirement is that Mingyu be with you, so you can remain safe. You have been exploring the city for a few weeks now, since you were never allowed to before. Often on these trips, you remember your mother, who spent her whole life in your childhood home. You wish she could see what is out there, how much the world has to offer. You often wonder why your family operates so differently from Seungcheol's, why you never had the freedom there that you have here.

Nevertheless.

You’re both excited and nervous to see your brother again. It has been months, and you think you’ve fundamentally changed as a person since the last time you and Soonyoung were in the same room. Seungcheol makes some calls, and two more security men, a beta and an alpha, join Mingyu this time. He assures you it means nothing, it’s just about security, since the situation with Soonyoung is still a bit volatile now that he is forced to stop using the Busan Port for his trade. You accept it in stride. Frankly, you weren’t expecting to see Soonyoung at all, knowing that if you made any demand like this in your family, the answer would be a resounding ‘absolutely not’, so you won’t be difficult about anything that will make Seungcheol feel at ease.

When your car pulls up into the driveway of your old home, you drink in the sight hungrily. You missed it so much. It’s not nearly as big as the new one, but grand regardless, and associated with a million memories. You did spend your entire life within its four walls until very recently. Returning to it feels heavy but bittersweet.

Soonyoung is standing outside, waiting for you along with a few of his men. All of them have guns strapped to their fronts, probably as a show to send a message to Mingyu and the rest of the security team. You don’t care though, because the second you see your brother, tears spring into your eyes. You rush to him, letting him envelope you in a crushing hug. You can hear his mantra of ‘thank god, thank god’ mumbled against your ear. You let yourself cry on his shoulder.

He pulls away to look down at you, and his eyes immediately shoot to the large mark on your neck. He scowls at it, lip curling in distaste. You wipe your eyes and smile at him.

“I’m okay, Soonyoung.”

He nods, albeit a little stiffly, but ushers you inside with a sure arm around your shoulders. You turn to look at Mingyu, who only smiles and nods at you to go, knowing he will be waiting outside with Soonyoung’s men.

“You’re really okay?” Soonyoung’s voice sounds a little hoarse, and up close, you can see the dark circles under his eyes. Your chest pangs.

“I’m great Soonyoung, really. I’m fine.”

He sighs, visible relief washing over his features.

“I was so sure he would’ve torn you to shreds by now.”

You laugh a little. “He won’t do that. I’m his mate.”

Soonyoung scoffs and flops down on the couch. You sink into the familiar cushion beside him.

“Like he cares.”

“He does care, surprisingly.” You smile at your brother. “I’m….. happy.”

Soonyoung looks a little shocked. “You’re happy? With him?”

You nod, caught off guard when you see his face twist again, this time in anger.

“And what about Seokmin? Did you forget you already have an alpha?”

You blink, taken aback. Soonyoung’s tone is accusatory, like you’ve done something wrong. You don’t appreciate it.

“Seokmin was never my alpha. He was courting me. I wasn’t his mate. Seungcheol mated me. What the hell did you want me to do?”

Soonyoung’s eyes narrow at your tone. “Watch it.”

You grit your teeth. “You’re implying that I’m in the wrong here. I’m trying to make the best of a terrible situation I was put in.”

“You’re betraying your alpha.”

You bark out a laugh. “Seokmin is not my alpha.”

“He might as well have been. The only thing missing was the mark.”

“That mark means something.”

Soonyoung’s eyebrows pull together, eyes darting between yours as if he’s trying to figure you out. “Why are you giving me so much lip? What the hell did he do to you?”

“I don’t know what that means, but he didn’t do anything. I’m fine. Better than I have been in ages, actually, since I can set foot outside the house.”

Soonyoung rolls his eyes. “Right. That. The fact that he even let you come here proves he’s a shit alpha.”

You grind your teeth, feeling very irritated. “He knows he can protect me.”

One corner of Soonyoung’s lip lifts in a little sneer. “Sure.”

You don’t like his tone. And you almost regret coming to see him. You stand up.

“I think I should leave.” You mumble, feeling disappointment curl in your chest, an ugly emotion. Soonyoung sighs.

“I don’t mean to sound like an asshole, Y/N. You know I love you. I want nothing but the best for you.”

You sigh, feeling your shoulders slump as he continues.

“He is not the best for you. Seokmin is. Seokmin has always been.”

You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter anymore, Soonie. I’m Seungcheol’s now. It’s done.”

He stares into space. “Right.”

His tone of voice sends a little chill down your spine, but you ignore it. You don’t like the way he’s acting. You know better now, after being exposed to so many alphas on a daily basis, like Jeonghan, Mingyu, even Wonwoo, however briefly you met him, and you don’t appreciate being talked down to, especially not by your brother, who has been doing it his whole life. Something you always considered normal until you learned that it’s not.

“I’ll see you around, Soonyoung.” You mumble. He sighs and nods, but he doesn’t stop you, silently standing up to walk you out. It seems he’s not a fan of your new attitude either.

Mingyu is a little surprised that you didn’t stay for longer, but you just shake your head and pile into the car. You weren’t expecting this either, but you can’t stay if all Soonyoung is going to do is level you with more condescension and judgement. Especially for something that wasn’t your fault. You remain silent as you stare out the window, running over the interaction in your head.

“Everything okay?” Mingyu asks cautiously. You clear your throat and nod.

“Can you take me to the office?”

“Of course.”

You turn your head back to the window, resting your forehead on it and closing your eyes.

For the longest time, you idolised your brother and the life you lived before all this. You would wake up in the mornings and have breakfast brought to you in bed. Every day would be a lazy day, getting up very late and taking all the time in the world to get ready. As you think back on it, you realise that was probably because you didn’t have much to do at all, so every action, every part of the day, had to be dragged out in order to get through it. You remember spending so much time either reading or conversing with your mother as you sat on your patio. Towards the end of the day, your father and Soonyoung would get back from work, usually in a foul mood, scarfing down dinner before turning in for the night. Sometimes, Soonyoung would watch a movie with you, and if you ever asked him how his day went, he would just put a large, comforting hand on your head, replying shortly.

“Nothing you need to worry about, kiddo.”

You thought you were so lucky to not be involved. Soonyoung and your father cared so much that they never wanted to expose you and your mother to the life they lived. It’s only after your talk with Soonyoung now that you realise; when you keep someone in the dark so much, you can easily just tell them what to do and they will listen.

In Soonyoung’s mind, you will still listen to him and his judgement, just like your mother always taught you. ‘Listen to your brother, he knows best’. But does he? What does your brother even know about your life now? How can he know that Seungcheol treats you like a partner, an equal, while caring for you to the best of his ability, and not like something that needs to be shut away, never to see the light of day?

The second you opposed your brother’s opinion, he turned sour with you. And that tells you everything you need to know about how he sees you. About how he has always seen you.

Your heart hurts.

Seungcheol stands when you enter his office about half an hour later. You can see the little line between his thick eyebrows, showing his worry. Mingyu probably told him your visit was cut short.

“What happened?” He asks. You shake your head, walking behind the desk and wrapping your arms around him tightly. You can feel him stiffen for a second before relaxing, his arms heavy and comforting as he hugs you back. You feel his heartbeat against your ear, regular and calm. It eases your nerves after being unable to get Soonyoung’s cold expression out of your head the entire car ride here.

“Tell me what happened, sweetheart. I’ll fix it.”

You laugh a little and shake your head as much as you can with it still pressed to his chest. You feel like choking down tears as you think of Seungcheol and his need to fix anything that goes wrong in your life. You breathe in his scent, letting it wash over you, grounding you like it always does.

“There’s nothing to fix. I’m fine, I promise.”

He sighs at the reassurance. You don’t know how much he believes you, but you’re glad that he doesn’t press. You sway a little, holding each other tightly. After a few minutes, you huff.

“I know I have to let you get back to work, but I don’t wanna let go.”

His body shakes as he laughs. It makes you smile.

“Alright. Come here.”

You yelp when his arms slide down to your thighs, lifting you up. You instinctively cling to him, afraid to fall. He takes a few steps back until he’s sinking into his office chair again, settling you in his lap, straddling him. You flush at the position, but then his left arm wraps reassuredly around your waist, pulling you close until your head is resting on his shoulder. Your omega preens, and you tuck your arms to his chest, settling. Your heart is still racing a mile a minute, but this feels right.

Seungcheol goes back to work, the keyboard clacking away in the quiet of the office. He answers the phone a few times, and Seungkwan comes in to have him sign some things and look over more schedules. You hear him softly tell the omega to cancel any meetings he has. You doze in his arms, warm and comfortable. Your nose is so near his scent gland that all you smell is him. When he speaks, his voice reverberates in his chest, and you can feel it on your skin. He’s so warm, like he always is even in the dead of winter, and it’s so easy to be lulled into peaceful, dreamless sleep.

When you wake, everything is eerily silent. You blink a few times, assaulted by a familiar scent, and you realise you are still in Seungcheol’s lap. Except now, you’re practically draped over him. You lift your head to look up, and Seungcheol’s face is tilted to the side, eyes closed and mouth parted slightly as he sleeps. The back of the chair is adjusted to lower it more, so he’s almost lying down on it, you on top of him. You turn to look the opposite way, mouth dropping open.

It’s nighttime, the dark sky visible from the floor to ceiling windows. The lights in the office are dimmed too, except a lamp on Seungcheol’s desk and another on the coffee table in front of the couches. His computer is turned off. You can’t hear a single sound from outside. Everything is quiet.

You feel a large, warm hand cup the back of your head and push down, making you lay against his shoulder again.

“Go to sleep.” His voice is rough and throaty. Your heartbeat picks up a little.

“We can just go home.”

He wraps his arms around you tightly. “Don’t feel like moving.”

You can’t stop your grin even if you wanted to. You close your eyes, relaxing against his body again. Just before you drift off to sleep, you feel a pair of lips brush lightly over your forehead.

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[foxinnie8]

I LOVE how you write !! and cheolie is such a cutie :(((( how i wish id be cuddling him rn

SLIGHTLY WORRIED ABOUT WOOZI MESSING UP THE CUTESY VIBES THO

[kvassretriever]

[minkieater]

MONA LISA 🎞️

i got a story to tell, you know that i cherish thee... 18+

SONG MINGI HAD NEVER KNOWN LOVE. 

By age eleven, Mingi knew the shoes he had to fill were much larger than his adolescent mind could comprehend. He had heard the line ‘One day, all of this will be yours’ so often he began to think it was his middle name; his mother, his father, his aunts and uncles, to have the last name Song was a privilege. 

An empire, that’s what his father owned. Real estate for pleasure  to commercial properties, land, islands. Businesses, so many Mingi could barely keep up at age sixteen, stocks, bonds, investments in startups— not to mention the assets they kept in their home. Collectibles, fine art, vehicles, jewelry, home was for viewing, to appreciate; not to play, to laugh, to smile. Look, but never touch. 

Being the heir of an empire drew attention in all the wrong ways, especially when the internet was a growing nebula of incrimination, even if he attended the most prestigious private school overseas— making true friends continuously proved difficult. Song Mingi learned privacy before he learned the name of each business his father owned. By eighteen, back at home, learning how to be the spine of a conglomerate, Mingi couldn’t say he’d surrounded himself with many. 

It didn’t affect his ability to be a businessman, though, to perform. He learned how to speak, what language to use, how to stand, posture that demands respect, how to shake a hand, what grip his palm should hold, how to negotiate, each and every skill was engraved into his very bones. By twenty, Mingi was a walking, talking mannequin— his entire life laid out before him, chosen for him, his brain was wired to function, not to live. 

Until twenty-five, two years after his father suddenly passed, when the empire was finally recognized throughout countries as a possession of Song Mingi. By twenty-seven, he had done more for the Song name than generations upon generations before him. Mingi wasn’t just a businessman anymore, Mingi was a fucking star. 

His childhood wasn’t warm. An absent father, a mother that only cared about molding him to his father’s standards, Mingi didn’t have many things that brought him genuine, unbridled joy. 

Memories of school were blurred. Strict, routine. He doesn’t remember a time when life had color— he had small things he possessed, baseball cards, stamps, books, but those were for collecting, for making money, according to his mother, his nanny. His second nanny. His third. 

He did sell them, yes. The ones he chose to. But there were ones he kept close; characters and stories he lost himself in, other worlds he wished he could transport his consciousness to, baseball cards he found himself attached to and stamps that were too beautiful to be in someone else’s hands. His mother, three nannies, thought his attachment to such small, meaningless things pointless. A flaw. 

They were still in his drawer at twenty-eight, when he owned the world and it thanked him in return. Fear is a beautiful thing, an opportunity for growth, for overcoming, self-improvement, unless the thing you fear is human. A six-foot industrialist that owned everything, as much as the world looked to Song Mingi he was, above all, someone to be fucking terrified of. 

There’s beauty in fear, it might be the first thing Song Mingi ever fell in love with. The second— the first time he’s cracked his chest open and had a woman drink the carnage from her palms. When a man stands above the world, there are plenty of men who wish to stand beside him, but none who dare. 

Song Mingi never thought his undoing would be a woman. A company dinner, a gala, his mother hosted it yearly. She laid out a list of appropriate, single women for the twenty-eight year old man, the country’s most eligible bachelor; none he wanted. It was a list of titles, of baggage, at the age where he should be thinking of marriage, of a future, of love, Mingi wanted his life to fucking start. He wanted to live. 

A private club, one of many he owned, this one was his favorite. Red velvet and black leather surrounded the space, the music low, the patrons wealthy— he didn’t care what the walls looked like, what booth he sat in, how they always kept his glass topped off. He cared about you, in your black satin dress and skinny red pumps his eyes always glued to. 

He cared about how you didn’t care about him. He saw you monthly, always on the arm of another man like a prized possession. He knew your real name and your social security number the first day he laid eyes on you, he knew what you were, he knew what you cost. 

A check he didn’t send until his mother sent him a list of names, and it dawned on him you were the opposite of every single bullet point. An idea that made his heart race. A thought that felt like rebellion, for the first time in his twenty-eight years of life. 

He didn’t speak a word to you until he was parked outside of your apartment building in a blacked out limo he never used for any occasion. The driver opened the door for you and it was as if you knew how long you drifted through Mingi’s mind as a risk, an opportunity he would never dare take. But Mingi’s a man who gets everything he wants, by the snap of his fingers or the wave of his hand, and to be a businessman is to take risks without the security of a certain outcome. 

At twenty-eight years old, the biggest risk he’d ever taken was inviting you in his limousine. He’s invested in what many would never think to, he's torn down other empires with his bare hands, he’s put himself in the spotlight for the world to see everything. But it felt like opening the drawer in his bedroom, a lazy grin on his lips, a hand outstretched to help you inside the limousine, the moment he smelled you he couldn’t believe he’s withstood life without you. 

“Mr. Song,” you nodded your head politely, dark gown blanketing over the black leather seats. “It’s an honor to meet you.” 

“Mingi,” he corrected, the corner of his lips curled, “thank you for joining me.” 

Your dress, your heels, your face, your smell, your posture— everything about you screamed wealth. Power, but submission. How is it that he could buy your time, your companionship, and his heart is lurching in his chest? Had he bought this feeling, too?

He’s had women, so many fucking women at his private school overseas, in his penthouse, the one he used for that very reason, entertainment and pleasure, he’s had them in the backseat of his Escalade. He’s had women everywhere, yet never once has he felt his heart dance beneath his ribs. 

You’re funny— in the way that businessmen’s eyes widen and a choked laugh falls from their lips, because there’s no way you’d speak those words aloud, on Mingi’s hip. You knew how to speak, you were fluent in the language of business and hierarchy and wealth. 

You’re intelligent. Observant, you could tell who Mingi’s allies are, who’s a competitor, who searched for details to exploit. Mingi supposed one Forbes article could have relayed the information, but in his bones he knew you were reading them, everyone, their body language, microaggressions beneath the lines of sweet words, silent insults behind pearly white teeth. 

Built for this world, but only with your toes touching the shore. You’d never attended an event of this stature, that Mingi knew from the file on his desk at home, yet you behaved like this was just another Saturday, like you knew these people just as well as Mingi, as if he briefed you for a week beforehand. 

His mother wasn’t as outraged as he would have liked. A woman with no title, with no wealth, no father to make a deal with— small discrepancies that no longer mattered, because if she liked you, you, somehow it felt better. Somehow he was proud. 

There was no time to be curious. Only stunned, satisfied, glad. He likes you. He likes you. He knew he would. But to like you this much, without knowing anything else than what lived in a manila folder on his oakwood desk, fear sank its claws into Mingi’s heart, and he encouraged it to sink deeper. He loved the way it felt. 

Tabloids ate it up, every picture of the two of you together sold for thousands. The first time Mingi was seen in public with a woman, fingers intertwined, a smile on his face, the country seemed to go through a grieving period. 

This Just In: Song Mingi Seen with Mystery Woman! 

Does the Song Empire Finally Have its Empress?

The World’s Favorite Bachelor is Taken! 

Song Mingi With Unknown Woman: What Does She Have That We Don’t?

Mingi never particularly enjoyed speculation on his love life, especially when it was broadcast to the world— but this he could get behind. He liked how he looked next to you, his smile looked genuine. He doesn’t remember the last time it was. 

Another sum wired to your account, within a week he had you on his arm again. A conservative bodycon dress on your body, closed-toe heels on your feet, hair styled, makeup done, you looked born of importance. A business dinner with the Choi empire’s son, a networking event, not that Mingi needed to network. He just needed to show face. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Choi,” you smiled sweetly, not even blinking as Jongho brought your knuckles to his lips. Mingi’s hand pressed a little harder to the small of your back. 

Jongho’s eyes slid to Mingi as his lips made contact, a challenge in the flare of his pupils. A flirt, he’s always been, tabloids made millions off of Choi Jongho’s excursions since he was a mere fifteen years old, parties, drinking, drugs, women, men. A billionaire’s son he was, at his core, no rules and no laws could touch him. He took advantage of the notion daily. 

Mingi swallowed down his irritation, keeping his eyes neutral, shaking the younger man’s hand next. Jongho smirked, a corner of his mouth lifting at the lack of reaction from Mingi. Jongho tilted his head, jet black hair set with so much gel it didn’t move a millimeter, “Where’d you find her, hm?” 

“You wouldn’t know it,” you replied before Mingi could take a breath. “Invite only.” 

Your tone, so intriguing, how you can say so much without saying anything. You wouldn’t know it, it’s too prestigious for you. Invite only, you aren’t nearly important enough. Mingi’s grin was utterly cheshire. 

Jongho’s smirk wilted, lips a flat heart between his nose and chin. He nodded once, “Well.” Looking between you, searching for words in his mind, “I look forward to seeing more of you, and Mingi, I look forward to the proposal my father mentioned.” 

Ah, the proposal. He knew there was something important tonight. At the head of the dinner table, naturally, a spot he’d forever wield. He kept his eyes on you during his speech, a monologue he pulled straight from his ass, one that had the table floored. The Choi corporation certainly wouldn’t be pleased when the fine print reached their hands— but each and every attendee worked like dogs, grins on their faces, eyes glazed over like they’d seen God. 

You, on the other hand, hands in your lap, polite smile on your face. Mingi assumed you didn’t understand a word until you’d reached his Escalade after dessert. 

“The proposal,” you turned your head toward him, a single crinkle between your brows. “It’ll tear down the Choi’s, will it not?” 

Mingi stretched his neck from side to side, unfastening the cuff links on his wrists. He should be more surprised you understood the severity of the deal, especially without reading the fine print, even more so that Mingi presented it like a gift. Somehow it felt natural that you knew what you weren’t supposed to. 

“In time,” he hummed, “maybe.” 

Your head turned to the window again. He watched you for a moment, how your hair bounced as they drove over gravel, your hands still politely in your lap as if you’d get scolded if they moved. Mingi, so soft it was almost a whisper, “What are you doing tonight?” 

Your neck craned to him, eyes wide like you weren’t expecting anything but being dropped off before your building. Mingi’s lips pulled upward, “Do you want to come back to mine for drinks? Maybe talk over the proposal a little more.” 

Stars would cower at the sight of your smile, he’d never seen anything so bright in his twenty-eight years. It made a pit form in his gut, made the length trapped his boxers present. Fear kissed his spine, but it only aided in his excitement. 

Your head didn’t stop moving from the moment you stepped foot in his penthouse, really when you stepped foot in the building, through the glass revolving door in the lobby, you watched every movement like a kid in a candy store. Amazement, Mingi thinks, danced in your eyes all the way up to the top floor, so much so he let you open the door with his key. 

“Beautiful,” awe soaked your tone, you whispered the word as you walked into the space, heels clicking against the tiled floor. Mingi couldn’t stop smiling, excitement lighting up each and every one of his veins, he pulled off his blazer the moment he stepped inside. 

“I had an interior designer take over,” still smiling, he hung his blazer, bringing you past the foyer to the living room. “I’m not much of a decorator.” 

You laughed— it was the first time he heard it, and it took his fucking breath away. The sweetest, most innocent giggle, he didn’t think such an incredible sound had blessed this place since he bought it. You followed him to the bar, eyes still searching every wall, every nook and cranny of the room, the act so cute Mingi wasn’t sure how he’d hold himself back. 

“I’ll wire you first thing in the morning,” he said as he stepped behind the bar, while you sat in one of the upholstered chairs that made up the conversation area. “I know this wasn’t a part of the deal.” 

“No need,” you shook your head, one knee crossing over the other, “I’m off the clock, if that’s okay with you.” 

He lifted his brows in amusement, pouring whiskey neat into two glasses, he’d never been more okay with anything in his life. “Even if we’re still talking business?” 

“Do you really want to talk business?” Lips curling at the corner, head tilting, tendrils of hair kissing your collarbone, the sight made his stomach tumble. 

He did— for some reason, he trusted the walls of his penthouse, the woman that stood between them. Just to amuse himself, he asked, “Can I trust your judgement?” 

“You can trust my honesty,” your eyes followed him as he rounded the corner of the bar, placing your glass on the table that separated you on two black velvet chairs. 

He took a long sip of whiskey, letting himself feel the burn of it licking down his throat. He sat with his knees spread, two arms lazily thrown over his thighs, one hand fingering the circular rim of his glass. 

“Let me ask you a question, then,” his voice thick, lowered, gravelly in the way that he wasn’t sure he wanted you to hear what came next. But you nodded, as he knew you would, so he asked, “What do you think of me?” 

You shuffled in your seat, making yourself more comfortable. Back sunken lower into the velvet, two palms cradling the glass in your lap, knee still thrown over the other. “I think you’re strong,” you began with a steady breath, and for a moment Mingi thought you would stop there. You didn’t. 

“I think… you’re adolescent. I think you’ve never gotten a taste of what life is, what it could be. You were Song Mingi, heir of an empire, heir of the world. Now you’re Song Mingi, the man who stands behind the curtain, puppets dangling from his strings. You appear as a symbol of strength, wealth, control, but have you ever had anything ripped from your palms? From your heart?” 

Mingi’s jaw clenched, his ears danced beside the fade of his haircut. He eyed your uneven chest, despite your calm eyes, he could tell the words spilled from your lips without intent. Honesty you promised, it cut like a blade to his perfect, well-kempt skin, you asked him questions you already knew the answer to. 

“And what could my life be? If I was a different man,” his head tilted backwards, staring beneath thick brows. Your posture doesn’t change. 

“Fun,” you tried a smile, a curve to your painted lips, “it could be fun.” 

“Does my life not seem fun?” He popped a brow, amused all over again. “Women and money, anything I could ever want at my fingertips—”

“—And yet you don’t take advantage,” your smile turned sly, cunning. Eyes feline, you saw too much of him. Things that he kept hidden. “Do you?” 

Mingi shrugged, what was he doing right now? “I do. Enough so.” 

You shook your head slowly, taking a sip from your glass. Licking your lips, Mingi watched as the liquor poured down your throat. So fucking beautiful, an action so common, so small, having you before him has been the most fun he’s had. 

You leaned forward, the glass landing on the table between you, the clinking sound reverberated throughout the penthouse. “Not enough,” you said, voice lowered, sultry. “But I’m here.” 

His brows raised, head straightened, unexpecting of your forwardness. Swallowing down saliva and remnants of liquor on his tongue, his voice came out breathier than he wanted, “And?”

“You paid for my time,” you sat back in your seat, arms blanketing the armrests, casual, comfortable. “You don’t have to anymore.” 

“Why’s that?” 

“I want to know you, Song Mingi. I want to show you.” 

It felt like a love confession to Mingi. He’d never heard those words in his life— everyone wants money, power, they want the Mingi they answered to. Not the man beneath the mask, the man who laid at the bottomless pit of power, the man who dreamed of what his life would be if he wasn’t Song Mingi. 

It's easy to get lost in power, in strength, in control. To peer inside and not recognize who you see, to realize that’s all you’ve ever been, that there’s nothing beneath the mask. Hollow, a shell, a robot whose organs swam in blood. 

He took you to bed that night, two glasses of whiskey left half-drank on the table in his bar room. Even sex felt different, new, he’d never thought a connection between himself and his partner would make it better, his finishing point stronger. He thought your face beautiful, your words elegant, but your body was something he could only imagine. 

Perfection, every inch of you. And you could feel it in his fingers, in his tongue, in his body that carried you past the finish line over and over. Mingi embraced his fear, in the way he always had— he relished in the way you lacked it. Raw, unbridled, you appeared to him as yourself, no sugarcoating, no acting. 

You saw him for him, and he saw you for you. An eye for an eye, in a way. 

In the months to follow, he saw you often. Mingi never frequented the penthouse as often as he’d been, almost permanent residence, with you by his side each and every time. Each and every day. 

His business grew stronger, his mind sharper. You in his ear, your smarts, your wit, growing up Mingi never saw his mother with his father the way he kept you by his side. A lucky charm, or a new set of eyes to see the things he couldn’t, you’d become vital in a few months’ time. 

The tabloids went rampant. Your face on the front page more often than not, no one knew who you were, none would find out. It didn’t seem to bother you, nor did it bother Mingi, he was falling headfirst into something he never expected, and proudly so. Seeing you in the club, satin dress, red pumps, he never thought he’d love your mind more than anything else. He never saw farther than the gala. 

Other than his business, his mind, you made good on your promise; Mingi’s life has never been more fun. Public appearances were a joy instead of a chore, with you on his arm, with back rooms and closets and that sharp tongue he’s come to adore. Clubs filled with alcohol served to him in bottles and blow on a silver platter, at twenty eight he learned how to party. He especially learned it never really needed to stop. 

Most of all, you showed him love. A feeling that comes naturally, one he’s never felt before, in the months he’s known you, you’ve taught him empathy. Compassion, emotion, connection, you helped him talk through his heart twisting in his chest, his stomach so tight he feared he’d spill its contents onto the floor, just from looking at you. Talking deep into morning hours, about anything, everything— your past, his own, your future. 

It turned domestic before he’d realized, before he’d meant to put a label on anything. Naturally, on its own, who was he to fight what’s meant to be?

Waking up next to you, peppering kisses along your jaw, down your neck, your stomach until his tongue met between your thighs, it was heaven to him. Each and every morning, waking you up until your thighs shook around his head, just to push inside you until they shook around his hips. Natural. Routine. 

“I want to show you something,” still inside you, chest heaving, lips ghosting your cheekbone. “Later tonight. Pack a bag.” 

Your brows raised on your perfect, flushed, fucked-out face. “A bag? Where are we going?” 

“Outside the city,” he placed a kiss to your brow, “it’s special. No one else has seen it, ever.” 

You giggled, and his stomach tumbled the way it always did. The way it always will. You gasped as he pulled out, whining at the emptiness, the spillage onto sheets that’d be changed while he’s gone. 

“You trust me that much, hm?” You asked with a twinkle in your eye as he peeled off of you, off the bed, headed for the bathroom. 

He looked over his shoulder to give you a look, “Is that even a question?” 

You smiled at him like you loved him. Like if he said those three, pretty little words, you’d say them back in a heartbeat. Confidence, acceptance rushed through his veins. 

You met him in the shower for him to bully into you all over again. Pebbled nipples pressed into the tile wall, one of his arms splayed over your stomach, holding you upright. Growling hungry words into your ear, he drank up your moans like they were dessert. 

After getting dressed, suit and tie, he searched the bedroom again with his thick brows knitted together. “Baby, have you seen my wallet? My checkbook?” 

With your arms in a dress, you presented your back to him to zip you up, one hand holding your ponytail to the left. “You can’t find them?” 

He zips you up, two hands on your waist, planting a wet kiss to your cheek. “Haven’t seen them since yesterday.” 

You spin around, hands on his blazer, laying them down flatter with painted fingertips. Eyes meeting his, still sparkling, “Did you leave them at the office?” 

“Maybe,” he scrunches his lips to one side, “probably. I can’t believe I didn't notice.” 

You pull him in by his lapels, pressing your lips to his softly, a long, sweet kiss. “You’re Song Mingi, baby. I don’t think anyone expects you to throw down your black card or write them a check, you have people to do that for you.” 

“Come on,” his grin spreads wide, “you know better than that. I’ll check the office when I get there.” 

“What time should I be ready?” You ask as he turns on his heel. 

Walking out of the bedroom to put his feet in the dress shoes he left at the front door last night, “Eight, please. I’ll have Hiro pick you up.” 

One more kiss to your pretty lips, and he’s off, giddy as ever. He doesn’t remember to search for his wallet when he gets to the office, nor his checkbook. Both are lost on him, his mind filled with thoughts of later, what he’ll show you, how much it means to him that you’ll see it. 

Eight rolls around fast— the two of you in the backseat of his blacked out Escalade, fingers intertwined, driving an hour outside the city to a small cottage. A small, suburban house, baby blue, the interior something out of a movie, as if he’d stepped back in time. 

He carries your bags inside with one hand, the other on the small of your back. “I spent a lot of time here growing up,” he said as you entered the house, and just like the first time in his penthouse, your eyes danced as you took in every detail. 

“My first nanny’s house. She passed a while back, left it to me. It’s technically my main residence, well, this is home.” 

You had tears in your eyes as you took in the space. Fingertips riding along dusty shelves, the mantle of the fireplace, the crickety kitchen table that had seen too many years of use. 

“She left it to you?” Was all you asked, stunned, in awe of the gem he kept hidden away. 

He stood in the foyer, watching you learn his memories, his childhood. He took his first steps here, said his first words here, this was home before his parents’ home. Not that he could remember any of it, much too young to take in the weight of what his first nanny did for him. Too young to understand the love she had for him, how she treated Mingi like her own. 

“I don’t have any memories, the walls hold them more than my mind does. But I can feel it when I’m here, how she loved me, took care of me. When I was moved to my parent’s, she and two others took care of me there. I didn’t know this place existed until it was mine.” 

Tears had slipped down your cheeks by the time you met Mingi’s eye again. “I can feel it too,” you whispered, breath shaky, walking towards him on soft steps, “it feels special here. Like home.” 

He pressed a kiss to your lips after you swung your arms around his neck. “I wanted to show you because it’s special to me, like you’re special to me.” 

“Do you think we’ll live here?” You looked down at his chest while you asked the question, the first time he’s ever seen you coy. You look up again, eyes glassy, “Will this be home for us one day?” 

His heart pounded against his chest, eyes searching your face for something other than truth. This meant more than I love you, the three, pretty little words he kept locked up beneath his ribs. 

“Yes,” he whispered, swift, eyes wide and pulsing. “Yes, it’ll be home for us. It's yours now, as much as it’s mine.” 

More tears spilled down your perfect cheeks, dripping down into the smile that’d stolen your face. “I love you,” you said, words strong, no room to hear them incorrectly. 

Mingi swallowed, searching your face again, breath stolen from his chest. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat. “I love you too,” he said, whispered, coated in disbelief. You meant it. You love him. You love him and he fucking loves you. “I love you,” he repeats again, assuredly, confidence in his voice, earnest and true. 

You kiss him, and kiss him and kiss him until his clothes are thrown to the floor of the living room, yours on the floor of the bedroom. 

He pushed into you slowly, fingers twisted above your head, tongue licking into your mouth while he made your body new. His and his only, from now until death do you part, Mingi would never let you go. Those pretty, three little words moaned, uttered, whispered, over and over— in his ear, in his skin, while he emptied himself inside you, while you pulsed around his length. This was love. In the place his life began, with the person it would end beside. 

Still cuddled in the queen sized bed, crocheted comforter thrown over your sweaty bodies, his fingers massaged your scalp as you laid over his chest. “I have one more thing to show you,” he said, voice low, tired. 

You looked up at him through your raised brows, silently asking what?

You whined when he untangled himself from your body, the loss of warmth. He smiled as he opened the top left drawer on the dresser, excitement nipping at his nerve endings. You crawled to the foot of the bed, comforter still covering your naked body as Mingi pulled the contents from the drawer. 

His baseball cards, his stamps, the book he’s held close to him since he was a child. “These,” he laid them out on the comforter before you, “are my prized possessions. Nothing in this world, until you, have meant what these mean to me.” 

You looked up at him with stars in your eyes, “Tell me about them.” 

He told you everything. From the meaning of the book, to why he needed the escape, to the baseball cards and the stamps and how they’ve left a mark on his very soul. He laid himself bare for you, the most vulnerable thing he could ever do, the very essence of his being fleshed out on a crocheted comforter. 

You listened to every detail, touched them carefully, looking to him for permission with every movement of your fingertips. You didn’t need his permission— not anymore. What’s his is yours. He’d rip his heart out and hand it to you on a platter, if you asked.

He slept better than he’d ever slept in his life that night. Body curled into you, falling asleep to your breathing, he woke up to you by his side and he realized in that moment, this is everything he’s ever wanted. This is what he’s been waiting for, all this time.  

Eight months into your relationship and he had a diamond ring in that same top left dresser drawer. When you know, you know, he told himself, he told his business partners, he told his staff, he told anyone that would fucking listen to the book he could write about how much he loves you. He needs you— it’s more than love, it’s more than companionship. It's a soul tie, and how fucking lucky is he that he’s found you? That he has you?

Eight months into your relationship and this was the first weekend you’d spend apart. He paid for the plane ticket to Cancun, a weekend trip with your girlfriends, all of the ones he’s met and done background checks on. He could never be too sure, not when it came to you. 

Hiro dropped you off at the airport, Mingi wrapped up in meetings, you assured him the night before he didn’t have to hold your hand all the way to your gate, promising him with your lips wrapped around his cock. Returning the favor in the morning, he let you go not without a fight, but you won nonetheless, as you always do. 

Waving goodbye to Hiro at the airport, you watched him drive away, turning the corner to get back on the highway— a smile crept onto your cheeks as his black Escalade pulled into view. 

The driver packed your luggage in the pull-up trunk as the door was opened for you, a trickle of adrenaline kissed your bones, the base of your spine, it’s been so long since you’ve seen him. 

“Baby,” he greeted, black hair gelled back, smirk already on his lips, suit painted onto his body. You nearly drooled. 

Your eyes widened, reality settling in that he’s real and he’s here. Heart pounding in your chest, “Yunho!” You squealed, hauling yourself in the backseat of the SUV, immediately crawling onto his lap, knees bent on the leather seats. 

His lips taste like home. Pressing yourself against him was the closest thing to heaven you’d ever felt; it was too long, a relationship only over the phone, unable to feel his touch, his lips pressed to yours. Only a few times over the last eight months had you been able to steal a glimpse, a quick kiss, your life had become too public, too quick, Yunho pushed to the shadows. 

“I missed you,” his grin is wide, pearly white teeth on display, a flush to the apples of his cheeks. His hands landed on your hips, giving you a possessive squeeze, “You did so good, my love.” 

You curled your hair around your ear, biting your lip. “You think so?” Heat floods you as the praise leaves his lips. 

“One more and you’re done,” he pulls you toward him for another kiss. “Go over it for me.” 

“Forty first street, two-one-three Ashland street. Baby blue house, spare key under a brown rock, small and circular, directly to the right of the welcome mat. I have a spare key to the penthouse, the code for the elevator is twelve ninety-seven.” 

Yunho raises his brows, pride in his eyes. “Twelve ninety-seven? Your birth month and year?” 

You can feel the heat in the tips of your ears, you tilt your head with a bashful smile. “What can I say? He loves me.” 

Large palms find your cheeks, pulling you in for another quick kiss, “I fucking love you.”

“I love you,” you’re smiling against his lips as the car is put into drive, pulling away from the drop-off lane. “Three baseball cards, a storybook, and a binder of stamps, in the top left drawer of the dresser in the bedroom. There’s also a ring in there, if you want that, too.” 

He leans back until he’s flat against the backseat, eyes blown wide. “He was gonna propose?” 

“Still is,” you shrug, “probably when I get home from ‘Cancun.’”

The smile that spreads across Yunho’s cheeks would be terrifying if you were anyone else. If you didn’t know him down to his very bones. He groans, head tipping back against the leather seat, “I’d fuck you right here, right now if we weren’t in this fucking car.” 

Your smile mirrors his, eyes lowering as your finger reaches upward, pressing the button in the center of three on the ceiling. You hear the faint hum of the partition closing, severing the front seat from the back seat, and the chuckle that leaves Yunho’s mouth has your thighs tightening around him. 

“For good luck,” you press a kiss to his lips, one he deepens immediately, “before you take everything he’s ever loved.”

masterlist 📍

[foxinnie8]

I DID NAWT EXPECT THIS ENDING

[lustcannibalism]

the desire to engage in my hobbies leaving my body as soon as I have the day off even though I was looking forward to it all week

[konoko]