i like the idea of us waiting for each other. i like the idea of the feeling that waits to remind me it’s still around every morning is sticking to you too, that it’s a piece of each other’s love, so our souls will know as soon as our paths intersect. then, it’ll all make sense, and everything until then can just be. can be simple and beautiful and with less pain. i don’t want you to hurt. i’m trying not to hurt at all, but i miss you. delicately, i love you. i crave you. i can’t wait to know you. i’ll stop the rush. i already know where you aren’t.
POV: jerking off Nerd!Mingyu
slight popular!reader x nerd dynamic
MDNI, SMUTTY DRABBLE 18+
warnings: handjobs, pwp, big dick loser!mingyu
WC: 2.2k
BETA READ BY THE LOML @nerdycheol
Mingyu had been studying for finals all week. Your poor boyfriend, locked in his dorm instead of doing his rightful job of spending time with you—it was infuriating! Top of his class, on a full-ride academic scholarship that he maintained so easily, yet you hadn’t seen him in a whole seven days (besides passing him in the hallways, and the good morning and good night texts, and the kisses he’d always plant on your cheek when you’d meet for coffee, but you insisted those didn’t count)—you were getting desperate.
So today, when you’d walked into his dorm room, using the key he’d so graciously given you, it was no wonder you had the urge to absolutely devour him. Especially when he had that furrow in his brows, the sharp canines you adored sinking into the plush pink of his lips. His glasses were perched cutely on his nose, a knit sweater hanging off his broad shoulders. Your boyfriend was an absolute snack, and it would’ve been wasteful to do nothing. So when you shut his door and he stood to greet you, who could blame you for wrapping your arms around him and kissing him stupid?
That was the thing about Mingyu. For all his smarts, for all the prodigal genius he was, he simply melted for you. The second your hands were on him, the boy was gone. You felt the tightening in his pants against your leg immediately and grinned victoriously.
“Study break?”
It didn’t take long for you to have him pressed against his wooden bookshelf, even shorter for your hands to wander to the waistband of his pants. you worked at his belt, the zipper and button following until his pants bunched around his knees.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, lip jutting out when you saw the growing wet spot on the front of his boxers where his tip stained them with precum already, the fabric stretched tight. You cooed at him, teasingly. "Oh, poor baby." Pressing your palm to the bulge, rubbing and squeezing lightly. "Missed me that much? Should’ve told me you were so pent up, you know I’m always here to help you, Gyu."
Mingyu let out a sharp, strangled sound, as your palm made contact. The sensation of the damp, tight fabric being squeezed was almost too much to bear. He felt the heat of the friction radiating through his entire lower body, a pulsing, heavy ache that made his vision swim.
"F-fuck," he whined, though he made absolutely no effort to move away. "Don't tease me—ah—please."
He looked down at you, his eyes hooded and dark, watching the way you looked at him—the teasing pout, the knowing glint in your eyes. The sheer, unashamed confidence of your touch, the way you could call him baby and mock his desperation while simultaneously driving him to the brink, was enough to make him want to both laugh and lose his mind.
His gaze dropped to where your hand was working, the sight of the dark, damp stain on his boxers a testament to how much power you held over him. He felt exposed, stripped of his dignity and left with nothing but raw, pulsing need, but he was right where he wanted to be. He gripped the edge of the shelf so hard his knuckles turned white, his hips twitching involuntarily against your hand. "Ngh, don’t stop. Please don’t stop." He panted as his brows pinched together.
"M'not gonna stop, promise." You chuckled, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips as you finally tug the fabric down. He sprung out, slapping against his abs, and your hand wasted no time to wrap around him and start slowly tugging, coaxing out more sticky pre and whimpering moans. "That's it. You're doing so good for me."
He's hot and heavy in your hand, pulsing as the tip spurts more liquid, your thumb dragging over the sensitive skin to gather it and spread it along his length. It added a slickness to the friction, a slow wet shlick, shlick, shlick filling the room in response. But you don't speed up, don't let it build quickly, instead placing each brick, to unravel him until there's tears in his pretty eyes.
A broken, high pitched sound—a sound he would have died before letting anyone else hear— escaped his throat. It was a whimper, raw and unrefined, swallowed by the quiet of the room.
He was a man of discipline, a man who thrived on being the one in control, but as you began that slow, agonizingly deliberate rhythm, he felt his entire foundation dissolve. The feeling of your hand, the wet, repetitive sound of skin sliding against skin, seemed to echo in the narrow aisle, filling his head until there was nothing else.
He gasped your name, his voice a wrecked, breathless shadow of itself. He reached down, his fingers tangling in your long hair, not to pull you away, but to anchor himself as the world began to tilt. You weren't rushing him, no, you were being cruel in the most exquisite way, dragging out the tension, building the sensation brick by agonizing brick. Every time he thought he was about to tip over the edge, every time his hips began to buck instinctively to find a faster pace, you would slow down, teasing the sensitivity of the tip, spreading the slickness of his own release until he was practically vibrating with the effort of staying upright.
His breath came in shallow, jagged hitches. His vision was blurred, the dim light of the room turning into a haze of gold and shadow. He felt a stinging heat behind his eyelids, a physical manifestation of the sheer, overwhelming sensory overload. He was being unraveled, stripped of every layer of his composure until there was nothing left but the friction, the heat, and your voice..
His hips jerked upward, a desperate, involuntary movement seeking more of that friction, his muscles coiling tight as the pressure built to an unbearable peak.
"Oh fuck," he choked out, his eyes opening just enough to see the dark, beautiful shape of you in the gloom. "Don't... don't make me wait..."
You grinned, hand speeding up slightly at his plea. "Yeah? Does that feel good, baby?" When he nodded frantically, breath hitching as more whines were ripped from his throat, her tongue clicked. "Come on, use your words. You can do it." You goaded, hand tightening fractionally.
Mingyu’s fingers tightened in your hair, his knuckles white as he fought to keep his balance. The slight increase in speed was a torture he didn't want to end, a frantic, rhythmic friction that made his entire lower body feel like it was made of liquid lightning. Every time you tightened your grip, a fresh wave of heat crashed over him, leaving him gasping for air that wouldn't come.
"It... it feels..." He swallowed hard, his voice breaking on the syllable.
He looked down at you, his green eyes blown wide, glazed with a mixture of pleasure and desperation. "Feels s’good," he finally managed to choke out, the words a slurred, breathless confession. "God... it feels so fucking good."
He let out a long, shuddering moan as you squeezed him again, the pressure hitting the most sensitive part of his length with devastating precision. He was right there, teetering on the precipice, his muscles coiled so tight they were trembling. The sensation of the slick, wet friction was building into a roar in his ears, drowning out the noise outside the dorm, drowning out the thought of studying, drowning out everything but the feeling of you.
"Please," he groaned, his hips bucking upward in a frantic attempt to meet your hand, his voice dropping to a raw rasp that was nearly a sob. "Don't make me say it again. Just... now. Give it to me now."
"So demanding." You hummed. "Is that how we ask for things?" Your hand stopped entirely, squeezing at the base.
The sudden absence of friction was a physical blow, making Mingyu’s entire body jolt. His hips jerked upward in a desperate, instinctive search for the heat that had just been stolen from him. The silence that followed was deafening, filled only by the sound of his own ragged, panicked breathing. He felt suspended in a state of agonizing tension, his nerves screaming for the release that was being cruelly withheld.
Your name gasped from his lips as a broken, breathless plea, eyes, wet and wide, searched yours with a frantic, unshielded desperation. He reached down, his large hands trembling as he gripped your wrist, his fingers digging into your skin. Mingyu didn't try to pull your hand away; he tried to force it back, to command the motion to resume, but hands trembled, his muscles weak.
"Don't..." he choked out, a small, pathetic sound that he would have loathed if he weren't so close to the brink. "Don't do that. Don't stop now. Please."
His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his chest heaving. He looked down at where your hand remained, squeezing the base of him, and the sensation was almost more than he could bear a teasing, heavy weight that promised everything and gave nothing. He was a man on the verge of tears, his muscles coiled so tightly they were vibrating, his entire existence narrowed down to the single, desperate need for the friction to return.
“Now that wasn't so hard, was it? Good boy." Your hand resumed its movement as you teased him, faster now, watching his back arch and his abs tense.
The moment the friction returned, Mingyu let out a sound that was less a moan and more a broken sob tears finally slipping from his glossy eyes down his cheeks. The sudden, rapid movement of your hand was a violent, beautiful shock to his system, a rhythm that didn't give him a single second to breathe or prepare. His back arched sharply, his spine pressing hard against the wood behind him as his entire body strained toward the sensation.
"Fuck!" he choked out, his head falling back so hard it nearly hit the shelf again.
The speed was punishing. It was a relentless, driving force that bypassed all his remaining defenses, turning his thoughts into a white hot blur of pleasure. His abs were locked in a rigid, trembling knot, his muscles coiling and rippling under the strain of trying to hold himself together while being systematically dismantled.
Every time your palm slid over the sensitive, slick skin of his length, a fresh jolt of electricity shot through him, making his toes curl and his vision swim with dark spots.
"Oh fuck— baby— baby!" he gasped, the words coming out in jagged bursts, shaky and trembling.
He reached down, his hands no longer just guiding you but clutching at your shoulders, his fingers digging into your skin as he fought to stay upright. He was close—so close that the pressure felt like it was going to burst. His hips began to move in an uncoordinated rhythm, trying to match the speed of your hand, his breath coming in short, sharp hitches that sounded like he was drowning. The tension in his entire body reached a breaking point, a singular, vibrating frequency that demanded release.
Mingyu’s head thrashed, his eyes squeezed shut so tightly that stars danced behind his lids. The demand for words was a cruel, beautiful torture, a final hurdle placed right at the peak of the mountain. He was vibrating, his entire frame caught in the violent pull of a climax.
"Please!" he choked out, the word tearing from his throat, raw and stripped of every ounce of his usual poise. He was undone, begging and sobbing your name like a prayer. "Ngh—please... ahh..."
The moment the words left his lips, the dam broke.
His hips bucked violently, a sharp, uncontrolled surge of motion as the first wave of release slammed into him. A loud, guttural groan was ripped from his lungs, a sound of pure, unadulterated surrender that echoed through the room. The sound was half groan, half sob—followed by a whiny whimper that had your lips twitching. His entire body went rigid, his muscles locking into hard, trembling cords as he felt the hot, pulsing sensation of his release spilling over your hand.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you…” He repeated over and over, like a mantra, tears slipping down his cheeks as he trembled.
His breath came in ragged, sobbing gasps, his chest heaving as he fought to stay upright. He leaned his forehead against yours, his eyes opening just enough to see the beautiful silhouette of you through the haze of his own ecstasy. As the waves began to subside, leaving him trembling and spent, he slumped back, his breath hitching in his chest. He stayed there for a moment, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes closed as he tried to find his bearings in the sudden, heavy silence of the room.
You licked the release off your hand with a hum. “See? You shouldn’t keep me waiting so long, Gyu. It’s rude.”
A choked chuckle escaped his lips before he pressed them reverently to your cheek. “You’re right, baby. You’re always right.” His hands slid up, fidgeting with the edge of your shirt before slipping under it slightly, just enough for his rough palms to meet the soft skin of your back.
“Wanna help me with my anatomy homework?”
don't ask about the layout, i'm too lazy to make a banner for a drabble and idk what i'm doing anymore, man.
SYNOPSIS. In the year 2197, Xu Minghao works as a government shadow operative, hired to hunt down political dissidents. After surviving a catastrophic accident that should have ended his life, his body had been rewired to become nothing more than a living weapon solely engineered for one purpose: obedience. You live a different kind of double life. By day, a reclusive digital artist curating an elite art gallery; by night, a ghost hacker where you siphon power and secrets from the city’s corrupt core. But when your latest hack uncovers an unsettling truth, a target is painted on your back—and Minghao is assigned to terminate you.
PAIRING. shadow operative!xu minghao x ghost hacker!fem!reader
GENRE. cyberpunk au, futuristic au, angst, smut (minors dni 🔞), fluff, hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers
WARNINGS (FOR TEASER). violence (murder, blood, gore, etc), minghao killing someone (yummy), body modifications/cybernetic enhancements
WARNINGS (FOR FULL FIC). explicit sexual content, cursing, drinking/drugs, violence (murder, blood, gore, etc), “implied” death, body modifications/cybernetic enhancements, government corruption, morally grey characters, brainwashing/memory manipulation, human experimentation
WORD COUNT (FOR TEASER). 1.3k
WORD COUNT (FOR FULL FIC). tbd, but hopefully 15k+
notes: hello :3 i hope u all enjoy this lil teaser hehe <3 this is for the @studiosvt cyberpunk: reload collab! tbh i have NO idea how long this will be, but this was def a genre i've been excited (and nervous) to dive into and i am honoured i got to write for minghao hehe
SECTOR TWO — THE VEIL DISTRICTS
The rain showering down from the night sky hisses against the alloy skin of the city.
Xu Minghao finds himself standing on the narrow maintenance ledge of a building sitting right across from the 47th floor of the Helix Tower, the tips of his combat boots hovering just over the edge as the wind snaps at the tails of his black trench coat. Right below his feet, the neon arteries of the city bleed through the thick layers of dense, permanent fog and rain.
Tonight’s target is a man named Arthur Kim. Age forty-three, married, with two daughters𑁋assigned to be executed under the orders of the Dominion for illegally accessing financial streams and attempting to sell them to some brokers located in the Undercity. A fatal error that costed him his entire life, and Minghao was sent to deliver the act within a termination window of two hours.
Minghao didn’t need all that time.
In due time, the ocular implant in his eye pings, immediately locking onto the target’s heat signature through the reinforced glass and walls. Minghao narrows his gaze, heat mapping across his vision, following the man’s dull amber silhouette frantically pacing inside of his dimly lit and expensive apartment, as if already knowing what’s about to come.
A forty metre gap separates the two buildings. Minghao steps into the void without any hesitation. The wind roars past him as he launches himself off the ledge, his coat flaring out like wings. Twin magnetic grapples fire out from the wrist of his right bionic arm with a sharp hiss, cables flying across the chasm until they latch onto the Helix Tower’s exterior frame.
At the apex of the launch, he releases the grapples and twists his body into a controlled dive towards the window. The second he makes contact, reinforced glass explodes inward as his boots smashes cleanly through Arthur Kim’s window, causing shards to rain across the carpet floor like confetti.
The man in question spins around too late, eyes blown wide with utter panic, clutching nothing but a half-empty glass of whiskey in his trembling hand and useless revolver in the other that he shakily points directly at Minghao.
“Don’t… don’t come any closer!” he begs, fingers twitching around the trigger. “I have connections𑁋I-I have a family, a wife, two little girls𑁋I can pay𑁋”
Minghao doesn’t speak. He never does on missions like this. Words are wasted on the already dead.
Instead, he crosses the room in three, perfect strides, way faster than any modified human should. Arthur attempts to shoot, but the revolver kicks back into his grip and causes the bullet to go wide and harmlessly punch into the wall directly behind Minghao, barely grazing the edge of his temple. The second bullet misses again and punches a smoking hole through a video holographic family portrait that flickers and dies mid-laugh.
When Arthur tries to bolt towards the door, Minghao cuts him off with a firm seize to his throat with his cybernetic hand, lifting the man clean off the floor and knocking the breath out of his lungs with a choked gasp. The synthetic muscles and servos whirr softly under the plating as Arthur’s legs kicked uselessly through the air, causing the whiskey glass and gun to slip free out of his hands.
Arthur’s screams are muddled when a sudden boom of thunder vibrates the world outside. Minghao doesn’t budge, even as the man claws at his grip with both hands. Forty-three years of soft living against a body rebuilt for war𑁋there was never a contest.
Minghao tightens his hold ever so slightly. Not enough to fully incapacitate yet. He wants the man to feel it, to feel the consequences of his actions with a teasing crush to his windpipe. The ocular implant in his left eye feeds him live data: heart rate 179… 203… oxygen saturation plummeting from 97% to 47%. It isn’t long until Arthur’s face bloats and washes into a deep crimson. Veins stand out like ropes along his temples. His eyes bulge, whites shot through with burst capillaries, tears leaking from the corners as his tongue presses thickly against his teeth.
Nothing but a wet, gurgling choke escapes him, barely audible over the storm raging outside and Minghao’s ironclad grip. “Please… my girls…”
The man continues to spew out gargled, pathetic words𑁋about his family who he only wanted to provide for, his wife who didn’t know anything, his innocent little girls𑁋and Minghao doesn’t feel a single ounce of remorse for it. He was assigned a task to complete. There was nothing programmed in him for mercy or pity.
When Minghao squeezes his fingers a fraction tighter, Arthur’s windpipe collapses with a wet, sickening pop. His eyes roll back completely in his head, his face drained of colour, as one final spasm jerks through his body before his arms drop limp to his side. Minghao holds him suspended in the air for a full ten seconds after the heart monitor flatlines before opening his hand.
Arthur’s body falls to the floor with a thud, sprawling among the glass shards and spilled whiskey. A thin stream of blood leaks from the corner of his mouth and pools beside his lifeless eyes. Updated data swarms through Minghao’s vision.
Target: Arthur Kim — TERMINATED
Elapsed Time: 8 minutes, 53 seconds
Minghao exhales a breath through his nose, rolling his shoulders back. The servos under his bionic arm hum faintly through the movement of his artificial joints, recalibrating itself from the temporary exertion. Eight minutes and fifty-three seconds. It’s somewhat sloppy by his standards, but the noise of the storm did well to hide most of the struggle. Still, the Dominion would be satisfied with his work as they always are.
He crouches beside the corpse, metal fingers brushing against the man’s neck to confirm zero pulse. Rain pours in from the shattered window, mixing in with the whiskey and the small pool of blood at his feet. This was definitely one of his messier missions, but the cleanup crew will do their task when he leaves.
He does a quick scan around the room, cycling through spectral overlays𑁋motion, thermal, electromagnetic. No alarms or security drones are detected. Arthur Kim had been arrogant enough to hide behind privacy glass and a single biometric lock on his door. What an amateur.
The apartment is dead silent now, except for the storm outside slowly beginning to dull out. But what catches him for a split second is the glitchy sound of laughter. Minghao shoots a glance toward the broken holographic family portrait that Arthur had shot at just moments ago.
His gaze lingers on the screen as it flickers erratically. What remains is a looping fragment: Arthur Kim smiling wide with his arms looped around another woman, and two small girls in front of them, both of them with equally big grins as if the world had never once been cruel. The audio stutters with one of the girls saying, “Daddy, look! I drew you a𑁋” before restarting the loop again.
Minghao forcibly tears his eyes away. He forces out a flat exhale through his nose, turning his back on the portrait entirely. Sentiment was a luxury for the wealthy civilians; for him, it was just irrelevant data. He mindlessly steps over Arthur’s corpse and treads his way toward the shattered window, climbing onto the rain-slicked ledge without looking back.
The wind claws onto him immediately, trying to sweep him off the building. He activates the magnetic grapples through his hand and anchors onto the opposite structure. With one powerful pull, he’s airborne again, swinging across the forty-metre gap like a shadow trailing through the void. Then he finds himself running across the rooftop before stopping right at the edge.
Below him, the city continues its restless slumber. Minghao watches it all distantly.
Then he jumps down into the void as the rain washes away the city’s sins.
This time, the fall felt a little longer than it should have.
Summary: Jeonghan played a role he was never meant to keep. Until he finally found a place to call home—where the performance ended, and he could simply be himself..
Jeonghan was so fucked.
Completely, utterly, irreversibly fucked.
When he stepped out of the car, one he borrowed from Seungcheol, because no way was he pulling up to a charity event in his own, he expected something… intimate.
A modest gathering of well-dressed elites, or maybe… a quiet dinner with polite applause between speeches. That made sense. It fit the image he had pieced together of you—humble, grounded, refreshingly normal.
Oh, how wrong he was.
The moment he looked up at the grand entrance, lined with press and security, his stomach plummeted. Cameras flashed as reporters whispered among themselves. Then, right by the entrance, he spotted a display showcasing the event’s purpose—complete with a blown-up image of the host.
The prime minister.
Your father is the prime minister.
Jeonghan went rigid. The weight of realization crashed down on him like a damn tidal wave. His mind scrambled, trying to recall every conversation he had with you, every small clue he should have picked up on. The ease with which you carried yourself, your careful yet casual way of speaking, your quiet but unmistakable air of authority—it all made sense now.
Ji Y/n. Ji Jaekyung.
He should’ve connected the dots. He should’ve questioned why someone as well-educated and sophisticated as you chose to teach at a cram school. Instead, he had been too preoccupied judging your practical outfit and your unpretentious behavior during your first date. Now, he was standing in front of a nationally broadcasted event, fully aware that he had walked straight into the lion’s den.
And he still had time to run. He always ran.
Running was easy. It had saved him more times than he could count. But as his feet itched to turn back, he hesitated. Because now that he knew who you really were—now that he had seen you not as the prime minister’s daughter, but as someone warm, self-assured, and unexpectedly real—walking away felt... wrong.
He had promised you he’d come.
Jeonghan was no one. Just a man who navigated the world of the elite through charm and carefully crafted interactions. His life revolved around dating the daughters of the wealthy, women whose mothers he conveniently befriended in art and culinary classes. A charming conversation, a well-placed compliment, and he’d find himself indulging in designer gifts, chauffeured rides, and exclusive experiences. It was a delicate game—one he played flawlessly.
When the relationship inevitably fizzled out, he stayed just long enough to soak in whatever luxury he could before moving on. It wasn’t about love. It was about survival.
He had never met you before, only your mother, who had gushed about you during a cooking class.
"My daughter is really pretty! She's also a very intelligent woman. You two would get along well!"
And then that night, you stood before him—dressed in a crisp yet simple blouse and slacks. Your hair was slightly disheveled, and the faint sheen of sweat on your forehead suggested you had rushed to get here.
"Thanks for waiting," you said, a polite smile on your lips as you caught your breath. "The commute was a nightmare."
Jeonghan blinked. Commute? His past dates never commuted. They arrived in sleek black cars with drivers waiting outside.
With a deep breath, Jeonghan climbed the ballroom stairs, nodding at the suited staff by the door. He gave his name, expecting them to glance at a guest list and wave him through. Instead, they barely checked before stepping aside with smooth efficiency, as if he were someone important.
It wasn’t until he caught a glimpse of the guest registry that his breath hitched.
His name was written under the family list.
Not as a guest. Not as a friend.
Ji Y/n’s plus one.
A sudden weight settled onto his shoulders. His fingers twitched at his sides. He was no stranger to high society, but this was an entirely different league. A world of power, scrutiny, and unspoken rules.
He schooled his expression, squared his shoulders, and walked inside. If he was already in this deep, he might as well make it look like he belonged.
Your mother was the first to greet him, her poised smile barely masking the subtle scrutiny in her gaze. She wasted no time in informing him that you hadn’t arrived yet, her tone carrying a hint of exasperation as she sighed.
"That daughter of mine," she muttered, shaking her head. "Always prioritizing those students of hers over her father’s business. She should be here already."
Jeonghan hummed in response, unsure whether he should agree or defend you. He had barely opened his mouth when she looped her arm through his, effortlessly pulling him into the crowd.
Before he knew it, he was being paraded around the room, introduced to your mother’s circle of socialites. Wealthy figures, business moguls, and politicians—each one scanning him with polite curiosity, trying to place him in their world. Jeonghan smiled when necessary, nodded at the right moments, but his mind was elsewhere.
Then he saw you.
The moment you stepped through the entrance, the noise around him faded.
Gone was the casual, practical look from your date. Tonight, you carried yourself with quiet elegance, dressed in a modest but effortlessly stunning gown. The soft lighting of the ballroom caught the delicate shimmer of your makeup, accentuating the natural beauty he had already memorized.
For a second, Jeonghan forgot to breathe.
Because this—this poised, graceful version of you—was the one that belonged in this world. And he was just starting to realize how many time you had surprised him just by tonight
"Jeonghan," you called, your voice smooth yet carrying a warmth that was out of place in such a formal setting.
He straightened up instinctively, feeling more exposed than he ever had. You looked so different, so composed—so belonging in this world. And yet, your smile when you reached him felt exactly the same as the one from your date.
"You actually came," you said, tilting your head slightly, amusement flickering in your eyes.
"I did promise," Jeonghan replied, trying to appear unfazed. But the weight of his name being listed under your family’s guest list was still pressing down on him. "Though, I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting… all of this."
You laughed softly, leaning in just enough that only he could hear. "You thought it’d be a small charity gathering, didn’t you?"
He exhaled, shaking his head with a lopsided smirk. "I really should’ve done more research on you."
"Probably," you teased, then slipped your hand through his arm with ease, guiding him further into the event.
"Come on, my father would like to meet you."
Jeonghan stiffened. Meet your father?
Yeah, he was so, so screwed.
*
"Your dating game has officially reached Ji Jaekyung level."
Seungkwan slid a file across the café table with the kind of flourish that made Jeonghan’s stomach twist. He knew that look—pure mischief, the kind that ended with him either losing money or losing his dignity. Probably both.
Jeonghan didn’t touch the file. Instead, he took a slow sip of his coffee, giving Seungkwan a blank stare over the rim. "You couldn’t possibly be threatening me. I practically rescued you in college, remember?"
Seungkwan scoffed. "Rescue? Please. You groomed me, hyung."
Jeonghan choked on his drink. "Don’t say it like that, you little menace." He set his coffee down with a thunk, glaring. "That makes it sound illegal."
Seungkwan only grinned, completely unbothered. He tapped the file again. "Go on. Open it. I promise it won’t explode. Just a little light reading. Oh, and a delightful photo of a power couple moment.."
Jeonghan sighed but flipped it open anyway, already bracing himself.
There it was. A nightmare in high resolution.
A perfectly timed shot of him and you, walking arm-in-arm out of the event, looking like a picture-perfect elite couple. Elegant. Respectable. Utterly fabricated.
Jeonghan tapped his finger against the page, then flicked his gaze up to Seungkwan.
"This—"
"Yes?"
"Burn this before I burn your entire journalism career."
Seungkwan burst out laughing. "Hyung, you can’t even burn calories properly. What makes you think you can burn my career?"
Jeonghan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He hated that Seungkwan had a point.
"You know," Seungkwan continued, stirring his drink with exaggerated nonchalance, "people are very interested in the life of the mysterious son of Yoon Group. And now that you’re linked to the prime minister’s daughter? Oh, the clicks, the engagement, the public fascination—it’s all very compelling. The media lives for this kind of narrative, and you, my dear friend, are the perfect headline."
Jeonghan let out a long, suffering groan, rubbing his temple. "You are insufferable."
"But I’m employed, though," Seungkwan shot back with a smug grin.
Jeonghan scowled. He knew where this was going, and he already hated it.
Seungkwan leaned in, lowering his voice to something much more devious. "How about a deal?"
Jeonghan really didn’t like the way that sounded.
"Help me get some inside details on the election," Seungkwan said smoothly, "and I’ll make sure this never sees the light of day. I can be very discreet. Your name? Wiped clean. No suspicions. No drama."
He paused, letting his words settle before adding the final blow.
"Especially from your family."
Jeonghan stiffened. His fingers curled slightly on the table, the weight of the threat pressing down harder than he wanted to admit.
Seungkwan just smiled knowingly.
Jeonghan exhaled slowly, narrowing his eyes. "You think I’d trust you with something this sensitive?"
For the first time in the conversation, Seungkwan’s expression turned serious. He met Jeonghan’s gaze without his usual playfulness, leaning forward until their faces were inches apart. Then, with all the dramatics of a third-rate romance drama, he reached across the table and placed a hand over Jeonghan’s.
"You can trust me this time, hyung," he whispered, eyes glinting.
Jeonghan stared at him for a long moment.
Then, with a heavy sigh, he muttered, "I hate you so much."
Seungkwan beamed, squeezing his hand like they’d just exchanged vows. "Love you too," he chirped before casually swiping a fry from Jeonghan’s plate.
Jeonghan sighed, yanking his hand away from Seungkwan’s grip like he had just touched something contaminated. He picked up his coffee and took a long sip, as if the caffeine could somehow prepare him for the rest of this conversation.
“For the record,” he muttered, “I just found out about her father last night.”
Seungkwan blinked. “You just—hold on.” He set down his drink, looking utterly baffled. “You’ve dated the prime minister’s daughter and you just found out?”
Jeonghan rolled his eyes. “I don’t Google people before I date them, Seungkwan.”
“You should start.”
“Noted.”
Seungkwan leaned back, still trying to process it. “But, she's like… I don’t know, humble?”
Jeonghan huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “That’s because she is.”
Jeonghan exhaled slowly, staring into his coffee like it held all the answers to his problems. “I might have to end things with her.”
Seungkwan raised an eyebrow. “You want to end things without ghosting her?”
He tapped his fingers against his cup, gaze softening for just a second. “She’s not caught up in all of it. She teaches because she wants to, not because she has to. She doesn’t use her father’s name to get ahead, doesn’t expect special treatment. She’s just… her.”
Seungkwan eyed him, a slow smirk forming. “You sound suspiciously fond right now.”
Jeonghan shot him a look. “Shut up.”
“I won’t shut up,” Seungkwan said gleefully. “Because this—” he gestured between them, “—this is very interesting. Yoon Jeonghan, the guy who never gets emotionally involved, actually likes someone?”
Jeonghan groaned, rubbing his face. “I will burn your career.”
Seungkwan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Alright, hyung. Let’s make this easy for you.”
Jeonghan narrowed his eyes. “I doubt that.”
"Stay with her for a little while," Seungkwan said, his tone almost too casual. "Just long enough to get some information about her father’s election plans. I mean, she’s his daughter—she must know something useful." He tapped the file on the table, the sound deliberate, calculated. "And in return, I’ll make sure this never sees the light of day. Your family stays blissfully unaware."
Jeonghan exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. This was getting way too complicated.
Seungkwan, ever perceptive, leaned in, resting his chin on his hand. "Come on, hyung. You’re already halfway in. Might as well make it worth your while."
Jeonghan shot him a look. "You make it sound so easy."
Seungkwan grinned. "Because it is easy. You charm people for a living. Just do what you do best—stick around, ask a few innocent questions, and when it’s over, you walk away. No harm, no foul."
No harm. No foul.
Jeonghan exhaled through his nose. “So you want me to spy for you?”
Seungkwan grinned. “Oh, spy is such an ugly word. I prefer exchanging favors.”
Jeonghan clicked his tongue. “You’re a little monster.”
“And you like it.” Seungkwan shrugged. “Look, you’re planning on leaving her anyway, right? Might as well get something out of it. Once you give me what I need, you can walk away, clean and easy. No drama, no messy emotional entanglements. Just another chapter closed.”
*
“You’re Yoon Jeonghan, right?”
After the meeting with Seungkwan, there had been no real conclusion—no agreement, no refusal—just Jeonghan leaving with the weight of a choice he wasn’t ready to make. Not yet, anyway.
Then fate, in its twisted sense of humor, shoved him a little closer.
He’d crossed paths again with your mother during one of his classes, her arrival as poised and deliberate as everything else about her. Without much preamble, she handed him a neatly wrapped package—an assortment of meticulously prepared, nutrient-balanced meals from the town’s most exclusive chef. The kind of thing that cost enough to pay someone’s monthly rent.
It wasn’t just food. It was… an opening.
At that moment, Jeonghan realized something dangerous—maybe, just maybe, he could make this work. Keep the charade alive for a while. At least two months, enough time to enjoy the perks before he quietly severed all ties.
So when your mother invited him to her birthday party—completely unprompted, with you blissfully unaware—he accepted without hesitation. He didn’t tell you, of course. This was no longer just about you. The connection was shifting, evolving into something more strategic… a mutually beneficial arrangement between him and your mother.
He told himself it was just another role to play. Another part in the game.
A game he controlled.
Or so he thought.
And then—
“Yoon Jeonghan! Long time no see!”
He froze.
That was Kim Jeni. Senior high school classmate.
And she was standing in the middle of your mother’s birthday party.
Why is she here? Is she related to you?
His mind raced through worst-case scenarios like flashcards. What if she remembered too much? What if she casually mentioned his less-than-polished past to the wrong person? What if she recognized that he didn’t exactly belong here?
And seriously—why did she have to remember him at all? It had been years. People were supposed to blur into the background after high school.
But no. Here she was, smiling like they were about to swap embarrassing memories over champagne.
And here he was, wondering if tonight was about to turn into a very public disaster.
Jeonghan’s first instinct was to look away, pretend he hadn’t heard.
But that was how amateurs got caught—by making the wrong move at the wrong time.
So instead, he smiled. The easy, slow kind of smile that said of course I remember you, even though in reality, he barely did.
“Kim Jeni,” he said smoothly, sliding into the familiar rhythm of a man who’d never been cornered in his life. “You look… exactly the same.”
Jeni laughed, touching her hair in the way people did when they weren’t sure if it was a compliment. “I should hope so. Although, I did finally grow out of my bangs phase.”
He chuckled like he remembered it perfectly. He didn’t.
“What brings you here? Are you…?” He gestured vaguely toward the crowd, buying time.
“Oh, my aunt is friends with Mrs. Ji,” she said, tilting her head toward your mother across the room. “I didn’t expect to see you here, though. Still in touch with our old classmates?”
Danger. That question was danger dressed in small talk.
“I move around a lot,” Jeonghan replied lightly. “Not much time to catch up.” Which was true, if “move around” meant hopping from one wealthy circle to another like a very well-dressed nomad.
Jeni’s gaze sharpened—not hostile, just curious. “And here I thought you’d left all this behind.”
His pulse ticked up. “All… what?”
She smirked. “The social scene. The handshakes, the networking, the pretending to care about canapés. You used to hate it.”
Jeonghan gave an easy shrug, as if the question amused him. “Hate’s a strong word. Let’s just say I’ve learned to… appreciate the art of it.”
Before she could dig deeper, your mother swept by with a glass of wine, laying a hand on Jeonghan’s arm.
“Darling, there you are! I want to introduce you to someone.”
Jeonghan flashed Jeni an apologetic smile. “Excuse me. Duty calls.”
And just like that, he was pulled back into the current, leaving Jeni in the eddies of polite conversation.
Still, he could feel her eyes on his back—curious, maybe suspicious.
One wrong move tonight, and she could turn from a harmless blast from the past into a problem he didn’t need.
Jeonghan hated mirrors at events like these.
Not because he disliked his reflection—he’d sculpted that image to perfection—but because they had a habit of showing the man beneath the polish. And tonight, his eyes betrayed him. They were restless.
When Jeni drifted away, her perfume fading into the hum of conversation, a shadow trailed behind her in his mind. She’d been there—at that party, the one after his graduation. The one that ended his place in the Yoon family like a guillotine blade.
It had been a warm June night.
The kind of evening where expensive champagne flowed like tap water, and music bled into the gardens. She was there—the woman—draped in pearls and wearing a smile that could make a man think dangerous thoughts. She was also the second wife of one of his father’s board members, the kind of man who wore power like a tailored suit.
He hadn’t meant to kiss her. Or maybe he had. The line blurred somewhere between flirtation and defiance. But there had been a camera. A flash.
And in a family where reputation was currency, one picture was enough to bankrupt him.
“Leave quietly,” his father had said, not even looking at him. “Before you take our name with you.”
That was six years ago.
Since then, the Yoon son became a ghost—spoken of in murmurs between wine sips. A scandal in a silk suit.
He learned to live by trading charm for survival. Socialites were his currency now. Wealthy, restless women who wanted a man to make them laugh between luncheons and look devastatingly good on their arm. In exchange, they gave him access—rooms he had no right to enter anymore, deals he could skim a percentage from, networks he could weave into a safety net.
And the first time he’d met you, he’d assumed you were naïve. A daughter shielded by privilege, unaware of the games her parents played. But he’d watched you—just a little—and realized that wasn’t it. You weren’t ignorant of this world. You simply refused to play by its rules.
He couldn’t decide if that made you foolish or dangerous.
It intrigued him, in a distant, intellectual way. Not attraction—Jeonghan had long outgrown such things—but curiosity. The same kind of curiosity that had once ruined him.
So when your mother had invited him tonight, he’d said yes out of calculation. A good connection, a potential ally, a well-placed woman with influence. You were a variable, but not a threat. Not yet.
Except now, as the evening unfolded, you were nowhere to be seen.
Guests murmured your name lightly—something about work, or disinterest, or perhaps distance between you and your parents—but no one seemed certain.
Jeonghan swirled the wine in his glass, watching the room’s glow blur through the deep red.
He didn’t look for you.
But he did wonder—what kind of daughter avoided her own mother’s birthday party?
For a man who’d spent years mastering the art of appearances, that question alone was enough to make him uneasy.
*
By the time the orchestra switched to slower jazz and most guests had migrated toward the dessert table, Jeonghan had already pieced together what he needed to know.
You weren’t coming.
It wasn’t just that you were late—your absence had settled into the air, quietly acknowledged, politely ignored. Your mother laughed too brightly whenever someone mentioned you, deflecting with graceful excuses about your “tight schedule.” The kind of lie polite people told when they were embarrassed.
Jeonghan understood that kind of silence.
He’d lived in it.
He took another sip of wine, watching the reflections ripple in his glass.
He didn’t care where you were. He told himself that twice, just to be sure. You were another variable, a missing piece in a puzzle that didn’t concern him.
And yet—somewhere deep down, under the weight of years and cynicism—Jeonghan wondered what could drive a daughter to abandon a mother who still smiled for her in front of a hundred people.
He stayed until the cake was cut, clapping when everyone else did, smiling at the right moments, before quietly excusing himself.
No one noticed him leave.
The next afternoon, the same corner café buzzed with weekend chatter, the scent of roasted beans lingering in the air. Jeonghan arrived first, as usual, claiming his preferred seat by the window. He liked the anonymity the place offered—dim lighting, a soft hum of conversation, nobody who cared enough to recognize him.
He was halfway through his espresso when Seungkwan arrived, slightly out of breath, a camera bag slung over his shoulder and the same smug grin plastered on his face.
“You look like you didn’t sleep,” Seungkwan said, sliding into the seat across from him.
“I didn’t,” Jeonghan replied, voice flat. He stirred his coffee idly. “You told me to keep an eye on her family. I did.”
Seungkwan’s grin faltered. “And?”
“She didn’t show.”
The journalist’s brows furrowed. “At all?”
“Not a glimpse,” Jeonghan confirmed. “Her mother covered for her all night. Smiled, laughed, pretended nothing was wrong. But people noticed. They just pretended not to.”
Seungkwan leaned back, rubbing his jaw. “Weird. Ji Y/n’s not exactly the rebellious type. At least, not publicly.”
Jeonghan arched a brow. “You’ve done your research.”
“I’m a journalist, hyung. I research before I blackmail.”
“Charming as always,” Jeonghan muttered, setting down his cup.
Seungkwan ignored the jab. “So, what do you think happened? Argument? Scandal? Secret boyfriend?”
Jeonghan scoffed softly. “You think I care about that?”
“Usually, no. But you’re the one who noticed her absence before anyone else.”
He hated when Seungkwan said things like that—too perceptive, too accurate.
Jeonghan leaned back, gaze drifting out the window. “Her parents—both of them—they move like people who can’t afford to blink wrong. Every word, every smile, measured. And then there’s her.”
Seungkwan tilted his head. “Her?”
“She doesn’t fit,” Jeonghan said simply. “She’s polite, grounded, but not… conditioned. You know? Like someone raised in that world but refused to be molded by it.”
Seungkwan studied him quietly. “You sound almost impressed.”
Jeonghan’s lips twitched faintly. “I’m curious, not impressed.”
“Curious,” Seungkwan echoed, dragging out the word like it was an accusation. “That’s how it always starts with you. You get curious, then suddenly you’re knee-deep in something you can’t crawl out of.”
Jeonghan met his gaze evenly. “Don’t romanticize it. I don’t get involved.”
Seungkwan smirked. “You say that now.”
They fell into a brief silence, broken only by the clinking of cutlery and low music playing in the background. Jeonghan’s phone buzzed once—an unread message from your mother, thanking him for attending the party. No mention of you.
He stared at it for a long moment before sliding it face-down on the table.
“Whatever’s going on,” Seungkwan said eventually, lowering his voice, “it’s not public yet. But it will be. If the prime minister’s daughter disappears from a major event, the press will dig. I can’t stop that.”
Jeonghan didn’t answer immediately. He swirled the last of his coffee, expression unreadable. “Then let them dig.”
Seungkwan frowned. “You’re not worried she’ll drag you into it?”
“She doesn’t even know I was there,” Jeonghan said with a shrug. “And I intend to keep it that way.”
Seungkwan hummed thoughtfully. “You’re playing with fire again, hyung.”
Jeonghan smirked, finally standing and reaching for his coat. “Fire’s warm, though.”
“I’m planning to stay out of trouble,” Jeonghan replied smoothly. “But if she keeps disappearing like that…” He trailed off, glancing out the window again. “…I might need to find out why. For safety. Yours, mine, and your precious headlines.”
Seungkwan’s grin returned, slow and knowing. “Sure, hyung. For safety.”
Jeonghan ignored him, dropping a few bills on the table before heading for the door.
But even as he left, that image lingered—the way your mother smiled too brightly, the way your name sat unspoken between everyone.
For a man who didn’t care, Jeonghan found himself thinking about it far too much.
*
By the time Jeonghan returned to his apartment that night, the city outside had quieted. The glow of streetlights painted long shadows across his floor, and the half-finished glass of whiskey on his counter had long since gone warm. He stared at his phone for a long while, thumb hovering over your contact.
He shouldn’t.
You hadn’t texted him since before the charity event. He’d already decided to stay detached, to play this role carefully until he could slip out clean.
But curiosity—it was always his undoing.
He finally typed,
“Are you free tomorrow?”
The message hung there for a moment before he hit send. No greeting, no context. He wanted it to sound casual, like a man with time to waste, not one caught between intrigue and necessity.
He set the phone down and exhaled, running a hand through his hair.
Because truthfully, he didn’t just want to see you—he needed to understand.
A daughter who skipped her mother’s birthday in a family built on image and influence? That wasn’t rebellion. That was strategy.
And strategy always came with motive.
His phone buzzed.
One unread message.
“Depends. Who’s asking?”
A faint smirk tugged at his lips. You hadn’t changed—still sharp, still unbothered by his evasive way of speaking.
“The man who made it through your mother’s party alive.”
“You owe me coffee.”
A few seconds passed before your reply came through.
“I don’t remember owing you anything.
But sure. Tomorrow, 2 PM. Same café.”
Jeonghan set the phone aside, the small, humorless smile still lingering on his lips.
He told himself it was for Seungkwan.
For leverage. For the information that might keep his name out of a journalist’s headlines.
But beneath that, quieter and harder to ignore, was something else—an itch under his skin that demanded answers.
He glanced at the window, where the reflection of his tired face stared back at him.
“If there’s such a rumor like that in the prime minister’s family,” he murmured to himself, echoing Seungkwan’s earlier warning, “it’ll be lunch for the other party.”
And he couldn’t afford to be on the menu.
*
Jeonghan hadn’t meant to care about what he wore.
At least, that’s what he told himself as he buttoned the crisp white shirt that fit a little too perfectly across his shoulders. The navy trousers were pressed to a sharp line, his hair neatly styled back, and his wristwatch—an heirloom he rarely used—gleamed faintly in the café light.
He looked like a man who belonged somewhere better. Someone who hadn’t been exiled. Someone who still mattered.
The watch on his wrist pointed to ten minutes past the agreed time.
His other hand held his phone, thumb scrolling absently through old headlines, articles, and photos of you.
Ji Y/n — The Prime Minister’s Daughter Chooses a Life of Service
From Politics to Education: How Ji Y/n Stays Grounded Amid Power and Privilege
Each headline painted the same narrative: the ideal daughter, the humble prodigy, the perfect contrast to her family’s glittering political image.
Seungkwan was right. He needs to do some research before saying yes to a date.
Seungkwan’s voice echoed in his head.
“You’re too tempted by all the money and glory. You might be the most materialistic conglomerate son in the world.”
And Jeonghan had countered without hesitation.
“I was kicked out of the family, remember? I’m technically nobody’s son.”
It had shut Seungkwan up, but the words lingered even now—an echo of something he’d never quite recovered from.
The low hum of the café faded when he saw you.
You entered in a rush, phone pressed to your ear, brows furrowed, your expression tight with focus. You muttered something into the receiver, nearly colliding with a customer before catching yourself. The moment you hung up, you exhaled deeply—then your eyes found him.
Jeonghan stood automatically, hand lifting in a small wave. For a fleeting second, something unfamiliar flickered in his chest—relief, maybe. Or recognition.
You crossed the room quickly, still slightly out of breath.
“I’m so sorry, Jeonghan,” you said, sliding into the seat across from him. “One of my students fell from the stairs and broke his leg.”
Your voice carried that same calm warmth he remembered, even under stress. No embellishment, no dramatics. Just quiet concern.
Jeonghan’s brows lifted slightly. “Is he alright?”
You nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “He will be. I just came from the hospital.”
Of course you did. The prime minister’s daughter, tending to an injured student instead of attending a political luncheon. It didn’t make sense—and that’s exactly why Jeonghan found it so hard to look away.
He leaned back in his chair, studying you with the cool composure of a man who pretended not to care. “You’re quite dedicated, aren’t you?”
You smiled faintly, eyes weary but genuine. “Someone has to be.”
Jeonghan hummed, gaze dropping briefly to the faint ink smudge on your wrist, the kind teachers always had from grading papers. You didn’t belong to the world he’d seen in headlines. You didn’t fit the image. And that mismatch—it fascinated him.
He studied you a moment longer, curiosity tugging harder now. There was something in your tone—an edge beneath the politeness, a shadow behind the smile.
Jeonghan didn’t know yet if you were someone he could trust, or someone who could destroy him.
But for the first time in a long while, he wanted to find out.
The conversation had begun to flow more naturally than either expected. Between sips of coffee and light bites of cheesecake, Jeonghan found himself watching you more than he should—how your expression softened when you talked about teaching, how you smiled politely even when dodging questions about your family. You weren’t evasive, exactly. You just knew how to draw a line.
He liked that.
“You don’t talk much about politics,” Jeonghan remarked, stirring his coffee lazily. “That’s unusual for someone who grew up surrounded by it.”
You shrugged, lips curling slightly. “I prefer things I can actually change.”
A quiet laugh escaped him before he could stop it. “You sound idealistic.”
“I sound tired,” you corrected, smiling faintly.
Before Jeonghan could respond, a familiar perfume hit him—a sharp mix of jasmine and expensive regret.
“Jeonghan?”
The voice was sweet, practiced, and far too loud for the cozy café. Both of you looked up to see a woman in her forties approaching the table, dripping in luxury—diamond earrings, a glossy handbag that cost more than a small car, and a smile that belonged to someone who’d never been told no.
For a second, Jeonghan froze.
What should he call her?
A past companion?
A benefit from a darker time?
A victim of his own charm?
Whatever she was, she wasn’t supposed to be here.
“Wow,” she breathed, eyes raking him over with unhidden satisfaction. “You look more handsome than last year.”
You glanced between them, curiosity flickering behind your calm expression. Jeonghan straightened slightly, the easy mask sliding over his face. “Good to see you,” he said smoothly, voice stripped of warmth.
She leaned closer, manicured fingers brushing his shoulder. “I need to go, but call me if you need some entertainment, okay?”
Her wink was quick, practiced—too public to ignore, too intimate to explain.
Then she was gone, heels clicking like a punctuation mark on his past.
Jeonghan exhaled slowly, but before he could say a word, you let out a small, amused chuckle.
He looked at you, brows lifting. “What’s so funny?”
You shook your head, biting back a smile. “Nothing. It’s just… you didn’t strike me as someone who’d need entertainment.”
His mouth twitched. “I don’t.”
“Mm,” you hummed, unconvinced. “You just look like you used to.”
Her words, your tone—it all tangled somewhere in his chest. He leaned back, forcing a smirk to cover the discomfort. “You talk like you’ve known me longer than a week.”
You met his gaze evenly. “Maybe I’m just a good observer.”
That silenced him. For a moment, neither spoke—just the faint clink of spoons against porcelain, the quiet tension threading between curiosity and judgment.
And Jeonghan realized that for the first time in a long while, someone wasn’t dazzled or intimidated by him.
You were simply watching—reading him.
And that unsettled him more than any scandal ever could.
*
The relationship between you and Jeonghan had begun to bloom—unexpectedly, almost naturally. The two of you talked more often now, your texts weaving into his days like quiet background music. He wasn’t sure when it started, but he found himself looking forward to your messages.
It was ironic, really. Because when he wasn’t speaking to you, Jeonghan was living a life that couldn’t be further from yours.
His nights were spent drifting between yachts owned by bored socialites, women who craved charm more than truth. He knew exactly what they wanted and how to deliver it—a smile, a word, a presence. It was easy. Meaningless.
And yet, in between champagne laughter and the clinking of glass, his thoughts would always circle back to you.
What were you doing right now?
Had you eaten?
Were you still awake, reading, or lost in thought like you always were?
He hated how natural it felt to care.
“You look distracted, honey.”
A woman’s voice pulled him back. She was beautiful—of course she was—dressed in silk, her manicured fingers tracing the rim of her glass.
Jeonghan blinked, forcing a smirk. “Do I?”
She tilted her head. “You’re not feeling well?” she asked, recalling what he’d said last night about being under the weather—an excuse to avoid following her to her room.
The ocean breeze rolled over the yacht deck, soft but cold, brushing his hair and cooling the drink in his hand. He looked at her, sitting on his lap with the practiced ease of someone used to being wanted.
And suddenly, he felt sick.
Because in that flicker of a second, he imagined you there instead.
Crazy.
Absolutely insane.
You, with your clear eyes and deliberate words, would never set foot in this world. And even if you did, you would never look at him the same way again.
You were the Prime Minister’s only daughter—an emblem of grace, the family’s shining jewel.
And he…
He was the son who had been exiled.
Cast out after a scandal that nearly ruined his father’s reputation. He’d paid for it with his name, his home, and every shred of privilege he once had.
“How about going back to your family?” Seungkwan asked one night, his voice echoing through the line.
Jeonghan sighed, eyes fixed on the dark waves outside the yacht window. “It’s complicated.”
“Too complicated, or too cowardly?”
He chuckled dryly. “I’m still a man, Seungkwan.”
“Yeah?” Seungkwan shot back. “Then act like one. A man keeps his promises. You promised me a cup of tea and the full story about Prime Minister Ji.”
Jeonghan leaned back, running a hand through his hair. “And you promised to stop nagging me.”
“Not until you tell me why the Prime Minister’s daughter texts you at midnight.”
Jeonghan’s lips curved into a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Because she doesn’t know who I really am.”
And maybe, he thought quietly, that was the only reason you still did.
The morning broke harshly—sunlight slicing through half-drawn curtains, the faint hum of the city seeping into the luxury suite he’d fallen asleep in. Jeonghan’s head ached faintly from the night before; too much noise, too much pretending.
His phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.
One call after another, a stream of names he didn’t want to see—women he barely remembered, old acquaintances from the club scene, and one from Seungkwan.
He rubbed his face, groaning. “What now…”
Then his screen lit up with a notification from a news outlet.
And his world stopped.
‘The Yoon’s Mysterious Son Revealed — Never Leaving the Scene: Living a Life Among Socialites’
The headline sat above a collage of photos—him on a yacht, laughing beside women in designer dresses, champagne in hand. The shots weren’t just candid—they were curated. Deliberate. Someone had been watching him for months.
The phone rang again.
“Jeonghan!” A familiar female voice burst through the line. It was one of the women from the article, her tone both scandalized and gleeful. “You didn’t tell me you were that Yoon! Do you have any idea how many reporters called me this morning?”
He hung up.
Another call came. Then another. Each voice brought the same mix of curiosity and accusation. His pulse quickened with every word, the weight of exposure sinking into his chest.
And then—Seungkwan’s name flashed on the screen.
Jeonghan answered immediately. “You wrote about me?” His voice was low but sharp, every word laced with accusation.
“What?” Seungkwan sounded genuinely startled. “No—Jeonghan, I would never!”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not!” Seungkwan’s voice cracked slightly, the sound of hurried typing in the background. “I just saw it too! It’s everywhere! Someone leaked your pictures. The article’s not even signed—it’s a ghost drop, probably from an independent outlet.”
Jeonghan stood up, pacing across the room, the floor cool beneath his bare feet. His thoughts spun faster than he could control.
He’d worked for years to stay off the radar. To bury the name Yoon Jeonghan under layers of half-truths and fleeting company.
And now, everything was out.
His hands clenched. “You told no one about me?”
“Of course not,” Seungkwan shot back, indignant. “You think I’d ruin my own source? Jeonghan, listen—this isn’t my doing. But someone knew where you were and who you were with. Someone’s feeding this.”
Jeonghan’s jaw tightened. He turned toward the window, the city sprawling beneath him, glittering and cold.
He hadn’t even finished processing the article when another call came through.
This time, the caller ID froze him mid-step.
“Secretary Min — Father’s Office.”
Jeonghan’s pulse kicked hard against his ribs. It had been years since anyone from that number dared to call him. For a moment, he considered letting it ring out, pretending he hadn’t seen it. But curiosity—or maybe masochism—won.
He answered.
“Kim— I mean, Jeonghan speaking.”
The secretary’s voice was clipped, businesslike, but there was a tremor beneath the tone.
“Mr. Yoon. The Chairman would like to have a word. It’s urgent.”
Jeonghan’s throat felt dry. “About what?”
There was a pause, then the quiet rustle of papers.
“About the news. Not only the one from this morning.”
His heart sank. “There’s another one?”
“Yes, sir,” the secretary replied. “Apparently, the Prime Minister’s daughter was mentioned. You were seen together at an event. The headline reads—”
Jeonghan could almost hear the man hesitate, as if choosing the least damaging way to say it.
‘Disgraced Yoon Heir Seen with Prime Minister Ji’s Daughter — A Scandal in the Making?’
He went still.
Completely still.
The ocean outside, the faint hum of the city, even his own breathing—all of it faded into a dull, buzzing silence.
“I see,” he said finally, his voice even, detached—like a man already used to ruin.
“The Chairman requests you come in immediately,” the secretary added, his words precise but cautious. “He said… if there’s even a grain of truth in this, it could cost both families dearly.”
A bitter laugh escaped before Jeonghan could stop it. “He cares about the family’s name now?”
“Sir, I’m just relaying the message.”
“Of course you are.”
He ended the call before the man could say another word. For a long moment, he stood in the middle of his room, the phone still in his hand.
It wasn’t just about him anymore.
Your name was in it.
You—who had nothing to do with his past, who had only shown him quiet kindness—were now tangled in his chaos.
And that realization hit harder than any headline ever could.
*
You swiped the incoming call from Jeonghan to the left without hesitation, the screen dimming just as your reflection caught in the polished surface of the dining table.
It wasn’t the first call you’d ignored tonight. Or this week.
You had done it deliberately, under Mrs. Ji’s strict orders.
“Don’t you dare mess this up,” she had said earlier, her voice carrying that cold, commanding edge she never let her socialite friends hear. The kind of tone that could freeze air.
Now, sitting across from her and the Prime Minister, you kept your hands neatly folded in your lap. You hadn’t touched the food. The clinking of silverware and the low hum of polite conversation between your parents filled the silence that wrapped tightly around you.
Mr. and Mrs. Ji looked perfectly composed, pleased even. They were savoring their dinner, their expressions calm and satisfied—the unmistakable faces of people whose plans had unfolded exactly as intended.
“With his son’s scandal, Yoon Daemun will never be able to enter politics,” Mr. Ji said, cutting through the air with calculated satisfaction. His tone was casual, but his words were sharp, deliberate. “The timing couldn’t be better.”
Mrs. Ji dabbed the corner of her lips with an embroidered napkin, her expression softening with the kind of smile she reserved for strategy. “We’ve prepared a statement for your response, Y/n. Make sure you show up in public looking… a little heartbroken, perhaps?”
You stared down at your untouched plate, the gleam of silver cutlery blurring in your vision.
‘Victim of manipulation.’ That was the phrase they’d chosen for you. The headline they had already fed to the press.
You—the fabricated daughter of the Prime Minister—were to be portrayed as the naïve woman deceived by Yoon Jeonghan, the disgraced heir.
It was all theater. Every word, every tear, every silence rehearsed. And just like every performance before, you would play your part. Because that was the role you had been chosen for.
It had been ten years since you first met Mr. and Mrs. Ji. Back then, Mr. Ji was merely a Seoul mayoral candidate, still polishing his image. They were looking for a bright, idealistic student from the National Seoul University to elevate their campaign—someone with a clean past, a sympathetic story, and a face the public could love.
They chose you.
A parentless girl raised in a foster home. No blood ties. No history. No one to ask questions. A perfect daughter for a perfect family.
“You’re Ji Jae Kyung's daughter? Woah…”
You could still remember the awe in their voices—the way their eyes gleamed with admiration. Compliments came easily, falling like confetti around you. Some went to him, the respectable politician who raised such a brilliant daughter with perfect manners and flawless grades. The rest went to you—the quiet, low-profile daughter of a man everyone wanted to impress.
But none of it was real.
It was all staged.
Every smile, every headline, every carefully constructed image.
And behind it all stood Ji Jaekyung and his wife—the masterminds who turned you into what the public wanted to see.
You were never their daughter.
You were the performance.
The story they wrote to complete their picture-perfect life.
Ten years later, the role still clung to you like a second skin. You’d played it so long, you weren’t sure where the lie ended—or where you began.
*
You were just about to put on your coat when a voice stopped you near the cram school gates.
“Excuse me—Miss Ji?”
You turned. A man you vaguely recognized from Jeonghan’s circle stood a few meters away, his expression unsure yet determined. The streetlight above flickered faintly, painting both of you in amber.
“I’m sorry for showing up like this,” he began, hands tucked into his coat pockets. “I’m Boo Seungkwan. I’m… Jeonghan’s friend.”
Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag. “I know who you are.”
He nodded, a faint sigh escaping him. “Then I’ll be quick. I just—wanted to ask if what the news said about him was true.” His voice softened. “That he manipulated you. That he used you.”
You said nothing.
Seungkwan studied your face for a moment, as if searching for a flicker of the girl Jeonghan used to talk about—the one who laughed too easily, who didn’t care about names or titles.
“I don’t mean to be disrespectful,” he continued carefully, “but… Jeonghan doesn’t deserve this. He might have his flaws, but that’s not who he is.”
You looked down at your shoes, at the way the shadows of the streetlight split across the pavement. Every word he said pressed against the guilt you had tried to bury since dinner.
“He hasn’t been the same since the article came out,” Seungkwan said quietly. “He keeps saying it doesn’t matter, but we both know it does. That kind of lie—” He paused, catching himself. “Sorry. I shouldn’t assume it’s a lie.”
You finally met his gaze. His tone wasn’t accusing—just heavy with confusion and the quiet plea of someone who wanted to believe the best in his friend.
“I didn’t write it,” you murmured.
“I believe you,” Seungkwan replied almost immediately. “But maybe you can tell the truth. Even a little of it. It might help him stand again.”
His words lingered in the cold air long after he bowed politely and walked away. You stood there for a long while, watching his figure fade down the street, your throat tightening.
You wanted to tell him that it wasn’t Jeonghan who manipulated anyone.
It was you—
or at least, the version of you that the Jis had created.
You glanced at Seungkwan’s face — he looked too sincere, too out of place standing in front of a cram school after hours, holding nothing but good intentions. That made it worse.
“I think there’s a misunderstanding,” you said finally, voice calm but distant. “Jeonghan and I… we were just friends.”
Seungkwan blinked, as if trying to make sense of it. “Just friends?”
“Yes.” You tightened your scarf. “We met a few times, talked about work, shared coffee. That’s all.”
There was no tremor in your voice, but something in your eyes must have betrayed you, because Seungkwan’s expression shifted—disbelief shadowed with pity.
“I see,” he said slowly. “Then the pictures, the dinner, the event—”
“Coincidence,” you cut him off. “The press twisted it.”
He looked at you for a long moment, weighing whether to push further. But there was something in the way your gaze avoided his—composed, but fragile—that made him stop.
He exhaled softly. “I didn’t mean to bother you. It’s just… Jeonghan’s been through a lot. I wanted to understand what really happened.”
You froze for a fraction of a second.
But before he could say more, you bowed politely, murmured, “Good night, Mr. Boo,” and walked past him into the drizzle-soaked street.
He stood there for a while, watching as you disappeared into the blur of city lights. Something about your words didn’t match your expression—the kind of contradiction that Jeonghan had mentioned before.
When Seungkwan finally pulled out his phone, he hesitated before typing.
“She said you were just friends.”
*
The chauffeur’s eyes in the rearview mirror said everything Jeonghan didn’t need to hear. Pity. Disgust. Fear of being associated with the wrong Yoon. The mansion hadn’t changed — white pillars, too much marble, the smell of money and order. Yet when Jeonghan stepped inside, he could almost hear the echo of that night six years ago, the one that tore his name from the family register.
The housekeeper didn’t greet him. She bowed, eyes lowered, and walked away. In the dining room, his father was already seated, posture like a statue carved from ice.
Yoon Daemun, the man the country admired, the man Jeonghan could never please. “Sit,” his father said, without looking up from the newspaper.
The headline lay sprawled across the front page:
THE YOON HEIR SCANDAL CONTINUES — LINKED TO PRIME MINISTER’S FAMILY. Jeonghan took the seat across from him, his movements deliberate, controlled.
“So,” Daemun began, folding the paper neatly. “You managed to humiliate me again.”
Jeonghan’s lips quirked upward. “I’d say the timing was convenient for you. The Prime Minister’s name on the same line—good distraction for the party board, isn’t it?”
Daemun’s gaze sharpened, the kind that used to make Jeonghan feel twelve years old again. “Still the same. No shame. No sense of consequence.”
“You taught me that, didn’t you?” The silence that followed was heavy. Only the faint ticking of the antique clock filled the room.
His father finally leaned back. “Do you know what happens when your name appears next to a politician’s scandal?”
Jeonghan didn’t answer.
“It ruins both sides.” Daemun’s tone was calm, almost too calm. “But it’s not you they’ll remember. It’s me. The man who couldn’t control his own son.”
Jeonghan clenched his jaw. “I didn’t ask to come back.”
“No. You were summoned because I’m still cleaning up after you.” His father’s voice rose a fraction. “And this time, Jeonghan, there won’t be a next time. You’ve already cost this family enough.”
“I stopped being part of this family six years ago,” Jeonghan said quietly. “You made sure of that.”
Daemun stood. The air between them felt sharp enough to draw blood. “You’ll fix this,” he ordered. “You’ll meet with the press, issue a statement—say you lied, that it was all fabricated to harm the Prime Minister’s reputation. They’ll buy it if it comes from you.”
Jeonghan let out a humorless laugh. “You want me to destroy myself for your seat in Parliament?”
His father’s lips tightened. “For once in your life, do something useful.”
The words sank deep, the same as they always had.
When Jeonghan left the mansion, the night air hit him hard. He stood by the gate, hands trembling around a cigarette he didn’t light.
He had promised himself never to come back here again. And now, he realized, nothing had changed — not even the way his father still called him son only when it served a purpose.
Across the street, reporters were already gathering, their cameras flashing faintly in the dark. He straightened his collar, tucked his hands into his coat pockets, and walked away from the house without looking back. This time, he wouldn’t run. He would play the game his father started — but on his own terms.
*
An exclusive interview with Yoon Jeonghan appeared on the front page of The Daily Standard, written by none other than Boo Seungkwan — a name the political and corporate world had learned to both admire and fear.
The article was a masterpiece of restraint and precision. Seungkwan had fought tooth and nail with his editor-in-chief to have it published uncut. It wasn’t a defense piece, nor was it an attack. It was simply truth, stripped of bias — and that made it all the more dangerous.
“He was just a man looking for love one night,” the article began, “and somehow became a family scapegoat by morning.”
Through Seungkwan’s words, Jeonghan’s story unfolded not as a scandal, but as a slow dissection of how narratives were manufactured by power. The way a single whisper could become a headline. How a name could be tarnished to save another.
Every paragraph carried Seungkwan’s voice — calm, analytical, and sharp as glass. He wrote about Jeonghan’s fall from grace, about the exile that followed his first scandal, and how his father’s silence had been louder than public condemnation.
But what caught everyone’s attention wasn’t Jeonghan’s tragedy — it was the twist.
“Mrs. Ji herself had insisted Jeonghan meet her daughter,” Seungkwan wrote. “Even sent gifts, meals, and handwritten notes — tokens of gratitude, or perhaps, persuasion. Who does that for a stranger?”
It was phrased like a question, but the implication was clear. The spotlight had shifted — subtly, cleverly — from Jeonghan’s so-called manipulation to the Ji family’s orchestration.
By the second half of the article, Mrs. Ji was no longer the grieving mother of a deceived daughter; she was a woman who had played the public like a symphony.
The nation devoured the story. News anchors repeated excerpts with caution, as if afraid the words themselves might bite. Political commentators speculated whether Boo Seungkwan had overstepped, or whether he had just cracked open something no one dared to question.
And Jeonghan — sitting alone in his dim apartment with the paper spread across his coffee table — couldn’t decide how to feel.
The world was finally hearing his side of the story.
But the irony was, it didn’t feel like victory. It felt like standing in the eye of a storm that was only beginning to turn.
After the article, Jeonghan disappeared again — not in shame this time, but in pursuit of something real. For the first time in years, he stopped attending events with rich women's names printed on the invitation. No more charity galas where everyone smiled with their teeth clenched. No more private dinners where the wine was expensive but every conversation was a transaction.
He sold all of his luxury things and moved into a smaller apartment on the edge of Mapo. The windows were cracked, and the heater worked when it felt generous, but it was quiet. His kind of quiet.
He started from the bottom — as a project consultant for a small local architecture firm that took contracts no conglomerate would touch. His job wasn’t glamorous: long meetings, stubborn clients, coffee that tasted like burnt wood. But there was a strange comfort in it. Each blueprint, each rejected proposal, each late-night revision — it all belonged to him.
He refused to take calls from people who once claimed to be friends. When invitations from the “rich circle” arrived — networking parties, art auctions, political birthdays — he left them unopened. He no longer wanted to be someone’s favorite scandal, someone’s well-dressed pawn.
For months, Jeonghan worked in silence. He kept his hair shorter, his words simpler, his gaze level. He didn’t try to charm anyone anymore. He didn’t need to. People at work found him odd — polite, reserved, sometimes intimidatingly composed. They whispered about his past, about the man who once made headlines. But they couldn’t deny his efficiency. He had a way of solving problems others didn’t even see.
And when a construction site mishap almost cost the firm a major deal, Jeonghan was the one who stayed overnight, reorganizing the logistics report by hand. The next morning, his boss found him asleep on the office couch — tie loosened, pencil still in hand, a faint trace of graphite on his jaw.
For the first time, Jeonghan’s value wasn’t built on his last name. It was built on effort. Still, every now and then, he caught himself looking at the city skyline — the one his father’s empire had helped shape — and wondered if redemption meant cutting ties completely, or learning how to stand on his own without hating where he came from.
“Do you want to hear what I just found?”
Seungkwan’s voice came through the phone one quiet night. Jeonghan answered without much thought, assuming it was another late update — a joke, a story, something light to end the day.
But Seungkwan’s tone was different. Too steady. Too careful. “There was a report that Ji Jaekyung’s daughter had passed away.”
The words didn’t register at first. They hung in the air like smoke — shapeless, heavy, unreal. Jeonghan froze, the pen in his hand slipping onto the desk.
“What?” His chest tightened. His mind went blank — except for the image of you: laughing behind a cup of coffee, brushing your hair from your face, the way you used to hum when you thought no one was listening.
“Y/n… had passed away?” The words barely escaped his mouth, trembling, as if speaking them might make them true.
“It’s not what you think,” Seungkwan said quickly, his voice low. “It wasn’t her. Not Ji Y/n. The report says a girl — eighteen years old — died by suicide ten years ago. The attending physician confirmed it.”
Jeonghan’s pulse roared in his ears. “What are you trying to say, Seungkwan?” He spun in his chair, the room suddenly too small, too bright.
“I’m saying,” Seungkwan breathed out, almost afraid to finish, “Ji Y/n isn’t Ji Jaekyung’s real daughter.”
Silence. The world seemed to tilt — slow, then all at once. Jeonghan sat there, hearing nothing but the echo of that sentence. Every moment he’d spent with you — every glance, every half-truth, every piece of you he thought he knew — cracked open in his mind.
If you weren’t Ji Jaekyung’s daughter… then who were you?
*
“I wake up every day thinking I’m nobody’s child. Just myself, doing the things I’m best at — teaching, meeting my students, seeing my friends. That’s the real me.”
That’s the real you…
Jeonghan could still hear your voice — soft, certain, echoing in the quiet of his memory. It had started as a casual conversation, one of those late-night talks that drifted aimlessly until he’d asked, almost teasingly, “What’s it like to be Ji Jaekyung’s daughter?”
You laughed faintly before answering, “Whosever child you are won’t define you. Your own work will.”
Those words had stayed with him longer than he expected.
He’d spent years buried under the weight of his family name, letting it dictate who he was supposed to be. When the burden grew too heavy, he rebelled — escaping through decadence, luxury, and fleeting attention. Drowning himself in everything that dulled the ache of being a Yoon.
But none of it had ever defined him.
“Hyung, you’re one of the smartest, most quick-witted people I know,” Seungkwan once told him. “You just need to use it for yourself — not to prove anyone wrong.”
And that was what he finally did.
He started small — late nights, small contracts, learning the bones of the business from the ground up. Day by day, Jeonghan built his own name, one that carried no trace of his father’s shadow.
“This,” he murmured to himself one morning, staring at the blueprint on his desk, “this is what defines me.”
A few months later, his phone rang. It was Seungcheol.
“I need your help with a new building for our firm,” he said.
Jeonghan didn’t know it then, but that call would change everything — the first stone on the path that would carry his name further than his family ever imagined.
Katalk …
Seungkwan: You need to see this.
He frowned, clicking the link. The screen opened to a live stream — a press conference, crowded with reporters and flashing cameras. And there you were, standing behind the podium, composed but pale under the harsh light. The banner above you read:
Your voice trembled at first, but you steadied yourself, eyes gliding across the sea of cameras.
“I was raised under the Ji family for ten years,” you began. “But I am not Ji Jaekyung’s biological daughter. The truth is—” you paused, swallowing hard, “the real Ji Y/n passed away ten years ago. I was… chosen to take her place.”
A low hum of whispers rippled through the room. Cameras clicked like rain. Jeonghan leaned forward, his heart pounding, his hand gripping the edge of the desk.
You exhaled shakily before continuing, “I was an orphan. I didn’t have a family or a name that mattered. I was offered a home, an education, a life that didn’t belong to me. And I was too young to understand what it truly meant.”
Reporters began raising their hands, their questions overlapping into chaos.
“Who orchestrated this?”
“Was the Prime Minister aware?”
“Why are you revealing this now?”
You didn’t flinch. “Because the lies have gone too far. And someone else has paid the price for them.”
Jeonghan could feel his chest tightening. You didn’t mention his name — but everyone knew who “someone else” was.
He could barely hear Seungkwan’s voice over the call when it came seconds later.
“She’s doing this for you, hyung.”
But Jeonghan couldn’t answer. His mind was spinning. You — the woman who once told him not to let his family name define him — were now standing in front of the world, tearing down the false identity that once defined you.
The screen flickered as the conference ended, replaced by a headline that felt like a scream in his chest:
“Prime Minister’s Daughter Admits to False Identity — Public Shock Ensues.”
The room was silent after the live broadcast ended.
Jeonghan sat still, staring at the frozen image on his screen — your bowed head, your shoulders straight despite the weight of everything you’d just confessed.
You didn’t defend yourself.
You didn’t accuse anyone.
You simply told the truth.
And somehow, that humility hit him harder than any scandal ever had.
He leaned back, running a hand through his hair, the city lights flickering against his tired eyes. For the first time, Jeonghan realized how small his own pride had been — all those years spent hiding behind charm, rebellion, and fleeting company. He’d called it freedom, but it was just fear wearing expensive clothes.
You, on the other hand, had stood in front of the nation stripped of everything — your name, your protection, your image — and yet you looked freer than he ever had.
“She doesn’t owe them anything,” he murmured under his breath. “And she still chose to be kind.”
It humbled him.
It changed something inside him that no lecture or consequence ever could.
That night, Jeonghan opened his window to the chill of the city air. The same wind that once carried gossip about his downfall now felt strangely cleansing. He poured himself a drink, not out of habit, but to think.
He replayed your words in his head, line by line.
“I’m just myself, doing what I’m best at.”
He understood it now.
It wasn’t about running away from a family name. It was about building a life so honest that no one could ever take it away again.
A small smile tugged at his lips. “You win, Y/n,” he whispered, half amused, half proud.
For the first time in years, Yoon Jeonghan didn’t feel like the son of anyone — not Daemun’s mistake, not society’s scandal. Just a man finally ready to start living right.
*
Jeonghan swore he wasn’t imagining things when his eyes landed on a woman he hadn’t seen in years, running across the school field with a group of children. His client—perhaps the principal, or maybe the chairman of the school foundation—kept talking, explaining how they wanted to preserve the school’s historical character.
“This school was founded before the war. We’d be grateful if your team could— Jeonghan-ssi?”
The two of them stopped walking. Jeonghan remained still, his gaze fixed on the field. His client probably assumed he was simply watching the children.
“Who’s that woman?” Jeonghan finally asked.
The chairman followed his gaze before smiling, seemingly misunderstanding the reason for the question.
“She’s new here. She moved from Seoul. Oh—aren’t you from Seoul as well?”
Jeonghan nodded absentmindedly. “Yes…” But he couldn’t tear his eyes away. He had seen it all unfold.
The media had talked about it relentlessly—and perhaps they still were. Ji Jaekyung had fallen from his political pedestal. It had become the nation’s biggest headline. Questions spread everywhere—from conversations between neighbors to comment sections and online forums.
How long had Ji Jaekyung replaced his real daughter with another girl to play the role of the perfect daughter?
Seungkwan had made sure to send Jeonghan countless articles and conspiracy theories. Some claimed the real daughter had been assassinated. Others insisted she had escaped years ago.
Jeonghan had eventually called him. “Isn’t a journalist supposed to be busy?” Seungkwan had stopped sending them. At least for a few days.
If Jeonghan was being truthful, he had been terrified for you. Proud—but terrified.
What you did was incredibly risky, especially so close to Ji Jaekyung’s election campaign. It wasn’t because you could ruin his chances of winning. It was because it could cost you your life. Ji Jaekyung had turned out to be a complete psycho—someone who wouldn’t even spare his daughter.
So Jeonghan had tried to find you. To contact you. Maybe offer whatever help he could. But he couldn’t. You had disappeared. And that frightened him even more. Because he had no idea whether you were safe or not.
Now, you were only a few strides away. Yet Jeonghan couldn't find the courage to walk over and say something as simple as hey.
Because hey was never simple when it came to you. It could never be, not after years of searching, asking around, following every lead he could find… And, perhaps, missing you.
Maybe Seungkwan had been right all along. Jeonghan really was a great pretender whenever your name came up.
"You know," Seungkwan had once said, "you deny it better when we talk about her than when your neighbor asks you to fix their toilet."
"She thought I was a handyman!" Jeonghan had shot back immediately. Another denial.
His phone rang while Jeonghan was driving home.
It was the grandmother from next door—the one who particularly adored, or perhaps nagged, him so much that he had started wondering whether she genuinely liked him or simply pitied him. Somehow, she had convinced herself he was a handyman with no real job, just a man who stayed home all day.
"Yes, Grandma?"
He was greeted by a suspiciously sweet voice. Too sweet. Not the usual one that told him to eat more or complained that he worked too slowly, but the gentle voice she reserved for her own grandchildren.
"There's a young woman who just moved in next door, and her gate isn't working properly. Could you help fix it?"
She continued, enthusiastically explaining what a reliable handyman he was.
For heaven's sake. He had studied engineering, not so his elderly neighbor could recruit him as the neighborhood repairman.
Jeonghan sighed. "I'll take a look. I'm on my way home anyway."
He heard her chuckle. She must be in a good mood, he thought. She had been oddly pushy yesterday while handing him containers of side dishes. Kind, as always—but with an unusual edge to it.
"Go check on her," she insisted. "She looked worried because the gate won't lock properly."
Very pushy.
By the time Jeonghan reached the house next door, he immediately crouched to inspect the gate. The lock was rusted beyond repair. It had needed replacing for quite some time. Pulling out his phone, he ordered a replacement lock online. He'd rather spend the money now than endure another week of the grandmother pestering him about it.
He was still standing by the gate, scrolling through the order confirmation, when the sound of footsteps behind him pulled his attention away from the screen. He turned, expecting to see the new homeowner. He was already rehearsing what to say—that the lock would hold for tonight, that he had arranged for someone to replace it in a few days, and that there was nothing to worry about.
But the words never came. His mouth went dry. His eyes widened. God really had a twisted sense of humor.
"...Jeonghan?”
*
After getting help from a very reliable lawyer, you finally received the compensation you had demanded from the Ji family.
It was finally time to find a place of your own instead of continuing to stay in the tiny studio apartment Minseo had generously lent you. You had been her unexpected roommate for almost three months now, and although she had never complained, you knew you couldn't impose forever.
Or maybe she didn't mind. Her boyfriend, on the other hand...
So, after weeks of searching, negotiating, and stretching your budget as far as it could go, you finally found a place at a reasonable price. A house, even. You can only afford a detached house in this economy if something's terribly wrong with it, you thought. The suspicion was confirmed the moment you saw it in person.
It definitely needed a lot of work.
...Or maybe your eyes needed fixing too, because standing in front of your new house was a figure you never expected to see again.
"Y/n?"
He sounded just as surprised as you were. Thank goodness.
"You're the handyman Grandma from next door was talking about?"
Jeonghan immediately shook his head. Then nodded Then shook it again, waving both hands in surrender.
"No—I mean... she thinks I'm a handyman."
You nodded thoughtfully. "That makes sense. She told me all about how you fix things around her house."
Jeonghan let out a defeated chuckle. He glanced between you and the old house before asking quietly, "So... you live here now?"
You stepped closer, following his gaze toward the weathered building. "Yeah." You sighed. "The listing forgot to mention it's one strong wind away from collapsing."
He studied the house for another moment, hands tucked into his pockets. "It's surprising someone actually bought this place."
"Because it's me, or because it's the house?"
The question escaped before you could stop it. The moment the words left your mouth, you wanted to take them back. Obviously because of the house. What a strange thing to ask.
Jeonghan looked at you. Then back at the house. Then at you again. "...Both." A beat passed. "But mostly because it's you.”
That night, your phone buzzed just as you were unpacking another box.
"Hello?"
It was your lawyer. Or rather, your old junior high school friend. Choi Seungcheol. He called to check on your settlement after the case had officially concluded, but mostly to give you an update on the Ji family's situation following the trial and the media storm.
"I'll send over the final documents," he said. "Legally, you're Choi Y/n now."
You laughed softly. "So... we share the same surname now."
"Hey, I don't mind." Seungcheol chuckled. "I told you before—it's an honor to handle your case. Having you share my surname? That's just a bonus."
Despite the joke, his voice carried genuine warmth. Seungcheol had been the first person to reach out after your televised confession. The moment he saw the broadcast, he called. The next day, he was standing at your door with a briefcase in one hand and coffee in the other.
"I'm taking your case."
There hadn't even been room to argue.
Known for his razor-sharp arguments and quick wit in court, Seungcheol had built quite a reputation as one of the country's most formidable young lawyers. And just as he had promised… He won.
You still weren't sure how to thank him properly.
"You helped me first," he said, as if reading your mind. "I'm just returning the favor."
Back in junior high, Seungcheol had been the stereotypical chaebol heir. Spoiled. Reckless. Completely convinced that money solved everything.
Until one afternoon, when a group of older students cornered him behind the gym.
You hadn't been strong enough to fight them. So you'd done the next best thing. You blasted a fake police siren from your phone. The bullies scattered before realizing it wasn't real. Seungcheol had laughed until he cried. Then he decided you were the coolest person he'd ever met.
"I also have a friend living near your new place," Seungcheol said, pulling you back to the present. "He's an architect."
"Oh?"
"Want me to introduce you?"
You glanced around the old house, where peeling wallpaper practically waved at you.
"He might actually faint when he sees this place."
"He'll probably renovate it for free."
You raised an eyebrow. "...For free?"
"Sure." His grin was audible through the phone. "If the two of you end up dating."
You sighed dramatically. "We both know I already have enough on my plate after everything that's happened."
"Fair point." His teasing faded, replaced by the quiet sincerity that had always made him such a dependable friend. "Then just focus on settling in."
You smiled to yourself. "I will."
"I have a feeling good things are waiting for you there."
*
Definitely not a good thing.
Seungcheol burst out laughing the moment he saw you and Jeonghan freeze like statues. His plan to visit his college friend, Jeonghan, and check in on his client, You, a week after you moved in had somehow turned into his favorite comedy show.
"How do you two know each other?" he asked, feigning innocence.
The moment Seungcheol had mentioned that his client lived nearby, Jeonghan's expression had changed ever so slightly. That was all Seungcheol needed.
Interesting.
He knew Jeonghan's history. He knew Jeonghan's "game." And judging by that reaction… Maybe you weren’t just another woman from Jeonghan's past.
Jeonghan let out a quiet sigh. "We met years ago."
"Yeah..." you echoed with a polite smile.
Neither of you elaborated.
Seungcheol looked from one to the other, a knowing grin slowly spreading across his face.
"Well then," he said, clapping his hands once. "Since we're all here, how about lunch?"
You smiled apologetically. "I'd love to, but I already promised to meet someone."
"No worries," Seungcheol replied easily.
After exchanging a few more polite words, you excused yourself and walked away. The moment you disappeared around the corner, Seungcheol slowly turned toward Jeonghan.
Then, with the biggest grin imaginable. "So..."
Jeonghan already knew what was coming.
"...Who was she to you, Yoon Jeonghan?"
He sighed so deeply it almost sounded painful before casually draping an arm over Seungcheol's shoulder.
"Let's get you something to eat first." He gently steered him toward the opposite direction. "You ask strange questions when you're hungry."
Seungcheol frowned in protest as he was dragged along.
"I do not."
"You do."
"I absolutely don't."
"You once asked a judge if he'd skipped breakfast."
"...He looked hungry."
Jeonghan laughed despite himself. "Exactly my point.”
Once the food arrived, the conversation drifted into comfortable silence. Jeonghan absentmindedly stirred his stew before finally speaking. "Do you remember lending me your car a few years ago?" he asked. "I told you I had to attend some political event."
Seungcheol frowned, trying to remember. "The one where you made me pick it up the next morning because you said you were 'emotionally exhausted'?"
Jeonghan let out a quiet laugh. "That one."
A beat passed.
"It was her."
Seungcheol froze, his chopsticks suspended halfway to his mouth. "...You're kidding."
Jeonghan shook his head. "I met her there. Mrs. Ji introduced us herself and invited me to the Prime Minister's event. I met her parents."
For a long second, Seungcheol simply stared at him. Then he slowly lowered his chopsticks onto the table. "Not her parents," he corrected quietly.
Jeonghan's smile faded. "I know." His gaze dropped to his bowl. "I only found out after everything was over."
A heavy silence settled between them.
Then Seungcheol's eyes widened as another thought struck him. "Wait..." He leaned forward. "So she was the woman from the scandal."
Jeonghan answered with nothing more than a small nod. He still remembered those headlines.
The photos of the two of you standing side by side. The articles that turned a few dinners and conversations into a fabricated romance. One picture after another, each one adding more fuel until the entire country caught fire.
"It didn't end well, then?" Seungcheol asked carefully.
Jeonghan gave a small shrug. "I don't even know if there was anything to end." He smiled bitterly. "Her mother was the one who insisted we meet in the first place."
Seungcheol leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his chest. "...That's strange."
Jeonghan looked up.
"What's strange?"
"I was her lawyer." His voice became noticeably more serious. "I know almost everything that happened inside that house."
He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Her relationship with Ji Jaekyung and his wife wasn't normal."
Jeonghan's brows slowly knit together.
"They forced her to become someone she wasn't."
"They dictated how she dressed, what she studied, who she met, what she said in public."
Jeonghan's fingers tightened around his spoon. The words lingered heavily between them. Neither spoke for a while. Finally, Seungcheol frowned, more to himself than to Jeonghan.
"Which is exactly why none of this makes sense."
Jeonghan looked at him.
"If Mrs. Ji controlled every aspect of Y/n's life, why was she so determined to introduce the two of you?"
Jeonghan replayed those evenings in his head. Mrs. Ji invited him to events. Mrs. Ji encouraged you to accompany him. Mrs. Ji smiled every time they talked. At the time, he had assumed she simply wanted her daughter to meet someone.
Now, that explanation felt too simple.
"There had to be a reason," Seungcheol murmured.
"A woman like Mrs. Ji never does anything without expecting something in return."
Jeonghan stared at the untouched food in front of him. For the first time in years, he wondered whether meeting you had ever been fate at all, or just another move in someone else's game.
*
“So,” Minseo began after swallowing a spoonful of soup, “your lawyer came to visit… and the ‘architect friend’ he mentioned turned out to be him?”
She calmly flipped a slice of beef on the grill as though this kind of ridiculous coincidence happened every Tuesday.
You nodded weakly. “Apparently.”
Living with Minseo for three months had stripped away every layer of privacy you once had. She wasn’t even your closest friend from university. Yet somehow, she’d become the one person who knew everything.
Minseo had been there the night you confessed the truth—not to the nation, but to her. That you weren’t Ji Jaekyung’s daughter. Never had been. Just an orphan the Ji family had paid to become one. You still remembered the way she’d stared at you, speechless, before quietly asking only one question.
“Where are you staying tonight?”
When you admitted you had nowhere to go, she’d answered without hesitation. “Pack your things. You’re staying with me.” No pity. No unnecessary questions. Just a spare key pressed into your palm.
“It isn’t supposed to be a big deal, is it?” Minseo said, pulling you back to the present. “Meeting him again, I mean.”
You rested your forehead against your palm, your elbow nearly knocking over your glass of water.
“I know…” You sighed.
“But I still can’t shake the guilt. I dragged him into all of this.”
Minseo looked at you for a moment before laughing softly.
“Girl, you told me he used to be a player with no direction in life.” She pointed at you with her chopsticks.
“And now? He’s an established architect. From everything you’ve told me, he rebuilt his entire life after the scandal.”
“If anything…congratulations?” She shrugged.
You stared at her. “What kind of conclusion is that?”
“My conclusion is that you accidentally gave the man a character-development arc.”
Despite yourself, a laugh escaped. Minseo smiled triumphantly. “There she is. You’ve been making that guilty face ever since the trial ended.”
The smile quickly faded from your lips. “I still ruined his life.”
Minseo shook her head. “No.”
She spoke so firmly that you looked up. “Your mother did. That woman intentionally introduced the two of you because she knew exactly who Yoon Jeonghan was.”
You lowered your gaze. “She was trying to get rid of his father.”
“Exactly.” Minseo pointed her chopsticks again, this time for emphasis.
“She leaked your photos together and controlled the narrative. She made him the villain. Every single step was planned.”
You quietly stirred your soup. The words settled between you.
“You weren’t the one calling the photographers.”
“You weren’t the one writing the headlines.”
“And you certainly weren’t the one trying to destroy a political rival.”
You remained silent. Minseo sighed before reaching across the table to nudge your bowl toward you.
“Eat.”
You obediently picked up your spoon. After a few bites, Minseo spoke again, much more gently.
“You know what I think? I think Mrs. Ji underestimated the two of you. She expected you to keep playing the perfect daughter forever.”
She smiled to herself. “But she never imagined her ‘perfect daughter’ would bring down an entire political dynasty with one press conference.”
A small smile tugged at your lips. “She definitely didn’t see that coming.”
“No.” Minseo grinned. “And judging by the way you described your reunion… I don’t think she expected you two to become neighbors either.”
You groaned, dropping your head onto the table. “Please don’t remind me.”
She raised her glass. “To the terrible house…and even more terrible coincidences.”
*
On his way home, Jeonghan noticed a few familiar faces working on your house. They were contractors he had hired before—people whose work he trusted enough to recommend without hesitation. Seeing them there, he couldn’t help wondering which developer you had chosen. Apparently, it was one he knew well.
The fact that the two of you still hadn’t spoken since Seungcheol’s visit last month proved just how hopeless you both were. Or perhaps it was just him.
Every morning, Jeonghan rehearsed countless conversations in his head. A greeting. A joke. Maybe even an apology. Yet the moment he saw you, all he managed was a polite bow and a small smile. Pathetic.
Night fell.
He had just finished dinner when rain began hammering against the windows. Within minutes, the entire neighborhood was swallowed by darkness as the power went out.
Jeonghan didn’t even have to think. He opened a kitchen drawer, took out a few candles, grabbed an umbrella, and stepped outside.
“Grandma? I brought some candles.”
The old woman shuffled carefully from her room to answer the door, smiling as she welcomed him inside. While Jeonghan lit the candles one by one, she complained nonstop about the blackout.
“Is it already the rainy season?” she grumbled. “Why didn’t they announce it on TV? If it rains this hard every day, I’ll go crazy!”
Jeonghan laughed quietly. “I think the TV is the least of your worries right now, Grandma.”
“Hmph. Easy for you to say.”
As she continued talking, his eyes drifted toward the window. Your house stood completely dark. Not a single light. He glanced down at the few candles still left in his hand.
“Grandma, you’re all set.” He picked up his umbrella again. “If you need anything else, just call me.”
The old woman nodded.
“Nari? Are you home?”
A few seconds later, the door opened. “Jeonghan?”
You blinked at the sight of him standing on your porch, rain dripping from the edge of his umbrella. “It’s pouring. What happened?”
He held up the candles in his hand. “I brought these.”
It took you a second to realize the entire house was dark. “Oh…” A sheepish smile crossed your face. “I completely forgot the power went out.”
Jeonghan chuckled quietly. “I noticed.”
You stepped aside, opening the door wider. “Come in before you catch a cold.”
He hesitated for only a moment before stepping inside, carefully folding his umbrella near the entrance.
Your house looked even older from the inside. Half-unpacked boxes lined the living room. Rolls of wallpaper leaned against one wall, while paint samples and renovation sketches covered the dining table. It was messy—but lived in.
“I’m sorry,” you said, noticing where his eyes wandered. “I’m still unpacking.”
“It’s fine.” His gaze settled on the exposed ceiling beams. “They’re in better condition than I expected.”
“You can tell just by looking?”
“I’m an architect.”
“…Right.”
The corner of his lips lifted.
“So…”
You rubbed the back of your neck. “I guess you’re not actually a handyman.”
He let out a laugh. “I’ve been trying to convince Grandma of that for years.”
You laughed too.
For the first time since meeting again, the silence between you no longer felt heavy.
You took one of the candles from his hand. “Thank you.”
“It’s nothing.”
He lit the candle with a lighter from his pocket, shielding the small flame with one hand until it steadied. The warm glow slowly spread across the room, softening the unfinished walls and the distance that had lingered between the two of you for weeks.
Rain continued to drum against the roof. Neither of you seemed in a hurry to break the quiet.
“You’ve done a lot already,” Jeonghan said after a while, glancing around the room.
“I’ve had help.”
“The contractors outside earlier?”
You nodded. “They’re good.”
“I know.”
You looked at him curiously. “You’ve worked with them before?”
“A few times.” A small pause followed. “I trust their work.”
You smiled. “Good.”
The room settled into silence once more, but it no longer felt empty.
Between you, the candle gave a small, wavering pulse of light, its flame bending whenever the wind pressed against the old windows. The glass panes gave a soft, uneven rattle in their frames, as if the house itself were listening in. Outside, rain moved steadily over the roof and down the eaves, a constant hush beneath the occasional sharper tap of a branch against the siding.
Jeonghan’s gaze drifted toward the windows, his expression thoughtful in the candlelight.
“You should replace those before winter.”
You followed his line of sight, watching the faint tremor in the glass.
“I know. I've been telling myself that for the past two weeks.” A sheepish smile touched your mouth, small and apologetic.
He let out a quiet chuckle, the sound low and warm in the dim room. “I can make you a list.”
“You’ll charge me, won’t you?”
“I thought I was the neighborhood handyman.”
“Right.”
You tipped your head, pretending to consider it, though the corner of your mouth was already giving you away. “So… free?”
Jeonghan laughed, a little more openly this time, and for a moment the tension in the room loosened with it. “I walked right into that one.”
The laughter faded as naturally as it had come, leaving behind something gentler. For the first time, the quiet between you didn’t feel strained or careful. It simply existed, soft and unhurried, the kind of silence shared by two people who had run out of things to say and found they didn’t mind. The rain filled the spaces around you, and the candlelight moved over the table in slow, trembling gold.
“You’ve changed,” you said at last, your voice quieter than you intended.
Jeonghan looked up from the candle, his eyes catching the light. “I have?”
“You smile differently.”
He blinked once, as if turning the words over in his mind.
“I used to think you smiled because you enjoyed teasing people.”
“And now?”
“Now…” You hesitated, searching his face for the right shape of the thought. “It feels quieter.”
His gaze dropped to the candle flame, and for a moment the light softened the line of his mouth. “I got older.”
“I suppose we both did.” A faint smile crossed your lips, brief but real.
“You still bow every morning.”
“You never miss returning it.”
Another pause settled between you, but this one carried no sharp edges.
“I wasn’t sure if I should talk to you.” The confession slipped out before either of you could stop it, and once it was spoken, it seemed to hang there in the warm, dim air.
Jeonghan lifted his eyes to yours. “…Neither was I.”
A small laugh escaped you, half relief and half disbelief. “So we’ve been greeting each other like strangers for an entire month.”
“Apparently.”
“That’s embarrassing.”
“It is.”
Outside, the rain thickened, drumming harder against the roof. Somewhere beyond the windows, the lights remained dark, the world reduced to weather and shadow. You traced the rim of your mug with your thumb, the ceramic cool beneath your skin.
“I thought you hated me.” The words came out so softly you almost wished the rain had swallowed them before they reached him.
Jeonghan didn’t answer right away. He looked at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable at first, then slowly shifting into something more honest, more tired.
Then he shook his head. “I did.”
You went still.
He seemed to notice your reaction and continued before the silence could harden into misunderstanding. “For a while.”
His fingers tightened slightly around the mug, the warmth of it lost beneath the tension in his hand. “I blamed you.”
“I blamed myself.” His eyes lowered for a second, then lifted again, steady and clear.
“It was easier than accepting I had no idea what had really happened.”
You swallowed, the weight of his words settling somewhere deep and quiet inside you. “I wanted to apologize.”
Jeonghan’s gaze sharpened, as if that had reached him more than anything else you’d said. “I looked for you.”
Your breath caught.
“I couldn’t find you. I asked people. I even asked Seungkwan if he’d heard anything. He worried too, you know.” A small, reluctant smile tugged at his lips, softened by memory.
The room fell silent again, but this time the quiet felt different. It wasn’t the silence of distance or uncertainty. It was the silence of two people standing at the edge of something old and painful, finally beginning to see it clearly from both sides. The candle burned lower between you, its flame smaller now, but steadier somehow, as if it had settled into the shape of the night.
Outside, thunder rolled across the sky in a long, distant rumble. Inside, neither of you seemed to notice that the candles had already burned halfway down.
*
The final school bell rang just as Jeonghan and the principal finished their last inspection of the newly restored building. Jeonghan couldn’t help but chuckle every time a fourth grader came running over to complain.
“The tiles near the stairs are too slippery!”
“The sink by the football field is too tall!”
The principal immediately shooed them away with a laugh. “Off to class. You can file your complaints later.”
Jeonghan watched the children disappear down the corridor before turning to the principal. “They’re definitely the toughest clients to please.”
“They always are.”
“Teacher Y/n.” At the principal’s call, Jeonghan turned.
You stepped out of your classroom, your bag slung over one shoulder, clearly finished for the day. You bowed politely to both of them before smiling at Jeonghan.
“Amazing work, Architect Yoon.”
The principal blinked in surprise. “Oh!” He laughed. “I was just about to introduce the two of you.”
He looked between you and Jeonghan. “So… you already know each other?”
Jeonghan smiled and nodded. “Yes, sir. We’ve known each other for years.” He glanced at you before adding, “We’re neighbors.”
The principal’s eyes widened. “Neighbors?” He looked genuinely delighted.
“Then the two of you should’ve been going home together this whole time! No need for Teacher Y/n to take the bus anymore.”
Jeonghan smiled. “That works for me.”
You nodded, unable to hide a small smile of your own. “Then let me grab my things from the teachers’ room first. Excuse me.”
As you walked away, the principal let out a quiet sigh of relief before turning to Jeonghan. “To be honest, I still don’t understand why someone like Teacher Y/n chose our little school.”
Jeonghan raised an eyebrow.
“Her résumé is remarkable,” the principal continued. “We’re lucky she even accepted our offer.”
Jeonghan smiled to himself. “She’s always been like that.” He remembered the woman who had once told him that a person’s work—not their family name—was what truly defined them.
The principal nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly! She just came back from volunteering in Africa, and this was the very first school she applied to.”
He shook his head with an admiring smile. “Sometimes I wonder what kind of life she’s lived.”
Jeonghan watched as you disappeared down the hallway. A quiet smile settled on his face. “…An amazing one.”
The principal followed Jeonghan’s gaze before smiling to himself. “I suppose so.”
After parking the car, the two of you still had to walk another five hundred meters to the neighborhood. Jeonghan carried the box of materials you had brought home from school while you explained they were your students’ art projects.
For most of the walk, neither of you spoke. Then you turned to him. “I read it. Seungkwan did a good job.”
Jeonghan looked over and smiled. “He did almost too good of a job. My father must be pleased.”
“Your father is a good politician,” you murmured.
“He is.” A small smile lingered on his lips. “Not a very good father, though.”
You nodded. “That’s true.”
He looked ahead as the afternoon breeze rustled through the trees. “But… thanks.”
You turned to him.
“Because you were willing to tell the truth—even knowing how much it would cost you—my relationship with him finally got better.”
You smiled faintly. A month ago, Seungkwan had visited to ask for an exclusive interview for his feature, The Fall of Ji Jaekyung’s Legacy. It told the whole story. How the Ji family’s real daughter had been hidden. How you had been forced to take her place. How they had manipulated the media and used both you and Jeonghan in their attempt to bring down Yoon Daemun and several other political rivals.
“That was the least I could do,” you said quietly. “After everything I put you through.”
Jeonghan let out a small laugh. “Didn’t we agree to stop feeling guilty about that?”
You smiled apologetically.
“Besides,” he continued, “your mother was unbelievable.” He shook his head in disbelief. “How she even found out I was Daemun’s estranged son is still beyond me.”
You laughed. “I have no idea either. The whole family was… something else.”
Before either of you could continue, a familiar voice called from across the street.
“There you are!”
Grandma waved excitedly from her front yard. “I’ve been waiting for you two to come home!”
She pointed at Jeonghan. “Jeonghan! Help me with the plumbing. It stopped working again.”
Jeonghan groaned dramatically. “Grandma… I’m not a plumber.”
“You’ll figure it out.”
“I’m not a handyman either.”
Ignoring his protest entirely, Grandma grabbed his wrist and started pulling him toward the house.
You couldn’t hold back your laughter.
Jeonghan sighed in defeat before handing you his bag.
“Which pipe is it this time?”
As he rolled up his sleeves, Grandma happily led him inside.
“He complains every single time,” she whispered to you with a grin. “But he always fixes it.”
You smiled. “Grandma… He’s not a handyman. He’s an architect.”
Grandma blinked before breaking into a sheepish smile.
“I know.”
You looked at her in surprise.
She pointed toward the house next door. “There’s a big sign in front of his house.”
You laughed. “So you’ve known all along?”
Grandma simply shrugged. “Architects know how to fix things too.”
You glanced toward the kitchen window, where Jeonghan was already crouching beneath the sink, muttering to himself while trying to figure out the plumbing.
Maybe Grandma had been right after all. Some people didn’t just build houses. They made them feel like home.
There’s a guy on campus who girls go to for stress relief. Sleazy bastard, but he obviously knows what he’s doing. When everything becomes too stressful for you, you decide you wanna do the same. Just a one time thing. Meaningless sex.
You never banked on him getting attached to you.
wc: 7.6k
warnings: college au, physiotherapy student!jeonghan, medical student!reader, reader is an overthinker and tends to spiral, fuck boy!jeonghan, pussy drunk!jeonghan, smut, nsfw, multiple orgasms, oral (fem!receiving), fingering, semi (?) public sex, both of them are horny as fuck
masterlist
Some part of you wishes you had stayed illiterate all your life. It’s the same part that loathes the thought of early morning classes, endless labs, assignments and presentations. Clinic hours. Procedure logbooks. Fuck, it’s just neverending. At any given point in time, you have at least six different things going on, all of them top most priority. Which isn’t possible. The top most priority can only ever be one thing. That’s what the word ‘priority’ means. You can’t have six priorities, it isn’t possible-
“Do you have a copy of tomorrow’s case for discussion?” Jihyo sounds like she’s about ready to cry. Not surprising to you at all, because you’re the same right now. You blink at your laptop screen a few times, trying to get out of your own head. Long, rambling thoughts have always been your biggest vice. And you do it even more when you’re stressed.
You grab a sheet of paper on your bed next to you and lean over the side of it, meeting Jihyo halfway from her own bed.
“Thanks.” She mumbles, looking down at the sheet. She reads it over once, twice, then one more time, before her distraught eyes meet yours.
“What’s the diagnosis?”
You shrug.
Jihyo nearly wails, scratching at her head. “I can’t do this shit. God, I’m going to kill someone.”
You can’t even laugh. You’re too stuck on the presentation open on your own laptop, trying to make the font small enough to fit everything on it, but not so small that it can’t be seen. It’s proving to be way more difficult than you thought.
“Come on. We’re going to grab dinner.” She swings her legs over the bed, ignoring the many papers scattered around her as they wrinkle under the movement. You don’t even question it, clicking ‘Save’ on the presentation a comical number of times to make sure you won’t lose it, then following Jihyo’s footsteps.
It’s colder outside than you anticipated, but it still feels nice. The goosebumps on your skin wake you up a bit, which you desperately need after the fog you’ve been under for the last few hours. Realistically, you know that neither you nor Jihyo can afford to take time off. But enough is enough. You need a break, even if it means you will crash and burn tomorrow.
The campus dorms are separate from the actual university, located across the road from it and scattered over a large area. Every building is more wide than it is tall, only three stories but sprawling over a large area. Medicine, Dentistry, Nursing and Physiotherapy. The backbone of the future healthcare system. When you walk past the park, there’s a small bonfire going on, surrounded by many cheering students egging on three guys holding kegs.
Yup, backbone of the future healthcare system.
Right outside the gated walls of the dorms are many places to eat, catered especially for the thousands of students beside them. You and Jihyo are standing on the sidewalk, wondering what you are in the mood for eating, when a familiar face catches your eye.
“Can’t work either?” Mina smiles, giving you both hugs. Jihyo pouts and shakes her head.
“Do you know the diagnosis for tomorrow’s case?”
Their voices fade as they continue to talk, and you stare off into space. One half of your brain is wondering if you want pizza or something Chinese. The other part is contemplating cutting some info from your presentation so you can fit it on the slide. Someone nudges you, and when you blink back to the present, both Jihyo and Mina are looking at you.
“What’s up with you?” Mina asks.
“Nothing.” You reply almost automatically.
Jihyo huffs and rolls her eyes. “She’s been like this for days, just checking out.”
Mina frowns. “That’s not like you at all.”
“Sorry.” You sigh. “I’m just stressed.”
“You need to take more breaks.”
“Doesn’t help.” Jihyo has her arms crossed and she’s shaking her head. “She’s still thinking of work. I guarantee you she’s thinking about that presentation she has due tomorrow. Aren’t you?”
Caught red handed. You feel your face grow warm and you pout. “…… No.”
Jihyo snorts and Mina laughs a little. You sigh defeatedly.
“Can we just eat?”
The three of you end up at the first place you can see, a small diner where you order burgers, fries and milkshakes. Any food that’s greasy enough to take your mind off the mountains of stuff you have left unfinished. Mina watches you closely as you stare out the window.
“You need to relieve stress.” She says. You hum noncommittally.
“Thanks for the suggestion. I never would’ve known I had to do that.”
Jihyo snorts and elbows you. Mina doesn’t seem fazed.
“I have a solution, but I don’t think our goody little princess will take it.”
That gets your attention. You’ve always hated being perceived as that. Sure, you’re mostly a homebody. You don’t like attending parties too much unless you know a lot of people there, which is almost never. You like spending most of your time in front of a screen, and you’re not very athletic either. You haven’t had anything remotely romantic since university started, even though all your friends have indulged in hookups. And because of all this, since the start of university, you’ve been branded as the kind of risk averse girl who doesn’t really enjoy anything fun. You know it’s all in jest. Your friends love you very much. But it still irritates you.
“What is it?” You ask. You know she’s baiting you, but you want to know anyway.
“There’s this guy in DPT,” she begins, “Totally flaky. Kind of full of himself. But he’s amazing in bed.”
Jihyo’s already in a fit of giggles. She obviously knows who Mina is talking about. You frown.
“Okay. So?”
Mina leans forward, her elbows on the table. “He jokingly put an ad up on the university Facebook group a while ago. Offering….. services…… to any girl that’s interested. It got taken down almost immediately but apparently it actually became a thing, because I’ve heard a lot of girls say he’s always down to hook up as stress relief if you ask.”
By this point, your mouth has dropped open in shock and a small amount of disgust. Both Jihyo and Mina have stupid grins on their faces.
“So he’s a glorified prostitute.”
Mina gasps “He is not! He’s a good guy, actually. A little sleazy but, aren’t all college guys like that? Also, it’s not like he’s asking for payment.”
You gawk at her. “Oh my god, you too?”
She holds her hands up in defense. “Anatomy was really difficult last year, okay?”
You groan and lean down, forehead hitting the table with a dull thunk. Jihyo laughs.
“Thank you for the suggestion.” You give Mina a withering look. “But I’m fine.”
Mina shrugs. “I’m just saying, he's really good. And he’d probably blow your virgin mind.”
Your face flames. “I’m not a virgin.”
“Eight second sex doesn’t count.”
Jihyo is nearly doubled over, face red with laughter. You thank every god in the universe when your food finally arrives.
Mina is wrong, objectively. You aren’t a virgin. In fact, you had a boyfriend in high school. You took each other’s virginities. Of course he came in eight seconds, it was his first time. The fact that you never had sex again and he broke up with you a month afterwards didn’t change anything. You are not a virgin.
No one says anything to you after that day, but the thought annoyingly lingers. You cannot believe a guy would just do that. And even more shocking that girls would agree to hook up with someone who has a reputation like that. Another notion plagues you: how good is he in bed to even have all these girls keep coming to him?
Fuck. These are dangerous thoughts. Especially for someone like you, who can spiral in your mind so easily. And almost like sugar on top, with every passing day, work keeps ramping up. You retreat farther and farther in your mind, thoughts racing and contorting from one shape to another, taking up lives of their own, and before you know it, you’re wondering. What if you were to hook up with this guy too?
In every sense of the word, you are stressed. You don’t know what he does, but it clearly works. Maybe you can take just one night and instead of stuffing your face with greasy food as an outlet, you can have sex. It sounds like an intriguing option.
Maybe it will shut your friends up about you being a prude.
Tracking DPT people isn’t easy as someone in Medicine, and especially as someone in Medicine who doesn’t know more than four people and would rather set herself on fire than talk to new faces. Luckily, those four friends of yours are insanely well connected. There’s no way in hell you’re asking Mina. You won’t give her that satisfaction. So when you call Mingyu about what Mina told you, he has a name for you immediately.
“Yoon Jeonghan.” He says over the phone. Behind him, you can hear a lot of talking and laughing. He’s likely at a party. On a weekday. Figures. “Really cool guy. I’ll send you his number.”
“That would be great.” You reply.
“Y/N, are you sure about this?”
You immediately go rigid. “Why? Is he suspicious?”
There’s a small silence before Mingyu snorts. “You know what, this is good. You need this. Desperately.”
You don’t like his implication, so you just hang up. He sends you Jeonghan’s number mere minutes later, and you reply with a middle finger emoji. He only sends you kissy faces back.
Once you click on Jeonghan’s number and stare at the blank text box, you’re at a loss. What do you even say to him? How do these things go? You really don’t want to ask Mingyu again. He already thinks you’re a loser (affectionately).
You end up sending a small text introducing yourself and telling him which department you are from. He replies around ten minutes later.
[yoon jeonghan]: what can I do for you?
Now you’re at a true loss. What do you say? You type and erase, type and erase for many agonising minutes. Then, another text comes up.
[yoon jeonghan]: im in B wing. DPT. last door on the second floor.
You blink a few times, staring at his text. Fuck, he knows. You feel a little embarrassed, but you think this is more of a reflection of him than it is of you, so you just shut your phone and scramble to get dressed.
Half an hour later, you’re climbing the steps of an unfamiliar building across campus, feeling nervous and jumpy. Your eyes dart around your new surroundings rapidly, but no one is really wandering around. It’s a weekday, so there’s not much activity. The corridors are easy enough to navigate, and you find the room at the end of the hallway very quickly. You shake your hands out, breaths coming irregularly. This is so out of left field for you, and half your mind can’t even process that you would do something so impulsive. You’re not this person at all. But what can you say? Medical school hath changed you.
You knock on the door so quietly that you immediately wonder if you should knock again. He probably didn’t hear it. You’re just thinking of doing it again when the door swings open, catching you off guard. You freeze.
He’s tall, and kind of skinny looking in his oversized t-shirt. But he has this gorgeous, jet black hair that falls down the sides of his face in effortless waves. Hell, it looks even better than your hair freshly out of the salon. He has pretty, almond eyes, a thin nose bridge, and lips so plump that you immediately wonder what they would feel like.
Okay. You get the appeal now.
“You must be Y/N.”
Your head jerks with a nod. “Jeonghan?”
He smiles, and it nearly takes your breath away. God, he’s painfully attractive. He looks you up and down in a way that makes you want to turn around and book it immediately.
“In the flesh. Come in, sweetheart.”
You can feel the back of your neck burn hot at the petname. No one has ever called you that. You step in hesitantly, looking around. It’s a cubicle, with a single bed, a desk, and a wardrobe. Lucky him, he doesn’t have to share with a roommate. You don’t know anyone in the Medicine building who has a single room. Damn physiotherapy people and their many perks.
It’s surprisingly neat. There’s a gaming setup on the desk, a lot of wires, but they’re all stacked neatly. There’s a few books on the side tables and on the floor next to the desk. The bed is made. There’s some posters on the walls. The room has a lot of character. It catches you a little off guard. You don’t know what you were expecting. Maybe a shady dungeon with chains and a mattress as hard as stone.
Jeonghan watches you expectantly. You fidget.
“I- I heard… I mean, someone told me. About- about you.”
He hums, and you can see the amusement on his face, the corner of his lip ticked up just a little bit. You wish the ground could swallow you whole. He huffs out a laugh.
“Should’ve known you’d be shy. You couldn’t even say it over text.”
Your face burns more. You avoid his eyes. When he walks closer, your heart races. You nearly jump away in shock when he leans down, nosing at your hair, brushing over your neck.
“Should we loosen you up a bit?”
Your heart is beating so fast it makes you a little dizzy. He smells really good up close. Fragrant aftershave and something like pine. Your mouth drops open when his lips press to the skin below your ear.
“Yes?” He whispers.
“Yes.” You breathe.
Your consent is all he needs, large hands brushing over your hips before moving up to grip your sides. He presses more kisses over your neck, then up your jaw. Something twinges in your lower stomach, making your insides clench. Your heart is pounding so loud you are scared he will feel it through your rib cage. He keeps traveling up, until his lips brush the corner of your mouth. You turn your head with an instinct that surprises even you, and he hums in approval.
That first kiss makes your knees buckle. Luckily, his hands are giving you enough support to keep you from collapsing. It’s languid, like he’s taking his time with you, and yes, his lips are just as soft as you imagined. His nose nudges yours, making you tilt your head and deepen the kiss. You can’t help your moan, hands fisting his shirt. You can feel his smile on your lips.
When he pulls away, you have to blink furiously to compose yourself. He watches you closely, like he’s trying to figure you out. But you should be the one doing that, if your brain wasn’t completely scrambled right now. You need him to kiss you again, so you lean up on your tiptoes towards him. He chuckles.
The second kiss is even more charged, though you didn’t think that was possible. His tongue comes out to play this time, and you arch into him at the feeling. His hands have become more daring too, exploring your body. He squeezes your ass a little, digs into the plush of your hips. He fiddles with your shirt until he’s coaxing you to put your arms up, pulling it off you. You feel shy suddenly, but he doesn’t seem to notice, going back to kissing you, and his lips wipe away any hesitation that you might have.
He plays with the clasp of your bra a bit, running his fingers over the straps. It sends shivers up your spine. He finally undoes it and pulls it off. He disconnects your lips enough to look down at your chest, whistling low.
“Pretty.” He says. You flush hard, tugging at his own shirt.
When Jeonghan pulls it off, you’re a little surprised. He’s not nearly as skinny as he looks when he’s swimming in his loose clothes. He’s lean, nicely carved muscle, just enough meat on him to feel good when your hands begin exploring. He lets you, doesn’t even flinch when you run your fingers over his abs. Your eyes dart further down, and you can see his erection over his sweatpants. You bite your lip.
“How do you want me, pretty?” He asks, lips running lazily over your shoulder. You flush.
“I- I don’t know.”
He pulls away at that a little, looking at you curiously. “You have done this before, right?”
You scowl. “Of course I have!”
“Okay.” He placates you, hands running up and down your bare sides. “So how do you want it? I can eat you out. Or do you just wanna fuck?”
Well, shit. You didn’t expect him to say all that. You’re caught off guard by how vulgar his words are, by how hot he sounds talking like this. Like it’s nothing. Fuck, you’ve never been eaten out before. Are you even ready for something like that? But then again, from what you can see as you look nervously down at his bulge, he’s not exactly small. Mina was right. Eight second sex really doesn’t count. There’s no way you can take all of this.
Jeonghan laughs lightly as he follows your gaze before humming and nodding. He goes back to kissing your shoulder and neck.
“I’ve got you. Just relax.”
That’s exactly what you’re struggling to do, but you don’t tell him that. He walks you both backward until you’re pushing yourself up the mattress to the head of the bed, him on top of you. His fingers curl into the waistband of your jeans and panties before pulling both of them down in one go. You flush at the thought of being completely naked now, his eyes running over you. There’s a heat in them that you didn’t expect, but welcome it regardless. It really does look like he wants you. You don’t know how much of it is an act, or if he really thinks you’re worth looking at like this.
He kisses over your ankle before traveling up slowly, laying his lips on your skin every few beats until he reaches the apex of your thighs. This is entirely new territory for you. Even the thought of a guy down there is mortifying, so yes, maybe your friends aren’t too far off in their assumptions of you. It’s so hot in theory, but here, now, in practice, you’re so nervous it makes every muscle in your body stiffen. Maybe this it too-
You yelp when you feel it, his lips brushing over your slit. Jeonghan is taken aback, pulling away and blinking up at you from between your legs. It’s a strange sight, strange enough to knock you out of your thoughts. He breathes out a laugh.
“Either you’re very distracted, or you really haven’t done this before.”
You peer down at him, held up by your elbows so you can look properly. You hesitate before sighing.
“I haven’t.” You mumble, but you’re quick to clarify. “I didn’t lie. I’ve- I’ve had sex. But no one’s ever….. I’ve never had-”
“Well that’s a shame.” Jeonghan mumbles. He runs his hands over your inner thighs, slow strokes that loosen your muscles a little bit. He thumbs at your outer lips and you flush deeply, but it’s nothing compared to what he says next.
“Anyone who got close enough to have sex with you but didn’t eat out your pretty pussy must’ve been a real asshole.”
He kisses your folds, sucking on them a little. Your mouth drops and your elbows give out, back hitting the mattress. God, this is way hotter than it needs to be. He’s probably just saying all this to make you relax a little and get it over with. You feel something hot, wet and alive run over your lips again before dipping inside, lazily licking over where you’re most sensitive. He tongues at your clit until you let out your first moan. His grip on your thighs, holding you open, tightens.
“That’s it.” He whispers. “Just relax.”
Never in a million years did you think head would feel this good, but Jeonghan shatters all your illusions. He’s so meticulous, discovering parts of you that you didn’t even know could feel good when stimulated. He has no shame about it either. He moans into you when you try to close your legs around his head, or when your fingers thread through his hair. His tongue dips inside you too, swirling, before pulling out and licking upward so he can suck on your clit some more. You get close to your high embarrassingly quickly, and you’re nearly crying when you warn him about it. He only keeps going, consistent in his pace, until you’re jerking and shuddering, cumming hard in his mouth. He doesn’t slow until you’re desperately pushing him away, overstimulated.
“Fuck.” His voice is raspy, ragged. His face is drenched. You can see, even through your teary vision, that his pupils are dilated. “That was so hot, the way you came on my tongue.”
You flush, not knowing what to say. You’re still trying to catch your breath. You jerk back when Jeonghan’s thumb runs over your abused clit. He smirks.
“You gotta do that again for me, pretty. I need to feel that again. On my fingers this time.”
He’s leaning over you before you can even process his words. He presses his forehead to yours, and you feel something prod at your entrance.
“Oh, fuck.” You arch when a solitary finger slips inside you. You’re definitely wet enough, between your orgasm and his spit, so there’s next to no resistance. Jeonghan watches you closely, too closely. You try to turn your head, feeling shy, and he only chuckles, curling his finger inside you. You shriek when something zips through your core.
“Found it.” He grins. It’s so sleazy but so hot. God, is this why your girls are lining up for him?
He sinks another finger inside you before curling it up to the same spot, and this time, you see stars. You writhe and tremble under him, feeling so full with just this. He fucks the soul out of you with his fingers, moving rapidly while his thumb rubs over your clit. The noises turn wetter, sloppier, and Jeonghan bites his bottom lip as he watches you fall apart under him.
Your second orgasm is quicker but even more intense, leaving you near speechless. You can’t even make a sound, mouth open in a silent cry as you feel blood rush roar in your ears. You seize and shudder so much it feels almost animalistic. He doesn’t seem to mind at all.
“Jeonghan.” You weep, grabbing his wrist when it’s too much. Well, it was too much from the minute he put his mouth on you, but two orgasms in, you genuinely feel like you’re about to faint.
“My name sounds so sweet from your lips, pretty.” He says. He keeps calling you that, and it makes your heart race a little. You just turn your head to the side. You’re too bashful to even look at him. He lays a soft kiss on your cheek.
“You want more?”
The thought of more makes your heartbeat pick up again. You turn back to him a little, nose nudging against his. He knows he has your attention. He smirks.
“Come on, tell me. You want my cock?”
Your pussy clenches. You bite your lower lip. Jeonghan thumbs at it, releasing it from your teeth. You nod timidly. He chuckles again.
“Gotta do better than that, pretty. Ask for it like a good girl.”
The thought of saying it out loud lights your face on fire. Your hands fist the sheets, and you feel so nervous. Jeonghan watches you closely in that unnerving way of his. Then, he pushes down, and you feel his hard on press into your cunt, right between your spread legs. Your jaw goes slack.
He wastes no time in slipping his tongue into your mouth. It’s messy and filthy, all tongues and teeth, and he grinds slowly into you, over and over. He’s hard as a rock, throbbing even through the thin material of his pants. You clench pathetically around nothing. You can’t take it anymore.
“Want your cock.” You whine into his mouth. “Please fuck me.”
Jeonghan giggles, honest to god giggles, into the kiss. “So polite. How can I say no?”
When he finally shucks off his pants, your head spins a bit. He’s way bigger than your ex, longer, and he curves just at the tip in a way that you know will feel so good when he slides into you. There’s a large, pulsing vein running up the underside that makes your mouth water a little bit. Never before have you felt the urge to suck a dick until now.
A lot of firsts happening today.
Jeonghan’s eyes are locked on yours as he pumps himself, long fingers wrapped gracefully around his shaft. You watch him with a look of fascination that amuses him, you can see it on his face. He dips his fingers inside you again and you jerk a little. When he pulls out, they’re wet and sticky. He runs them over his cock. You’re shell shocked at his brazen action, and he smirks. Is he just doing all this to see how far he can push you?
When he finally sinks into you, every single thought in your head goes blank. All that incessant thinking and worrying for so many months becomes muted until there’s nothing but static, and the beat of your own heart. You can’t process it, can barely breathe through it. He stretches you like he’s carving a path for himself, dragging over your walls. By the time he sinks all the way to the base, you feel like you can feel him in your throat.
“Holy shit.” He curses, and you see his face crumple in real time, the first sign of his composure breaking. You can’t even moan. You have no air in your lungs.
“You sure you’re not a virgin, pretty? So tight, squeezing the life out of me.” His voice cracks at the end, and he bites his bottom lip hard.
“Move.” You manage to gasp out, hips jerking. He chuckles.
“Hold on. I don’t wanna cum too quick.”
Now that gives you PTSD. Jeonghan takes a few deep breaths, his chest rising and falling. He toys with your clit, like he’s trying to get you to relax around him a bit. Finally, he pulls out and thrusts back in, hard. Any air you may have finally breathed, he knocks right back out.
He sets a fast pace from the start, thrusts hard and deep inside you. You barely have the chance to miss him before the head of is dick is pressing into your sweet spot again, stroking it with even more force than his fingers previously had. You feel so full, like you’re ready to explode just from the force of the pounding you’re taking. You claw at the sheets, and when that isn’t enough, you claw at his arms that frame both sides of your head. His eyes move between your face and your pussy, watching you swallow him greedily, over and over again.
“Jesus, where have you been hiding?” He chokes out. “Can’t believe I missed out on this cunt for so long.”
“God.” You whine, eyes teary. “Don’t stop.”
He shakes his head and grins. “Wouldn’t dream of it, baby. Not until I milk all that stress out of you.”
Frankly, you can’t even remember what you were stressed about. You can barely string two words together except a mantra of Jeonghan’s name over and over. Your orgasm is no surprise, body locking and cumming hard around him, walls fluttering desperately as you cry and gasp through it. Jeonghan groans long and low, eyes squeezing shut before his thrusts turn sloppy. It takes a few more hard slams of his pelvis into yours before he’s pulling out and shooting ropes of his cum all over your stomach. He pumps himself through it, breathing hard, and you can see his shoulders shake, glistening with sweat.
What a sight.
The come down is dizzying. Jeonghan pulls his clothes on quickly before he grabs a towel and leaves the room, coming back with it wet enough for you to wipe yourself with it. You feel awkward as you dress yourself again. Jeonghan flops down on the bed with a tired sigh. You shift on your feet when you’re done.
“I’ll- I’ll go.”
A slow smile spreads on his face. “Don’t get all shy on me now.”
You shake your head and frown. “I’m not. I just don’t know what to say.”
He laughs, nodding. Just before you turn to leave, he gives you a wink.
“Text me any time.”
…………………………………….
Jeonghan’s stress relief programme works wonders for you.
You spend the next week practically buzzing. Your body is a little sore, not enough to actually notice, but enough to keep you alert. The night you come back from his room, you manage to crank out every assignment due in the week because you’re so desperate to not let your mind wander to what you just did. The next day, you get started on work from the coming week. Jihyo is so surprised when she asks you for help and you send her notes that are neat and well compiled.
“Are you taking something?” She narrows her eyes at you. “Ritalin?”
You roll your eyes. “Just say thank you.”
She grumbles out a ‘thanks’. You can’t tell her about Jeonghan. You just don’t have it in you to share that. Your night with him was beyond anything you had experienced before. You know it was casual. You’re sure you would never see him again. So you dont want to make it a big deal by talking about it.
Except, you run into him organically soon after this.
A week and a half later, on a Friday night, you are lounging in bed with a textbook. You’re almost caught up with work, enough that you can take a breather and do some light reading instead. Unfortunately, this gives Jihyo the perfect opportunity to drag you out of the room, claiming you have no excuse to stay home because you don’t have anything due. Dammit.
The party you end up at is outside the dorms at a house a few blocks away. You can’t tell who threw it, but there are a lot of Med and DPT people there. When you see Mingyu standing in the center of the room chugging a bottle, you roll your eyes.
“When does he even get time to study?” You mumble when Jihyo shoves a red cup in your hands. You sniff it and make a face. Disgusting.
“Dunno. But he manages just fine, so don’t worry about him. In fact, you need to shut your brain off for once.”
Before you can reply, she’s throwing her drink back and grabbing another, leading you farther into the room. Mingyu spots you two quickly, and it’s all chaos from there. He knows almost everyone, and he introduces you to people at lightning speed. You won’t remember any of them, but you just nod and smile along. When he reaches the couches in the living room, your heart skips.
“You know Jeonghan.” Mingyu grins, arm around your shoulder shaking you teasingly.
The man in question is sprawled over one corner of the long couch, and his eyes find yours almost immediately. He looks stunning even in the dim light. His hair is half up and half down, some of it falling over his eyes. He’s dressed in all black, and his leather jacket makes him look dangerously inviting. His eyes run over you in a way that makes you shiver. You should’ve worn something warmer. A crop top and skirt were not the way to go.
“What do you mean she knows him?” Jihyo frowns. You stiffen.
“He means I know of him. From what Mina told me.” You lie smoothly. Mingyu squeezes you a little in apology. Obviously he didn’t know you were keeping it a secret.
Jihyo really isn’t in the mood to slow down, because she throws back any alcohol she can get her hands on. This forces you to remain sober so you can take her back when the time is right. You’re so busy with her that you manage to steer clear of Jeonghan. The whole place is too loud, too overstimulating, that you have no time to think about him. Hours later, you’re tired and more than a little cranky when you finally manage to drag Jihyo out of the house. She’s stumbling a little, giggling at something completely normal that she finds exceedingly funny. You huff. How the hell are you going to do this?
“I have a car.” You hear a familiar voice. You don’t expect to see Jeonghan. You hadn’t seen him all night except at the very beginning, so you assumed he left, probably with someone else. But he’s here now, hands buried in the pockets of his dark jeans. You are half inclined to say no, but just the thought of taking Jihyo back like this is enough to make you cry, so you simply nod.
Jeonghan brings the car around and helps you put Jihyo in the backseat, where she promptly falls asleep. You sit in the front with him, and you feel awkward all over again.
“You didn’t text me, pretty.” He says. You forgot how the nickname makes your face flush.
“I didn’t think you were serious.” You mumble. Jeonghan looks confused.
“About what?”
You sigh, hesitating a little. “I’m not really….. a casual hookup person. So I think it’s best if we stay away from each other.”
Jeonghan chuckles. “Damn, I’m getting broken up with.”
You try to shake your head but Jeonghan just brushes it off. He’s clearly joking. And it’s not like this means anything. So you don’t say anything more, hoping the uncomfortable air dissipates a bit. Thankfully, you aren’t far from the dorms at all. Jeonghan parks in front of Med and offers to help you take Jihyo up. You can’t say no even if you want to, since she’s fully dead weight now.
He’s great support in dragging her to the room. In fact, he does most of the heavy lifting, which you are grateful for. You dump Jihyo on her bed, pulling her shoes off and covering her with a blanket. She doesn’t as much as flinch. You straighten a little, sighing.
“Thank you.” You smile at him. He shrugs it off. You walk him to the door. When he puts his hand on the knob, he pauses.
“So, we’re really over?”
You blink, surprised. “We were never really a thing.”
“I know.” He hums, watching you with heated eyes. “But it was fun. Shame that it’s ending before it even properly began.”
You fidget a little, staring at your hands. Jeonghan steps closer, his fingers find your chin, tilting your head up.
“Can I get a goodnight kiss?”
You consider it a little before nodding. “Okay.”
One kiss won’t hurt. Except it’s not one kiss. Jeonghan deepens it the second your lips meet his. His hands run over your hips, over the sliver of skin between your skirt and your tiny top. You shiver, hands squeezing his biceps. His tongue slides into your mouth and you moan. The same heady feeling from that night comes back, the one that leaves you dumb and brainless with him. His tongue runs hungrily over yours. You clench around nothing.
“W-we should stop.” You manage to whimper into his mouth. He moans.
“Neither of us want that.”
He crowds you into the wall until you’re pressed between it and his chest. He kisses you harder, deeper, and you feel like you’re high on him, all consumed by him. He smells so fucking good it makes your head spin. Your fingers bury themselves in his hair and you tug harshly, and he seems to like that, because he groans into your mouth.
“You had to wear the tiniest little skirt, didn’t you?” He bites your bottom lip. “Wanted to bend you over right in the middle of that house.”
“You-” Your breath stutters. “You can’t say stuff like that.”
“Why?” Jeonghan pulls back enough to lick down your jaw and nibble at your neck. You arch into him. “Does it turn you on?”
You don’t want to tell him that yes, it does turn you on. The raw need he says he has for you is so foreign, but so welcome. Before you can say anything, Jeonghan pulls off your neck and sinks to his knees.
You gape at him, shocked. His hands are urgent, pushing your skirt up and hooking a hand under your knee so he can hook it over his shoulder.
“Jeonghan!” You hiss, but you can’t say a thing further. Your hand flies up to clamp over your mouth when he runs his tongue over your clothed core. He wastes no time in pulling your panties aside and tonguing right at your slit, finding your clit immediately to suck on it.
It’s so much all at once, an assault on the senses. You tremble, nearly losing your balance if it weren’t for Jeonghan’s hands holding you tight to him. He chases after you with his mouth when you try to jerk away. He laps at you like he’s starved for your taste. It feels so good that you can’t decide if you want to pull away (Jihyo is right there) or if him eating you out like this is a thrill you want to lean into. It feels so dirty, so all consuming. You buck into his mouth and his resulting moan is depraved. Your orgasm is fast approaching. You can’t stop it even if you try.
“Fuck, Jeong- Jeonghan-…. Hannie.”
You have to bite your hand to keep from crying out, your high tearing through you with the force of a car crash. You shake and shudder over him, his hands holding you up with a strength that surprises you. He doesn’t stop until you’re whining and pushing his head away, cleaning you up until you can feel his spit cooling on your skin.
He lets your leg down gently, soothing a hand over it and laying a kiss on your thigh before standing up. His hair is no longer tied up, messy around his head. He is soaked down his chin and to the column of his throat. Your cheeks flame, breaths still coming heavy. He lays a kiss on the heated skin.
“Thanks for the meal.”
You can’t even say anything before he’s kissing you one last time and quickly leaving. You blink harshly, wondering what the fuck just happened.
You find his hair tie on the floor the next morning.
………………………………..
You can’t stay away from Yoon Jeonghan. You tried once, and it ended with him on his knees in front of you, making you cum on his face. Since then, you’ve forgotten the amount of times he’s made you cum. On his tongue, on his fingers, and most gloriously, on his cock. He’s made you feel things you genuinely didn’t think were possible. He whispers into your ear such filthy words that you have a hard time even processing them. Says he’s ‘pussy drunk’. That he can’t live without his fill of you. So he finds you, once or twice a week, and he drags you back to his room because it guarantees privacy. Or he fucks you on your own bed when you know Jihyo is out for the night. Either way, he’s around you a lot more than you ever expected him to be.
Jeonghan is whip smart. You deduced that he was witty a long time ago, but he is a rare combination of book smart and street smart that you didn’t know even existed. You both have the same anatomy course, so you study together sometimes. Of course, he’s horny all throughout it, but if you make it interesting, he is more than willing to participate. His favourite is when you strip off one piece of clothing with every question he gets right. It always ends with sex, because everything with Jeonghan ends with sex, but it feels more charged like this, when he’s talking and laughing with you, that sweet little twinkle in his eyes that makes your heart race.
Jeonghan has an unhealthy obsession with fast food, which works out great for you since stress makes you crave greasy food too. You will often find yourselves in some fast food place outside campus, usually spicy fried chicken, late at night between studying and making assignments. He isn’t a big drinker, and neither are you, but you like sharing a beer with him sometimes. Jeonghan is just so comfortable in his own skin. He has no guilt or shame about anything he does, or any choice he has made. It contrasts with you, who always has ten different things playing in your head at one time, doubting, analysing, restructuring. He’s perceptive. He can tell when you’re about to spiral, letting out a disapproving little tut before tapping your forehead.
“Don’t fly away and leave me here alone.”
He says weird stuff like that.
It means nothing. It can’t. Jeonghan is notoriously a fuck boy. Everyone knows it. Hell, he advertised it in the university Facebook group once. What more is there to say? He likes sex, you like sex. You give it to each other. That’s it. Getting closer to him like this is the natural consequence of spending time together. There’s no deeper meaning here. But then you hear something, a floating rumor, and you almost can’t believe it.
“Didn’t know he was being picky.” Some girl who was having lunch on the same table as you said. You’re sure Mina told you her name when she introduced you guys, but you were, once again, lost deep in thought. You didn’t catch it. “He’s never rejected me before.”
Mina rolls her eyes. “He’s never rejected anyone before.”
“Miyoung says he hasn’t hooked up with any of her friends either. He’s been ignoring everyone’s calls or messages.”
You’re rock still as you stare at your plate. This can’t be true. You and Jeonghan are just…… messing around. Relieving stress. It’s not anything more. Before you can think, you’re pulling your phone out to text him.
[me]: where are you
The reply is instant.
[hannie]: dorm. u coming?
You reply with an affirmative, and half an hour later, you’re knocking on his door. He opens it with a lazy smile, hair tousled and shirt wrinkled. It seems he was still in bed. You’re mad at yourself that he looks even more attractive to you like this.
“Hi, pretty.” He hums, pulling you in and shutting the door, planting a kiss on your neck. He wraps his arms around you, hands already wandering under your shirt. You huff.
“I heard a rumor.”
“Hm?” He seems distracted, fingers dipping just a little in the waistband of your jeans. You plough forward.
“Some girls complaining that you have been dodging their calls.”
He snorts into your neck. His teeth dig teasingly into your skin. You push at his stomach a little, trying to put distance between you two.
“Jeonghan, are you only sleeping with me?”
He pulls off your neck briefly, but lays a kiss on your jaw instead. “Yeah.”
Now you really push him away. He takes the hint and detaches, but he looks confused.
“Why? Why aren’t you sleeping with other girls?”
His face twists into something more amused. “You know, it’s usually the other way around. Girls are mad when their boyfriends are sleeping with other girls.”
Your heart stutters at the statement. “You’re not my boyfriend.”
He pouts. “Hurtful. Are you sleeping with other guys?”
You balk at him. “No!”
“So you’re only sleeping with me, and I’m only sleeping with you.” He hums, looking thoughtful. He’s clearly being unserious. You don’t appreciate it. “Some people might say that we’re…… exclusive?”
“We’re not dating.” You say, dryly.
“We spend time together. We study together. We have sex. We talk to each other all the time either in person or over texts.” He’s listing things off on his fingers. You are growing more irritated with every point. He seems to notice, because he gives you one of those sweet smiles of his that make you melt. You try to hold strong.
“Okay, pretty. We’re not dating. But I would like to.” He grows more serious, stepping forward again to caress your sides.
“You like me?”
Jeonghan huffs, leaning forward so his forehead touches yours. “Darling, I’m obsessed with you.”
So many pet names. It’s always endless pet names with him. You love it. Your heart beats fast. You fiddle with his shirt.
“You really haven’t been with anyone since then?” You mumble.
Jeonghan’s lips brush on the corner of your mouth, an action laced with affection. “Only you. Can’t get enough of you. You drive me crazy.”
You giggle a bit. “Okay.”
“Hm?”
“Fine. I’ll date you.”
His smile is blinding. This time, his lips taste even sweeter against yours.
ANAMNESIS. (cyborg!choi seungcheol x human!reader)
synopsis: five years ago, your company became a big enough threat to the existing tech ecosystem to cause an attack on your life. five years ago, said attack killed your husband. after spending so long picking up the pieces, you are quickly racing to the top again, which means your life is threatened once more. but the assassin sent your way is a little too familiar, even if he’s not exactly the same as the day he got “killed”.
warnings: mentions of death and violence, assassination and murder, corrupt business practices, amnesia, brainwashing and manipulation, mentions of mental health, suicidal ideation, sexually explicit content
smut warnings: 18+, multiple orgasms, choking, praise kink, use of petnames, they almost cry (lol), mentions of body modifications (in case of cyborg!seungcheol).
word count: 17.2k
a/n: this is part of the Cyberpunk: Reload Collab hosted by @studiosvt . Thank you to the organisers and everyone involved in the collab, this has been such a unique and stimulating writing experience for me, especially for a concept I’ve never done before. Seungcheol in this is loosely based off the winter soldier, I hope you all enjoy!
Inside the sleek but small building wedged between two skyscrapers, a single light illuminates a window on the second floor. Around it is nothing but darkness, and the streets are strangely quiet for a Friday night. Inside the office, the golden light falls over a keyboard, the clack, clack, clack of the keys rhythmic and continuous. Fingers move deftly over it, and the artificial glow of the monitor adds to the lamp in an unpleasant way. You don’t seem to mind.
A knock on the door does nothing to break your concentration. Your fingers don’t so much as falter. Joshua pokes his head in through a crack in the doorframe, frowns when he sees you, and finally speaks up.
“Any chance you will be wrapping this up soon?”
You don’t look up, but you hum in acknowledgment. “Just a little bit more. I’m just finishing up on….”
Your voice trails off. You don’t attempt to finish the sentence. Joshua sighs.
“It’s Friday night.” He reminds you, gently, still lingering in the doorway. “How about you and I get some dinner? You can sleep in tomorrow.”
He knows his suggestions will fall on deaf ears, but he tries nonetheless. He is hyperaware of his boss at this point. There’s no convincing you to slow down, to take a breather. You won’t allow yourself to. Slowing down means letting your mind wander. And you haven’t let that happen in five years, lest you are reminded of what you have lost.
“It’s okay for you to head home, Josh.” You break him from his thoughts. “I promise, I’m almost done. Maybe an hour more.”
There’s no point in arguing. Joshua sighs and steps out again. He reminds himself to call you an hour later to make sure you have, in fact, left the office. His satchel is already packed, so he just pulls on his coat and steps out.
You know Joshua worries. He’s the only person on staff who can see your struggle. You pride yourself on being composed and shut off from the people around you. If you’re drowning, no one really sees it. Except Joshua, of course. He has been there since the very beginning, so he knows. The rest of the staff though, you did a complete turnover half a decade ago. They don’t know what actually went down or what you’ve been through.
True to your word, you’re wrapping up forty five minutes later. It’s well past midnight, and you know Joshua won’t take kindly to you still working when he inevitably calls in fifteen minutes. There have been occasions where he has dragged you out of the building himself, when he is particularly frustrated. He keeps speaking about ‘work-life balance’, reprimanding you for not having it. You always bite your tongue instead of telling him that you have no ‘life’ to go back to. The only person you ever loved is gone, so your work is all you have.
The drive back is inconsequential. The roads are empty by this point, despite the weekend. Your apartment building is silent and looming as always. You don’t really like your neighborhood, but you had moved here after everything happened for a fresh start, and at the time, you weren’t in any headspace to pick out a nice place. Joshua often complained about how drab and uninspiring your apartment is. You pay him no mind. He has always been all about flowers and rainbows. His desk at the office is so colorful it makes your eyes hurt sometimes.
You leave the light on in the kitchen landing so you don’t have to stumble through the dark to get to the switchboard. Again, you can hear Joshua complaining in your head about how you can easily afford an AI home system, considering how well the company has been doing. You are least interested though. You don’t want to put anything in this apartment that can mean you are planning to live here long term. You don’t even know why you’re still here. Most days, you have no clue where your life is heading anyway.
You toe off your shoes and plop your heavy trenchcoat over the back of the couch. You wonder what you can make yourself for dinner. Something minimal straight out of the packet, probably. You’ve got dozens of those prepackaged meals in your pantry. You beeline for the sink, washing your hands and wondering bleakly what you are in the mood for stomaching. Through the window over the counter, you can see the city’s skyline. Thousands of tiny, yellow dots from people’s windows, the backdrop formed by the sleek, poised buildings of the business sector looming beyond. Straight edges and smooth lines. But one building, not even two blocks away, shows an irregularity.
You squint for a second, hands held under the sink still. It looks like a person. Tall, but very broad. You half think you’re imagining it, but then the silhouette moves, and your eye catches on a gleam of silver over the shoulder.
The water is still running. You shut it off, looking back up. He’s gone.
You blink a few times. Then you glance at the clock. It’s nearly three in the morning. You huff and step away from the sink, shaking off your hands. It’s too late at night for your brain to be functioning properly. You need sustenance. And then you need to sleep.
It’s easy enough to pop your chicken dinner into a dish and slide it into the oven. You set fifteen minutes on the digital counter, and then busy yourself with hopping into the shower for a quick wash. Fifteen minutes on the dot, you’re back in the kitchen, peering into the oven with dripping wet hair and a bathrobe covering your drenched body. Everything around you is silent, so deafeningly still that you immediately hear the click and whir of metal. Right behind you. Too close.
The hair on the back of your neck stands. You whirl around.
Something smashes, hard, against your nose. Pain explodes and you gasp, stumbling back into the counter. Your eyes water, something warm and liquid drips over your lips and down your chin. You’re dizzy, you can’t see properly. You can barely breathe through the excruciating hurt. But alarm bells are ringing in your head, and fight or flight takes over. Backed against the counter for support, you kick your legs out hard. Your feet make contact with something sturdy. There’s a grunt, and the man stumbles backward, his back hitting the refrigerator with what sounds like a deafening crash. You’re already scrambling to run from the kitchen.
You can barely see, but you know the map of this house like the back of your hand. Your ears are ringing, you’re gasping for breath, but panic is fueling you. You’ve had this feeling before, your life has been threatened once, a long time ago, and somehow, the second time around is giving you more clarity.
It also means that you are better prepared this time around.
You can hear the thuds and bangs behind you. Your attacker will be right on your heels soon. You barely manage to wretch your door closed, locking it, before a startling bang shakes it at its very hinges. Your yelp is involuntary. You know you have only bought yourself mere seconds.
Inside your drawer you find what you’re looking for, a tiny, unassuming device, shiny and silver, resembling a lighter. It comes with two silicone ear buds that you shove into your ears. Then, your hand on the solitary button on the device, you turn around.
The door comes down after just two bangs, splintering the doorframe completely. Sawdust rises, clouding the air. You don’t wait to see your attacker, pressing the button immediately.
You can’t hear it, owing to the buds in your ears, but you know a high pitched screeching has filled the air, nearly unbearable because of how high the frequency is. But it does its job. The man howls in pain, dropping what looks like a gun on the ground and using both hands to cover his ears. His knees buckle and he falls on them. You can see, even from a few feet away, the veins in his neck bulge hard, disappearing behind the black mask on his face. He crumples on the floor, clutching the sides of his head. You snatch your phone from where you had thrown it on your bed, frantically dialling three digits.
The man is still writhing, his body, clad in black and silver, contracting and arching painfully as he tries in vain to keep the sound out. As he moves, metal thuds against the ground. There is more clicking and whirring, like machinery buzzing with life. You realise he’s not entirely human. His shoulders tighten as you step closer, trying to make out who it is.
“911, what is your emergency?”
A single brown eye pops open on the stranger's mask-covered face. The other half, you realise, is covered in silver metal. But you don’t care about that, because your blood is running cold.
You would recognise that eye anywhere.
Your grip falters. The device in your hand gets silenced. The man on the ground relaxes, his hands falling down as he quickly tries to scramble to his feet. He is still swaying, his short cropped blond hair matted to his sweaty forehead, the after effects of the sonic attack making him stumble, but for the first time, you register his stature. His height, the breadth of his shoulders. And his one, visible eye.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
The woman on your phone seems to break your trance. Before you know it, the man is rushing out over the broken wreckage of your door. Your hand shakes, your eyes are still watering from the blow you took. Both your phone and your device fall from your hand. You scramble after him.
“Wait-”
But he’s gone. Out of your living room window, which you didn’t notice was wide open when you first walked into the apartment. You can’t see him on the street below, which is glaringly empty. It’s like he was a ghost, vanishing before you can blink. You are left staring at nothing, blood dripping steadily down your chin now, staining your bathrobe, your hair still damp from the shower, sticking to your face and neck. You can’t even register the pain anymore, can’t think of anything else except the cold depth of his one brown eye.
……………………………
“That’s impossible.”
“It was him.”
“And I’m telling you, that’s not possible.”
“I know what I saw, Josh.”
“Y/N, he’s dead. We had a funeral. We buried him.”
“Only parts.” But your voice cracks. You don’t like remembering that day. “We had an arm and a leg. Some teeth. And this man…. half of him was metal. He’s been modified.”
Joshua doesn’t reply, staring at the TV playing across the room on low volume. You follow his lead, gaze blank. You don’t really register much of anything since the pain in your face is too overwhelming to take in much else.
When you woke up this morning, you almost forgot what happened in your apartment mere hours ago. One look at the broken mess of your door, the twinge in your face that made your eyes water, and all the events came rushing back. The punch you took, running to your room, your door broken down, driving your attacker away.
Clear, brown, almond shaped eye. Just one eye, while the other half of the face was covered in what looked like a metal plate, and a mechanical, white circle where the other eye should have been.
“The Secretary of Defence has a bionic arm.” You add, absentmindedly.
“Just one arm.” Joshua counters. “Not half the entire body.”
“It wasn’t the entire body. I could make out the arm and leg. Some part of the face-”
“My point is,” Your friend cuts you off, “why would it be Seungcheol? And if by some miracle it was him, why would he attack you?”
You don’t answer, because you don’t know. You’ve been mulling over the same questions for hours, long before you finally called Joshua to come over. You know bionic prostheses are very much an emerging field in biotech circles. Everyone is racing towards this kind of technology because of how much revenue there is in the medical applications. The other, more sinister angle is weaponry, and you know that a lot of your fellow developers and companies want to tap into that potential. There have been rumors for months, covert projects underway by both government and private agencies to develop this exact kind of thing.
Maybe what you saw last night was an application of that weapon.
It still doesn’t explain why he would attack you. Doesn’t explain why the person who would never so much as raise his voice at you could hurt you so severely that Joshua balked at the sight of your purple and blue face, nose swollen and bruised in ugly colors that told you that you would have to work from home for the foreseeable future.
The Seungcheol you knew had been so gentle. That’s how you met him, actually, so many years ago that you don’t even recognise that time.
He’d spilled coffee on you, as cliché as it sounds. Thankfully, it missed any part of your skin that was bare, but even through the cloth it burned a bit. He was so apologetic, dark brown hair falling into his eyes, messed up by the wind in a look that reminded you a little bit of a gentle dog. He had panicked, tried to wipe you down, but you were too distracted by this giant of a man who talked so softly, dabbed your sleeve with a grip on your wrist uncharacteristically gentle for such large hands. He wanted to pay for dry cleaning, and you agreed only if he would let you buy a coffee to replace the one he had spilled on you. Of course, he didn’t let you pay even after agreeing to it.
“I spilled it on you.” He argued. “What kind of man would I be if I let you pay for it?”
His lips, full and pink in a way that you immediately wondered about the feel of them, ticked up, and a little dimple dented his right cheek. You felt the squeeze of your heart, fluttering wildly in your chest, a feeling that was replicated every day after that, for Seungcheol never left your side since then. Until the day he died. Or did he?
Joshua is watching the screen more intently now, eyebrows furrowing.
“Yoon Tech is doing a demonstration at the New York Expo? I had no idea.”
You blink to focus on the screen. Sure enough, Yoon Tech’s CEO, Yoon Jeonghan, is speaking to the audience and cameras with that sly, charming smile on his face, talking about unveiling a project that can revolutionise the field of war weaponry and put their military supremely on top of their competition around the world. You know Yoon Tech is the military’s primary contractor, and their focus is weaponry. You know this because before Yoon Tech, your company was approached for a military contract, one that you turned down because your prime focus was not weapons. Joshua still thinks you should have said yes, but you don’t want to take the company in that direction. Besides, things get messy if you have the government as your big boss.
“You know Jeonghan doesn’t say anything about projects until the day he unveils them.” You mumble, only half focusing. “He’s secretive that way-”
“Wait, shut up.” Joshua sits up abruptly, scrambling for the remote to turn the volume up. Behind Jeonghan, several people are stepping onto the stage. He’s introducing them one by one as military veterans, and your eyes catch their forms immediately, breath stilling. Protheses, lots of them.
A man with a bionic arm, quite like the one the Secretary of Defence has. A woman with a below knee prosthetic leg. There’s more, attached limbs and shoulders, half a pelvic girdle, part of a jaw. Jeonghan is still talking, gesturing to the people now lining up behind him. The silver gleams, just like it gleamed on Seungcheol’s body last night. The only difference is the Yoon Tech and Military logos stamped on the ones on your screen. Jeonghan announces a demonstration, steps off the stage, and you watch, completely silent, as all of them demonstrate feats of extraordinary strength, aided by their metal attachments, some even showing installed weaponry between the plates of their limbs.
“A formation of advanced humans,” Jeonghan is saying somewhere off screen. “Man and machine combined, that will allow these soldiers to serve their country in ways they did not even possess before their unfortunate injuries.”
“Josh…” Your voice trails off.
Joshua looks pale, confused, and a little frightened when his eyes meet your beaten and bruised face. It looks like he dared not believe, but you know he has reached the same conclusion as you.
“Jeonghan sent Seungcheol to kill you?”
…………………………
The only sound in the large, swanky office is the tea as it pours slowly into a cup on Jeonghan’s desk. It steams, and the scent of chamomile hits his nose. He watches it absentmindedly, and then waves his hand to dismiss his secretary. She places the tea kettle down gently and leaves without a word, and the room falls into silence. There is only him, and the man sitting opposite to him across his large, mahogany desk. Half his face is shrouded by darkness, the other half reflects the light as it hits the cold, unforgiving metal.
Jeonghan tuts.
“Well, this is definitely a setback.” He hums, picking up the cup so he can take a small sip. It warms his throat, perfect for the cold weather. But his mind remains distracted. “After the demonstration at the Expo yesterday, she will definitely know it was me who ordered the hit. After all, who else is making bionic weaponry?”
The man across from him doesn’t respond. He rarely talks unless directly spoken to, one eye blank and unseeing. Jeonghan doesn’t claim to know much about how the human brain works, but he supposes extensive memory modification can do that to a person.
“You always used to have something witty or crass to say, Seungcheol.” Jeonghan sighs. “Oh well. It was either that, or your willingness to kill her. I will take what I can get.”
Again, no reply. Jeonghan focuses on drinking his tea, thinking. His eyes are trained on his former business rival, the presumed dead husband of his current business rival. The soothing chamomile does nothing to take the bitter taste out of his mouth. He still feels the resentment, the bruise on his ego. For your company to be pursued as a first choice in a military partnership, when his own efforts are much grander, much more advanced, for you to turn that opportunity down (you’re a dumbass, he thinks), for him to be second choice, despite where he stands in tech circles…
A company that was a mere baby not even a full decade ago to beat something it took his family generations to build. It irks him. It burns him.
So he will burn you.
He did it once, in the explosion that took away what you loved the most. It should’ve been enough to deter you, but it clearly wasn’t. No matter, he plans to destroy you directly this time.
“You know what you need to do.” He says, mutely. The man before him stirs, nods. Jeonghan scowls at him.
“Make sure you finish the job this time.”
……………………………..
Seungcheol had always been a mega-nerd about tech. And his dream was to own his own company.
He would tell you about it, both of you sprawled on the uncomfortable rooftop of his college dorm building, staring at the sky. He’d talk and talk about his plans after graduation, about how he wanted to build something from the ground up, something he was proud of. You would listen, not just because the sound of his voice always made you so happy, but because you were genuinely interested in it. You had a business major, and while Seungcheol didn’t know how to run things, you did. Even then, it felt like a match made in heaven to you. Seungcheol knew the substance of the company, you knew how to run it. It almost felt like a no-brainer that eventually you would do this together.
Back in his dorm, you would plop yourself into his lap and look over the little gadgets he had designed, the many, many files in his computer of inventions you didn’t even know could exist. You would tease him, calling him a glorified mechanic.
“Engineer.” He would pout. You would kiss it off him through a million giggles. His laptop would be pushed off the bed, forgotten, as you sunk into each other’s arms.
The company was his baby, truly. While you were CEO because you ran day to day operations and focused on logistics, any product you pushed out was crafted carefully in Seungcheol’s hands. He would bring every prototype to you, you would run it by focus groups and tweak it, and eventually, it would hit the market with great success. Seungcheol always thought it was because of you.
“You run your magic over it, and it becomes a hit.” He would say, kissing your cheek over and over. You would just grin and take it, never ever pushing him away.
It was all Seungcheol, everyone knew this. But when he looked at you so softly, that glint of awe in his beautiful eyes, you would just indulge whatever he had to say.
“You wouldn’t know what to do without me, mister.” You would tease. He would squeeze you so tightly.
“You’re right. I wouldn’t.”
All those memories are ghosts now. The truth is, you don’t know what to do without him either. He was part of you, intertwined with your soul, and he was painfully ripped away after so many glorious years together. Sometimes, you think you imagined that time in your life. It feels so far away. But then you walk into your office, you look at the logo he designed, the furniture you picked out, the many, many unfinished files in your server that you are still working on, his creations, and you would be reminded that he was real. All that time, all that delirious bliss, was completely real.
Jeon Wonwoo is the current head of your Product Development branch, Seungcheol’s previous post. You had brought him in after the tragedy that killed your husband. Well, not you, but Joshua, who suggested overhauling the entire team after the attack. He is brilliant, quiet and a little reclusive, but whip-smart. He became intimately familiar with Seungcheol’s work when you brought him in, and he respected the integrity of it, which made you respect him even more. He’s no Seungcheol, but he’s the closest thing, and you think he might be the only one you can trust to answer the questions in your head.
“Bionic weaponry isn’t exactly novel.” He murmurs. “We know it exists. Not openly yet, but it’s being manufactured in a lot of places. Companies we know as well as around the world. Yoon Tech is just the first one to unveil it publicly.”
Joshua is pacing your living room floor, and watching him makes you feel dizzy, so you close your eyes instead. Your face is still tingling with pain, and you’re so tired that you just want to sleep. But you also need some form of explanation.
“So it’s possible? Modifying Seungcheol’s body like that?” Joshua asks.
Wonwoo hesitates, holding his chin and staring at the far wall. “Theoretically, yes. Practically, I haven’t seen or heard of it yet. Not to the extent you describe. Establishing neural connections in that many body parts and making sure they work in perfect coordination is a huge undertaking.”
Joshua looks at you pointedly, as if to say ‘I told you so’.
“But,” Wonwoo clears his throat, “if anyone can accomplish it, it would be Yoon Tech. Their R&D team is the best in the game.”
You return Joshua’s look the best that you can through your marred face. He huffs.
“What about the fact that he attacked her? Why would he do that?” He asks.
Wonwoo blinks. “Oh, that’s easy. Memory modification. Brainwashing. CIA has been doing it for years. A lot of assassins operate under that frame of mind. It’s easier to control them that way.”
A small silence stretches over the room. Joshua is chewing on the inside of his cheek.
“So he doesn’t know who I am.” You mumble. “I’m just….. what, a target?”
Wonwoo nods. “Likely, yes. And you know Jeonghan way better than me, ma’am. It’s very like him to toy with you by using Seungcheol specifically.”
You can’t argue with him on that. You know how ruthless Jeonghan is about his company, about his standing in tech circles. You’re catching up, dangerously close, and some would say you’ve even surpassed him. You won't put it past him to knock out competition under the table.
You never did find out who ordered the hit on Seungcheol five years ago. But now, you think you know.
“Can we undo it?” You ask. “The memory change, or whatever?”
Joshua stares at you. “What do you mean?”
Wonwoo answers you, though.
“I think so, yes. It’s not my area of expertise, but I know people who can tell us more about it. The memory isn’t the problem, though. He’s basically a walking weapon. Subduing him long enough to do anything about his brain is going to be an issue.”
“Whoa, hold on.” Joshua steps closer to you, cutting off your reply to Wonwoo, holding a hand up. Both of you look at him as he stares at you in bewilderment.
“What the hell are you planning? Are you insane? He almost killed you!”
“What do you want me to do then?” You grit your teeth. “Nothing? Should I just lay down and let him kill me?”
“We need to call the police-”
You laugh dryly. Your face twinges with pain.
“I have no proof. You think any agency in this city is going to mess with Yoon Tech? And by some miracle if they do believe me, do you think any of them are going to spare Seungcheol long enough to save him?”
Joshua’s mouth opens and closes, like he wants to protest, but no words leave him. He huffs and shakes his head, running a frustrated hand through his hair. You turn your attention back to Wonwoo.
“I know you’re not a biotech expert, but you’re the best IT guy I know. Any ideas on how to hack into Yoon Tech’s mainframe?”
Wonwoo looks a little taken aback. “That’s….. illegal.”
You roll your eyes, ignoring the pain that comes with it. “I’m pretty sure trying to get your business competitor killed is illegal too. Jeonghan seems comfortable attempting it twice.”
He nods slowly, still slightly hesitant. “I will need help…”
You stand up, essentially declaring the meeting over. You’re tired, as you often are these days. Your injury might look like it affects your face only, but you feel the exhaustion bone deep in every part of you. You want a soothing cup of tea and then a million blankets to lie down in. That's it.
“Call in anyone you need.”
…………………………
You know he will come again. The only question is when.
The bruises around your nose and under your eyes take a long time to fade. The slow move from a deep purple, to blue, to a sickly green and then yellow surprises you every day. You’re breathing easy now, only a week later, but you know going to the office looking like this will raise serious questions. You can’t risk any eyes on this right now, since getting Seungcheol back needs to be as discrete as possible.
That’s what you plan to do. Get him back.
It’s idealistic, almost. Maybe something out of a movie. He has been altered, mind and body, for years. You don’t even want to imagine how much he was been put through. How convoluted must his mind be now? How dangerous would tinkering with his body be?
Every few minutes, your hand reaches into the pocket of your jeans, toying with the small, rectangular chip that Wonwoo had given you a couple of days ago.
“You need to get close enough to him to get this on any bionic part of him.” He told you. “Arm, leg, doesn’t matter. We can’t hack into Yoon Tech’s mainframe, it’s too secure. But we can isolate him from it. This chip can do that. Once that’s done, we can figure out a way to rewire his mechanics.”
It’s easier said than done, of course. For one, Seungcheol is nearly twice your size. He’s always been massive, but he seems even more so now. You wonder if he has worked covertly for Yoon Tech to do other dirty work. How long has he been their weapon? How much training does he have? Can you, a novice civilian, even get close enough to him to do any lasting damage?
“You managed it once, didn’t you?” Joshua replied to your mind’s worries. “You got out of that alive, somehow. I’m willing to bet you can do it again.”
“He’ll be more careful this time.” Wonwoo mumbled. “For one, he won’t try again until you’re completely alone. For another, he will make sure you are isolated from any weapon you might be able to access.”
So now here you are, meandering in your kitchen, watching your television blankly, staring unseeing at your laptop. Anything and everything to make yourself look as unassuming as possible. He’s watching, you know he is, and every fiber of your body is silently asking him to come to you. You wait, and wait, because you would wait endlessly for him. Somehow, you’re not afraid. In your head, this ends in one of two ways. Either you get the love of your life back, or you die trying. You’re good with both options.
It’s Tuesday by the time he finally shows up.
You think you sense him, because the hair on your body stands. You feel the chill, and then, that very soft whirring sound that comes when he moves his limbs.
You stare at the contents inside your refrigerator. You don’t turn around. And yet, he doesn’t shoot. He doesn’t swing.
“I was expecting you sooner.” You finally say.
When you turn to look at him, your eyes catch his visible brown one. Your breath hitches. He has ditched the mask, and you can see his face. Well, what’s left of it.
Metal pieces are carved into the shape of his right ear, curling forward to form a cheekbone, encroaching all the way over his eye and stopping right before his nose. It covers the ridge of his right eyebrow as well, but spares his forehead. A white, flat circle is fitted where his eye should be, and now that you look closely at it, it swirls and moves, no doubt mapping your every move.
The rest of his face is gloriously, warmly human. It’s him, it’s his left eye, his thick, furrowed eyebrow, the strong bridge of his nose, his lips, set in a hard line on his face. His hair has been cropped right to his skull, dyed a dirty blond with brown roots already growing out, slightly spiked and dishevelled around his head. Finally, your eyes dart down to the pistol in his hand, pointing directly at your chest.
You clench your teeth.
“Shoot me.”
He doesn’t reply, but his mouth tightens. From your chest, the gun rises to your head. The shifting of his aim is your window. Your hand shoots back, grabs and throws the first thing you can find at him. It’s a glass. His metal arm comes up, makes contact, and the glass shatters. His stance does not falter for even a second, but he flinches at the shards of glass, and before it even makes contact, you are sprinting forward, hand curled tight around the chip, and with one leap, you collide into him. Hard.
Your momentum is enough, and you both fall in a mess of limbs. You scramble, finding the edge of the plate in his shoulder, but before you can wedge the chip in it, his human hand reaches up and smashes hard against your jaw. You cry out, the sharp sting blooming, the taste of blood already in your mouth. But your hands are still moving, and before you know it, the chip hits hard against his bicep, immediately lighting up a pale yellow, the tiny spikes on its edges sinking into the metal.
Seungcheol shouts and roughly pushes you off. You fall limply on your side, trying to see through how dizzy you are. Everything hurts, your face is on fire, but your eyes are focused on the pale yellow streaks spreading over Seungcheol’s arm, glowing between the plates making up his leg, part of his face. His arm and leg jerk hard, seemingly out of his control. He shouts again, trying to stand up, but it looks like his limbs aren’t cooperating with him anymore.
The human part is still his though.
You force yourself, despite the excruciating pain and the blood now sliding down your throat, and you rush into the living room. Under your couch, you’ve stored what you need. Electromagnetic cuffs, both for his wrists and ankles, shiny grey steel with a light that blinks on when you press the buttons on them. You can hear Seungcheol stumble onto his feet in the kitchen, and you’re already rushing back before he can stand properly. The cuffs hum, slam hard around his human wrist and the light on them turns red. The arm goes limp on his side immediately. He can’t react, not with his only remaining limb, and you are able to secure the other cuff around his ankle as well.
With that, your husband crumples to your kitchen floor.
He’s motionless from the neck down, but he strains hard. You can see the muscles in his neck bulge. He is flushed with the exertion of it, grunting and snarling. His glare is venomous as you back into the kitchen island, trying not to choke on the blood dripping down your throat as you breathe hard.
You drape yourself over the sink, trying not to throw up, spitting blood into it so you can breathe. Behind you, Seungcheol is still groaning and straining, to no avail. You stay leaning over until the wave of nausea passes, and the bleeding slows. Finally, you grab a bunch of paper towels, wiping your mouth and chin. The metallic taste still lingers.
Your hands leave some streaks of blood on your phone as you dial Wonwoo’s number. He picks up on the first ring, and when he speaks, you realise he was anticipating your call.
“The chip just connected to my server! I’m working on decrypting and isolating him from Yoon Tech’s servers right now.”
“How long is it going to take?” You ask, not recognising your own, broken voice. Your jaw is sore. You’re in so much pain.
“I don’t know yet….” Wonwoo’s voice is more subdued. “Are you okay? Do you need help?”
You shake your head before you realise he can’t see you.
“I’m fine. It’s just a scratch.” Big underreport. “What do I do while you work on this?”
Wonwoo doesn’t immediately answer, but you can hear shuffling in the background.
“What I’m doing only changes the physical.” His voice sounds apologetic. “The mental barrier, his lack of memory, I can’t fix that.”
You know what he is implying. You turn your head to look at Seungcheol, still on your kitchen floor, heaving but no longer futilely straining.
“Thanks, Wonwoo. I can handle that part.”
The truth is, you don’t know if you can. You don’t know what was done to him. You don’t even know if your husband still exists somewhere inside him, or if he was wiped out completely. Are you even cut out for this? With your modest business degree and a company that is successful only because of Seungcheol’s genius, where do you stand in this situation?
As you walk back into the kitchen, watching the man writhing on the floor does nothing to soothe your confidence. Suddenly, all your clarity is gone.
You don’t know what to do.
……………………………..
Seungcheol was a very clingy man.
You always liked that about him. To you, he was like an overgrown bear, curling around you tightly while you chopped vegetables until you complained that you still needed your mobility in order to cook dinner.
“You’re too heavy, Cheolie!” You would whine, but his grip on you would only tighten, pressing your back harder into his front.
“Five more minutes.” He would mumble into your hair. You would laugh incredulously.
You’re reminded of that moment as you drag this immobilised, half human, half robot man into your living room, using every bit of your strength to plop him onto the armchair next to the couch. You’re heaving, your head pounding so severely that it makes you dizzy. There’s no fight in him anymore, and he stares blankly at you as you cough a little, still feeling drops of blood hit your palm as you do so. You huff and go to the bathroom to clean up, rummaging in your medicine cabinet for anything that could ease your pain. You leave him on the chair, knowing he’s incapable of escaping anyway.
Fifteen minutes later, you’re sitting on the couch with a cup of tea, your legs curled under you, a blanket draped over your lap. You stare with bleary vision at the dark, steaming liquid. Seungcheol stares at the ceiling, head thrown back. Neither of you says a word.
“Do you speak?” You muse out loud, not looking at him. “I haven’t heard you talk yet, so it makes me wonder.”
No reply.
“Jasmine tea was your favorite, you know?” You mumble on, not even fully aware of what you are saying. “You were always a coffee person, but when you had tea with me sometimes, it would be jasmine. It’s the only one you could stomach, actually.”
A mirthless laugh leaves you. He still stares at the ceiling. You watch him, the stiff cut of his jaw, the streaks of yellow glowing under the plates of his bionic attachments. There is a distinct, soft hum coming from them, but both of you elect to ignore it.
“Seungcheol.” You whisper. He doesn’t react beyond a small flick of his eyelid.
You’re so tired. You can feel it tug on your limbs, like invisible weights making it difficult to even move. With every ounce of strength in you, you stand up, walking to the closet in your hallway. You return with a pale blue blanket, the one Seungcheol got for himself years ago and never let go, claiming it was a comfort for him. Now, his eye trains on you as you shake it out and drape it over his torso and legs. You don’t look at him, just loosely tucking him in before walking back to the couch, pulling your own blanket around yourself and sinking into the uncomfortable cushion.
You don’t notice his eye on you. You don’t notice anything else as you welcome the pitch black of dreamless sleep. You send out a little prayer that by morning, somehow all of this will be over and you will wake up in bed, wrapped up in your husband’s warm arms.
You’re wrong, sadly. There is nothing but cold.
He’s exactly where you left him before drifting off. He stares into the distance, looking disconnected until you shift and his eye catches the movement. You wince at the crick in your neck, somehow even more tired than you were before sleeping. You sigh and rub your eyes.
“Did you sleep?” You ask.
No response.
You leave him on the couch, opting to putter to the kitchen to make yourself a cup of tea. You eye the cabinet against the far wall, staring at the bottles inside and the amber liquid that gleams in them. A glance at the clock tells you it’s barely noon.
Fuck this.
Seungcheol doesn’t react in any way when you walk into the living room with a bottle of whiskey and a glass that’s too big for a drink like that. He just watches you from the corner of his eye as you sit back on the couch and pour yourself a concerning amount, wincing when your throat protests against the first sip.
“You would not approve of this at all.” You chuckle humorlessly. “You’d be appalled, I think. Drinking this early? Whiskey of all things? That was never my drink. I didn’t have the tolerance for it. You’re the whiskey guy.”
He doesn’t interrupt. You take another sip and stare at the glass. Already, on an empty stomach, you can feel your senses dimming.
“Sometimes I think,” you whisper, “you would really hate the person I’ve become.”
His head lolls in your direction, the only part of his body he can control. His eye meets yours and you feel your heart squeeze.
“I don’t know you.”
His voice is hoarse, a little crack in it from disuse. But it’s his voice, the voice you’ve yearned to hear for so long. You remember laying in your bed at night, wishing you could hear him whisper one last time, maybe even just the sound of your name from his lips, just once more, to hold you over. Your breath hitches, and you can feel your vision blur under newly formed tears.
“I’m your wife.”
“You’re my target.”
You stand abruptly, walking closer to where he sits, or rather, lays sprawled out under the blanket you draped over him. You tug it aside, eye the yellow lines of light that pass over his bionic limbs. You reach down to run a finger over the chip you attached to his bicep.
“If I pull this off you right now,” you stare directly into his eye. “Would you kill me?”
A small silence. Then he nods.
You let out a shaky breath, standing back up. The air is tense, and by now, you’re sick of it. You need to get away from him for a bit, no matter how badly that very thought pains you. Whiskey ignored on the coffee table, you walk to the door to tug your shoes on. You eye the back of his blond head with your hand on the doorknob, feeling a certain sense of defeat.
“Ironic, isn’t it?” You mumble, but he hears you. “You’re the one who created that chip.”
The door closes softly behind you.
……………………………………
There is a mess in his head. A tangled web of wires. He doesn’t know how to begin unraveling it. He can’t even find a single free end to tug on.
In the quiet of the room he is sitting in, he can hear warped voices from inside his own thoughts. He can’t make out any words, only tones, soft and loud both, some conversational, some that sound like laughter. He knows the voice, can recognise it. It’s the woman whose armchair he is sitting on.
Something presses on his temple, like a weighted force, insistent, as if urging him to listen more closely. But he can’t, because it makes pain bloom between his eyebrows, pain so severe it makes his eye water.
Every now and then, he feels intense heat, a kind that’s less uncomfortable and more painful. As suddenly as it comes, it goes away, and the blanket draped over him does nothing but elevate the sensation of it. He sits in the quiet, with the floating voices, the laughter, the weight on his head, the pain between his eyebrows, and the bursts of painful heat that bloom on his skin.
His ears perk when he hears the front door clink open after what seems like hours. He can’t turn himself around to look, so he just listens to the stumbling and mumbled cursing, shuffling and then a soft thud of cloth hitting the ground. Bare footsteps, a quiet sound, and then the woman from before enters his line of sight.
You’re clearly inebriated. He has stalked enough victims before ending their lives to know what alcohol intoxication looks like. He eyes you carefully as you putter around the living room, not doing anything in particular. Then, you look straight at him.
“I don’t know what to do.” You finally speak, and the words are less slurred than he expected them to be. “I don’t know what to do with you.”
He doesn’t reply. You move closer to him, and his face, the only thing he can move, tenses when you pull the blanket back and sink onto the chair by his side. He can feel the press of you against his skin, even if he can’t move. Your shoulder fits under his arm, you head on his collarbone. You drape the blanket over your joined bodies.
“Let’s just pretend everything is okay.” You whisper, your voice cracking slightly. Your arm drapes over his torso. “Just for right now. Just one night.”
He stares at the wall, his side warming quickly under the added weight. It’s different from the heat he felt before, stinging and sudden, disconcerting. It’s different from anything he has felt in a long time. No one touches him. No one has been near him for years, except the people he has taken the lives of, or the scientists that fitted his limbs. This heat right now, it is dull but constant, like how the sun feels on your skin. He hears laughter again, but this time it’s clearer, and it sounds familiar, like something he has heard before. In another life.
He stares at the far wall as your breathing evens out. Your weight doesn’t feel very uncomfortable anymore as time passes. The clock ticks softly, and the rise and fall of your chest is rhythmic. He can feel your heartbeat against his ribcage. There is a whisper in his head. A name. His own. In a voice that is quickly becoming familiar.
He’s tired, but he doesn’t sleep. He can’t remember the last time he slept.
…………………………..
Going into work becomes out of the question immediately, since you can’t leave a brainwashed assassin on your couch unattended for a whole day. Joshua pays you a visit with some stuff that needs taking a look, but otherwise, you sit on the couch, your laptop in front of you, and get through meetings and daily logistics that way. As you work, you think out loud, talking to Seungcheol about random tasks that come up, some hiccup at work you’re fretting over, and how your head of accounting keeps pissing you off. It’s mundane stuff, but it is exactly the things that you used to talk about on the daily. You loved debriefing with your husband, especially because he worked in the same place as you, so he knew all these people just as well, and knew what you were talking about.
Now, he doesn’t respond much. But you’re okay with that. You’re just glad he is here, and not dead like you had assumed for the last five years.
After your moment of inebriated weakness, spending the night curled up in his warmth, you suddenly feel some semblance of hope again. You had heard his heart beat, had felt the twitch and shift of his skin under your touch. He is still your Seungcheol, even if half of him is cold and unfamiliar, you are certain that he is somewhere in there, deep inside. And you’re convinced that if he didn’t remember at all, he wouldn’t have let you sleep on him the way that he did.
(Granted, he had no choice since he was paralysed. But you choose to ignore that reality.)
Joshua has been very wary of this quiet, motionless version of Seungcheol. He steers clear when he visits, not engaging in any way and just choosing to finish up on work with you and leaving. One night, you ask him to stay for dinner, and for the first time, he hesitates. You see his eyes flick to where Seungcheol is sitting, and you sigh in irritation.
“He’s not a piece of furniture, Josh.” You mutter. “He’s still my husband.”
“Is he?” He counters, dryly. “Because it’s been weeks and there’s been nothing. I assumed if he was really in there, we would’ve seen something by-”
“He’s there.” You hiss, cutting him off. Joshua blinks at your harsh tone. “I’ve been here with him every second of every day. I see it in his eyes. He isn’t gone yet-”
The crack in your voice cuts you off. You take a deep breath, blinking vigorously to keep your tears at bay. Joshua has fallen silent, eyeing you with a forlorn expression. After a few seconds, when he realises you won’t continue, he simply nods.
That night, after Joshua has gone, you still have his uncertainty on your mind. You eye the back of Seungcheol’s head, and remember the last few weeks. A seed has been planted in your head, plaguing your brain with doubt and pain. And once again, you feel that bone deep exhaustion that comes and goes frequently these days.
You make up your mind quickly, and your body follows in resignation.
Slowly, you walk back to the living room where Seungcheol sits. You walk closer to him, reaching for his flesh arm, the thick, metal cuff on his wrist. It sizzles a bit, recognises your thumbprint, and clicks, loosening. You don’t look at Seungcheol, despite the fact that he is eyeing you in surprise. You simply kneel down to quickly do the same to the cuff around his ankle before standing up again.
He moves with a little hesitation, stretching his leg and flexing his arm, his fingers. The limbs are stiff, and you’re sure weeks of no activity have left them sore. His bionic arm, and his pants clad leg, both still glow with pale, yellow light, the symbol of your and Wonwoo’s control of them. You reach forward, and yank the chip on his arm hard, disconnecting it. The yellow vanishes, leaving only gleaming, silver metal.
The chip is warm inside your palm. You step back, blinking away tears of what feels like a chapter closing.
“You can leave if you want.” You mumble. “Or kill me, since that’s your mission.”
Slowly, Seungcheol stands. His metal attachments click and whir, buzzing with life again as he twists and moves them, feeling them out. You take a deep breath and realise you can’t stand to look at him anymore. So you head to the kitchen.
You shuffle around mindlessly, just waiting to hear the front door open and close, or maybe you wait for searing pain from wherever he chooses to attack you. You can’t predict what he will do anymore. There was once a time you knew him so well, you could even count his breaths in your head, could mimic the rise and fall of his chest under your palm. Now, you feel like you are lost at sea and he’s nowhere to be found.
There’s shuffling behind you, but you don’t turn around.
“I don’t know you.” He says, and the words hurt just as much as they did when he first spoke them weeks ago. You grit your teeth hard.
“But,” he continues. Hesitates, “I did know you. In another time.”
You feel yourself stiffen, turning just enough to look at him. He fills the doorway, but his figure is hunched, uncertain. You wonder if he is just as tired as you. If he can feel it tug on his limbs like you do, like it’s anchoring him to the floor. How has he felt, watching you for weeks and weeks, nowhere to go but to sit and listen to any word that falls out of your mouth?
“I want to know.” He continues. “I want to remember.”
You stare at him for a long time before you finally move to where he stands. He doesn’t step back, doesn’t react at all, even when you stop just inches from his face. His human eye, brown like the earth, flicks with something you can’t place, and the metal that covers the other half, plain grey, cold and distant. Just where the metal meets his face, the skin is raw and red. Up close, you can see how angry it looks, and you wonder how careless the person was who put him together.
Your heart aches.
“Okay.” You say simply. No promises, no guarantees. Only a commitment, and a hope to see it succeed.
…………………………
It’s a little strange to settle into a routine with this new version of Seungcheol.
For one, he doesn’t do most things humans would. He eats very little, maybe one meal a day, and sleeps even less. He spends a lot of time to himself, mostly silent rumination, something that wasn’t part of his personality at all before. He’s always been loud and jovial, so this change takes some adjusting. You suspect there is a lot about him, maybe all of it, that isn’t the same anymore. The thought hurts you, so you try not to dwell.
You open your spare bedroom for him, since lounging in your living room day and night can’t really be comfortable. You still have his old clothes, whatever you managed to salvage after the explosion in your shared home. He is deeply intrigued by them, and asks, in a low voice, what other belongings of his you held on to.
The answer is: everything.
You make a trip to the storage unit you bought before you moved to your new, drab apartment. You lug back boxes of Seungcheol’s incomplete inventions, designs he was working on at the time, little contraptions that were half functioning, his diaries, his notes. You even bring back his absurdly large collection of watches, every brand and every new, cool tech that existed in the market.
“They were your one vice.” You smile at the memory as he opens the gigantic box. “You actually designed a few yourself too. This one-”
You point to a shiny, square shaped one in the corner. Seungcheol eyes it closely.
“This one was connected to me. You installed something in it that links to the one I wear, and it clicks at the same rhythm as my heartbeat. So it’s not really for telling time.” You shrug.
“I made this?” He asks, lifting the watch from its snug case. It’s not functional anymore, probably out of battery after so many years. It’s strange, because it has no hands and no numbers. There is an engraving of your initials just under the glass, over a black background.
You nod. “You said it made you feel like I was by your side all the time.”
Your voice is low. It almost cracks. He doesn’t say anything more.
You stick to working from home for a prolonged amount of time now, which isn’t difficult, since you’re mostly confined to your office when you go into work anyway. A week or so after Seungcheol asked you if he could stay, you’re due for a site visit. And you offer for him to come with you.
He hesitates.
“No one is going to recognise you.” You reassure him. “For one, it’s an all new staff. And for another, you’re blond now. And short haired.”
He subconsciously runs a hand over his head, his lips pulling together in what can only be a ghost of one of his infamous pouts.
“It doesn’t look bad.” He mumbles.
“I never said it does.” You reply, holding back a smile as you put a plate of eggs and toast in front of him. You tilt your head as you appraise his hair. He’s trying to flatten it down on his head.
“No, don’t do that.” You swat away his hand, running your fingers through the short but soft locks and lifting them up a bit. You mess around with it, distressing it a bit more. You know he’s watching you. It makes your cheeks heat a bit. You try to ignore the feeling.
“There.” You withdraw your hands. “It looks so nice now.”
When your eyes meet his, you realise his ears are tinged pink, and so is the back of his neck. You try to ignore the racing of your heart.
Wonwoo meets you on site, and he’s a little taken aback by Seungcheol being there. His face is covered with a mask, but the metal eye gives it away. After some stumbling, Wonwoo elects to ignore Seungcheol’s presence in favor of just getting work done, and you become immersed in it as well.
“This is where the problem is.” Wonwoo points, handing you the tablet. “There is definitely something wrong, but I can’t tell if it’s because I messed up the configuration or not. I’ve been trying a few different options but they all haven’t worked so far.”
Just over your shoulder, you feel Seungcheol lean in to look at the screen in your hand. You try not to think about him being so close.
“Maybe request a consultation.” You respond. “There is a reason we have engineers on call-”
“The configuration isn’t the problem.” A voice speaks from behind you. “Your base algorithm is wrong.”
You blink and turn your head, eyeing Seungcheol’s human eye, which is right beside you. Wonwoo frowns and steps closer, looking down at the tablet.
“How so?”
You tune it out, only registering his voice and not his words, watching as he points and explains where to make the change. You’re reminded of a time where Seungcheol would do this every day, and you would step back to let him do his thing. You can feel him now, right at your shoulder, his warmth so close you can almost perceive it. As you eye the side of his face, you fight the urge to kiss him. Or hug him. Anything. Your fingers twitch with it. Your heart yearns for it.
It’s over too quickly. And then he steps back.
Wonwoo is already taking the tablet from you, making adjustments as he thanks Seungcheol. You send him a little smile as he walks away, turning to look at the man on your side.
“That was very nice of you.” You say. He just nods a little sheepishly.
“It was an obvious solution.”
You shake your head, patting his arm as you move to walk past him. The metal is rigid and unforgiving under your fingers.
“Don’t be so modest. You were born for this.”
Seungcheol seems to be in a particularly good mood after that.
……………………….
Things get smoother as time goes by.
Something about going into work with you that one time clicks with Seungcheol. With all the material from your storage room, he starts tinkering with his old things again. There’s so many notes and designs, complete and incomplete blueprints keeping him occupied. He does it mostly in the living room, which you don’t mind. You’re glad he isn’t confined to his room. You like seeing him putter around the house or sit crosslegged on the floor, his metal arm whirring and clicking with every turn and movement. Sometimes, he sits out on the balcony when the weather is nice, and you join him with some tea or coffee. You don’t understand most of what he does, you never have, but you listen to him anyway. You bask in the way it lightens his voice, injects life into it. Sometimes, when he has come up with a new idea, he almost sounds exactly like he did before.
Your hope is increasing, tightening around your chest in a way that warms you up but traps you as well. Fear lingers, that this will all go away, that you’re balancing on a poorly strung tightrope and soon enough, you will fall.
And then that moment comes, the inevitable snap.
It’s a bright day, and you’re out for some groceries because you didn’t anticipate living with another person again, and your pantry is getting dangerously empty. You’re actually considering fresh produce instead of all the prepackaged crap you’ve been eating for so long. Seungcheol barely eats one meal a day, so it seems unfair if that one meal comes out of a box.
You’re considering which veggies to buy, lightly squeezing a tomato in your hand, when you feel something at your shoulder. It almost makes you jump, because it feels ominous, and your intuition is correct when you turn your head and come face to face with Yoon Jeonghan.
He’s in a black trenchcoat that nearly swallows his frame, a black cap on his head with dark strands poking out from under it. He looks particularly unassuming, just a casual shopper alongside you. His eyes are not on you, his lips pursed in what looks like consideration as he picks up another tomato, turns it around in his hand.
“This one is firmer.” He finally says, and his voice sounds jovial, casual, like it always does. “It will rot slower. You should get this.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” You grit out, your voice low to make sure no one hears you. One look around the aisle tells you that it’s empty. It’s just him and you. Your nerves are on high alert.
Jeonghan tuts, finally looking at you from the corner of his eye. “Is that any way to talk to a peer? You’ve become so rude, Y/N.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Sarcasm drips from your voice. “I didn’t realise I still had to extend common courtesy to you after you’ve tried to kill me. Twice.”
Jeonghan winces, then chuckles. “Yeah, that was my bad.”
You blink, waiting for him to continue. He doesn’t. He drops the tomato in his hand, picking up and inspecting another.
“That’s it?” You scoff. “‘My bad’? You try to get me killed by turning my husband into a half human killing machine and your response is ‘my bad’?”
“Well, you got him back, no?” He responds. “I would say that’s a huge improvement on whatever sad, bachelorette life you’ve been living all this time.”
You scoff, incredulous. “You’re so…. you’re-”
No words come. You just shake your head. Jeonghan looks at you again, this time, a sly smile crosses his face.
“How about a truce? I don’t try to kill you again, and I don’t demand my asset back from you. Consider it an apology for the attempts on your life.”
You glare at him, feeling anger bubble in you again. “Asset?”
He blinks, like he’s surprised. “Well, yes. Do you know how much Yoon Tech invested in developing him? It wasn’t easy. But it’s fine. I’ve made a lot of progress on bionic weaponry since then. So you can keep him.”
Your rage is boiling over at the way he is speaking of Seungcheol, but you know there’s a reason Jeonghan decided to ‘run into’ you at a public place. You can’t react the way you want to, which is the intense need to strangle him where he stands.
You know there’s nothing you can do about anything Jeonghan has attempted. His company is a mammoth, that and his military contract make him basically untouchable. The only proof you have of his doing is Seungcheol’s own person, and you don’t want to drag him into the legal mess that would ensue. Here Jeonghan stands, offering you a truce because he thinks he has won already, which is new bionic weapons branch going over so well and elevating him to a status no one else would dare to achieve. To him, you are not a threat anymore, and so he is discarding you just like he does with everyone else.
Considering all your options, you think being discarded by him might be the best case scenario here.
“Fine.” You finally relent, watching him smile and step back, almost in finality.
“Great. See you around, Y/N. You should attend next year’s New York expo. I’ve got great things lined up, you know? Maybe it will inspire something in you too.”
He winks and walks a few steps backward, that characteristic smirk on his face still, before turning around and sauntering away, the basket in his head still empty. You watch his back as he leaves, feeling some sense of resolution, no matter how bittersweet it may be.
People like Jeonghan never get justice, because they are too valuable to lose. He has made himself indispensable, which means he will continue to achieve new heights despite whatever operations he conducts in the dark. That’s the reality you live in.
The only saving grace here is that it’s not Seungcheol who will have to do his dirty work going forward.
………………………………….
You’re not really here, Seungcheol can tell.
There’s a distant look in your eyes, like you’re lost deep in thought, as you stir the pot sizzling on the stove. You’ve been like this since you got back with groceries, not greeting him with that usual sweet tone you always use. It’s a little detached, even though he can see that you're clearly attempting to appear normal. He offers to help make dinner, and you take him up on it, so he is quick to begin chopping vegetables as you prepare the rice. You work quietly, which is unlike you. Usually, you don’t stop talking, something he’s grown quite fond of.
The truth is, Seungcheol remembers you, in bits and pieces.
Voices and pictures pass through his brain, like flash cards being held up in front of him. There’s no rhyme and reason to them, no chronological order, like a CD stopping and starting at random intervals. You’re there in so many of them, right by his side, watching him, talking to him, touching him in places he wouldn’t dare let anyone touch. His fingers twitch when he feels it, like a ghost caressing his skin. Sometimes, he thinks he can feel you in his bones, coursing through his veins, and he wonders if he is connected to you in some way.
It scares him.
There’s nothing tangible there, no memory he can reach for and grab. As soon as he tries, it scatters like whisps. He knows he has lived a life, but he has no idea how that life went beyond rusty recollections that come and go. It sets him on edge, and so he never brings them up. He can’t, not when he knows for certain that you will cling onto them with unyielding hope. And he can’t have that burden on him when he already feels like he’s a shell of what he once was.
The only thing solid is you. But today, you’re far away as well.
“Something is bothering you.” He finally says when you’re eating at the kitchen island an hour later. There are dirty pots and pans in the sink. You will clean up after dinner. Right now, you move your food around absentmindedly, and Seungcheol doesn’t like this distance.
You blink and look at him, giving him a small smile that barely reaches your eyes. “Sorry, I’m just thinking about some stuff. Don’t worry about it.”
But he worries. He always worries, because you are all he has. So he pushes.
“Maybe I can help.”
You look a little surprised, and very touched, so your smile this time is more genuine.
“Thank you, Seungcheol, but really, I’m fine. The situation has resolved itself, I’m just going over it. There’s nothing to do.”
Seungcheol hesitates, but his intuition urges him to speak. “Is it Yoon Jeonghan?”
Your shocked expression tells him that he hit the nail on the head.
“How did you know?”
Seungcheol shrugs. He didn’t know, not for certain, but he had a feeling that Jeonghan wouldn’t just give up without one final attack, be it physical or psychological. It appears it was the latter.
“I’ve spent a long time with him.” He replies, pointedly ignoring your stare. “He’s- there’s a lot to him. Most of it isn’t good. I assumed he wouldn’t just leave this alone.”
Your chest rises and falls with a deep breath. “That’s just it, actually. He kind of has.”
Seungcheol’s eyebrows furrow. He listens intently as you finally open up, telling him about the encounter you had with the man at the grocery store. He lets the story linger for a bit after you’re done, absorbing the words.
“So, that’s it.” He finally says, but there’s uncertainty in his voice. He knows you hear it too. You sigh.
“I think, in his head, he’s still won because you’re not who you once were.” You add, turning back to your plate to push your food around. You don’t meet his eye. “He doesn’t think you’re a threat to him anymore because you have no memory. So by extension, I’m not a threat anymore either. I’m sure that to him, you’re-”
You pause, avoiding his stare. “You’re more like something he’s dumped on me. Because you’re not who you once were.”
You immediately look up as you say it, your eyes harder now, more resolute. “Which is not true. You’re still Seungcheol, even if you don’t remember. And I’m so happy you’re here with me, because I thought I would never see you again. Even with half of you still gone, you’re worth ten of him.”
Seungcheol’s heart squeezes, a feeling that is foreign to him, as he takes in the heated determination in your eyes. He realises that his fear, the sense of self he lacks, is not something that is well founded. You wouldn’t care that he remembers just snippets. You’re willing to accept him even as an empty husk.
He makes up his mind.
“You used to pour water into your half full shampoo bottle.” His throat tightens as he speaks. You blink, taken aback. “When we were in college. Because you had to make it last until your next paycheque.”
“And you liked those animal print socks. The pink panther ones. They were so warm. I was pretty annoyed that they wouldn’t fit me. So you got me black panther ones my size so we could match. I loved those so much. Every winter, I had to be careful how often I wore them because I didn’t want them to fray.”
You’re watching him speak, a thin layer of tears is shining in your eyes, and Seungcheol tries to soldier on.
“You got a bird clock for our first apartment that chirped every hour. God, I hated that thing. But you loved it so I never said anything.”
“I knew.” You speak, finally, your voice higher and breaking at the end. “You always got the most annoyed look on your face when it chirped. I thought it was funny to see how long you could take it.”
You let out a wet laugh. Seungcheol gives you a bitter smile.
“It’s only bits and pieces.” He explains, trying not to let guilt overwhelm him. “I don’t remember a lot. It’s just the little things that come to me.”
“It’s enough.” Tears make tracks down your cheeks. You reach forward, and Seungcheol feels the warmth of your hand as it curls around his human one. The contact makes something sizzle. It’s familiar. He remembers this clear as crystal. “It’s more than enough.”
He doesn’t let go. You don’t pull away.
………………………….
Things feel different. They are different now. The hope that felt like a noose around your neck, ready to tighten and kill you, is a much warmer feeling, blooming in your chest and transforming into a joy you haven’t felt in a really long time. You think Seungcheol has noticed. He notices more than you were previously giving him credit for. And it looks like he welcomes the change too.
Despite not eating much, Seungcheol busies himself with making you breakfast every morning. You tell him he doesn’t have to, but he shoots it down.
“I’m not sleeping anyway.” He retorts. “Besides, I used to do this before, didn’t I?”
You nod, smiling as you watch him scramble eggs in a pan. It was always this way back then. He would take care of breakfast, you would have lunch at the office, and then you would do dinner and he would clean up after. The domesticity of it, the harmony, is returning. Sometimes, when you’re getting ready to go into work in the morning and you can hear him hum in the kitchen, it’s almost like nothing has changed. Then, you take in the massive metal arm under his sleeveless tank top, and you’re reminded of what he has been through, and what you two have lost.
Sometimes late at night, you wonder what he would feel like. You wonder if he would let you touch him.
It’s hard being so close to Seungcheol but not being able to physically be too near him. Casual intimacy was always a part of your relationship, and you aren’t used to a version of Seungcheol you have to hold back from. When he often picks up on your moods, like being tired after work or being frustrated when something isn’t going right, you wonder if he can pick up on this, the intense yearning need you have to just feel his cheek on the crown of your head, or his hand curling over your hip like it used to all the time. Or his lips, always so soft and inviting, pressing delicately to yours.
You wonder if he knows. You wonder if he remembers, because he seems to remember so much these days.
A few days later, you ask Seungcheol if he feels at all ready to come back to work. The suggestion catches him off guard.
“Are you sure?”
You nod, shovelling large helpings of chicken into your mouth. You’re usually ravenously hungry by dinner time, and Seungcheol is always amused by it.
“Everything you’re doing at home, working on projects, improving on previous work, you used to do the same things at work. Project Development is all you, and after you helped Wonwoo work out that little algorithm problem, he’s been wanting to work with you more.”
You give him a smile, and it’s more teasing this time. “I don’t know if you remember this, but you were kind of a legend in tech circles before.”
Seungcheol huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. “I don’t remember, but that thought makes me feel a little nauseous.”
You laugh, nudging his shin under the table. Seungcheol has always been shy about attention, but you know he secretly loves being recognised. He’s ambitious, even though he worries often, and acknowledgement from peers and juniors always affirms to him that he’s on the right path.
The next day, he’s getting ready to go into work as well.
He’s nervous, more so about his appearance than anything else. Bionic prostheses aren’t exactly common yet, even if they are getting more talked about recently. You know he’s conscious about the stares he will get, you can see the troubled expression on his face from a mile away.
“We don’t have to tell them you’re my husband. We can tell them you’re an employee.” You offer on the drive there. “From overseas. We’ll make up a story or something.”
His lip quirks up in a half smile.
“You think that's why I'm nervous?” He asks. You shrug.
“That’s the one thing I was never worried about.” He supplies.
Your heart flutters. You try to calm it down. It doesn’t mean anything, you try to tell yourself. But every word from him, every action, weighs so heavy with you. It always has. He’s the most important person in your life.
Seungcheol is relieved when the first person he sees at work is Wonwoo, the one face that is familiar to him. You know he is nervous, but he doesn’t show it a lot. That’s always been him, confident in stature, sure in his stance. All his little worries and doubts would only be reserved for you, and some part of you is elated that you still hold that position.
Unfortunately, you have to leave him for the day when Joshua finally catches up to you with the daily agenda. You’re swept up in work, but he’s always on the back of your mind. You’re just considering making a trip down to PD when a knock sounds on your door. A head of spiky blond hair pops in, and Seungcheol looks a little sheepish as he speaks.
“Lunch?”
For a second, you can’t breathe, swept up in memory after memory of him doing this exact thing since the day you started your company, when it was nothing but two rooms and a dinky office space. It’s so mundane, almost a negligible occurrence, but it was always the highlight of your work day. For five years, you would eat cold lunch at your desk on Joshua’s insistence, or you wouldn’t eat at all, because you no longer had someone to share that precious hour with. But he’s here now, part of his face reconstructed, but he’s here, and it feels like every second of your grief is washed away with one little word he says.
“Hey.” His soft voice breaks you from your thoughts. You blink, realising that your face feels wet. He has stepped inside the room, his face more cautious now.
“Sorry.” He sounds somber. “Did I do something wrong?”
You immediately shake your head, wiping your face hastily. “Not at all.”
Your voice wobbles. You elect to ignore it, standing up and quickly straightening yourself before walking to him. “Come on, let’s go eat.”
Seungcheol’s hand on your arm stops you from walking past him. He holds it softly, pulling you back so you can face him. You’re embarrassed at losing your composure like this. You don’t want to freak him out, or make him worry. You realise that in your happiness of having him back, you haven’t processed at all how overwhelming it is to have the love of your life come back from the dead, half of what he used to be.
It seems that he understands that as well.
Slowly, at an almost glacial pace, Seungcheol’s hand loosens its grip, but it doesn’t move away. Instead, he wraps it around you. His other arm follows, and while the juxtaposition of his arms is noticeable, one warm and forgiving, the other cold and stiff, you barely register it, because you can feel his heartbeat against where your ear presses to his chest. You feel yourself giving into his embrace. You’re starved for anything that is Seungcheol, you’ve been without him for too long. Your face crumples, and the tears come again.
You don’t stop them this time.
………………………………..
“It doesn’t look right.”
“It looks exactly like it should.”
“No, it doesn’t. Look again, I think you went wrong somewhere-”
“If you’re not going to be supportive, get the hell out. I don’t need this energy.”
“I’m just saying, if you had just gone to the store-”
“And I told you, she likes it better this way.”
“Right. And we’re supposed to trust your half-fried brain.”
“Man, fuck you.”
You try to tamp down the laugh bubbling in your throat, but it’s hard to do that when the bickering coming from your kitchen is so amusing. You resolutely keep your eyes on your laptop screen, because you promised not to intervene. But Seungcheol and Joshua keep getting louder the longer they work on baking this cake, and by the sound of it, Joshua is not impressed.
“You’re seriously going to serve this turd-pile to your wife? On her birthday?”
“It’s a turd-pile made with love.”
You know why Joshua keeps nagging Seungcheol. This is an age-old tradition. Seungcheol is not much of a baker, but you’re decent at it. You make all his birthday cakes because you know what flavors and icings he likes. And because you love doing it. Seungcheol always wants to return the favor, no matter how bad he is at it, and it always ends with a spectacularly dense or horrendous looking cake. The difference this time is Joshua dropping in to wish you a happy birthday and give you your present. Unfortunately, that was the exact moment Seungcheol started icing the cake, hence the racket in your kitchen.
But you don’t mind. In fact, you love it. You love that he keeps trying, every single year, and that he blocks off so many hours just to do it. When he had suggested it this time, you were taken aback. While you and Seungcheol had made steady progress in your relationship so far, you didn’t anticipate that he would remember this little tradition of yours. He holds your hand sometimes, he hugs you when he can. You both talk and talk, about previous memories, and about making new ones. You tell him often that you missed him badly, that you love him so much, and that you’re okay with him not saying it back, but you need to tell him because you always felt like you should have said it more before he was gone. Seungcheol is soft with you, careful, letting you explore your emotions as you let him explore his. Now that he’s with you again, you often feel like you have all the time in the world to just be in his presence.
Is it enough for you? Not by a long shot. Do you want to kiss him senseless? Every second of every day. But you will get there eventually. You have faith.
Joshua stays for the cake reveal, and when you gush over it, he merely lets out a pained sigh. You know it’s all an act. He is unbelievably happy for you, but you like it when he teases Seungcheol, baits him enough to irritate, even anger him. He excuses himself pretty quickly afterward, even when you offer for him to stay and have a slice.
“No offense, but I would rather chop off two limbs and let myself get brainwashed than taste whatever this is.”
“That was really offensive, actually.” Seungcheol replies dryly. You laugh, dipping your finger in the frosting to taste it. Coffee. Your favorite.
The cake is dense, almost inedible, but you love it regardless. You eat two whole slices, even though Seungcheol himself can stomach only one. He gives you a pained look.
“Well, you’re always going on about how you love the things about me that are the same as before. Are you glad I’m still a shit baker?”
You giggle and stand up, carrying your dirty plate to the sink. Then you walk over to him and give him a hug, wrapping your arms around his torso. He immediately returns it, and you can physically feel yourself relax.
“I love it even more.” You reply. You can feel his chest shake with a tiny laugh, and you feel his lips on the crown of your head.
“Happy birthday, baby.” He whispers. Your breath hitches at the petname, your old favorite, and you look up at him, your chin on his chest. He’s watching you, eye like a warm pool, soft and inviting. His human hand reaches up, caressing your cheek. You wish, for a split second, that he would just lean down and…..
He does.
When his lips meet yours, they’re hesitant. It’s barely there, like a ghost of a sensation, but you melt into it, pushing up on your toes a little so you can feel him more as you kiss him back. He melts into it, sighing into your mouth, his grip around your waist tightening when he registers your enthusiasm. The metal of his left arm feels solid, and it almost leaves you immobile, but you love it, because it presses every line of your body to every plane of his. Your hands find his neck, his jaw, slipping back to run over the tiny strands over the back of his head. It makes him shiver. You feel it. Your lower stomach stirs.
The kiss gets firmer, hotter. Seungcheol tilts his head, slots his lips deeper into yours. You feel his tongue against the cushion of your bottom lip, and your mouth opens almost out of instinct. You let out your first moan when his tongue slides hot and wet against yours.
“We should-” His voice cracks. Your head spins. “We should slow down.”
He kisses you again, fiercely. Your thighs are already crushing together for relief.
“Yeah.” You agree, pulling him down more by the shoulders, wanting him to curl and wrap around you. He complies immediately, hands sliding lower until he’s tugging on the backs of your thighs and lifting you up onto the kitchen island. You’re level with his face now, not willing to stop kissing him, not willing to take even a breath that doesn’t come straight from his mouth. You tug hard on the hair at the top of his head, the ones long enough to grip. He groans, and the sound makes your hips jerk hard into his.
“Fuck, don’t do that.” He rasps.
You do it again, grinding slower this time, your legs around his waist keeping him in place. He hisses. You can feel the bulge in his jeans, and you clench around nothing, registering how hard he already is. You need him so badly that it makes you dizzy. If he stops now, you think you might cry.
“Cheol-” You gasp, your hands digging into his shirt and tugging hard. You need it off, you need to feel all of him, properly, and it feels like he’s on the same page, because he’s reaching back, pulling the shirt off his shoulders until it’s gone. His hands are quick, sliding under your blouse until it’s bunching up, making you raise your arms. He pulls it off.
Finally, you see him.
Seungcheol was always well built. Broad in all the right places, thick neck, wide shoulders, the large expanse of his chest, his abs. Now, he’s even more cut, and you wonder if it has to do with the life he was living for the last five years. Your eye catches his bionic arm, right at the junction where it meets his skin. Your hands, idly running over his bare skin, follow your gaze, stop just where the skin looks more pink.
“Does it hurt?” You ask, voice low. Seungcheol shakes his head, watching you intently.
“It used to, when it was new. But it’s more numb now than anything.” He mutters. He flexes the arm, the plates click and whir, a low, metallic sound that echoes in the silence of the kitchen. You let your thumb run over the skin, right at the edge. Seungcheol doesn’t react as he watches your fingers except with a tiny laugh.
“I guess if they were more careful, it might have looked a little better.” He mumbles, eyes still on your movements. His own run absentmindedly over your bare waist. You shrug.
“I don’t know, it’s pretty hot.”
He looks up at you, his single eyebrow shooting up in surprise. He barks out a laugh, shaking his head.
“Freak.”
You hum and tighten your legs around his waist again, pulling him closer. “You used to love it.”
Something in his eye gleams, a mischievous little twinkle. The white, flat circle on the other side seems to turn and shift, almost like it’s gleaming too. You wonder what he sees through it. His lip ticks up in a tiny smirk. “Oh, I know.”
He leans down, running his lips over the side of your neck. His hands are more purposeful now, sliding up to fiddle with the buckle of your bra. He unhooks it smoothly, letting his touch float up your arms so he can pull the straps down. You sigh when his tongue runs over your skin, nipping just under your ear, the spot that has always made you shiver.
“I remember a lot of things.” He rasps. “More and more as the days go by. And I like to go over them sometimes, when I lay in bed at night, or when you walk around in just that large shirt of mine you wear when you sleep. You think I don’t know what you’re doing, baby? Goading me, baiting me, testing me.”
“I’m- I’m not-” But your brain is melting at the moment his teeth dig a little harder into your skin. He’s going to leave a mark, not that you give a fuck, and all it’s doing is making you even more lightheaded.
He hums. You know he doesn’t believe you. His hands are already circling around, kneading softly on your breasts, making you sigh. He thumbs over your nipples, nipping at your neck a little harder when they peak under his touch. His touch sends shivers down your spine, one hand soft and warm, the other hard and cold. You’re not used to the contrast, but it feels wonderful. You wonder how it will feel in all the other places you want him to touch, and your impatience grows.
“Cheol, take me inside.” You whimper, clenching around nothing again and feeling your desperation grow. He doesn’t respond verbally, but his hands find your hips, gripping tightly to lift you up. You wrap yourself around him, using that moment to tongue at his neck as he walks you both down the hall to your bedroom. He has been inside only a handful of times, since he still sleeps on his own, but you know that’s about to change today. You’re never letting him leave again.
He doesn’t separate from you for even a second, laying you down on the mattress and joining you on it at the same moment, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that is even more heated, but not any less exploratory. His weight on you feels familiar, glorious, and you bask in the feeling of being pressed down. His tongue runs over any crevice of your mouth it can reach, saliva mixing with his in a way that makes you shiver all over. When you run your hands over his back and feel the familiar muscle shift and tense under your touch, you remember how much you missed this, and it makes your breath hitch.
You want him completely naked against you, and the need feels as urgent as air entering your lungs.
Your shirt and bra are already gone, but his clothes and the rest of yours now quickly follow. He kisses any part of you he can in between every article that gets tugged off by you or by him. Your right calf presses against the cold metal of his leg, and it shocks you back into reality a little bit. You’re aware that while you’ve done this countless times with him, it’s different now. You slow down the kisses, nibbling more indulgently at the plush on his bottom lip.
“Are you okay with this?” You whisper. “I know this is a lot-”
“I was going to ask you that.” He chuckles into your mouth. His eye flutters open, and it has softened, shining with reverence. Your lips twitch up into a smile.
“I’ve wanted this for so long.” You reach up, running a gentle hand through his hair. His metal ear feels rigid and cool. “I’ve missed you more than I can say. I didn’t-”
Your voice catches. Seungcheol waits with all the patience in the world.
“I didn’t think I could ever have this again.”
His forehead rests gently against yours, and your eyes flutter when you feel your breaths mix where your lips touch.
“I know I’m not all the way there.” He whispers. “I know there’s so much missing. And some days, it’s so difficult to reconcile the older version of me with this new reality. But I’m getting better every day. And I…. I miss you too. I miss what we had and who I used to be.”
Your eyes cloud. Seungcheol carefully thumbs under them, not letting the tears spill. When he kisses you again, it feels far more meaningful, like parts of you and him are coming to an understanding together. It’s easy to build up the heat again, and there’s an underlying layer of need in it now that has you writhing and moaning under him in no time.
“Easy, princess.” He hums, carefully running his hands up your thighs before fitting his hips between them. “I’ve got you.”
Princess. You whine. That’s an old favorite bedroom nickname of his. Seungcheol loved to spoil you. He’s a giver at heart, so the name is apt, and one he used to shower you with frequently. He grinds on your core, and you can feel the slide of his hard shaft through your wet folds. It makes you gasp, the slow drag making you feel each and every ridge of him. Your opening clenches hard, you arch into him, and your nails dig into the skin of his back.
“Don’t-” Your chest rattles with your inhale. “Don’t tease me. Please, I’ve waited so long, Cheolie. Don’t make me wait even more-”
When his head catches against your opening on the next grind, you moan low, eyelids fluttering. His nose brushes yours, you know he’s watching, and you bask in the feeling of his gaze on you. He pushes a little more, breaching you, and takes his glorious time sliding in at a snail’s pace. Your walls struggle with his girth, not used to being penetrated, left empty for too long, but you think at this point, Seungcheol is embedded in your DNA. Your body knows him, recognises him, like it’s an old, dormant instinct. You open up for him like he’s meant for you, and when he groans in shaky approval, you know he feels it too.
“Made for me, aren’t you?” He whispers into your mouth, taking advantage of your moaning to lick over your lips, nipping and sucking at them. “Taking me like you’re meant for me. Haven’t fucked you in years, but your little pussy still knows me, right?”
God, he needs to stop talking like that. So vulgar, coming from his mouth, but so sexy that it makes you dizzy. The ceiling is spinning, half from the feel of him, and half from the words he is whispering right past your lips. He bottoms out finally, and stills, throbbing and twitching inside you. You can feel it, it tugs on your walls, sending little sparks shooting through your core.
“Love how tight you are, baby.” He continues, pulling away from you to sit back a bit. You almost whine in protest, but then his thumb finds your clit and rubs tight little circles over it. You sigh, toes curling. “But I need you to loosen up a little bit, okay? Need to fuck you properly and I can’t do that when you’re gripping me like this.”
It’s a combination of his words and the waves of pleasure traveling up from your clit, but he finally feels enough give to rock back and forth, his back undulating with every stroke. He starts off slow, both of you just enjoying the delicious drag of him in and out. Every movement makes him brush up teasingly against your sweet spot, makes stars burst in your vision. You feel like you’re already on the brink, and he has barely started.
“Fuck.” He chokes, and you can see his throat bob as he swallows. A thin layer of sweat coats his porcelain skin, making the light of your bedside lamp shift over him. His hair, not almost fully brown with just the tips of the blond remaining, is matted on his forehead. His eye is closed, eyelid fluttering, mouth slightly parted as his breath rattles in and out. He grunts quietly every few strokes, his abs clenching, his neck and chest flushed a pretty pink.
You could come just looking at him like this.
He picks up the pace finally, and you gasp at the change, arching into him a little. He’s watching you now, but you’re too busy registering how good he feels, the perfect, tight drag of him, now more forceful, hitting every spot that sends pleasurable shocks up your spine. The bed groans, his thrusts get harder. On either side of your head, his fingers fist the bedsheet. Beneath the moans and sighs, you can hear the very low but distinct whir of metal emanating from his moving limbs.
Your brain stutters, and your hands move before you can think about it too much. They find his metal wrist, circling around it slowly and lifting it to place it right at the base of your throat. Seungcheol’s eye widens.
“You’re sure?” He asks. You nod.
“Please.”
Your skin is so heated that the cool contrast of his hand feels relieving and glorious. Something in his wrist clicks, and then his hold on your throat tightens just a bit. Your eyes flutter, mouth dropping open. You whine.
Seungcheol groans and his thrusts get harder, hips now slamming into yours over and over, the tip just gently kissing the cervix in the way that lights your lower stomach on fire. His grip is unrelenting, just tight enough to make you a little light headed and every movement feel even more intense than it usually does. You can’t speak, can’t warn him as your orgasm comes barrelling into you at full speed. You can only clench hard and cry out as it washes over you. Seungcheol doesn’t slow, but watches you with something akin to awe and unbridled lust in his eyes. His hand loosens only as you come down, letting you take in a long gulp of air.
“That was so sexy, baby, fuck.” He sounds as wrecked as you feel. He’s grinding into your pussy, pushed all the way in to the base, letting you feel every inch of him. “Can’t believe I didn’t do this sooner. Could’ve had you under me every night looking like that.”
You find the sides of his neck, tugging him down to kiss him fiercely. “Get your fill now, Cheolie. Make up for lost time.”
Your words spur him on. He pulls out abruptly, but he doesn’t let you miss him for too long, tugging your leg to maneuver you so you’re on your stomach, arms folded under your head, and his body draped over your back, warming your sweat-cooling skin. His knees frame your thighs. He nudges your legs apart just enough to slide inside, and the shift in angle has your jaw going slack. You feel his grip on your hips, one soft, one hard, holding you in place as he immediately sets a brutal pace. You don’t mind, you’ve always loved it when Seungcheol uses all that impressive muscle he has built to manhandle and use you like this. It’s unbelievably hot to you. This position feels even more intense, leaves you even more boneless, and your previous high has left you so sensitive that this one builds up in no time.
His thrusts are getting sloppy, less precise and more like he just wants to plop you into the mattress. His moans are more uninhibited now, his grip tighter to the point you know he will leave bruises that you will wear proudly. His breath hits the back of your neck. He reaches down, biting into your shoulder at the exact moment he groans loud and empties himself in you. The warmth of him, the grind of his head into your walls, is what sends you over the edge for a second time. Both your bodies writhe on the mattress, him pressing you into it until you feel like you are melting into him. He curses low in your ear as his body relaxes, and the sound makes you shiver.
You lay like that for what feels like an eternity, letting the rise and fall of his chest guide your own breathing. When he finally moves, detaching himself, you grumble in protest.
“I was warm.” You complain. You can hear him laugh a little.
“I’ll warm you up again, baby, don’t worry. Come on.”
Your interest is piqued, and you turn your head to the side to peer at him. His whole face seems to have smoothed, soft and glowing in a way you haven’t seen him in a while. It makes a smile tug on your lips, and you turn over slowly to face him. He doesn’t waste any time in lifting you up, another sensation that will take some getting used to. His human arm is warm on your back, but his metal one digs just under your knees. You don’t mind, not at all, it’s part of him, something he got involuntarily but made his own. He has used it to inflict pain in the past, but from now on, he will do nothing but good with it.
You watch him with heavy eyes as he places you on the bathroom vanity and gets to running a warm bath. You admire his back, soft and pale, smattered with little freckles, and slightly pink at the edges where skin meets metal. The plates dig into the skin, and you know he said it doesn’t feel like anything now, but you wonder if it hurts even just a little.
The slightest hint of his pain, even a negligible smidge of it, is unacceptable to you. You make a mental note to ask Wonwoo if he can look into bionic prostheses. Not weapons, like Jeonghan has developed. You have no interest in that. He can have his military contracts and his glory. There’s nothing in it for you.
Everything you want is in this tiny bathroom, dipping his metal fingers into the water to check the temperature, only to realise he can’t feel with that limb. You collapse into giggles and he smiles sheepishly, ears turning red, using his other hand as a toothy grin takes over his face.
ANAMNESIS. (cyborg!choi seungcheol x human!reader)
synopsis: five years ago, your company became a big enough threat to the existing tech ecosystem to cause an attack on your life. five years ago, said attack killed your husband. after spending so long picking up the pieces, you are quickly racing to the top again, which means your life is threatened once more. but the assassin sent your way is a little too familiar, even if he’s not exactly the same as the day he got “killed”.
warnings: mentions of death and violence, assassination and murder, corrupt business practices, amnesia, brainwashing and manipulation, mentions of mental health, suicidal ideation, sexually explicit content
smut warnings: 18+, multiple orgasms, choking, praise kink, use of petnames, they almost cry (lol), mentions of body modifications (in case of cyborg!seungcheol).
word count: 17.2k
a/n: this is part of the Cyberpunk: Reload Collab hosted by @studiosvt . Thank you to the organisers and everyone involved in the collab, this has been such a unique and stimulating writing experience for me, especially for a concept I’ve never done before. Seungcheol in this is loosely based off the winter soldier, I hope you all enjoy!
Inside the sleek but small building wedged between two skyscrapers, a single light illuminates a window on the second floor. Around it is nothing but darkness, and the streets are strangely quiet for a Friday night. Inside the office, the golden light falls over a keyboard, the clack, clack, clack of the keys rhythmic and continuous. Fingers move deftly over it, and the artificial glow of the monitor adds to the lamp in an unpleasant way. You don’t seem to mind.
A knock on the door does nothing to break your concentration. Your fingers don’t so much as falter. Joshua pokes his head in through a crack in the doorframe, frowns when he sees you, and finally speaks up.
“Any chance you will be wrapping this up soon?”
You don’t look up, but you hum in acknowledgment. “Just a little bit more. I’m just finishing up on….”
Your voice trails off. You don’t attempt to finish the sentence. Joshua sighs.
“It’s Friday night.” He reminds you, gently, still lingering in the doorway. “How about you and I get some dinner? You can sleep in tomorrow.”
He knows his suggestions will fall on deaf ears, but he tries nonetheless. He is hyperaware of his boss at this point. There’s no convincing you to slow down, to take a breather. You won’t allow yourself to. Slowing down means letting your mind wander. And you haven’t let that happen in five years, lest you are reminded of what you have lost.
“It’s okay for you to head home, Josh.” You break him from his thoughts. “I promise, I’m almost done. Maybe an hour more.”
There’s no point in arguing. Joshua sighs and steps out again. He reminds himself to call you an hour later to make sure you have, in fact, left the office. His satchel is already packed, so he just pulls on his coat and steps out.
You know Joshua worries. He’s the only person on staff who can see your struggle. You pride yourself on being composed and shut off from the people around you. If you’re drowning, no one really sees it. Except Joshua, of course. He has been there since the very beginning, so he knows. The rest of the staff though, you did a complete turnover half a decade ago. They don’t know what actually went down or what you’ve been through.
True to your word, you’re wrapping up forty five minutes later. It’s well past midnight, and you know Joshua won’t take kindly to you still working when he inevitably calls in fifteen minutes. There have been occasions where he has dragged you out of the building himself, when he is particularly frustrated. He keeps speaking about ‘work-life balance’, reprimanding you for not having it. You always bite your tongue instead of telling him that you have no ‘life’ to go back to. The only person you ever loved is gone, so your work is all you have.
The drive back is inconsequential. The roads are empty by this point, despite the weekend. Your apartment building is silent and looming as always. You don’t really like your neighborhood, but you had moved here after everything happened for a fresh start, and at the time, you weren’t in any headspace to pick out a nice place. Joshua often complained about how drab and uninspiring your apartment is. You pay him no mind. He has always been all about flowers and rainbows. His desk at the office is so colorful it makes your eyes hurt sometimes.
You leave the light on in the kitchen landing so you don’t have to stumble through the dark to get to the switchboard. Again, you can hear Joshua complaining in your head about how you can easily afford an AI home system, considering how well the company has been doing. You are least interested though. You don’t want to put anything in this apartment that can mean you are planning to live here long term. You don’t even know why you’re still here. Most days, you have no clue where your life is heading anyway.
You toe off your shoes and plop your heavy trenchcoat over the back of the couch. You wonder what you can make yourself for dinner. Something minimal straight out of the packet, probably. You’ve got dozens of those prepackaged meals in your pantry. You beeline for the sink, washing your hands and wondering bleakly what you are in the mood for stomaching. Through the window over the counter, you can see the city’s skyline. Thousands of tiny, yellow dots from people’s windows, the backdrop formed by the sleek, poised buildings of the business sector looming beyond. Straight edges and smooth lines. But one building, not even two blocks away, shows an irregularity.
You squint for a second, hands held under the sink still. It looks like a person. Tall, but very broad. You half think you’re imagining it, but then the silhouette moves, and your eye catches on a gleam of silver over the shoulder.
The water is still running. You shut it off, looking back up. He’s gone.
You blink a few times. Then you glance at the clock. It’s nearly three in the morning. You huff and step away from the sink, shaking off your hands. It’s too late at night for your brain to be functioning properly. You need sustenance. And then you need to sleep.
It’s easy enough to pop your chicken dinner into a dish and slide it into the oven. You set fifteen minutes on the digital counter, and then busy yourself with hopping into the shower for a quick wash. Fifteen minutes on the dot, you’re back in the kitchen, peering into the oven with dripping wet hair and a bathrobe covering your drenched body. Everything around you is silent, so deafeningly still that you immediately hear the click and whir of metal. Right behind you. Too close.
The hair on the back of your neck stands. You whirl around.
Something smashes, hard, against your nose. Pain explodes and you gasp, stumbling back into the counter. Your eyes water, something warm and liquid drips over your lips and down your chin. You’re dizzy, you can’t see properly. You can barely breathe through the excruciating hurt. But alarm bells are ringing in your head, and fight or flight takes over. Backed against the counter for support, you kick your legs out hard. Your feet make contact with something sturdy. There’s a grunt, and the man stumbles backward, his back hitting the refrigerator with what sounds like a deafening crash. You’re already scrambling to run from the kitchen.
You can barely see, but you know the map of this house like the back of your hand. Your ears are ringing, you’re gasping for breath, but panic is fueling you. You’ve had this feeling before, your life has been threatened once, a long time ago, and somehow, the second time around is giving you more clarity.
It also means that you are better prepared this time around.
You can hear the thuds and bangs behind you. Your attacker will be right on your heels soon. You barely manage to wretch your door closed, locking it, before a startling bang shakes it at its very hinges. Your yelp is involuntary. You know you have only bought yourself mere seconds.
Inside your drawer you find what you’re looking for, a tiny, unassuming device, shiny and silver, resembling a lighter. It comes with two silicone ear buds that you shove into your ears. Then, your hand on the solitary button on the device, you turn around.
The door comes down after just two bangs, splintering the doorframe completely. Sawdust rises, clouding the air. You don’t wait to see your attacker, pressing the button immediately.
You can’t hear it, owing to the buds in your ears, but you know a high pitched screeching has filled the air, nearly unbearable because of how high the frequency is. But it does its job. The man howls in pain, dropping what looks like a gun on the ground and using both hands to cover his ears. His knees buckle and he falls on them. You can see, even from a few feet away, the veins in his neck bulge hard, disappearing behind the black mask on his face. He crumples on the floor, clutching the sides of his head. You snatch your phone from where you had thrown it on your bed, frantically dialling three digits.
The man is still writhing, his body, clad in black and silver, contracting and arching painfully as he tries in vain to keep the sound out. As he moves, metal thuds against the ground. There is more clicking and whirring, like machinery buzzing with life. You realise he’s not entirely human. His shoulders tighten as you step closer, trying to make out who it is.
“911, what is your emergency?”
A single brown eye pops open on the stranger's mask-covered face. The other half, you realise, is covered in silver metal. But you don’t care about that, because your blood is running cold.
You would recognise that eye anywhere.
Your grip falters. The device in your hand gets silenced. The man on the ground relaxes, his hands falling down as he quickly tries to scramble to his feet. He is still swaying, his short cropped blond hair matted to his sweaty forehead, the after effects of the sonic attack making him stumble, but for the first time, you register his stature. His height, the breadth of his shoulders. And his one, visible eye.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
The woman on your phone seems to break your trance. Before you know it, the man is rushing out over the broken wreckage of your door. Your hand shakes, your eyes are still watering from the blow you took. Both your phone and your device fall from your hand. You scramble after him.
“Wait-”
But he’s gone. Out of your living room window, which you didn’t notice was wide open when you first walked into the apartment. You can’t see him on the street below, which is glaringly empty. It’s like he was a ghost, vanishing before you can blink. You are left staring at nothing, blood dripping steadily down your chin now, staining your bathrobe, your hair still damp from the shower, sticking to your face and neck. You can’t even register the pain anymore, can’t think of anything else except the cold depth of his one brown eye.
……………………………
“That’s impossible.”
“It was him.”
“And I’m telling you, that’s not possible.”
“I know what I saw, Josh.”
“Y/N, he’s dead. We had a funeral. We buried him.”
“Only parts.” But your voice cracks. You don’t like remembering that day. “We had an arm and a leg. Some teeth. And this man…. half of him was metal. He’s been modified.”
Joshua doesn’t reply, staring at the TV playing across the room on low volume. You follow his lead, gaze blank. You don’t really register much of anything since the pain in your face is too overwhelming to take in much else.
When you woke up this morning, you almost forgot what happened in your apartment mere hours ago. One look at the broken mess of your door, the twinge in your face that made your eyes water, and all the events came rushing back. The punch you took, running to your room, your door broken down, driving your attacker away.
Clear, brown, almond shaped eye. Just one eye, while the other half of the face was covered in what looked like a metal plate, and a mechanical, white circle where the other eye should have been.
“The Secretary of Defence has a bionic arm.” You add, absentmindedly.
“Just one arm.” Joshua counters. “Not half the entire body.”
“It wasn’t the entire body. I could make out the arm and leg. Some part of the face-”
“My point is,” Your friend cuts you off, “why would it be Seungcheol? And if by some miracle it was him, why would he attack you?”
You don’t answer, because you don’t know. You’ve been mulling over the same questions for hours, long before you finally called Joshua to come over. You know bionic prostheses are very much an emerging field in biotech circles. Everyone is racing towards this kind of technology because of how much revenue there is in the medical applications. The other, more sinister angle is weaponry, and you know that a lot of your fellow developers and companies want to tap into that potential. There have been rumors for months, covert projects underway by both government and private agencies to develop this exact kind of thing.
Maybe what you saw last night was an application of that weapon.
It still doesn’t explain why he would attack you. Doesn’t explain why the person who would never so much as raise his voice at you could hurt you so severely that Joshua balked at the sight of your purple and blue face, nose swollen and bruised in ugly colors that told you that you would have to work from home for the foreseeable future.
The Seungcheol you knew had been so gentle. That’s how you met him, actually, so many years ago that you don’t even recognise that time.
He’d spilled coffee on you, as cliché as it sounds. Thankfully, it missed any part of your skin that was bare, but even through the cloth it burned a bit. He was so apologetic, dark brown hair falling into his eyes, messed up by the wind in a look that reminded you a little bit of a gentle dog. He had panicked, tried to wipe you down, but you were too distracted by this giant of a man who talked so softly, dabbed your sleeve with a grip on your wrist uncharacteristically gentle for such large hands. He wanted to pay for dry cleaning, and you agreed only if he would let you buy a coffee to replace the one he had spilled on you. Of course, he didn’t let you pay even after agreeing to it.
“I spilled it on you.” He argued. “What kind of man would I be if I let you pay for it?”
His lips, full and pink in a way that you immediately wondered about the feel of them, ticked up, and a little dimple dented his right cheek. You felt the squeeze of your heart, fluttering wildly in your chest, a feeling that was replicated every day after that, for Seungcheol never left your side since then. Until the day he died. Or did he?
Joshua is watching the screen more intently now, eyebrows furrowing.
“Yoon Tech is doing a demonstration at the New York Expo? I had no idea.”
You blink to focus on the screen. Sure enough, Yoon Tech’s CEO, Yoon Jeonghan, is speaking to the audience and cameras with that sly, charming smile on his face, talking about unveiling a project that can revolutionise the field of war weaponry and put their military supremely on top of their competition around the world. You know Yoon Tech is the military’s primary contractor, and their focus is weaponry. You know this because before Yoon Tech, your company was approached for a military contract, one that you turned down because your prime focus was not weapons. Joshua still thinks you should have said yes, but you don’t want to take the company in that direction. Besides, things get messy if you have the government as your big boss.
“You know Jeonghan doesn’t say anything about projects until the day he unveils them.” You mumble, only half focusing. “He’s secretive that way-”
“Wait, shut up.” Joshua sits up abruptly, scrambling for the remote to turn the volume up. Behind Jeonghan, several people are stepping onto the stage. He’s introducing them one by one as military veterans, and your eyes catch their forms immediately, breath stilling. Protheses, lots of them.
A man with a bionic arm, quite like the one the Secretary of Defence has. A woman with a below knee prosthetic leg. There’s more, attached limbs and shoulders, half a pelvic girdle, part of a jaw. Jeonghan is still talking, gesturing to the people now lining up behind him. The silver gleams, just like it gleamed on Seungcheol’s body last night. The only difference is the Yoon Tech and Military logos stamped on the ones on your screen. Jeonghan announces a demonstration, steps off the stage, and you watch, completely silent, as all of them demonstrate feats of extraordinary strength, aided by their metal attachments, some even showing installed weaponry between the plates of their limbs.
“A formation of advanced humans,” Jeonghan is saying somewhere off screen. “Man and machine combined, that will allow these soldiers to serve their country in ways they did not even possess before their unfortunate injuries.”
“Josh…” Your voice trails off.
Joshua looks pale, confused, and a little frightened when his eyes meet your beaten and bruised face. It looks like he dared not believe, but you know he has reached the same conclusion as you.
“Jeonghan sent Seungcheol to kill you?”
…………………………
The only sound in the large, swanky office is the tea as it pours slowly into a cup on Jeonghan’s desk. It steams, and the scent of chamomile hits his nose. He watches it absentmindedly, and then waves his hand to dismiss his secretary. She places the tea kettle down gently and leaves without a word, and the room falls into silence. There is only him, and the man sitting opposite to him across his large, mahogany desk. Half his face is shrouded by darkness, the other half reflects the light as it hits the cold, unforgiving metal.
Jeonghan tuts.
“Well, this is definitely a setback.” He hums, picking up the cup so he can take a small sip. It warms his throat, perfect for the cold weather. But his mind remains distracted. “After the demonstration at the Expo yesterday, she will definitely know it was me who ordered the hit. After all, who else is making bionic weaponry?”
The man across from him doesn’t respond. He rarely talks unless directly spoken to, one eye blank and unseeing. Jeonghan doesn’t claim to know much about how the human brain works, but he supposes extensive memory modification can do that to a person.
“You always used to have something witty or crass to say, Seungcheol.” Jeonghan sighs. “Oh well. It was either that, or your willingness to kill her. I will take what I can get.”
Again, no reply. Jeonghan focuses on drinking his tea, thinking. His eyes are trained on his former business rival, the presumed dead husband of his current business rival. The soothing chamomile does nothing to take the bitter taste out of his mouth. He still feels the resentment, the bruise on his ego. For your company to be pursued as a first choice in a military partnership, when his own efforts are much grander, much more advanced, for you to turn that opportunity down (you’re a dumbass, he thinks), for him to be second choice, despite where he stands in tech circles…
A company that was a mere baby not even a full decade ago to beat something it took his family generations to build. It irks him. It burns him.
So he will burn you.
He did it once, in the explosion that took away what you loved the most. It should’ve been enough to deter you, but it clearly wasn’t. No matter, he plans to destroy you directly this time.
“You know what you need to do.” He says, mutely. The man before him stirs, nods. Jeonghan scowls at him.
“Make sure you finish the job this time.”
……………………………..
Seungcheol had always been a mega-nerd about tech. And his dream was to own his own company.
He would tell you about it, both of you sprawled on the uncomfortable rooftop of his college dorm building, staring at the sky. He’d talk and talk about his plans after graduation, about how he wanted to build something from the ground up, something he was proud of. You would listen, not just because the sound of his voice always made you so happy, but because you were genuinely interested in it. You had a business major, and while Seungcheol didn’t know how to run things, you did. Even then, it felt like a match made in heaven to you. Seungcheol knew the substance of the company, you knew how to run it. It almost felt like a no-brainer that eventually you would do this together.
Back in his dorm, you would plop yourself into his lap and look over the little gadgets he had designed, the many, many files in his computer of inventions you didn’t even know could exist. You would tease him, calling him a glorified mechanic.
“Engineer.” He would pout. You would kiss it off him through a million giggles. His laptop would be pushed off the bed, forgotten, as you sunk into each other’s arms.
The company was his baby, truly. While you were CEO because you ran day to day operations and focused on logistics, any product you pushed out was crafted carefully in Seungcheol’s hands. He would bring every prototype to you, you would run it by focus groups and tweak it, and eventually, it would hit the market with great success. Seungcheol always thought it was because of you.
“You run your magic over it, and it becomes a hit.” He would say, kissing your cheek over and over. You would just grin and take it, never ever pushing him away.
It was all Seungcheol, everyone knew this. But when he looked at you so softly, that glint of awe in his beautiful eyes, you would just indulge whatever he had to say.
“You wouldn’t know what to do without me, mister.” You would tease. He would squeeze you so tightly.
“You’re right. I wouldn’t.”
All those memories are ghosts now. The truth is, you don’t know what to do without him either. He was part of you, intertwined with your soul, and he was painfully ripped away after so many glorious years together. Sometimes, you think you imagined that time in your life. It feels so far away. But then you walk into your office, you look at the logo he designed, the furniture you picked out, the many, many unfinished files in your server that you are still working on, his creations, and you would be reminded that he was real. All that time, all that delirious bliss, was completely real.
Jeon Wonwoo is the current head of your Product Development branch, Seungcheol’s previous post. You had brought him in after the tragedy that killed your husband. Well, not you, but Joshua, who suggested overhauling the entire team after the attack. He is brilliant, quiet and a little reclusive, but whip-smart. He became intimately familiar with Seungcheol’s work when you brought him in, and he respected the integrity of it, which made you respect him even more. He’s no Seungcheol, but he’s the closest thing, and you think he might be the only one you can trust to answer the questions in your head.
“Bionic weaponry isn’t exactly novel.” He murmurs. “We know it exists. Not openly yet, but it’s being manufactured in a lot of places. Companies we know as well as around the world. Yoon Tech is just the first one to unveil it publicly.”
Joshua is pacing your living room floor, and watching him makes you feel dizzy, so you close your eyes instead. Your face is still tingling with pain, and you’re so tired that you just want to sleep. But you also need some form of explanation.
“So it’s possible? Modifying Seungcheol’s body like that?” Joshua asks.
Wonwoo hesitates, holding his chin and staring at the far wall. “Theoretically, yes. Practically, I haven’t seen or heard of it yet. Not to the extent you describe. Establishing neural connections in that many body parts and making sure they work in perfect coordination is a huge undertaking.”
Joshua looks at you pointedly, as if to say ‘I told you so’.
“But,” Wonwoo clears his throat, “if anyone can accomplish it, it would be Yoon Tech. Their R&D team is the best in the game.”
You return Joshua’s look the best that you can through your marred face. He huffs.
“What about the fact that he attacked her? Why would he do that?” He asks.
Wonwoo blinks. “Oh, that’s easy. Memory modification. Brainwashing. CIA has been doing it for years. A lot of assassins operate under that frame of mind. It’s easier to control them that way.”
A small silence stretches over the room. Joshua is chewing on the inside of his cheek.
“So he doesn’t know who I am.” You mumble. “I’m just….. what, a target?”
Wonwoo nods. “Likely, yes. And you know Jeonghan way better than me, ma’am. It’s very like him to toy with you by using Seungcheol specifically.”
You can’t argue with him on that. You know how ruthless Jeonghan is about his company, about his standing in tech circles. You’re catching up, dangerously close, and some would say you’ve even surpassed him. You won't put it past him to knock out competition under the table.
You never did find out who ordered the hit on Seungcheol five years ago. But now, you think you know.
“Can we undo it?” You ask. “The memory change, or whatever?”
Joshua stares at you. “What do you mean?”
Wonwoo answers you, though.
“I think so, yes. It’s not my area of expertise, but I know people who can tell us more about it. The memory isn’t the problem, though. He’s basically a walking weapon. Subduing him long enough to do anything about his brain is going to be an issue.”
“Whoa, hold on.” Joshua steps closer to you, cutting off your reply to Wonwoo, holding a hand up. Both of you look at him as he stares at you in bewilderment.
“What the hell are you planning? Are you insane? He almost killed you!”
“What do you want me to do then?” You grit your teeth. “Nothing? Should I just lay down and let him kill me?”
“We need to call the police-”
You laugh dryly. Your face twinges with pain.
“I have no proof. You think any agency in this city is going to mess with Yoon Tech? And by some miracle if they do believe me, do you think any of them are going to spare Seungcheol long enough to save him?”
Joshua’s mouth opens and closes, like he wants to protest, but no words leave him. He huffs and shakes his head, running a frustrated hand through his hair. You turn your attention back to Wonwoo.
“I know you’re not a biotech expert, but you’re the best IT guy I know. Any ideas on how to hack into Yoon Tech’s mainframe?”
Wonwoo looks a little taken aback. “That’s….. illegal.”
You roll your eyes, ignoring the pain that comes with it. “I’m pretty sure trying to get your business competitor killed is illegal too. Jeonghan seems comfortable attempting it twice.”
He nods slowly, still slightly hesitant. “I will need help…”
You stand up, essentially declaring the meeting over. You’re tired, as you often are these days. Your injury might look like it affects your face only, but you feel the exhaustion bone deep in every part of you. You want a soothing cup of tea and then a million blankets to lie down in. That's it.
“Call in anyone you need.”
…………………………
You know he will come again. The only question is when.
The bruises around your nose and under your eyes take a long time to fade. The slow move from a deep purple, to blue, to a sickly green and then yellow surprises you every day. You’re breathing easy now, only a week later, but you know going to the office looking like this will raise serious questions. You can’t risk any eyes on this right now, since getting Seungcheol back needs to be as discrete as possible.
That’s what you plan to do. Get him back.
It’s idealistic, almost. Maybe something out of a movie. He has been altered, mind and body, for years. You don’t even want to imagine how much he was been put through. How convoluted must his mind be now? How dangerous would tinkering with his body be?
Every few minutes, your hand reaches into the pocket of your jeans, toying with the small, rectangular chip that Wonwoo had given you a couple of days ago.
“You need to get close enough to him to get this on any bionic part of him.” He told you. “Arm, leg, doesn’t matter. We can’t hack into Yoon Tech’s mainframe, it’s too secure. But we can isolate him from it. This chip can do that. Once that’s done, we can figure out a way to rewire his mechanics.”
It’s easier said than done, of course. For one, Seungcheol is nearly twice your size. He’s always been massive, but he seems even more so now. You wonder if he has worked covertly for Yoon Tech to do other dirty work. How long has he been their weapon? How much training does he have? Can you, a novice civilian, even get close enough to him to do any lasting damage?
“You managed it once, didn’t you?” Joshua replied to your mind’s worries. “You got out of that alive, somehow. I’m willing to bet you can do it again.”
“He’ll be more careful this time.” Wonwoo mumbled. “For one, he won’t try again until you’re completely alone. For another, he will make sure you are isolated from any weapon you might be able to access.”
So now here you are, meandering in your kitchen, watching your television blankly, staring unseeing at your laptop. Anything and everything to make yourself look as unassuming as possible. He’s watching, you know he is, and every fiber of your body is silently asking him to come to you. You wait, and wait, because you would wait endlessly for him. Somehow, you’re not afraid. In your head, this ends in one of two ways. Either you get the love of your life back, or you die trying. You’re good with both options.
It’s Tuesday by the time he finally shows up.
You think you sense him, because the hair on your body stands. You feel the chill, and then, that very soft whirring sound that comes when he moves his limbs.
You stare at the contents inside your refrigerator. You don’t turn around. And yet, he doesn’t shoot. He doesn’t swing.
“I was expecting you sooner.” You finally say.
When you turn to look at him, your eyes catch his visible brown one. Your breath hitches. He has ditched the mask, and you can see his face. Well, what’s left of it.
Metal pieces are carved into the shape of his right ear, curling forward to form a cheekbone, encroaching all the way over his eye and stopping right before his nose. It covers the ridge of his right eyebrow as well, but spares his forehead. A white, flat circle is fitted where his eye should be, and now that you look closely at it, it swirls and moves, no doubt mapping your every move.
The rest of his face is gloriously, warmly human. It’s him, it’s his left eye, his thick, furrowed eyebrow, the strong bridge of his nose, his lips, set in a hard line on his face. His hair has been cropped right to his skull, dyed a dirty blond with brown roots already growing out, slightly spiked and dishevelled around his head. Finally, your eyes dart down to the pistol in his hand, pointing directly at your chest.
You clench your teeth.
“Shoot me.”
He doesn’t reply, but his mouth tightens. From your chest, the gun rises to your head. The shifting of his aim is your window. Your hand shoots back, grabs and throws the first thing you can find at him. It’s a glass. His metal arm comes up, makes contact, and the glass shatters. His stance does not falter for even a second, but he flinches at the shards of glass, and before it even makes contact, you are sprinting forward, hand curled tight around the chip, and with one leap, you collide into him. Hard.
Your momentum is enough, and you both fall in a mess of limbs. You scramble, finding the edge of the plate in his shoulder, but before you can wedge the chip in it, his human hand reaches up and smashes hard against your jaw. You cry out, the sharp sting blooming, the taste of blood already in your mouth. But your hands are still moving, and before you know it, the chip hits hard against his bicep, immediately lighting up a pale yellow, the tiny spikes on its edges sinking into the metal.
Seungcheol shouts and roughly pushes you off. You fall limply on your side, trying to see through how dizzy you are. Everything hurts, your face is on fire, but your eyes are focused on the pale yellow streaks spreading over Seungcheol’s arm, glowing between the plates making up his leg, part of his face. His arm and leg jerk hard, seemingly out of his control. He shouts again, trying to stand up, but it looks like his limbs aren’t cooperating with him anymore.
The human part is still his though.
You force yourself, despite the excruciating pain and the blood now sliding down your throat, and you rush into the living room. Under your couch, you’ve stored what you need. Electromagnetic cuffs, both for his wrists and ankles, shiny grey steel with a light that blinks on when you press the buttons on them. You can hear Seungcheol stumble onto his feet in the kitchen, and you’re already rushing back before he can stand properly. The cuffs hum, slam hard around his human wrist and the light on them turns red. The arm goes limp on his side immediately. He can’t react, not with his only remaining limb, and you are able to secure the other cuff around his ankle as well.
With that, your husband crumples to your kitchen floor.
He’s motionless from the neck down, but he strains hard. You can see the muscles in his neck bulge. He is flushed with the exertion of it, grunting and snarling. His glare is venomous as you back into the kitchen island, trying not to choke on the blood dripping down your throat as you breathe hard.
You drape yourself over the sink, trying not to throw up, spitting blood into it so you can breathe. Behind you, Seungcheol is still groaning and straining, to no avail. You stay leaning over until the wave of nausea passes, and the bleeding slows. Finally, you grab a bunch of paper towels, wiping your mouth and chin. The metallic taste still lingers.
Your hands leave some streaks of blood on your phone as you dial Wonwoo’s number. He picks up on the first ring, and when he speaks, you realise he was anticipating your call.
“The chip just connected to my server! I’m working on decrypting and isolating him from Yoon Tech’s servers right now.”
“How long is it going to take?” You ask, not recognising your own, broken voice. Your jaw is sore. You’re in so much pain.
“I don’t know yet….” Wonwoo’s voice is more subdued. “Are you okay? Do you need help?”
You shake your head before you realise he can’t see you.
“I’m fine. It’s just a scratch.” Big underreport. “What do I do while you work on this?”
Wonwoo doesn’t immediately answer, but you can hear shuffling in the background.
“What I’m doing only changes the physical.” His voice sounds apologetic. “The mental barrier, his lack of memory, I can’t fix that.”
You know what he is implying. You turn your head to look at Seungcheol, still on your kitchen floor, heaving but no longer futilely straining.
“Thanks, Wonwoo. I can handle that part.”
The truth is, you don’t know if you can. You don’t know what was done to him. You don’t even know if your husband still exists somewhere inside him, or if he was wiped out completely. Are you even cut out for this? With your modest business degree and a company that is successful only because of Seungcheol’s genius, where do you stand in this situation?
As you walk back into the kitchen, watching the man writhing on the floor does nothing to soothe your confidence. Suddenly, all your clarity is gone.
You don’t know what to do.
……………………………..
Seungcheol was a very clingy man.
You always liked that about him. To you, he was like an overgrown bear, curling around you tightly while you chopped vegetables until you complained that you still needed your mobility in order to cook dinner.
“You’re too heavy, Cheolie!” You would whine, but his grip on you would only tighten, pressing your back harder into his front.
“Five more minutes.” He would mumble into your hair. You would laugh incredulously.
You’re reminded of that moment as you drag this immobilised, half human, half robot man into your living room, using every bit of your strength to plop him onto the armchair next to the couch. You’re heaving, your head pounding so severely that it makes you dizzy. There’s no fight in him anymore, and he stares blankly at you as you cough a little, still feeling drops of blood hit your palm as you do so. You huff and go to the bathroom to clean up, rummaging in your medicine cabinet for anything that could ease your pain. You leave him on the chair, knowing he’s incapable of escaping anyway.
Fifteen minutes later, you’re sitting on the couch with a cup of tea, your legs curled under you, a blanket draped over your lap. You stare with bleary vision at the dark, steaming liquid. Seungcheol stares at the ceiling, head thrown back. Neither of you says a word.
“Do you speak?” You muse out loud, not looking at him. “I haven’t heard you talk yet, so it makes me wonder.”
No reply.
“Jasmine tea was your favorite, you know?” You mumble on, not even fully aware of what you are saying. “You were always a coffee person, but when you had tea with me sometimes, it would be jasmine. It’s the only one you could stomach, actually.”
A mirthless laugh leaves you. He still stares at the ceiling. You watch him, the stiff cut of his jaw, the streaks of yellow glowing under the plates of his bionic attachments. There is a distinct, soft hum coming from them, but both of you elect to ignore it.
“Seungcheol.” You whisper. He doesn’t react beyond a small flick of his eyelid.
You’re so tired. You can feel it tug on your limbs, like invisible weights making it difficult to even move. With every ounce of strength in you, you stand up, walking to the closet in your hallway. You return with a pale blue blanket, the one Seungcheol got for himself years ago and never let go, claiming it was a comfort for him. Now, his eye trains on you as you shake it out and drape it over his torso and legs. You don’t look at him, just loosely tucking him in before walking back to the couch, pulling your own blanket around yourself and sinking into the uncomfortable cushion.
You don’t notice his eye on you. You don’t notice anything else as you welcome the pitch black of dreamless sleep. You send out a little prayer that by morning, somehow all of this will be over and you will wake up in bed, wrapped up in your husband’s warm arms.
You’re wrong, sadly. There is nothing but cold.
He’s exactly where you left him before drifting off. He stares into the distance, looking disconnected until you shift and his eye catches the movement. You wince at the crick in your neck, somehow even more tired than you were before sleeping. You sigh and rub your eyes.
“Did you sleep?” You ask.
No response.
You leave him on the couch, opting to putter to the kitchen to make yourself a cup of tea. You eye the cabinet against the far wall, staring at the bottles inside and the amber liquid that gleams in them. A glance at the clock tells you it’s barely noon.
Fuck this.
Seungcheol doesn’t react in any way when you walk into the living room with a bottle of whiskey and a glass that’s too big for a drink like that. He just watches you from the corner of his eye as you sit back on the couch and pour yourself a concerning amount, wincing when your throat protests against the first sip.
“You would not approve of this at all.” You chuckle humorlessly. “You’d be appalled, I think. Drinking this early? Whiskey of all things? That was never my drink. I didn’t have the tolerance for it. You’re the whiskey guy.”
He doesn’t interrupt. You take another sip and stare at the glass. Already, on an empty stomach, you can feel your senses dimming.
“Sometimes I think,” you whisper, “you would really hate the person I’ve become.”
His head lolls in your direction, the only part of his body he can control. His eye meets yours and you feel your heart squeeze.
“I don’t know you.”
His voice is hoarse, a little crack in it from disuse. But it’s his voice, the voice you’ve yearned to hear for so long. You remember laying in your bed at night, wishing you could hear him whisper one last time, maybe even just the sound of your name from his lips, just once more, to hold you over. Your breath hitches, and you can feel your vision blur under newly formed tears.
“I’m your wife.”
“You’re my target.”
You stand abruptly, walking closer to where he sits, or rather, lays sprawled out under the blanket you draped over him. You tug it aside, eye the yellow lines of light that pass over his bionic limbs. You reach down to run a finger over the chip you attached to his bicep.
“If I pull this off you right now,” you stare directly into his eye. “Would you kill me?”
A small silence. Then he nods.
You let out a shaky breath, standing back up. The air is tense, and by now, you’re sick of it. You need to get away from him for a bit, no matter how badly that very thought pains you. Whiskey ignored on the coffee table, you walk to the door to tug your shoes on. You eye the back of his blond head with your hand on the doorknob, feeling a certain sense of defeat.
“Ironic, isn’t it?” You mumble, but he hears you. “You’re the one who created that chip.”
The door closes softly behind you.
……………………………………
There is a mess in his head. A tangled web of wires. He doesn’t know how to begin unraveling it. He can’t even find a single free end to tug on.
In the quiet of the room he is sitting in, he can hear warped voices from inside his own thoughts. He can’t make out any words, only tones, soft and loud both, some conversational, some that sound like laughter. He knows the voice, can recognise it. It’s the woman whose armchair he is sitting on.
Something presses on his temple, like a weighted force, insistent, as if urging him to listen more closely. But he can’t, because it makes pain bloom between his eyebrows, pain so severe it makes his eye water.
Every now and then, he feels intense heat, a kind that’s less uncomfortable and more painful. As suddenly as it comes, it goes away, and the blanket draped over him does nothing but elevate the sensation of it. He sits in the quiet, with the floating voices, the laughter, the weight on his head, the pain between his eyebrows, and the bursts of painful heat that bloom on his skin.
His ears perk when he hears the front door clink open after what seems like hours. He can’t turn himself around to look, so he just listens to the stumbling and mumbled cursing, shuffling and then a soft thud of cloth hitting the ground. Bare footsteps, a quiet sound, and then the woman from before enters his line of sight.
You’re clearly inebriated. He has stalked enough victims before ending their lives to know what alcohol intoxication looks like. He eyes you carefully as you putter around the living room, not doing anything in particular. Then, you look straight at him.
“I don’t know what to do.” You finally speak, and the words are less slurred than he expected them to be. “I don’t know what to do with you.”
He doesn’t reply. You move closer to him, and his face, the only thing he can move, tenses when you pull the blanket back and sink onto the chair by his side. He can feel the press of you against his skin, even if he can’t move. Your shoulder fits under his arm, you head on his collarbone. You drape the blanket over your joined bodies.
“Let’s just pretend everything is okay.” You whisper, your voice cracking slightly. Your arm drapes over his torso. “Just for right now. Just one night.”
He stares at the wall, his side warming quickly under the added weight. It’s different from the heat he felt before, stinging and sudden, disconcerting. It’s different from anything he has felt in a long time. No one touches him. No one has been near him for years, except the people he has taken the lives of, or the scientists that fitted his limbs. This heat right now, it is dull but constant, like how the sun feels on your skin. He hears laughter again, but this time it’s clearer, and it sounds familiar, like something he has heard before. In another life.
He stares at the far wall as your breathing evens out. Your weight doesn’t feel very uncomfortable anymore as time passes. The clock ticks softly, and the rise and fall of your chest is rhythmic. He can feel your heartbeat against his ribcage. There is a whisper in his head. A name. His own. In a voice that is quickly becoming familiar.
He’s tired, but he doesn’t sleep. He can’t remember the last time he slept.
…………………………..
Going into work becomes out of the question immediately, since you can’t leave a brainwashed assassin on your couch unattended for a whole day. Joshua pays you a visit with some stuff that needs taking a look, but otherwise, you sit on the couch, your laptop in front of you, and get through meetings and daily logistics that way. As you work, you think out loud, talking to Seungcheol about random tasks that come up, some hiccup at work you’re fretting over, and how your head of accounting keeps pissing you off. It’s mundane stuff, but it is exactly the things that you used to talk about on the daily. You loved debriefing with your husband, especially because he worked in the same place as you, so he knew all these people just as well, and knew what you were talking about.
Now, he doesn’t respond much. But you’re okay with that. You’re just glad he is here, and not dead like you had assumed for the last five years.
After your moment of inebriated weakness, spending the night curled up in his warmth, you suddenly feel some semblance of hope again. You had heard his heart beat, had felt the twitch and shift of his skin under your touch. He is still your Seungcheol, even if half of him is cold and unfamiliar, you are certain that he is somewhere in there, deep inside. And you’re convinced that if he didn’t remember at all, he wouldn’t have let you sleep on him the way that he did.
(Granted, he had no choice since he was paralysed. But you choose to ignore that reality.)
Joshua has been very wary of this quiet, motionless version of Seungcheol. He steers clear when he visits, not engaging in any way and just choosing to finish up on work with you and leaving. One night, you ask him to stay for dinner, and for the first time, he hesitates. You see his eyes flick to where Seungcheol is sitting, and you sigh in irritation.
“He’s not a piece of furniture, Josh.” You mutter. “He’s still my husband.”
“Is he?” He counters, dryly. “Because it’s been weeks and there’s been nothing. I assumed if he was really in there, we would’ve seen something by-”
“He’s there.” You hiss, cutting him off. Joshua blinks at your harsh tone. “I’ve been here with him every second of every day. I see it in his eyes. He isn’t gone yet-”
The crack in your voice cuts you off. You take a deep breath, blinking vigorously to keep your tears at bay. Joshua has fallen silent, eyeing you with a forlorn expression. After a few seconds, when he realises you won’t continue, he simply nods.
That night, after Joshua has gone, you still have his uncertainty on your mind. You eye the back of Seungcheol’s head, and remember the last few weeks. A seed has been planted in your head, plaguing your brain with doubt and pain. And once again, you feel that bone deep exhaustion that comes and goes frequently these days.
You make up your mind quickly, and your body follows in resignation.
Slowly, you walk back to the living room where Seungcheol sits. You walk closer to him, reaching for his flesh arm, the thick, metal cuff on his wrist. It sizzles a bit, recognises your thumbprint, and clicks, loosening. You don’t look at Seungcheol, despite the fact that he is eyeing you in surprise. You simply kneel down to quickly do the same to the cuff around his ankle before standing up again.
He moves with a little hesitation, stretching his leg and flexing his arm, his fingers. The limbs are stiff, and you’re sure weeks of no activity have left them sore. His bionic arm, and his pants clad leg, both still glow with pale, yellow light, the symbol of your and Wonwoo’s control of them. You reach forward, and yank the chip on his arm hard, disconnecting it. The yellow vanishes, leaving only gleaming, silver metal.
The chip is warm inside your palm. You step back, blinking away tears of what feels like a chapter closing.
“You can leave if you want.” You mumble. “Or kill me, since that’s your mission.”
Slowly, Seungcheol stands. His metal attachments click and whir, buzzing with life again as he twists and moves them, feeling them out. You take a deep breath and realise you can’t stand to look at him anymore. So you head to the kitchen.
You shuffle around mindlessly, just waiting to hear the front door open and close, or maybe you wait for searing pain from wherever he chooses to attack you. You can’t predict what he will do anymore. There was once a time you knew him so well, you could even count his breaths in your head, could mimic the rise and fall of his chest under your palm. Now, you feel like you are lost at sea and he’s nowhere to be found.
There’s shuffling behind you, but you don’t turn around.
“I don’t know you.” He says, and the words hurt just as much as they did when he first spoke them weeks ago. You grit your teeth hard.
“But,” he continues. Hesitates, “I did know you. In another time.”
You feel yourself stiffen, turning just enough to look at him. He fills the doorway, but his figure is hunched, uncertain. You wonder if he is just as tired as you. If he can feel it tug on his limbs like you do, like it’s anchoring him to the floor. How has he felt, watching you for weeks and weeks, nowhere to go but to sit and listen to any word that falls out of your mouth?
“I want to know.” He continues. “I want to remember.”
You stare at him for a long time before you finally move to where he stands. He doesn’t step back, doesn’t react at all, even when you stop just inches from his face. His human eye, brown like the earth, flicks with something you can’t place, and the metal that covers the other half, plain grey, cold and distant. Just where the metal meets his face, the skin is raw and red. Up close, you can see how angry it looks, and you wonder how careless the person was who put him together.
Your heart aches.
“Okay.” You say simply. No promises, no guarantees. Only a commitment, and a hope to see it succeed.
…………………………
It’s a little strange to settle into a routine with this new version of Seungcheol.
For one, he doesn’t do most things humans would. He eats very little, maybe one meal a day, and sleeps even less. He spends a lot of time to himself, mostly silent rumination, something that wasn’t part of his personality at all before. He’s always been loud and jovial, so this change takes some adjusting. You suspect there is a lot about him, maybe all of it, that isn’t the same anymore. The thought hurts you, so you try not to dwell.
You open your spare bedroom for him, since lounging in your living room day and night can’t really be comfortable. You still have his old clothes, whatever you managed to salvage after the explosion in your shared home. He is deeply intrigued by them, and asks, in a low voice, what other belongings of his you held on to.
The answer is: everything.
You make a trip to the storage unit you bought before you moved to your new, drab apartment. You lug back boxes of Seungcheol’s incomplete inventions, designs he was working on at the time, little contraptions that were half functioning, his diaries, his notes. You even bring back his absurdly large collection of watches, every brand and every new, cool tech that existed in the market.
“They were your one vice.” You smile at the memory as he opens the gigantic box. “You actually designed a few yourself too. This one-”
You point to a shiny, square shaped one in the corner. Seungcheol eyes it closely.
“This one was connected to me. You installed something in it that links to the one I wear, and it clicks at the same rhythm as my heartbeat. So it’s not really for telling time.” You shrug.
“I made this?” He asks, lifting the watch from its snug case. It’s not functional anymore, probably out of battery after so many years. It’s strange, because it has no hands and no numbers. There is an engraving of your initials just under the glass, over a black background.
You nod. “You said it made you feel like I was by your side all the time.”
Your voice is low. It almost cracks. He doesn’t say anything more.
You stick to working from home for a prolonged amount of time now, which isn’t difficult, since you’re mostly confined to your office when you go into work anyway. A week or so after Seungcheol asked you if he could stay, you’re due for a site visit. And you offer for him to come with you.
He hesitates.
“No one is going to recognise you.” You reassure him. “For one, it’s an all new staff. And for another, you’re blond now. And short haired.”
He subconsciously runs a hand over his head, his lips pulling together in what can only be a ghost of one of his infamous pouts.
“It doesn’t look bad.” He mumbles.
“I never said it does.” You reply, holding back a smile as you put a plate of eggs and toast in front of him. You tilt your head as you appraise his hair. He’s trying to flatten it down on his head.
“No, don’t do that.” You swat away his hand, running your fingers through the short but soft locks and lifting them up a bit. You mess around with it, distressing it a bit more. You know he’s watching you. It makes your cheeks heat a bit. You try to ignore the feeling.
“There.” You withdraw your hands. “It looks so nice now.”
When your eyes meet his, you realise his ears are tinged pink, and so is the back of his neck. You try to ignore the racing of your heart.
Wonwoo meets you on site, and he’s a little taken aback by Seungcheol being there. His face is covered with a mask, but the metal eye gives it away. After some stumbling, Wonwoo elects to ignore Seungcheol’s presence in favor of just getting work done, and you become immersed in it as well.
“This is where the problem is.” Wonwoo points, handing you the tablet. “There is definitely something wrong, but I can’t tell if it’s because I messed up the configuration or not. I’ve been trying a few different options but they all haven’t worked so far.”
Just over your shoulder, you feel Seungcheol lean in to look at the screen in your hand. You try not to think about him being so close.
“Maybe request a consultation.” You respond. “There is a reason we have engineers on call-”
“The configuration isn’t the problem.” A voice speaks from behind you. “Your base algorithm is wrong.”
You blink and turn your head, eyeing Seungcheol’s human eye, which is right beside you. Wonwoo frowns and steps closer, looking down at the tablet.
“How so?”
You tune it out, only registering his voice and not his words, watching as he points and explains where to make the change. You’re reminded of a time where Seungcheol would do this every day, and you would step back to let him do his thing. You can feel him now, right at your shoulder, his warmth so close you can almost perceive it. As you eye the side of his face, you fight the urge to kiss him. Or hug him. Anything. Your fingers twitch with it. Your heart yearns for it.
It’s over too quickly. And then he steps back.
Wonwoo is already taking the tablet from you, making adjustments as he thanks Seungcheol. You send him a little smile as he walks away, turning to look at the man on your side.
“That was very nice of you.” You say. He just nods a little sheepishly.
“It was an obvious solution.”
You shake your head, patting his arm as you move to walk past him. The metal is rigid and unforgiving under your fingers.
“Don’t be so modest. You were born for this.”
Seungcheol seems to be in a particularly good mood after that.
……………………….
Things get smoother as time goes by.
Something about going into work with you that one time clicks with Seungcheol. With all the material from your storage room, he starts tinkering with his old things again. There’s so many notes and designs, complete and incomplete blueprints keeping him occupied. He does it mostly in the living room, which you don’t mind. You’re glad he isn’t confined to his room. You like seeing him putter around the house or sit crosslegged on the floor, his metal arm whirring and clicking with every turn and movement. Sometimes, he sits out on the balcony when the weather is nice, and you join him with some tea or coffee. You don’t understand most of what he does, you never have, but you listen to him anyway. You bask in the way it lightens his voice, injects life into it. Sometimes, when he has come up with a new idea, he almost sounds exactly like he did before.
Your hope is increasing, tightening around your chest in a way that warms you up but traps you as well. Fear lingers, that this will all go away, that you’re balancing on a poorly strung tightrope and soon enough, you will fall.
And then that moment comes, the inevitable snap.
It’s a bright day, and you’re out for some groceries because you didn’t anticipate living with another person again, and your pantry is getting dangerously empty. You’re actually considering fresh produce instead of all the prepackaged crap you’ve been eating for so long. Seungcheol barely eats one meal a day, so it seems unfair if that one meal comes out of a box.
You’re considering which veggies to buy, lightly squeezing a tomato in your hand, when you feel something at your shoulder. It almost makes you jump, because it feels ominous, and your intuition is correct when you turn your head and come face to face with Yoon Jeonghan.
He’s in a black trenchcoat that nearly swallows his frame, a black cap on his head with dark strands poking out from under it. He looks particularly unassuming, just a casual shopper alongside you. His eyes are not on you, his lips pursed in what looks like consideration as he picks up another tomato, turns it around in his hand.
“This one is firmer.” He finally says, and his voice sounds jovial, casual, like it always does. “It will rot slower. You should get this.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” You grit out, your voice low to make sure no one hears you. One look around the aisle tells you that it’s empty. It’s just him and you. Your nerves are on high alert.
Jeonghan tuts, finally looking at you from the corner of his eye. “Is that any way to talk to a peer? You’ve become so rude, Y/N.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Sarcasm drips from your voice. “I didn’t realise I still had to extend common courtesy to you after you’ve tried to kill me. Twice.”
Jeonghan winces, then chuckles. “Yeah, that was my bad.”
You blink, waiting for him to continue. He doesn’t. He drops the tomato in his hand, picking up and inspecting another.
“That’s it?” You scoff. “‘My bad’? You try to get me killed by turning my husband into a half human killing machine and your response is ‘my bad’?”
“Well, you got him back, no?” He responds. “I would say that’s a huge improvement on whatever sad, bachelorette life you’ve been living all this time.”
You scoff, incredulous. “You’re so…. you’re-”
No words come. You just shake your head. Jeonghan looks at you again, this time, a sly smile crosses his face.
“How about a truce? I don’t try to kill you again, and I don’t demand my asset back from you. Consider it an apology for the attempts on your life.”
You glare at him, feeling anger bubble in you again. “Asset?”
He blinks, like he’s surprised. “Well, yes. Do you know how much Yoon Tech invested in developing him? It wasn’t easy. But it’s fine. I’ve made a lot of progress on bionic weaponry since then. So you can keep him.”
Your rage is boiling over at the way he is speaking of Seungcheol, but you know there’s a reason Jeonghan decided to ‘run into’ you at a public place. You can’t react the way you want to, which is the intense need to strangle him where he stands.
You know there’s nothing you can do about anything Jeonghan has attempted. His company is a mammoth, that and his military contract make him basically untouchable. The only proof you have of his doing is Seungcheol’s own person, and you don’t want to drag him into the legal mess that would ensue. Here Jeonghan stands, offering you a truce because he thinks he has won already, which is new bionic weapons branch going over so well and elevating him to a status no one else would dare to achieve. To him, you are not a threat anymore, and so he is discarding you just like he does with everyone else.
Considering all your options, you think being discarded by him might be the best case scenario here.
“Fine.” You finally relent, watching him smile and step back, almost in finality.
“Great. See you around, Y/N. You should attend next year’s New York expo. I’ve got great things lined up, you know? Maybe it will inspire something in you too.”
He winks and walks a few steps backward, that characteristic smirk on his face still, before turning around and sauntering away, the basket in his head still empty. You watch his back as he leaves, feeling some sense of resolution, no matter how bittersweet it may be.
People like Jeonghan never get justice, because they are too valuable to lose. He has made himself indispensable, which means he will continue to achieve new heights despite whatever operations he conducts in the dark. That’s the reality you live in.
The only saving grace here is that it’s not Seungcheol who will have to do his dirty work going forward.
………………………………….
You’re not really here, Seungcheol can tell.
There’s a distant look in your eyes, like you’re lost deep in thought, as you stir the pot sizzling on the stove. You’ve been like this since you got back with groceries, not greeting him with that usual sweet tone you always use. It’s a little detached, even though he can see that you're clearly attempting to appear normal. He offers to help make dinner, and you take him up on it, so he is quick to begin chopping vegetables as you prepare the rice. You work quietly, which is unlike you. Usually, you don’t stop talking, something he’s grown quite fond of.
The truth is, Seungcheol remembers you, in bits and pieces.
Voices and pictures pass through his brain, like flash cards being held up in front of him. There’s no rhyme and reason to them, no chronological order, like a CD stopping and starting at random intervals. You’re there in so many of them, right by his side, watching him, talking to him, touching him in places he wouldn’t dare let anyone touch. His fingers twitch when he feels it, like a ghost caressing his skin. Sometimes, he thinks he can feel you in his bones, coursing through his veins, and he wonders if he is connected to you in some way.
It scares him.
There’s nothing tangible there, no memory he can reach for and grab. As soon as he tries, it scatters like whisps. He knows he has lived a life, but he has no idea how that life went beyond rusty recollections that come and go. It sets him on edge, and so he never brings them up. He can’t, not when he knows for certain that you will cling onto them with unyielding hope. And he can’t have that burden on him when he already feels like he’s a shell of what he once was.
The only thing solid is you. But today, you’re far away as well.
“Something is bothering you.” He finally says when you’re eating at the kitchen island an hour later. There are dirty pots and pans in the sink. You will clean up after dinner. Right now, you move your food around absentmindedly, and Seungcheol doesn’t like this distance.
You blink and look at him, giving him a small smile that barely reaches your eyes. “Sorry, I’m just thinking about some stuff. Don’t worry about it.”
But he worries. He always worries, because you are all he has. So he pushes.
“Maybe I can help.”
You look a little surprised, and very touched, so your smile this time is more genuine.
“Thank you, Seungcheol, but really, I’m fine. The situation has resolved itself, I’m just going over it. There’s nothing to do.”
Seungcheol hesitates, but his intuition urges him to speak. “Is it Yoon Jeonghan?”
Your shocked expression tells him that he hit the nail on the head.
“How did you know?”
Seungcheol shrugs. He didn’t know, not for certain, but he had a feeling that Jeonghan wouldn’t just give up without one final attack, be it physical or psychological. It appears it was the latter.
“I’ve spent a long time with him.” He replies, pointedly ignoring your stare. “He’s- there’s a lot to him. Most of it isn’t good. I assumed he wouldn’t just leave this alone.”
Your chest rises and falls with a deep breath. “That’s just it, actually. He kind of has.”
Seungcheol’s eyebrows furrow. He listens intently as you finally open up, telling him about the encounter you had with the man at the grocery store. He lets the story linger for a bit after you’re done, absorbing the words.
“So, that’s it.” He finally says, but there’s uncertainty in his voice. He knows you hear it too. You sigh.
“I think, in his head, he’s still won because you’re not who you once were.” You add, turning back to your plate to push your food around. You don’t meet his eye. “He doesn’t think you’re a threat to him anymore because you have no memory. So by extension, I’m not a threat anymore either. I’m sure that to him, you’re-”
You pause, avoiding his stare. “You’re more like something he’s dumped on me. Because you’re not who you once were.”
You immediately look up as you say it, your eyes harder now, more resolute. “Which is not true. You’re still Seungcheol, even if you don’t remember. And I’m so happy you’re here with me, because I thought I would never see you again. Even with half of you still gone, you’re worth ten of him.”
Seungcheol’s heart squeezes, a feeling that is foreign to him, as he takes in the heated determination in your eyes. He realises that his fear, the sense of self he lacks, is not something that is well founded. You wouldn’t care that he remembers just snippets. You’re willing to accept him even as an empty husk.
He makes up his mind.
“You used to pour water into your half full shampoo bottle.” His throat tightens as he speaks. You blink, taken aback. “When we were in college. Because you had to make it last until your next paycheque.”
“And you liked those animal print socks. The pink panther ones. They were so warm. I was pretty annoyed that they wouldn’t fit me. So you got me black panther ones my size so we could match. I loved those so much. Every winter, I had to be careful how often I wore them because I didn’t want them to fray.”
You’re watching him speak, a thin layer of tears is shining in your eyes, and Seungcheol tries to soldier on.
“You got a bird clock for our first apartment that chirped every hour. God, I hated that thing. But you loved it so I never said anything.”
“I knew.” You speak, finally, your voice higher and breaking at the end. “You always got the most annoyed look on your face when it chirped. I thought it was funny to see how long you could take it.”
You let out a wet laugh. Seungcheol gives you a bitter smile.
“It’s only bits and pieces.” He explains, trying not to let guilt overwhelm him. “I don’t remember a lot. It’s just the little things that come to me.”
“It’s enough.” Tears make tracks down your cheeks. You reach forward, and Seungcheol feels the warmth of your hand as it curls around his human one. The contact makes something sizzle. It’s familiar. He remembers this clear as crystal. “It’s more than enough.”
He doesn’t let go. You don’t pull away.
………………………….
Things feel different. They are different now. The hope that felt like a noose around your neck, ready to tighten and kill you, is a much warmer feeling, blooming in your chest and transforming into a joy you haven’t felt in a really long time. You think Seungcheol has noticed. He notices more than you were previously giving him credit for. And it looks like he welcomes the change too.
Despite not eating much, Seungcheol busies himself with making you breakfast every morning. You tell him he doesn’t have to, but he shoots it down.
“I’m not sleeping anyway.” He retorts. “Besides, I used to do this before, didn’t I?”
You nod, smiling as you watch him scramble eggs in a pan. It was always this way back then. He would take care of breakfast, you would have lunch at the office, and then you would do dinner and he would clean up after. The domesticity of it, the harmony, is returning. Sometimes, when you’re getting ready to go into work in the morning and you can hear him hum in the kitchen, it’s almost like nothing has changed. Then, you take in the massive metal arm under his sleeveless tank top, and you’re reminded of what he has been through, and what you two have lost.
Sometimes late at night, you wonder what he would feel like. You wonder if he would let you touch him.
It’s hard being so close to Seungcheol but not being able to physically be too near him. Casual intimacy was always a part of your relationship, and you aren’t used to a version of Seungcheol you have to hold back from. When he often picks up on your moods, like being tired after work or being frustrated when something isn’t going right, you wonder if he can pick up on this, the intense yearning need you have to just feel his cheek on the crown of your head, or his hand curling over your hip like it used to all the time. Or his lips, always so soft and inviting, pressing delicately to yours.
You wonder if he knows. You wonder if he remembers, because he seems to remember so much these days.
A few days later, you ask Seungcheol if he feels at all ready to come back to work. The suggestion catches him off guard.
“Are you sure?”
You nod, shovelling large helpings of chicken into your mouth. You’re usually ravenously hungry by dinner time, and Seungcheol is always amused by it.
“Everything you’re doing at home, working on projects, improving on previous work, you used to do the same things at work. Project Development is all you, and after you helped Wonwoo work out that little algorithm problem, he’s been wanting to work with you more.”
You give him a smile, and it’s more teasing this time. “I don’t know if you remember this, but you were kind of a legend in tech circles before.”
Seungcheol huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. “I don’t remember, but that thought makes me feel a little nauseous.”
You laugh, nudging his shin under the table. Seungcheol has always been shy about attention, but you know he secretly loves being recognised. He’s ambitious, even though he worries often, and acknowledgement from peers and juniors always affirms to him that he’s on the right path.
The next day, he’s getting ready to go into work as well.
He’s nervous, more so about his appearance than anything else. Bionic prostheses aren’t exactly common yet, even if they are getting more talked about recently. You know he’s conscious about the stares he will get, you can see the troubled expression on his face from a mile away.
“We don’t have to tell them you’re my husband. We can tell them you’re an employee.” You offer on the drive there. “From overseas. We’ll make up a story or something.”
His lip quirks up in a half smile.
“You think that's why I'm nervous?” He asks. You shrug.
“That’s the one thing I was never worried about.” He supplies.
Your heart flutters. You try to calm it down. It doesn’t mean anything, you try to tell yourself. But every word from him, every action, weighs so heavy with you. It always has. He’s the most important person in your life.
Seungcheol is relieved when the first person he sees at work is Wonwoo, the one face that is familiar to him. You know he is nervous, but he doesn’t show it a lot. That’s always been him, confident in stature, sure in his stance. All his little worries and doubts would only be reserved for you, and some part of you is elated that you still hold that position.
Unfortunately, you have to leave him for the day when Joshua finally catches up to you with the daily agenda. You’re swept up in work, but he’s always on the back of your mind. You’re just considering making a trip down to PD when a knock sounds on your door. A head of spiky blond hair pops in, and Seungcheol looks a little sheepish as he speaks.
“Lunch?”
For a second, you can’t breathe, swept up in memory after memory of him doing this exact thing since the day you started your company, when it was nothing but two rooms and a dinky office space. It’s so mundane, almost a negligible occurrence, but it was always the highlight of your work day. For five years, you would eat cold lunch at your desk on Joshua’s insistence, or you wouldn’t eat at all, because you no longer had someone to share that precious hour with. But he’s here now, part of his face reconstructed, but he’s here, and it feels like every second of your grief is washed away with one little word he says.
“Hey.” His soft voice breaks you from your thoughts. You blink, realising that your face feels wet. He has stepped inside the room, his face more cautious now.
“Sorry.” He sounds somber. “Did I do something wrong?”
You immediately shake your head, wiping your face hastily. “Not at all.”
Your voice wobbles. You elect to ignore it, standing up and quickly straightening yourself before walking to him. “Come on, let’s go eat.”
Seungcheol’s hand on your arm stops you from walking past him. He holds it softly, pulling you back so you can face him. You’re embarrassed at losing your composure like this. You don’t want to freak him out, or make him worry. You realise that in your happiness of having him back, you haven’t processed at all how overwhelming it is to have the love of your life come back from the dead, half of what he used to be.
It seems that he understands that as well.
Slowly, at an almost glacial pace, Seungcheol’s hand loosens its grip, but it doesn’t move away. Instead, he wraps it around you. His other arm follows, and while the juxtaposition of his arms is noticeable, one warm and forgiving, the other cold and stiff, you barely register it, because you can feel his heartbeat against where your ear presses to his chest. You feel yourself giving into his embrace. You’re starved for anything that is Seungcheol, you’ve been without him for too long. Your face crumples, and the tears come again.
You don’t stop them this time.
………………………………..
“It doesn’t look right.”
“It looks exactly like it should.”
“No, it doesn’t. Look again, I think you went wrong somewhere-”
“If you’re not going to be supportive, get the hell out. I don’t need this energy.”
“I’m just saying, if you had just gone to the store-”
“And I told you, she likes it better this way.”
“Right. And we’re supposed to trust your half-fried brain.”
“Man, fuck you.”
You try to tamp down the laugh bubbling in your throat, but it’s hard to do that when the bickering coming from your kitchen is so amusing. You resolutely keep your eyes on your laptop screen, because you promised not to intervene. But Seungcheol and Joshua keep getting louder the longer they work on baking this cake, and by the sound of it, Joshua is not impressed.
“You’re seriously going to serve this turd-pile to your wife? On her birthday?”
“It’s a turd-pile made with love.”
You know why Joshua keeps nagging Seungcheol. This is an age-old tradition. Seungcheol is not much of a baker, but you’re decent at it. You make all his birthday cakes because you know what flavors and icings he likes. And because you love doing it. Seungcheol always wants to return the favor, no matter how bad he is at it, and it always ends with a spectacularly dense or horrendous looking cake. The difference this time is Joshua dropping in to wish you a happy birthday and give you your present. Unfortunately, that was the exact moment Seungcheol started icing the cake, hence the racket in your kitchen.
But you don’t mind. In fact, you love it. You love that he keeps trying, every single year, and that he blocks off so many hours just to do it. When he had suggested it this time, you were taken aback. While you and Seungcheol had made steady progress in your relationship so far, you didn’t anticipate that he would remember this little tradition of yours. He holds your hand sometimes, he hugs you when he can. You both talk and talk, about previous memories, and about making new ones. You tell him often that you missed him badly, that you love him so much, and that you’re okay with him not saying it back, but you need to tell him because you always felt like you should have said it more before he was gone. Seungcheol is soft with you, careful, letting you explore your emotions as you let him explore his. Now that he’s with you again, you often feel like you have all the time in the world to just be in his presence.
Is it enough for you? Not by a long shot. Do you want to kiss him senseless? Every second of every day. But you will get there eventually. You have faith.
Joshua stays for the cake reveal, and when you gush over it, he merely lets out a pained sigh. You know it’s all an act. He is unbelievably happy for you, but you like it when he teases Seungcheol, baits him enough to irritate, even anger him. He excuses himself pretty quickly afterward, even when you offer for him to stay and have a slice.
“No offense, but I would rather chop off two limbs and let myself get brainwashed than taste whatever this is.”
“That was really offensive, actually.” Seungcheol replies dryly. You laugh, dipping your finger in the frosting to taste it. Coffee. Your favorite.
The cake is dense, almost inedible, but you love it regardless. You eat two whole slices, even though Seungcheol himself can stomach only one. He gives you a pained look.
“Well, you’re always going on about how you love the things about me that are the same as before. Are you glad I’m still a shit baker?”
You giggle and stand up, carrying your dirty plate to the sink. Then you walk over to him and give him a hug, wrapping your arms around his torso. He immediately returns it, and you can physically feel yourself relax.
“I love it even more.” You reply. You can feel his chest shake with a tiny laugh, and you feel his lips on the crown of your head.
“Happy birthday, baby.” He whispers. Your breath hitches at the petname, your old favorite, and you look up at him, your chin on his chest. He’s watching you, eye like a warm pool, soft and inviting. His human hand reaches up, caressing your cheek. You wish, for a split second, that he would just lean down and…..
He does.
When his lips meet yours, they’re hesitant. It’s barely there, like a ghost of a sensation, but you melt into it, pushing up on your toes a little so you can feel him more as you kiss him back. He melts into it, sighing into your mouth, his grip around your waist tightening when he registers your enthusiasm. The metal of his left arm feels solid, and it almost leaves you immobile, but you love it, because it presses every line of your body to every plane of his. Your hands find his neck, his jaw, slipping back to run over the tiny strands over the back of his head. It makes him shiver. You feel it. Your lower stomach stirs.
The kiss gets firmer, hotter. Seungcheol tilts his head, slots his lips deeper into yours. You feel his tongue against the cushion of your bottom lip, and your mouth opens almost out of instinct. You let out your first moan when his tongue slides hot and wet against yours.
“We should-” His voice cracks. Your head spins. “We should slow down.”
He kisses you again, fiercely. Your thighs are already crushing together for relief.
“Yeah.” You agree, pulling him down more by the shoulders, wanting him to curl and wrap around you. He complies immediately, hands sliding lower until he’s tugging on the backs of your thighs and lifting you up onto the kitchen island. You’re level with his face now, not willing to stop kissing him, not willing to take even a breath that doesn’t come straight from his mouth. You tug hard on the hair at the top of his head, the ones long enough to grip. He groans, and the sound makes your hips jerk hard into his.
“Fuck, don’t do that.” He rasps.
You do it again, grinding slower this time, your legs around his waist keeping him in place. He hisses. You can feel the bulge in his jeans, and you clench around nothing, registering how hard he already is. You need him so badly that it makes you dizzy. If he stops now, you think you might cry.
“Cheol-” You gasp, your hands digging into his shirt and tugging hard. You need it off, you need to feel all of him, properly, and it feels like he’s on the same page, because he’s reaching back, pulling the shirt off his shoulders until it’s gone. His hands are quick, sliding under your blouse until it’s bunching up, making you raise your arms. He pulls it off.
Finally, you see him.
Seungcheol was always well built. Broad in all the right places, thick neck, wide shoulders, the large expanse of his chest, his abs. Now, he’s even more cut, and you wonder if it has to do with the life he was living for the last five years. Your eye catches his bionic arm, right at the junction where it meets his skin. Your hands, idly running over his bare skin, follow your gaze, stop just where the skin looks more pink.
“Does it hurt?” You ask, voice low. Seungcheol shakes his head, watching you intently.
“It used to, when it was new. But it’s more numb now than anything.” He mutters. He flexes the arm, the plates click and whir, a low, metallic sound that echoes in the silence of the kitchen. You let your thumb run over the skin, right at the edge. Seungcheol doesn’t react as he watches your fingers except with a tiny laugh.
“I guess if they were more careful, it might have looked a little better.” He mumbles, eyes still on your movements. His own run absentmindedly over your bare waist. You shrug.
“I don’t know, it’s pretty hot.”
He looks up at you, his single eyebrow shooting up in surprise. He barks out a laugh, shaking his head.
“Freak.”
You hum and tighten your legs around his waist again, pulling him closer. “You used to love it.”
Something in his eye gleams, a mischievous little twinkle. The white, flat circle on the other side seems to turn and shift, almost like it’s gleaming too. You wonder what he sees through it. His lip ticks up in a tiny smirk. “Oh, I know.”
He leans down, running his lips over the side of your neck. His hands are more purposeful now, sliding up to fiddle with the buckle of your bra. He unhooks it smoothly, letting his touch float up your arms so he can pull the straps down. You sigh when his tongue runs over your skin, nipping just under your ear, the spot that has always made you shiver.
“I remember a lot of things.” He rasps. “More and more as the days go by. And I like to go over them sometimes, when I lay in bed at night, or when you walk around in just that large shirt of mine you wear when you sleep. You think I don’t know what you’re doing, baby? Goading me, baiting me, testing me.”
“I’m- I’m not-” But your brain is melting at the moment his teeth dig a little harder into your skin. He’s going to leave a mark, not that you give a fuck, and all it’s doing is making you even more lightheaded.
He hums. You know he doesn’t believe you. His hands are already circling around, kneading softly on your breasts, making you sigh. He thumbs over your nipples, nipping at your neck a little harder when they peak under his touch. His touch sends shivers down your spine, one hand soft and warm, the other hard and cold. You’re not used to the contrast, but it feels wonderful. You wonder how it will feel in all the other places you want him to touch, and your impatience grows.
“Cheol, take me inside.” You whimper, clenching around nothing again and feeling your desperation grow. He doesn’t respond verbally, but his hands find your hips, gripping tightly to lift you up. You wrap yourself around him, using that moment to tongue at his neck as he walks you both down the hall to your bedroom. He has been inside only a handful of times, since he still sleeps on his own, but you know that’s about to change today. You’re never letting him leave again.
He doesn’t separate from you for even a second, laying you down on the mattress and joining you on it at the same moment, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that is even more heated, but not any less exploratory. His weight on you feels familiar, glorious, and you bask in the feeling of being pressed down. His tongue runs over any crevice of your mouth it can reach, saliva mixing with his in a way that makes you shiver all over. When you run your hands over his back and feel the familiar muscle shift and tense under your touch, you remember how much you missed this, and it makes your breath hitch.
You want him completely naked against you, and the need feels as urgent as air entering your lungs.
Your shirt and bra are already gone, but his clothes and the rest of yours now quickly follow. He kisses any part of you he can in between every article that gets tugged off by you or by him. Your right calf presses against the cold metal of his leg, and it shocks you back into reality a little bit. You’re aware that while you’ve done this countless times with him, it’s different now. You slow down the kisses, nibbling more indulgently at the plush on his bottom lip.
“Are you okay with this?” You whisper. “I know this is a lot-”
“I was going to ask you that.” He chuckles into your mouth. His eye flutters open, and it has softened, shining with reverence. Your lips twitch up into a smile.
“I’ve wanted this for so long.” You reach up, running a gentle hand through his hair. His metal ear feels rigid and cool. “I’ve missed you more than I can say. I didn’t-”
Your voice catches. Seungcheol waits with all the patience in the world.
“I didn’t think I could ever have this again.”
His forehead rests gently against yours, and your eyes flutter when you feel your breaths mix where your lips touch.
“I know I’m not all the way there.” He whispers. “I know there’s so much missing. And some days, it’s so difficult to reconcile the older version of me with this new reality. But I’m getting better every day. And I…. I miss you too. I miss what we had and who I used to be.”
Your eyes cloud. Seungcheol carefully thumbs under them, not letting the tears spill. When he kisses you again, it feels far more meaningful, like parts of you and him are coming to an understanding together. It’s easy to build up the heat again, and there’s an underlying layer of need in it now that has you writhing and moaning under him in no time.
“Easy, princess.” He hums, carefully running his hands up your thighs before fitting his hips between them. “I’ve got you.”
Princess. You whine. That’s an old favorite bedroom nickname of his. Seungcheol loved to spoil you. He’s a giver at heart, so the name is apt, and one he used to shower you with frequently. He grinds on your core, and you can feel the slide of his hard shaft through your wet folds. It makes you gasp, the slow drag making you feel each and every ridge of him. Your opening clenches hard, you arch into him, and your nails dig into the skin of his back.
“Don’t-” Your chest rattles with your inhale. “Don’t tease me. Please, I’ve waited so long, Cheolie. Don’t make me wait even more-”
When his head catches against your opening on the next grind, you moan low, eyelids fluttering. His nose brushes yours, you know he’s watching, and you bask in the feeling of his gaze on you. He pushes a little more, breaching you, and takes his glorious time sliding in at a snail’s pace. Your walls struggle with his girth, not used to being penetrated, left empty for too long, but you think at this point, Seungcheol is embedded in your DNA. Your body knows him, recognises him, like it’s an old, dormant instinct. You open up for him like he’s meant for you, and when he groans in shaky approval, you know he feels it too.
“Made for me, aren’t you?” He whispers into your mouth, taking advantage of your moaning to lick over your lips, nipping and sucking at them. “Taking me like you’re meant for me. Haven’t fucked you in years, but your little pussy still knows me, right?”
God, he needs to stop talking like that. So vulgar, coming from his mouth, but so sexy that it makes you dizzy. The ceiling is spinning, half from the feel of him, and half from the words he is whispering right past your lips. He bottoms out finally, and stills, throbbing and twitching inside you. You can feel it, it tugs on your walls, sending little sparks shooting through your core.
“Love how tight you are, baby.” He continues, pulling away from you to sit back a bit. You almost whine in protest, but then his thumb finds your clit and rubs tight little circles over it. You sigh, toes curling. “But I need you to loosen up a little bit, okay? Need to fuck you properly and I can’t do that when you’re gripping me like this.”
It’s a combination of his words and the waves of pleasure traveling up from your clit, but he finally feels enough give to rock back and forth, his back undulating with every stroke. He starts off slow, both of you just enjoying the delicious drag of him in and out. Every movement makes him brush up teasingly against your sweet spot, makes stars burst in your vision. You feel like you’re already on the brink, and he has barely started.
“Fuck.” He chokes, and you can see his throat bob as he swallows. A thin layer of sweat coats his porcelain skin, making the light of your bedside lamp shift over him. His hair, not almost fully brown with just the tips of the blond remaining, is matted on his forehead. His eye is closed, eyelid fluttering, mouth slightly parted as his breath rattles in and out. He grunts quietly every few strokes, his abs clenching, his neck and chest flushed a pretty pink.
You could come just looking at him like this.
He picks up the pace finally, and you gasp at the change, arching into him a little. He’s watching you now, but you’re too busy registering how good he feels, the perfect, tight drag of him, now more forceful, hitting every spot that sends pleasurable shocks up your spine. The bed groans, his thrusts get harder. On either side of your head, his fingers fist the bedsheet. Beneath the moans and sighs, you can hear the very low but distinct whir of metal emanating from his moving limbs.
Your brain stutters, and your hands move before you can think about it too much. They find his metal wrist, circling around it slowly and lifting it to place it right at the base of your throat. Seungcheol’s eye widens.
“You’re sure?” He asks. You nod.
“Please.”
Your skin is so heated that the cool contrast of his hand feels relieving and glorious. Something in his wrist clicks, and then his hold on your throat tightens just a bit. Your eyes flutter, mouth dropping open. You whine.
Seungcheol groans and his thrusts get harder, hips now slamming into yours over and over, the tip just gently kissing the cervix in the way that lights your lower stomach on fire. His grip is unrelenting, just tight enough to make you a little light headed and every movement feel even more intense than it usually does. You can’t speak, can’t warn him as your orgasm comes barrelling into you at full speed. You can only clench hard and cry out as it washes over you. Seungcheol doesn’t slow, but watches you with something akin to awe and unbridled lust in his eyes. His hand loosens only as you come down, letting you take in a long gulp of air.
“That was so sexy, baby, fuck.” He sounds as wrecked as you feel. He’s grinding into your pussy, pushed all the way in to the base, letting you feel every inch of him. “Can’t believe I didn’t do this sooner. Could’ve had you under me every night looking like that.”
You find the sides of his neck, tugging him down to kiss him fiercely. “Get your fill now, Cheolie. Make up for lost time.”
Your words spur him on. He pulls out abruptly, but he doesn’t let you miss him for too long, tugging your leg to maneuver you so you’re on your stomach, arms folded under your head, and his body draped over your back, warming your sweat-cooling skin. His knees frame your thighs. He nudges your legs apart just enough to slide inside, and the shift in angle has your jaw going slack. You feel his grip on your hips, one soft, one hard, holding you in place as he immediately sets a brutal pace. You don’t mind, you’ve always loved it when Seungcheol uses all that impressive muscle he has built to manhandle and use you like this. It’s unbelievably hot to you. This position feels even more intense, leaves you even more boneless, and your previous high has left you so sensitive that this one builds up in no time.
His thrusts are getting sloppy, less precise and more like he just wants to plop you into the mattress. His moans are more uninhibited now, his grip tighter to the point you know he will leave bruises that you will wear proudly. His breath hits the back of your neck. He reaches down, biting into your shoulder at the exact moment he groans loud and empties himself in you. The warmth of him, the grind of his head into your walls, is what sends you over the edge for a second time. Both your bodies writhe on the mattress, him pressing you into it until you feel like you are melting into him. He curses low in your ear as his body relaxes, and the sound makes you shiver.
You lay like that for what feels like an eternity, letting the rise and fall of his chest guide your own breathing. When he finally moves, detaching himself, you grumble in protest.
“I was warm.” You complain. You can hear him laugh a little.
“I’ll warm you up again, baby, don’t worry. Come on.”
Your interest is piqued, and you turn your head to the side to peer at him. His whole face seems to have smoothed, soft and glowing in a way you haven’t seen him in a while. It makes a smile tug on your lips, and you turn over slowly to face him. He doesn’t waste any time in lifting you up, another sensation that will take some getting used to. His human arm is warm on your back, but his metal one digs just under your knees. You don’t mind, not at all, it’s part of him, something he got involuntarily but made his own. He has used it to inflict pain in the past, but from now on, he will do nothing but good with it.
You watch him with heavy eyes as he places you on the bathroom vanity and gets to running a warm bath. You admire his back, soft and pale, smattered with little freckles, and slightly pink at the edges where skin meets metal. The plates dig into the skin, and you know he said it doesn’t feel like anything now, but you wonder if it hurts even just a little.
The slightest hint of his pain, even a negligible smidge of it, is unacceptable to you. You make a mental note to ask Wonwoo if he can look into bionic prostheses. Not weapons, like Jeonghan has developed. You have no interest in that. He can have his military contracts and his glory. There’s nothing in it for you.
Everything you want is in this tiny bathroom, dipping his metal fingers into the water to check the temperature, only to realise he can’t feel with that limb. You collapse into giggles and he smiles sheepishly, ears turning red, using his other hand as a toothy grin takes over his face.
pairing: flower shop owner!seungcheol x reader
synopsis: When you were ten, Seungcheol taught you to blow dandelion seeds and make wishes. Years later, after moving away, you return to town and discover he's inherited his grandmother's flower shop. Inside an old drawer is a collection of childhood notes: "Things I wish for." Almost every one mentions you.
wc: 6.6k
genre: Fluff, Romance, Mild Angst, Slice of Life, Childhood Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Flower Shop AU
warnings: Grief/Loss of a grandparent (past event), Emotional Discussions about Separation and Missed Opportunities, Nostalgia, References to Childhood Loneliness
a/n: this was very fun to just make cheollie down baddd. this fic is a part of the First Bloom collab hosted by @svthub!
The strangest thing about coming home is discovering that the places you left behind never received the memo that you were gone.
You notice it almost immediately after stepping off the bus.
The old bakery on the corner still has the faded striped awning that seemed enormous when you were ten years old. The convenience store still has the crooked sign hanging above the entrance. Even the park across the road appears unchanged, the swings swaying gently in the afternoon breeze as if time itself had simply decided to settle down here and refuse to move forward.
Only you seem different. Only you seem out of place.
You stand beside your suitcase for a moment longer than necessary, staring down the familiar street while an uncomfortable ache settles somewhere beneath your ribs.
Three days ago, you had been packing up your apartment. Two days ago, you had been sorting through legal documents and answering sympathetic phone calls.
Now, after years of saying you'll visit eventually, after years of finding excuses and postponing plans and convincing yourself there would always be another opportunity, you're back in the town you spent most of your childhood trying to leave.
Not because you wanted to return. Because your grandmother died. The thought lands heavily, even now.
Your grip tightens around the suitcase handle. The funeral had been small. Simple.
Exactly what she would've wanted.
Most of the relatives had already left again, returning to their own lives, while you stayed behind to sort through paperwork and prepare the house for sale.
Just a few weeks, you told yourself. Long enough to finish everything properly. Long enough to say goodbye.
Then you'd leave again. The plan sounds reasonable in theory. In practice, every step through town feels like walking through memories.
The route to your grandmother's house passes the elementary school where you spent countless afternoons pretending to pay attention during class. The creek behind the football field still winds lazily through town, hidden beneath the same willow trees that once provided the backdrop for summer adventures so important they had felt life-changing at the time.
You know exactly where every turn leads. You hate how much of it you remember. The house itself sits exactly where it always has. The garden is slightly overgrown. The mailbox leans to one side. The front porch creaks beneath your weight.
Home.
Not home anymore. But close enough to hurt.
—
The first few days disappear beneath a mountain of responsibilities. Boxes. Documents. Phone calls. Dust-covered photo albums.
Closets packed with items your grandmother had somehow convinced herself she might need someday.
You spend hours sorting through decades of accumulated memories, discovering things you forgot existed and things you wish you could forget.
Old school reports. Birthday cards. Drawings. Photographs. Far too many photographs. By the fourth day, the house feels quieter than ever. The silence eventually becomes unbearable.
Which is how you find yourself wandering through town with no destination in mind, hands shoved into your jacket pockets while the late afternoon sun bathes everything in warm gold.
You tell yourself you're just getting fresh air. You tell yourself you aren't searching for anything. The lie lasts approximately fifteen minutes.
Because eventually you turn a corner. And stop.
The flower shop still stands exactly where it always did. For a second, you think you've imagined it.
The familiar brick storefront. The flower boxes beneath the windows. The painted sign hanging above the entrance.
Only one thing has changed.
The name.
Your chest tightens. Not because the shop exists. Because you know who owns it now. You learned it from one of the older ladies at the funeral.
"Oh, have you seen Seungcheol yet?"
As if that were the most natural question in the world. As if years hadn't passed. As if hearing his name didn't still do something strange to your heartbeat. You haven't seen him. Not yet.
You hadn't planned to.
But suddenly there he is. Standing inside the shop. Alive. Real. Older.
The breath catches somewhere in your throat. For a moment, all you can do is stare.
He's arranging flowers near the front counter, sleeves rolled to his forearms, dark hair falling slightly into his eyes as he focuses on adjusting a bouquet.
You knew he would have changed. Of course he would've changed.
The last time you saw him, he was fourteen years old and trying very hard not to cry while helping load boxes into a moving truck.
The man standing in front of you now is nothing like that boy. Except he is. The shape of his smile when he speaks to a customer. The way he absentmindedly scratches the back of his neck. The slight furrow between his brows when concentrating. Some things remain stubbornly familiar.
Then, as if sensing your stare, he looks up. And sees you.
The world doesn't stop. Nothing dramatic happens. Cars continue driving past. The shop door remains closed. The flowers continue existing. But something shifts.
You know it does because Seungcheol freezes. The bouquet slips slightly in his hands. For one stunned second, neither of you move.
Then his eyes widen. Your stomach drops. And suddenly you're ten years old again.
—
"You have to make a wish first."
"I already made one."
"That doesn't count."
"It does count."
"No, it doesn't."
"Why not?"
"Because I said so."
Ten-year-old Seungcheol had always been incredibly confident for someone who spent half his time making things up.
The two of you sat cross-legged in a field behind his grandmother's flower shop, surrounded by dandelions and sunlight.
He held one proudly between his fingers. You rolled your eyes.
"You literally just invented that rule."
"Every game has rules."
"This isn't a game."
"It is now."
You groaned dramatically. He ignored you.
"Close your eyes."
"No."
"Y/N."
"No."
"Trust me."
At ten years old, trusting Seungcheol was the easiest thing in the world. You closed your eyes.
"Now make a wish."
You sighed. Made one anyway.
"Done."
"Okay."
You opened your eyes just in time to watch him blow the dandelion apart. White seeds scattered into the wind.
"What'd you wish for?" you asked.
His expression became immediately suspicious.
"You can't tell people."
"You made that up too."
"Maybe."
"You definitely did."
"But what if it's true?"
You laughed. He grinned. The sunlight caught in his hair.
And somehow, without either of you realizing it, that afternoon became one of the memories that followed you everywhere.
—
The bell above the flower shop door rings softly when you finally step inside. The scent hits you immediately.
Fresh flowers. Soil. Greenery. Something sweet and familiar.
The same scent that used to cling to Seungcheol whenever he spent all day helping his grandmother. The same scent you haven't thought about in years.
He stands behind the counter now. Watching you. Still looking mildly shocked. You suspect you look exactly the same. For several awkward seconds, nobody says anything. Then—
"Hi."
Brilliant. Absolutely incredible. Years apart and that's the best you can manage. Seungcheol laughs. The sound eases something inside your chest instantly.
"Hi."
His voice is deeper than you remember. Everything about him feels older. Not unfamiliar. Just older.
"You came back."
The words aren't accusatory. If anything, they sound slightly disbelieving. You nod.
"Temporarily."
Something flickers across his face. Gone too quickly to identify.
"Right."
The conversation stumbles forward after that. Careful. Tentative. Questions about work. About family. About how long you've been back.
Neither of you mentions how strange this feels. Neither of you mentions how many years disappeared between one conversation and the next.
Eventually another customer enters. Then another. The moment passes. You tell yourself that's probably for the best. Still, when you finally leave, Seungcheol walks you to the door.
"If you're bored," he says casually, "you can stop by anytime."
You blink.
"What?"
"The shop."
He gestures vaguely around himself.
"I'm usually here."
The invitation sounds simple. Normal. Yet your heart reacts as if he's offered something much bigger. You smile before you can stop yourself.
"Maybe I will."
His smile mirrors yours.
"Good."
—
The following afternoon, you return. Then again two days later. Then once more. Not intentionally.
It just keeps happening.
Sometimes you help carry deliveries. Sometimes you organize shelves. Sometimes you sit near the counter pretending to read while Seungcheol works.
The ease returns surprisingly quickly. Not completely. There are still years between you. Still things unsaid. But the foundation remains.
As if friendship had simply been waiting patiently beneath the surface. One evening, after closing time, Seungcheol disappears upstairs to answer a phone call. You volunteer to finish organizing a neglected storage room.
The space is cramped. Dusty. Filled with forgotten boxes. You sneeze twice. Immediately regret your life choices.
And then you notice the drawer. Small. Wooden. Hidden behind a stack of old gardening catalogues.
Curiosity wins.
You pull it open. Inside are dozens of folded papers.
Hundreds, maybe.
All carefully preserved. You hesitate before reaching for the top one. The paper is yellowed with age.
The handwriting is instantly recognizable. Even after all these years.
Your breath catches.
Slowly, you unfold the note. Across the top of the page, written in uneven childhood handwriting, are four words.
Things I wish for.
And underneath:
For Grandma's roses to survive winter.
For my knee to stop hurting.
For Y/N to stop crying when they lose races because I don't like it.
At the bottom, squeezed into the corner:
I think wishes work better when you blow two dandelions instead of one.
– Seungcheol
You stare at the page. Then read it again. And again.
Somewhere upstairs, floorboards creak. The sound barely registers.
Because suddenly you're ten years old.
Standing in a field.
Holding a dandelion.
Listening to a boy make up rules about wishes.
And for the first time since returning home, you wonder whether maybe some memories never left at all.
—
The problem with nostalgia is that it never arrives alone.
It comes hand-in-hand with comparison, with grief, with all the quiet questions that only appear when you're staring at the person you used to know and trying to reconcile them with the person standing in front of you now.
By the end of the second week, you have become painfully aware of that fact. You have also become painfully aware of how often you find yourself at the flower shop. The first few visits had reasonable explanations.
You needed somewhere to walk. You needed a break from sorting through your grandmother's belongings. You needed a distraction.
The seventh visit is significantly harder to justify.
Especially when you're carrying two iced coffees and walking toward the shop before you've fully finished convincing yourself you're only dropping by for a few minutes.
The bell above the door rings. Seungcheol immediately looks up. The smile that appears on his face happens so naturally that neither of you seem to notice it.
You do. Unfortunately.
"You're late."
You stop.
"What?"
He gestures toward the wall clock.
"You usually get here fifteen minutes ago."
The realization settles over both of you simultaneously.
Because he's right. Because apparently you've established a routine. Because apparently Seungcheol has noticed.
Heat crawls up your neck.
"You timed me?"
"I didn't time you."
"You literally knew I was fifteen minutes late."
"I just noticed."
"That's timing me."
"It isn't."
"It absolutely is."
His laugh fills the shop. You hate how much you missed that sound.
—
The flower shop feels different now that you've spent enough time inside it to notice the details. The place still carries traces of his grandmother. The old cash register remains displayed on a shelf near the counter.
Framed photographs line one wall.
The ancient rocking chair in the corner somehow survived several decades despite looking permanently one bad day away from collapse.
But Seungcheol is everywhere too. The organization. The handwritten signs. The new displays. The garden outside. The entire place feels like a conversation between generations.
A continuation rather than a replacement.
His grandmother would've loved that. You think she already knew he would inherit the shop.
You glance up from the arrangement you're helping prepare.
"Daisies?"
"Dandelions."
He nods toward the window.
Outside, several bright yellow flowers have appeared amongst the carefully maintained garden beds.
You smile.
"They're kind of pretty."
"Exactly."
He sounds offended.
"Kind of?"
"Okay, they're pretty."
"There we go."
"You care way too much about dandelions."
"I inherited that."
His voice softens slightly.
"Grandma used to say they were the bravest flowers."
You pause.
"What does that mean?"
He carefully trims a stem.
"They grow everywhere."
A shrug.
"They survive getting stepped on."
Another cut.
"People call them weeds, but they keep blooming anyway."
You watch him for a moment. Sunlight filters through the front window. Dust drifts lazily through the air.
The shop smells faintly of lavender and soil. For a second, the years between childhood and now seem remarkably small.
"They sound stubborn."
Seungcheol grins.
"Exactly."
—
The first time someone mistakes you for his partner, you're unprepared. The culprit is an elderly customer named Mrs. Kim.
One moment she's purchasing carnations. The next she's looking between you and Seungcheol with obvious satisfaction.
"It's nice to finally meet them."
You blink.
"I'm sorry?"
Mrs. Kim waves dismissively.
"Don't worry."
Seungcheol visibly tenses. You immediately become suspicious.
"Don't worry about what?"
The woman pats your hand.
"Oh, honey, we've all heard about you."
Silence. Complete silence. You slowly turn toward Seungcheol. He refuses to make eye contact.
"Seungcheol."
"No."
"What does she mean?"
"No."
Mrs. Kim laughs. The traitor.
"You know, Y/N this and Y/N that and—"
"Mrs. Kim."
The warning in his voice only makes her smile widen. You stare. He stares determinedly at the floor.
A customer enters. The conversation mercifully dies.
Unfortunately your curiosity survives.
—
You corner him later.
"What exactly have people heard?"
"Nothing."
"That sounds suspicious."
"It isn't."
"Seungcheol."
He groans.
"You're impossible."
"You avoided the question."
"I mentioned you sometimes."
"Sometimes."
"Sometimes."
The response is entirely too fast. You narrow your eyes.
"How many times?"
His expression immediately suggests the answer is significantly higher than either of you would like.
—
That night, after returning home, you find yourself sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the drawer again. You know you probably shouldn't be reading the notes.
They're private. Personal. Hidden for a reason. And yet. The temptation wins.
Again.
The next paper is dated in messy twelve-year-old handwriting. You unfold it carefully.
Things I wish for:
To beat Jeonghan at soccer.
To grow taller.
For Y/N to stay here forever.
Don't tell them I wrote that.
You stare. Then reread the sentence. Then reread it again.
The words somehow feel heavier each time.
For Y/N to stay here forever.
Simple. Innocent. Childish. Yet something twists painfully inside your chest.
Because you didn't stay. Because neither of you had any control over that. Because twelve-year-old Seungcheol didn't know he was writing a wish that would never come true.
—
Middle school had been awkward. Not terrible. Not dramatic. Just awkward.
The age where suddenly everyone became aware that boys and girls existed. The age where friendships acquired strange new rules nobody explained properly.
You remember sitting beside Seungcheol during lunch one afternoon. He arrived carrying two juice boxes. Immediately handed you one.
Completely normal. Entirely routine. Unfortunately half your classmates witnessed the exchange. The teasing started instantly.
"Ooooh."
"Look."
"It's Y/N and Seungcheol."
You remember wanting the ground to swallow you whole. Seungcheol had looked equally horrified. The two of you spent the rest of lunch aggressively denying accusations nobody had technically made.
Neither of you acknowledged how red your faces became.
—
You wake the next morning determined not to think about old letters. The determination lasts approximately twenty minutes.
By lunch, you're back at the flower shop. By evening, you're helping prepare arrangements for a wedding. By closing time, you're laughing so hard you nearly drop an entire bucket of peonies.
The transition feels alarmingly natural. As if this version of life has been waiting patiently for your return. As if leaving had only been an interruption.
Not an ending.
The thought unsettles you.
—
The following week, the town begins treating your presence as permanent. The bakery owner asks whether you've found a job yet. The librarian asks if you're staying. Three separate neighbors mention available apartments.
You spend most conversations repeating the same answer.
"I'm only here temporarily."
Every single person responds the same way.
"We'll see."
The most irritating part is that nobody sounds uncertain.
Least of all Seungcheol.
—
One afternoon, while helping water plants behind the shop, you finally ask.
"Did everyone in this town secretly agree to annoy me?"
He laughs.
"Probably."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
You splash water toward him. He dodges. Barely.
"Traitor."
"I didn't do anything."
"You never tell them I'm leaving."
His expression changes slightly. The smile remains. Something else disappears.
"Oh."
Immediately, guilt settles in your stomach. You hadn't meant—
"I mean—"
"It's okay."
The words are gentle. Too gentle. The conversation moves on.
Yet the silence lingers.
—
That evening, while closing up, Seungcheol disappears upstairs to search for inventory records. The opportunity presents itself. You tell yourself you're only checking one note.
One. That's all.
The lie fools absolutely nobody. Especially not yourself. You return to the drawer. Select another folded paper. Open it carefully.
The handwriting is older this time.
Less childish. More controlled. The date makes your chest tighten.
The year you moved away.
Things I wish for:
To have my own flower shop someday.
For Grandma to stop working so hard.
For Y/N to smile like they did before they found out they're moving.
I hate this wish.
The words blur slightly. You blink. Look away. Look back.
The paper remains unchanged.
The same ink. The same handwriting. The same impossible honesty.
For a long moment, you simply sit there.
Remembering.
—
The moving truck had arrived too early. Or maybe it only felt that way.
You remember cardboard boxes. Your mother's stressed voice. Relatives carrying furniture.
Everything happening much too fast. You remember friends saying goodbye. Teachers promising you'd make new ones. Adults insisting change was exciting.
You remember hating every second of it.
Most of all, you remember Seungcheol. Standing beside the driveway. Hands shoved into his pockets. Trying very hard to act normal.
You'd both promised to stay in touch. You'd both promised nothing would change. At fourteen, promises like that feel unbreakable.
Reality is less cooperative. Calls become texts. Texts become occasional messages. Then birthdays. Then silence.
Not because either of you stopped caring.
Because life happened. Because growing up happened. Because distance is sometimes quieter than heartbreak.
—
A floorboard creaks overhead. You quickly fold the letter. Return it to the drawer. Close everything.
By the time Seungcheol returns, you're standing beside a shelf pretending to examine gardening supplies.
His eyes narrow immediately.
"You look suspicious."
"What?"
"You look guilty."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do."
You point at a random bag of fertilizer.
"Did you know this contains nitrogen?"
The silence that follows is devastating. Then Seungcheol starts laughing.
The kind of laugh that forces him to lean against a table for support. You hate him. Possibly. A little.
—
Later, after you've returned home, sleep proves impossible. Your mind keeps returning to the notes.
The wishes. The years. Everything that existed while you were gone.
Eventually curiosity wins one final time. Near midnight, you retrieve the drawer once more.
One last letter. Just one. You unfold it slowly.
The handwriting immediately looks different.
Shakier. Messier. Lonelier.
The date makes your stomach drop. A few months after you left. Nothing else is written on the page.
No numbered list. No jokes. No soccer. No flowers.
Just a single sentence.
Things I wish for:
Y/N comes back.
Just once. That's all. For a long moment, the room remains completely silent.
Outside, wind rattles softly against the windows. Inside, your chest feels painfully tight. You remember all the times you almost visited. All the summers you said maybe next year. All the holidays that slipped away. All the opportunities lost to convenience and distance and the assumption that there would always be more time.
The note trembles slightly in your hands.
And for the first time since returning home, you begin to understand that maybe you weren't the only person who spent years missing someone.
The realization follows you long after the lights go out. Long after the letter is folded away. Long after sleep finally arrives.
And somewhere across town, completely unaware of the storm currently unfolding inside your chest, Seungcheol closes his flower shop for the evening and locks the front door, still carrying pieces of a wish he made twelve years ago.
—
The worst part about reading the letters is that they make everything impossible to ignore. Not impossible in the dramatic sense. Not in the way movies portray it, where suddenly every interaction becomes charged with unbearable tension and every glance feels life-altering.
Instead, it becomes impossible to ignore the accumulation of small things. The details. The habits. The spaces someone occupies in your life without permission.
Before finding the drawer, spending every afternoon at the flower shop had felt natural.
After finding the drawer, you become painfully aware that Seungcheol automatically hands you a drink before grabbing one for himself.
That he remembers how you take your coffee. That he moves around the shop with the unconscious expectation that you'll be somewhere nearby. That every time the front door opens, his eyes immediately search for you before searching for the customer.
None of these things mean anything individually. Together, they begin to feel like something dangerous. Something you've spent years pretending not to recognize. Something that looks suspiciously like first love growing up and refusing to leave.
—
The flower festival arrives at exactly the wrong time. Or perhaps exactly the right time. You haven't decided which.
The annual event has existed for as long as you can remember, transforming the town into something bright and overwhelming for a weekend every spring. Streets fill with flower displays. Local businesses compete for awards. Families wander between stalls carrying bouquets and iced drinks.
As children, you and Seungcheol used to treat it like the most important event of the year. Now, as adults, it means two weeks of preparation and approximately zero free time. Not that you mind.
Being busy makes it easier not to think.
Unfortunately, Seungcheol keeps ruining that strategy by existing.
—
"You're staring."
You nearly drop the box you're carrying.
"What?"
He raises an eyebrow.
"You've been looking at me for ten seconds."
"I was not."
"You were."
"No."
"Y/N."
The use of your name should not feel that unfair. It does. Especially when accompanied by a smile. Especially when he knows exactly what he's doing. You point aggressively at the display you're assembling.
"I was looking at the flowers."
"Sure."
"Why would I stare at you?"
His grin widens. You immediately regret speaking. Across the room, an elderly volunteer watching preparations sighs dramatically.
"Please date already."
Both of you nearly choke.
—
The town has become unbearable. Not because the people are cruel. Quite the opposite. The people are far too invested.
Everyone appears convinced that you and Seungcheol are one conversation away from getting married. The florist across the street keeps offering relationship advice. Mrs. Kim has started winking whenever she enters the shop. Even children seem suspicious.
At one point, a ten-year-old asks if you're Seungcheol's spouse. You spend five full minutes recovering.
Seungcheol spends ten.
—
The problem is that every joke lands slightly closer to the truth than either of you are comfortable admitting.
Because somewhere between sorting flowers and revisiting childhood memories and reading letters you definitely should not be reading, something has changed.
Or maybe nothing changed. Maybe you've simply stopped running from it.
You don't know which possibility scares you more.
—
One evening, after the shop closes, rain begins unexpectedly. Heavy. Relentless.
The kind that turns roads silver beneath streetlights. You're trapped. Not that either of you seem particularly bothered.
Seungcheol locks the front door and flips the sign to CLOSED.
The two of you remain inside. Waiting. The shop feels different after hours. Quieter. More intimate.
The scent of flowers seems stronger somehow. The silence stretches comfortably between conversations. You sit together behind the counter drinking tea.
Outside, rain taps steadily against the glass. Inside, memories linger everywhere.
"You know," Seungcheol says eventually, "Grandma used to think you were going to marry me."
You nearly inhale your tea.
"What?"
His laughter echoes through the empty shop.
"I'm serious."
"Why would she think that?"
"You were ten."
"That's not an answer."
"You followed me around everywhere."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"You're making things up."
"I'm not."
"You are."
He shakes his head.
"She used to tell me all the time."
The smile softens.
"'That one loves you very much, Seungcheol.'"
Something catches unexpectedly in your chest. You look away.
The rain suddenly becomes fascinating.
—
Later that night, after returning home, you find yourself sitting on the floor beside the drawer again. You don't even pretend to resist anymore. The letters feel less like an invasion now.
More like a conversation delayed by years. The next note is dated two years after you left.
You unfold it carefully.
Things I wish for:
To stop thinking about Y/N.
Didn't work.
For several seconds, you simply stare. Then laugh. Actually laugh.
Because somehow, despite everything, fourteen-year-old Seungcheol and sixteen-year-old Seungcheol remain unmistakably the same person.
Hopeless. Earnest. Painfully honest. You continue reading.
The next note is eighteen.
Things I wish for:
To see Y/N again.
To stop comparing everyone else to Y/N.
Didn't work either.
The smile disappears. A strange ache replaces it. You know what he's implying.
You wish you didn't.
Because suddenly every year between then and now feels tangible.
Every missed opportunity. Every person he met. Every relationship that apparently failed to become something lasting.
The thought follows you into the final letter. Age twenty-one.
Things I wish for:
Y/N.
Just Y/N.
No explanation. No joke. No elaboration. Only your name.
The page trembles slightly in your hands.
—
The next morning, you arrive at the flower shop exhausted. Emotionally. Mentally. Possibly spiritually.
Seungcheol notices immediately.
"Rough night?"
You consider your options. Lie. Deflect. Change the subject.
Instead:
"Why didn't you throw them away?"
His hands stop moving. The flowers remain half-arranged between his fingers. For a moment, neither of you speak.
Then:
"The notes?"
You nod. The silence stretches. Long enough for your pulse to become annoying. Long enough for the question to feel dangerous. Finally, Seungcheol exhales softly.
"Because throwing them away felt like giving up."
The answer lands harder than expected. You stare. He continues looking at the flowers.
Neither of you moves. Neither of you looks away. The shop suddenly feels too quiet.
Too small. Too honest.
—
The conversation changes after that. Not dramatically. Not immediately. But something shifts.
A wall lowers. A distance disappears. You begin talking about things you've avoided for years.
University. Family. The struggles nobody posted online. The loneliness. The uncertainty. The versions of yourselves that existed while the other wasn't there to witness them.
For the first time, it feels like you're catching up properly. Not on events.
On each other.
—
The breakthrough arrives unexpectedly. Through gossip. Naturally. Because this town cannot help itself.
You're helping arrange flowers outside the festival pavilion when Mrs. Kim appears. You should have run. Instead, you smile politely. A mistake.
"Did you know," she begins immediately, "that Seungcheol never brought anyone serious home?"
Your heart stops.
"What?"
Mrs. Kim continues cheerfully.
"Such a waste."
You stare. The woman sighs dramatically.
"Everyone liked him."
The implications begin arriving one by one. Slowly. Terribly. You don't want to ask. You ask anyway.
"Why?"
Mrs. Kim blinks.
"Why what?"
"Why didn't he date anyone?"
The answer comes far too quickly.
"As if we don't all know."
Then she walks away. Leaving you alone with approximately twelve different emotional crises.
—
The festival opens the next day. Crowds flood the streets. Music drifts through the air. Children race between displays. Customers fill the shop. The entire town seems alive.
You should be enjoying it. Instead, you're distracted.
Because every time you look at Seungcheol, another letter appears in your memory.
Another wish. Another year. Another version of him quietly hoping for something he thought he would never get.
By evening, exhaustion settles over everyone. The crowds thin. Sunlight begins fading. And somehow you find yourselves alone behind the shop.
Again.
The garden glows gold beneath the setting sun. Dandelions sway gently amongst the flower beds.
The same flowers. The same stubborn flowers. Hope disguised as weeds.
Seungcheol sits beside you on a wooden bench. Close. Not touching. Close enough. For several minutes, neither of you speaks. The silence feels full. Waiting. Anticipating.
Like the final moments before a storm breaks. Then he says quietly:
"I was happy you came back."
Your breath catches. The confession isn't romantic. Not technically. But it feels significant anyway. You glance toward him. His gaze remains fixed on the garden.
A nervous habit you've started recognizing.
"I was happy too."
The words come easily. Truth always does. He smiles. Small. Soft. Real.
And suddenly you're struck by a realization so obvious it almost feels ridiculous. Every important moment in your life somehow leads back to him. Every memory. Every wish. Every version of home.
The thought settles heavily between your ribs. Not uncomfortable. Just undeniable. The sun sinks lower. The dandelions sway.
And for the first time, you begin wondering whether the final letter in the drawer isn't actually the end of the story.
Maybe it's only the beginning. Because tomorrow is the final day of the flower festival. Tomorrow you'll finish sorting the last boxes from your grandmother's house. Tomorrow you'll have to decide whether you're leaving again.
And somewhere deep down, beneath years of distance and excuses and carefully maintained walls, a small stubborn hope begins to bloom.
Much like a dandelion. Refusing to die. Refusing to be ignored. Refusing, despite everything, to stop growing.
—
The last day of the flower festival arrives far too quickly. You know this because you spend most of the morning trying not to think about it. Unfortunately, thinking about something and trying not to think about something are often the exact same activity.
By noon, you're painfully aware that this is your final week in town. By three o'clock, you've mentally packed your suitcase twice. By five, you've considered extending your stay. By six, you've considered cancelling your return entirely. None of these thoughts help.
Especially because every possible future seems to revolve around the same person. Across the square, Seungcheol is helping a little girl choose flowers for her mother. You watch him crouch down so they're eye level. Watch him listen seriously to her explanation. Watch him help arrange a tiny bouquet.
The girl leaves looking delighted. Seungcheol looks equally pleased. The sight hurts. Not because it's sad. Because it feels familiar.
Because it feels like home.
Because somewhere along the way, without realizing it, you've started measuring places by whether or not he exists in them.
And that seems like a dangerous way to live.
—
The festival winds down slowly. Stalls begin packing away displays. Families drift home. The streets gradually quiet.
For the first time all weekend, the town feels peaceful. You spend most of the evening helping return decorations to storage.
Boxes. Signs. Flower stands. The work is repetitive enough to keep your hands busy. Not your thoughts.
Those remain frustratingly active. By the time darkness settles over town, only a handful of people remain.
The cleanup continues. The shop stays open late. And eventually you find yourself alone.
Again. In the storage room. Again. Standing in front of the drawer. Again.
At this point, you suspect fate has completely given up pretending to be subtle.
—
The final note is hidden beneath all the others. Tucked carefully at the very bottom. Almost as if someone wanted it protected. Your pulse quickens immediately. Because unlike the others, this paper looks newer.
Not recent. Just newer. Adult handwriting. Adult paper. Adult ink.
Slowly, you unfold it. And the world narrows.
Things I wish for:
I don't think this one belongs to a dandelion anymore.
I think some wishes are supposed to be said.
I love Y/N.
I've loved them since we were kids making rules about wishes in the park.
And if they come back someday, maybe I'll finally tell them.
– Seungcheol
For a long moment, nothing happens. You simply stare. Reading the words once. Twice. Again. As if repetition might somehow make them less overwhelming.
It doesn't.
The confession sits plainly on the page. No jokes. No hiding. No pretending. Just the truth. The same truth that has apparently existed for years. The same truth you've spent the entire month slowly uncovering one letter at a time.
Outside the storage room, a floorboard creaks.
You look up.
Your heart immediately attempts escape.
Because Seungcheol is standing in the doorway. And judging by his expression, he knows exactly what you're holding.
—
"Oh."
Brilliant. An excellent response. Truly.
Years of emotional buildup and the first thing either of you manages is:
"Oh."
Seungcheol closes his eyes. Briefly. The expression on his face suggests he is considering several possible methods of spontaneous death.
"You found that one."
You hold up the paper.
"A little late to ask me not to read it."
His groan echoes off the walls. You almost laugh. Almost.
If your heart wasn't currently beating hard enough to qualify as a medical emergency. The silence stretches. Neither of you seem sure how to continue.
Finally:
"You were never supposed to find that."
Your eyebrows rise.
"There are literally eight hundred letters in that drawer."
"There are not eight hundred."
"There are enough."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Then disappears. The seriousness returns. And suddenly the air changes. The humor fades. The truth remains.
"You meant it?"
The question comes out quieter than intended. Seungcheol looks at the floor. Then the shelves. Then literally anywhere except you.
Eventually, he exhales.
"Yeah."
Just one word. Simple. Certain. Enough.
Your chest tightens painfully. Because there is no hesitation. No uncertainty. No attempt to take it back. Just honesty.
The kind that takes years to build. The kind that only appears when someone is finally tired of hiding.
"Since we were kids?"
A small laugh escapes him.
"Unfortunately."
The response is so Seungcheol that tears immediately threaten.
"You make it sound tragic."
"It was."
Now he smiles. Softly.
"I liked you for fifteen years."
Your laugh comes out suspiciously emotional.
"I was very committed."
The tears win. Just slightly. Enough for your vision to blur. Enough for Seungcheol's expression to immediately change. Concern replacing nervousness.
"Hey."
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
"I'm having a normal reaction."
"This doesn't seem normal."
"It absolutely isn't."
And somehow that breaks the tension. Both of you laugh. Both of you look slightly overwhelmed. Both of you look suspiciously close to crying.
When the laughter fades, the truth remains. Patient. Waiting. You stare down at the letter again.
At your name. At years of wishes. At every version of him that existed before this moment.
Ten years old. Twelve. Fourteen. Twenty-one. Twenty-six. Every single one hoping for the same thing. Every single one writing your name.
The realization settles heavily inside your chest. Not because it's surprising.
Because it isn't. Not anymore.
Somewhere between the first letter and the last, you've already known.
You simply weren't ready to admit it.
"Do you know something funny?"
Seungcheol looks confused.
"A dangerous start."
You ignore him.
"I used to wish for you too."
The words leave before you can stop them. His expression freezes. Completely.
"What?"
You laugh softly. Because honestly, the universe has a terrible sense of humor.
"Every birthday."
You look down at the letter.
"Every shooting star."
A smile. Small. Embarrassed.
"Every dandelion."
Silence. Absolute silence.
"Seriously?"
You nod. His eyes widen.
"You never told me."
"You never told me."
"That's because I was terrified."
"So was I."
The answer arrives instantly. Truth again. Always truth.
—
The confession isn't dramatic. There are no grand speeches. No perfectly rehearsed declarations. No movie-worthy dialogue.
Instead, there is honesty. Messy honesty. The kind built from years of friendship.
Years of absence. Years of missing someone without fully understanding the shape of that feeling.
You talk. Really talk. For the first time. About moving away. About losing touch. About all the almost-visits.
The unanswered messages. The missed opportunities. The people you both tried and failed to become. And somehow, through all of it, the conversation keeps returning to the same conclusion.
You found your way back. Not immediately. Not perfectly. But eventually. You came back. And he waited. Not intentionally. Not actively. Just quietly.
Like someone protecting a wish.
—
The flower shop closes early the following evening. Not because business is slow. Because Seungcheol insists on taking you somewhere.
You recognize the destination immediately. The field.
The one behind the shop. The one from childhood. The one where everything started.
The walk there feels strangely familiar. As if no time has passed. As if every version of yourselves still exists somewhere among the grass.
The field is smaller than you remember. Most places are. The dandelions aren't.
They remain everywhere.
Bright. Stubborn. Impossible to ignore.
Exactly like him.
—
"Do you remember the rules?" Seungcheol asks. You laugh.
"The rules changed every week."
"They were very sophisticated."
"They were completely made up."
"They were based on science."
"They absolutely were not."
His offended expression is immediate. You grin. Some things never change.
Thank God.
—
Eventually the conversation fades. The evening settles around you. Warm. Peaceful. Comfortable.
Seungcheol picks a dandelion.
Then another. Holding one out. You accept it automatically.
Like muscle memory. Like childhood. Like home.
The white seeds tremble gently in the breeze. For a moment, neither of you speaks.
"What are you wishing for?"
The question is familiar. The same question from years ago. The same field. The same flowers. The same boy.
Only now he's a man looking at you like you're the answer to something. You stare at the dandelion. Then at him. Then smile.
"Nothing."
His eyebrows lift.
"Nothing?"
You shake your head.
"No."
The answer feels surprisingly easy. Certain. Complete.
For the first time in a very long time, there is nothing left to ask for.
No missing piece. No distance. No unanswered question. No wish waiting to be granted.
Just this. Just him. Just the future.
Whatever shape it takes. And somehow, that's enough.
More than enough.
Seungcheol smiles. Slowly. Softly. The kind of smile that belongs entirely to you.
Then together, sitting side by side in a field full of dandelions, you blow the seeds into the evening air.
Thousands of tiny white fragments drift upward.
Carried by the wind. Carried toward whatever comes next. Not because you need wishes anymore.
But because some traditions deserve to survive. Some things deserve to bloom again.
And some first loves, despite distance and time and every reason they should have faded, are stubborn enough to wait.
Like dandelions. Like hope.
Like Choi Seungcheol.
Like you.
The seeds disappear into the sunset. This time, neither of you watches them go.
Because for the first time, you're both looking in the same direction.
FAUSTIAN BARGAIN 🔥 a pact whereby a person trades something of supreme moral or spiritual importance, such as personal values or the soul, for some worldly or material benefit, such as knowledge, power, or riches. faustian bargains are by their nature tragic or self-defeating for the person who makes them, because what is surrendered is ultimately far more valuable than what is obtained.
pairing: attorney!junhui x devil!reader
genre: (very lite) enemies to lovers, lawyer au; crack, fluff, smut
summary: as the devil, you’re more than happy to grant favors in exchange for someone’s soul, and you’re known for having the most iron-clad contracts around. which is why wen junhui—the scene’s newest contract attorney hell-bent on returning all those souls you’ve acquired—is really starting to piss you off.
rating: explicit. minors do not interact with this or any of my work.
warnings: member pov, reader is thee devil so needless to say there is a bunch of religious themes and topics here (as a person whose roman-catholic grandfather temporarily disowned her for stopping ccd classes i am qualified to write this dw), jihan as literal devil's advocates, hoshi as a shit-stirring angel who wears questionable shirts, i am the opposite of jovan and do not know the law (especially hell law), i also blocked out most catholicism so don't take any of this for canon, god is genderless and the devil is a sympathetic character sue me, alcohol use, low self-esteem/self-doubt, open but optimistic ending.
smut warnings: kissing, mentions of a handjob (actually a major plot point), an actual handjob, oral sex (both receiving), some scratching/marking and biting, jun kinda likes/yearns for pain but it's not a whole thing, light nipple play, fingering, unprotected penetrative sex, everyone orgasms, jun is down bad. in general it's probably much softer than sex with the devil would usually be?
wordcount: 22k
credits: jess (@starlightkyeom) and bee (@imnotshua) for reading this along the way, beta'ing, and suggesting stupid hoshi shirts. mj (@kkaetnipjeon) and jade (@eoieopda) for helping me with law stuff. everyone in the c&e server who helped me along the way — i yapped so much about this fic that i cannot remember everyone. i am sorry but i love you.
note: this somehow wound up being my longest oneshot to date. i don't know how and i still feel like there are parts not fleshed out enough, but big shoutout to my adderall for getting us here. wen junhui, you are a strange little man; i had a blast writing you.
this was written for the don't hate, litigate! collab, hosted by @haologram. thank you so much for letting me participate!
The thing is, Wen Junhui is not really supposed to be here.
Not, like, literally here—sitting across from you, the literal devil, at your desk, ass burning a little because it’s really hot here and he is, admittedly, not used to the heat—but metaphorically. Big picture-ly. This is not how I envisioned my life turning out…ly.
The thing is, Wen Junhui barely made it through law school. Barely passed his licensing exam. Watched his classmates score prestigious internships and receive exclusive offers and network and schmooze and, he thought at the time, all but sell their soul to graduate with jaw-dropping salaries awaiting them and no debt.
And it fucking sucked watching that, because he was about to become a lawyer, sure, but he’d gotten scarlet fever as a kid, swore he was going to die, swore he saw not only the light but Jesus himself (his mother called this a delusion, still insists to this day the prodigal son did not travel all the way to Shenzhen to visit him), and decided if he survived he was going to dedicate his life to the church and become a priest.
(He only decided on law school after he got a little carried away with his high school girlfriend, received an honestly mid handjob that had him crying for three straight days and contemplating confession before he decided to take it to his grave, and he’d announced the next night at dinner, weighed down by an impressive amount of guilt and religious trauma, that he was just going to go to university and major in business or finance instead.)
Anyway. Turns out that whole selling their soul thing wasn’t a joke, and where others would’ve seen a loophole, Wen Junhui had seen an opportunity.
Because he didn’t have the grades. Didn’t have the family name or even the drive, because in another life he’s at least a deacon, so he had to do something. Had to think outside the box, get a little creative, carve out a niche for himself that none of his classmates would also be trying to occupy because he had student loans.
“How did you even get in here?” you ask, doing one of those really cool pen flips Jun has never figured out how to do. “A human hasn’t just strolled into my office in at least a millennia.”
Jun swallows, tries not to let show how nervous he is. “I, uh—I’m not sure? I sort of just… walked in, I guess.”
You blink. Study him for a while, eyes narrowed, before you make a small ah! sound and snap your fingers. What the heck? Jun can’t do that, either. “I know who you are now.”
“You do?”
“Mmhm, sure do. You were pretty famous around here for about thirteen seconds when you got that handjob and changed the trajectory of your own life forever. Some of the lower demons had bet money on you eventually becoming the Pope, so you can imagine their heartbreak… and the amount of coin they lost.” You click your tongue, return your attention to the scroll in front of you. “I kept telling them not to bet on that kind of stuff. Teenagers are wildly unpredictable, especially hormonal teenage boys. One of my finest creations, if I do say so myself.”
Not that he had any expectation of privacy here, but to say he’s mortified would be an understatement.
“Oh. That’s… really embarrassing.”
You nod, distracted as you press a large red button on your desk. “Yeah, I imagine for you it would be.”
Two men immediately materialize on each side of you. One is all cheekbones and sharp, calculating edges. Looks like the personification of mischief or perhaps temptation. After that handjob and the subsequent mourning period, Jun had come to really, really appreciate women, but he’s secure enough in his sexuality to acknowledge that the man in front of him—with his long, dark hair and lithe figure; his nonchalant, blasé attitude—is very attractive.
And the other one is no slouch, either. Has what Jun presumes is meant to be a friendlier disposition, a foil of the other man, good-cop-bad-cop, and they must be quite successful, he figures. Can’t imagine a world in which there’s anything that’d be denied to either of them.
Still, they’re well-acquainted with you, because they barely blink as you say, “Please say hello to our intruder,” with a frightening amount of bite.
The dark-haired one offers up a sleazy grin as he leans back against the wall. “Hello, intruder. Do you have a name?”
It’s a predictable question, and yet Jun still startles. Goes slack-jawed as he fixes his posture, sits straighter in his seat. Has the first syllable of his name sitting on the tip of his tongue when the other man sighs and gestures for Jun to stay quiet. “Don’t tell him your name. Better yet, don’t tell him anything, just pretend he doesn’t exist.”
“That’s rich coming from a person who chose to call themselves Joshua.”
Joshua pouts. “I thought there was something to be said for the irony.” A snort tumbles out of him, and Jun realizes that he is not the foil of the other man: he is, in fact, just as impish and rogue. “God is deliverance.” The dark-haired one does not react. “Aw, c’mon, it’s funny!”
“If you have to convince someone it’s funny, it probably is not so.”
Joshua rolls his eyes. “Alright, Jeonghan. As if you didn’t do the same thing.”
“At least when I strive to be ironic, it actually is humorous—”
With an exasperated sigh, you return your attention to Jun, who has suddenly found a fascinating piece of lint on his trousers. Pointedly does not make eye contact with you, because you had been intimidating and hellacious on your own—and, he’s a little flustered to admit, very attractive—but he’s extremely out of his element sitting across from the literal devil and two demons.
“So, Wen Junhui,” you say, tossing a pair of reading glasses onto your desk, “why are you here?”
(“Wen Junhui?” Joshua whispers to Jeonghan. “As in the Wen Junhui that got the handjob?”
“How the fuck am I supposed to know?” Jeonghan whispers back.)
And now it all feels a bit silly, because Jun had walked straight into Hell thinking he’d be able to… what, exactly? Strike up a friendly conversation? Start making demands? Cut a deal that didn’t include handing over his mortal soul?
Maybe the whole becoming a priest thing hadn’t worked out but he’d still learned a thing or two, and he remembers all the words used to describe you, your original purpose. Meant to reflect God’s glory, anointed, given the highest seat at the table. They’d blamed your downfall on pride, on vanity and violence, and Wen Junhui from Shenzhen, China, who once had scarlet fever and got a bad handjob, was a fool to come here and think he could go toe-to-toe with you.
Overcome with nerves, all he can do is laugh as he toys with the hair at the nape of his neck. Considers saying something like you’re gonna think this is so silly before he decides against it. You’ve been accused of having a sense of humor, but Jun can’t imagine this harebrained scheme of his would make the cut.
Still—he wouldn’t be where he is if the bad ideas sitting on his shoulder had kept quiet, and they’re still whispering to him now, reminding him how he wound up here to begin with: less fortunate than his classmates, less connected, looked over for all those internships and opportunities because he wasn’t born with the proper credentials. Those god-forsaken student loans. Desperation forced him to do this, and it’d be a real shame if he got this far only to give up at the last second, wouldn’t it?
So, he does what he did best all those years of law school: he fakes it.
“Let’s say I’m interested in… a partnership, of sorts.”
Jeonghan and Joshua share a look.
“Ah,” you reply, hands folded in front of you. “And what kind of partnership would that be?”
Let no man (or demon) ever accuse Wen Junhui of doing things half-assed, because he’s doing a concerning amount of oversharing and trauma-dumping before he can talk himself out of it. Spills all the highs and lows of his twenty-odd years, including his infamous handjob, much to Joshua and Jeonghan’s delight. They listen with rapt attention, elbowing one another as they gleefully press him for more details, and to their credit they only interrupt him once with lewd gestures before they’re slapping at and falling over one another with laughter.
He gets to his time in law school. Talks about feeling lapped by his classmates and all the advantages they’d been given, the benefits that weren’t on offer for someone like him: the oldest son of a piano teacher and a seamstress. Someone who showed up to class with a worn leather bag (repaired weekly by his mother) and secondhand books yellowing at the edges. Someone who spent his Friday nights and weekends holed up in his dorm room, not invited to parties and mixers.
“I had to do my first internship in personal injury,” he says, arms gesticulating wildly. “No one wanted those internships, and do you know why?” He pauses for dramatic effect. Jeonghan mimics a sound that sounds like game show countdown music. “Those pictures were gross.”
“Tragic,” you deadpan.
“It was,” Jun insists. He’s starting to feel fidgety. Has no idea how his plight is being received. “It wasn’t paid, either, and I had to take out student loans.”
Joshua beams. “Her second best invention.”
“What?” Jeonghan retorts, brows pinching in the middle. “No way, second-best is definitely cocaine—”
From you comes an exaggerated, long-suffering sigh, and Jeonghan and Joshua immediately cease their bickering. You turn your attention to Jun, and if he’d been able to trick himself into thinking a glimmer of patience or good humor or—god forbid—genuine affection had been visible before, no such delusions are available now. Your face is stern, the pupils of your eyes reflecting flames behind him that don’t exist, and the corners of your mouth are tugged severely downward.
He swallows hard.
“Wen Junhui, get to the point. Your human skin is starting to stink up my office.”
Subtly, he tries to sneak a sniff of his armpit. It’s not mountain fresh, but he’s certainly smelled worse, and he thinks he deserves a little leeway as his body acclimates to such extreme temperatures. He then crosses one leg over the other, ankle on thigh, and leans forward on his elbows. Tries to project some—any—amount of authority and confidence as he says, “I need a niche. Something just for me; something none of my classmates are going after.”
“Because you’re unable to compete with them,” you tack on. Unnecessarily and rudely, in Jun’s opinion, but he nods anyway. Behind you, Jeonghan and Joshua are once again elbowing one another, giddy at Jun’s impending failure while desperately trying to keep their expressions neutral. “Let me guess: you want the same deal?” You begin rifling through a drawer in your desk. “I think I still have all those contracts around here somewhere, so I’m sure I can get you something similar, but if we’re being honest you’re worth a good bit more.”
Jun blinks. “I’m sorry?”
“What part are you having trouble with?” you ask, still sorting through files. Only the top of your head is visible over the ledge of your African blackwood desk.
No horns, Jun notes. He was so sure you were going to have horns.
“Er, both, to be honest. What do you mean I’m ‘worth more’?”
Jeonghan rolls his eyes before slamming his palms onto your desk, causing Jun to startle. Just for fun. “Hey, moron, were you not listening when she told you earlier that you were supposed to be the goddamn Pope?”
“You weren’t even here when she said that,” Jun mumbles, every bit the moron Jeonghan accused him of being, because it’s far easier than acknowledging… well, the entirety of that statement.
Does the Pope get a salary? If he does, surely it’s more than Jun’s making now—
“He doesn’t,” Joshua says. Then clarifies, “Get a salary. Just some coins. A woefully underpaid position, if you ask me, considering how many babies he has to kiss.” He shudders. “Disgusting! When you could just eat them instead!”
Aside from the whole eating babies thing, Jun can’t really disagree. Only a handful of coins for being in charge of all of Catholicism and having to know Latin? And having to live in Italy?
“Also,” Joshua continues, “it’s kind of our job to know everything that goes on down here, so we did, in fact, know she told you that you were supposed to be the Pope.”
Jeonghan rolls his eyes. “And yet he became a lawyer. Imagine if Fibonacci had done the same—the eighth circle would be so boring.”
“Boniface,” Jun corrects him, immediately shutting trap at the look the three of you send his way. “He’s really in the eighth circle? I thought Dante just said that because he was upset about the exile.”
Upset is underselling it, Joshua mumbles. Looks like he wants to say more but has enough sense not to. Beside him, Jeonghan is once again rolling his eyes, growing more perturbed and borderline-homicidal in Jun’s proximity by the second.
Does he really smell that bad? Should he wear cologne next time? Is there a particular note those in the Underworld find appealing? Because Jun doesn’t mind tracking it down. He’s here on your turf asking for a favor, after all, so it’d be basic manners to smell nice and not stink up the place.
He’s about to ask when a booming sound of acknowledgement comes from you. A sly grin sits lopsided on your face as you toss a manila folder onto your desk, so thick a yellowing rubber band struggles to fit around it once. “This is you, Wen Junhui,” you say, pushing it closer to Jun.
All he can do is stare. Feels like his heart is going to pound right out of his chest, and he can’t pinpoint why, doesn’t know what’s got him so uneasy. He doesn’t have to look at it to know his entire life is in that file—perhaps even the before and the after. All the possibilities, all the could-have-beens. The consequences of him going right at the fork in the road instead of taking the left. Endless, and he finally realizes the boulder sitting on his chest is dread: existential variety.
“It’s, uh.” He licks at his lips. “It’s really big,” he finally says, feeling stupid and embarrassed at the way his voice trembles.
“Aish, this fucking kid,” Jeonghan grouses at the same time Joshua snickers and wonders aloud, “Do you think that’s what that girl said when he got the handjob?”
You press the red button again and Jeonghan and Joshua disappear without a word.
“Even in the lowest pits of Hell you must still suffer the displeasure of men,” you say, as if you’re imparting ancient wisdom upon Jun. “I must admit I’ve grown quite familiar with your file.”
“Manila,” Jun replies, also as if he’s being extremely wise. “Didn’t expect to see that around here.”
“Yes, well, the cheap ones are great for papercuts.” You pause and your demeanor grows serious, belying the importance of what you’re about to say. “You’re one of a select few, Wen Junhui. Not many files that come across my desk are this size.”
Pride swells in his chest, booting that existential boulder to the curb. “Oh,” he says, trying desperately to tamper down his excitement. “Yay!”
He does a little wiggle. Mortifying.
“Something you said earlier stuck out to me—something about certain things not being on offer for someone like you.” Your eyes meet Jun’s, and it suddenly feels like he’s been catapulted off the edge of the world. “I don’t think you realize just how much is on offer for someone like you.”
Jun swallows hard. Tries to, anyway—finds that his mouth has gone bone dry. His limbs, too, refuse to work, feel both heavy and weightless, and he’s anxious again, hands and feet saturated with sweat, no wonder he smells, and he knows, he knows, he knows who and what you are, knows this is a trick. Knows he’s offered himself up on a silver platter.
Good god, he came here willingly. No wonder Jeonghan kept calling him names.
“So,” you begin, moving your glasses to the top of your head, “what is it you want? You’re in an elite tier; I could give you almost anything you ask for.”
“Um—”
“You mentioned loans; is it money you want? You’re not quite qualified for billionaire level yet, but I think you’d find both the terms and the offered amount to be quite… agreeable.”
Oh, you’re good. Just as he had with the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, Jun always thought the story of Adam and Eve was simple: don’t do the thing you’re explicitly told not to do. But now, seated across from Temptation itself, he understands it’s not that simple, that those two never stood a chance. Because the longer he’s silent, the more relaxed he starts to feel. That headache he’s been fighting off for three days finally starts to recede. He feels confident and a bit euphoric, but he supposes everyone would feel that way if they were being offered any and everything they could ever want.
“Actually…”
Wen Junhui isn’t very religious anymore, but he used to be. Used to believe in all the teachings; used to sit at the piano in the living room and hum along as his father played processionals; used to beg his mother to read from the Studium Biblicum at bedtime so he could fall asleep and dream of utopia.
Wen Junhui isn’t religious anymore, but he remembers the basics.
Enough to steel his voice and say, “Actually, I didn’t come here to talk about money.”
Jun doesn’t know what time it is.
It’s late enough that the city has gone mostly quiet. The buses have stopped running, the elevator just outside his door hasn’t dinged in a while, and the light that’s refracted onto his bedroom ceiling is a familiar shade of blue-silver. Not long after two a.m. if he had to guess.
He doesn’t know how he got back to his apartment, either, which would’ve been the more pressing issue at any other time.
But he’s had a long day. Took a little trip to Hell, got laughed at, got offered a lot of money, and got laughed at again. Now he’s got the anxiety shakes. Keeps seeing figures in every shadow. Can’t sleep even though every part of his body is bogged down by exhaustion. All he can do is stare at the swirls in the ceiling plaster and be glad he doesn’t have to work for another two days.
At first, he thinks the knocking is on someone else’s door. Then, once it doesn’t cease, he chalks it up to hallucination. It’s only once it goes from hey, I’m here! to OPEN THE GODDAMN DOOR RIGHT GODDAMN NOW does he stumble out of bed and through the living room.
Through the peephole, all that stares back at him are the dingy fluorescent lights of the hallway.
“You know, judging by the outside, I thought this place was gonna be a real shithole, but it’s not that bad.” Jun shrieks, collapses to the floor with his hand clawing at his chest. “Oops, sorry, dude. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
There is a man in his apartment.
There is a man in his apartment. At two o’clock in the morning.
“Wh-who are you?” he stammers out, eyes squeezed shut as if it’ll protect him. “I do-don’t have any mo-money.”
The man scoffs. If Jun was looking, he assumes it was accompanied by an eye-roll. “Not to be rude, but I was able to ascertain that, yeah.”
Jun peeks one eye open. Before him stands a man of average height, looks to be early to mid 20s. He’s wearing gray sweatpants and a black hoodie that says FEMALE BODY INSPECTOR in large white lettering. His hat, which is so neon pink it seems to glow, simply says SWAG.
He opens his other eye and quirks an eyebrow. “Are you a demon?”
“Ew, no.”
“What are you, then?”
The man pouts. “You can’t tell by my extremely good looks and”—he pauses, clears his throat like he’s trying to remember something—“awesome sauce fashion?”
“I—no, sorry. Also, your what?”
“I’m an angel,” the angel says quickly before he starts digging through his pockets. “Do people not say awesome sauce anymore?” Jun shakes his head. The angel pulls a pen out of nowhere and strikes out something in a notebook. “What year is it?”
“Er, 2024. Almost 2025.”
“What year did people stop saying awesome sauce?”
“I don’t know,” Jun says. “Do you have a name?”
The angel sighs, the pen and notebook both blink out of existence. “Hoshi,” the angel replies. “It means star, which I am. By the way.”
“Okay. May I ask why you’re in my apartment?”
“You ask a lot of questions. You got anything to drink?”
“I don’t remember any angels named Hoshi in the Bible.”
“It’s my Earth name.” Hoshi flutters his eyelashes. “Suits me, right?”
Jun’s eyes narrow. “You also aren’t biblically-accurate.”
Hoshi scoffs, hands immediately finding the waistband of his sweatpants. “I am where it counts.” He starts to pull them down, much to Jun’s horror, and all he can think is, oh my god I’m about to see an angel’s penis, what’s the protocol for this, do I have to look at it, would it be rude not to, this is the weirdest day of my life, I must be in a medically-induced coma—
“I’m getting the impression you don’t really want to see my dick.”
Jun covers his eyes again. “I don’t!”
“Bummer. I’m gonna summon a Baja Blast, do you want one?”
“I—no, no thank you. I think I just—I really need to sleep? But I’m not tired? It’s been a long day and I’m still not one-hundred percent sure I’m not hallucinating all of this.”
Hoshi snaps his fingers and a garishly blue bottle of soda appears in his hand. He beams. “Trade offer: I help you sleep and you take me out for breakfast when you wake up. We have a lot to talk about.”
“You’re just gonna… hang out here? In my apartment?”
“Yes,” Hoshi confirms. “I’m going to look through all your stuff.”
Jun wants to say no. He should say no. Has half a mind to consider Hoshi is lying about being an angel and is instead another demon sent by you from Hell to keep tabs on him, but his aura is different—less… oppressive—so he gives in and nods.
He’s asleep within seconds.
It’s only a few hours later when he stirs awake. Sunlight streams in through the curtains, and the sounds of the city are drowned out by birdsong. Jun feels more rested and weightless than he has in years, and it allows him to wake slowly, recount the events of the past 24 hours and take stock of his body, how he’s feeling. Do some breathing exercises. Briefly contemplate if he has now twice altered the trajectory of his life for the worst.
“Get up!” someone yells from his living room. Right, the angel guy. “I want waffles and the diner stops serving breakfast in thirty minutes!”
Jun stares blankly at the ceiling. There’s no diner anywhere near him that serves American breakfast, but he assumes that isn’t going to stop Hoshi, who has no concept or time or space and no constraints on either.
Thirty minutes later, they’re sitting across from one another in a retro American-style diner.
“Where are we?” Jun asks, peering outside the large window to his right. All the cars are American makes; the walls look like they're made out of silver; all the signs are in English. He doesn’t have to ask why he can understand them. “Besides America. I’m gathering as much.”
Hoshi pours an entire sugar packet in his mouth and grins. “New Jersey. They have more diners than any other state in America, and some are even open 24 hours! It’s my favorite place on Earth.”
“Okay,” Jun acquiesces. What else is he going to do? He’s never been to America before, let alone New Jersey. “What do I order? I don’t know what any of this stuff is.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll order for you.”
Famous last words.
Whatever Hoshi had ordered for him has more sugar in one bite than Jun usually eats in an entire week, but it’s so good he can’t help himself. Half of his meal is devoured before they can get to the heart of the meeting even though Hoshi yaps the whole time—talks animatedly about things Jun doesn’t understand but thinks sound important, like his dog and his favorite music. Hoshi also talks about his love for dancing, and when Jun cocks his head to the side and asks, like Saint Vitus?, all he gets in return is a small smile.
“Okay,” Hoshi says, pushing his plate towards the middle of the table, “now that I’m ready to throw up, it’s time to talk business.” Jun swallows, no longer hungry. “I saw your entire pitch. It was embarrassing.”
Jun groans and face-plants onto the table. “Yeah.” Syrup sticks to his forehead.
“However, it was a convincing story. That’s why They sent me here.”
“They?”
Hoshi waves him off. “Whatever you know Them as: God, the Lord, The Big Boss. They also heard everything.”
Jun slowly picks his head up and studies the angel across from him. Hoshi is weird, no doubt about that, but he’s also endearingly earnest. “And They… what? Want to help me?”
“Precisely,” Hoshi confirms. “And before you ask why, I think that part is quite obvious, but it’s two-fold: yes, it’s partly out of spite, but also—some of those souls were supposed to be ours.”
Jun blinks. Feels like his brain is filled with primordial goo and is about to split at the seams. “Explain this to me like I’m an idiot.”
“That’s what I’m doing,” Hoshi replies, tone measured and slightly confused. “We’re all-knowing up there, as I’m sure you know. We know who’s meant to be ours at the moment of their birth and we keep an eye on them throughout their lives. We’re not allowed to intervene, though, which the Devil knows. Free will and all that.” Hoshi rolls his eyes. “With free will comes temptation, and temptation is a powerful thing. Most people are not immune to it, which is why They took notice of you.”
“Wasn’t I—”
“Supposed to be the Pope? Yeah. They weren’t, like, super thrilled about the outcome of that, but contrary to popular belief, it’s not against Their Word to get a handjob.”
“But I spilled seed.”
The look on Hoshi’s face almost looks like a grimace. “And you’ve spilled a lot more since then. Look, all I’m saying is if the worst thing you do in your life is have sex, you’re not disqualified. We look at the entire itemized receipt, not a single purchase, if you catch my drift.”
“Yeah,” Jun replies, a little dazed. He still could’ve been the Pope. “I became a lawyer for nothing?”
“Not nothing,” Hoshi insists, shaking his head. “You’ve actually put yourself in a very unique position, which is what I’m trying to get to. Some of those souls were meant to be ours, but they fell into temptation and made deals with those fuc—” He coughs. “Those… beings… down there.”
Hoshi reaches across the table and places a warm hand over Jun’s. “They want you to help return their souls to where they belong.”
“And how am I supposed to do that? You saw it: she laughed at me, not to mention she now knows what I’m up to. And how am I meant to advertise? If these souls are already in Hell, it’s not like I can put up a billboard!”
Hoshi’s eyes narrow. “She?” he asks. “That’s how the Devil appeared to you?”
“I—yeah. Is that not how she appears to everyone?”
“What did she look like?”
Jun trudges through the slime in his brain. Tries to remember anything besides—“Pretty,” he answers. “I don’t really—that’s all I can remember. I just remember she was really, really pretty.”
“Like the kind of woman you’d be attracted to on Earth, right?” Jun nods. “You need to be careful. She’ll appear to you again in similar forms, especially now that I’ve been here and told you Their intention.”
“So you’re telling me I have to be suspicious of any beautiful woman that finds me attractive?” Hoshi nods, soliciting a tortured groan from Jun. “This just keeps getting worse and worse.”
“You won’t be able to avoid her, nor are you expected to. It’s to your advantage she entertained you at all, and she certainly wasn’t lying when she said you are of a higher status to her and everyone in Hell. If we want you, it’s only natural they would as well.”
Jun mulls all of this over. Stares into his mostly-empty mug of coffee and tries to make sense of it. “I can’t even remember how I got there. I just had the idea, and then it was like I woke up in Hell. I didn’t mean to—what if I don’t even want to do this anymore? Can’t I just go back to my regular, boring life? This is—this is too much.”
“Unfortunately it’s too late for that. You have been chosen, Wen Junhui, and not just for this.”
Jun scoffs. “You’re making me sound like Harry Potter.”
“Thankfully that lady does not belong to us. Now, would you like to go back to your apartment before we get into specifics? It may take a while.”
“...Can we take another order of these things to go?”
Hoshi grins and flags down the waitress to order another massive stack of sugar-dusted waffles. “I think I’m going to enjoy my time on earth with you, Wen Junhui.”
The specifics are thus:
Hoshi is in charge of what earth-bound lawyers would call advertising. Jun isn’t privy to the specifics; he doesn’t know how Hoshi is even capable of it, if he’s just going to waltz into Hell and hand out business cards or what, but it’s more than he’s able to do so he doesn’t ask. (Well, that’s not entirely true. He did ask, and all Hoshi said in return was, “You know Metatron?” and left it at that.)
Hoshi is also in charge of The List: the souls Heaven wants freed from their contracts and returned upstairs. He allows Jun a brief glimpse of it, who is none too surprised to find a few law school colleagues but still overwhelmed at its length. It’s long—so long it had taken Hoshi quite some time to unfurl the scroll—and it isn’t static. Anyone destined for Heaven that makes a deal with the devil while Jun’s at work will simply be added to the bottom of the list. On and on it’ll go, ad nauseam, until Jun either dies or retires.
Which, speaking of retirement—
In a shocking turn of events, the job comes with benefits. Hoshi had been reluctant to call it a salary. For all intents and purposes Jun will be self-employed: he will be provided with a small office space in a nice area of downtown with no signage, although he’s also welcome to work remotely or wherever he feels most comfortable. Money will appear in his account, though he can opt for other forms of payment if he so wishes. (He’d been offered enough to live off of for a year for even accepting the job but chose to have his student loans paid off instead.)
They will keep him healthy. They will keep his sleep schedule regular and his refrigerator stocked with nutritious food. They will ensure people leave him alone and that no suspicions are cast upon him. They will ensure Jun has every tool at his disposal to be successful.
(It was a lot. Felt like making an inverse deal with the devil—he knew he was playing for the right side, but it was non-negotiable and non-refundable. Wen Junhui had been chosen, and in a moment of self-doubt and self-deprecation, he’d joked, “Can They make me smarter?”
Hoshi’s brows had furrowed. “The list of benefits makes no mention of increased intelligence.” Jun pouted; let out a whiny little oh. Hoshi grabbed another sheet of paper. “Your intelligence stats are nearly maxed, dude.”
“I barely passed law school!” he protested.
“I don’t know what to tell you. If we made you any smarter your brain would explode. Literally.”)
After that, there wasn’t much left to discuss. Hoshi had a lot of planning to do; needed to talk to someone in the marketing department but promised he’d be back as soon as possible. Left a tome in Jun’s possession and told him to study.
Theological Contract Law: A Very Comprehensive Introduction: Cases and Materials - 2326th Edition, it says, and Jun stares down at it full of foreboding. It’s bound in black leather, giltstamped in red. Nothing good comes bound in black leather with shiny red letters.
Still, he does what’s asked of him, lest his student loan pay-off gets reversed. He spends hours hunched over his small dining room table with a legal pad to his right, taking notes on any and everything that may prove important—what he can make sense of, at least, because it doesn’t resemble any legal or governmental structure he’s ever seen.
He groans. Tosses his pen onto the table and leans back in the stiff wooden chair, lets his head loll off the back as the wood digs into his neck. Says, “What the heck am I supposed to do with this?” to the empty space of his apartment, and before he’s even opened his eyes another book appears on the table.
Theological Law For Mortals: An Introduction
(Sorry!!!! - Hoshi)
He swears.
The days bleed together. Hoshi pops in briefly to officially assign him his first case: one Kim Mingyu from Anyang-si, South Korea. Apparently sold his soul to be “tall and hot” and Heaven desperately needs him back. “This one’s important to the big boss,” Hoshi says, dropping off a stack of papers with a picture paperclipped to the front with the most attractive, symmetrical man Jun has ever seen. “He was meant to work in recruiting,” Hoshi explains.
Jun whistles low. “Understandable. Look at his face.”
“Exactly, so you get the need for a little urgency.” He tries to stamp it down, but Jun feels the panic start to rise. Has to dig his fingernails into the palm of his hand. “Hey, just do your best. Call me if you need anything.”
Hoshi turns to leave, ugly pair of brand new sneakers squeaking against the linoleum floor of the kitchen, but Jun’s able to stammer out, “What—what if I can’t do it?”
The angel turns, face marred by genuine confusion. “Why would you think you can’t?”
And then he’s gone.
Fueled by Hoshi’s unwavering—and frankly incomprehensible—confidence in him, Jun finds what he needs just after four o’clock Sunday morning. There, on page 4,837 of Theological Contract Law: A Very Comprehensive Introduction: Cases and Materials - 2326th Edition, in subsection 69 of section 567, it clearly states that souls handed over in exchange for vanity-related reasons must adhere to strict guidelines, limited to but not including:
General facial appearance
Eye and/or hair color
Penis, breast, and/or butt size
Height and/or weight
Others TBD
Pushed beyond the threshold of exhaustion, eyes going in and out of focus, he’s not sure the text following the sub-bullet point is real, but there it is: In regards to height, men must be made at least 6’2” or 188 centimeters for the contract to be considered legally binding.
“Hoshi!”
At once, the angel appears across from him. He’s decked out in another stupid t-shirt (Don’t Bully Me, I’ll Cum, this one says) and is drinking a 7-Eleven slushy through a bendy straw. His lips and tongue are stained blue when he smiles and asks, “Good news?”
Jun shakes his head. Tries to erase the scene in front of him. “Maybe,” he answers. “I need you to get an accurate height on Kim Mingyu. And I mean really accurate. Shave him bald if you have to.”
Hoshi’s smile fades as he grows serious. “You really think you’ve got something?”
“I think so.” Jun pushes the book across the table. “Take a look at that part I highlighted. I know his file says he’s 188 centimeters tall, but imagine if whoever measured him just rounded up? If he’s even a millimeter under that, the contract is void.”
Before he can comprehend what’s happening, Hoshi climbs halfway across the table, grabs Jun by the cheeks, and plants a wet, noisy kiss in the middle of Jun’s forehead. “Wen Junhui, you sneaky little minx, I may be a little in love with you.”
Jun’s face flushes hot and red.
“Just—just look into it, okay? I’ve been over the rest of this and I can’t see any other way out of it.” With a sarcastic salute, Hoshi disappears. Feels like he’s only gone a few minutes before he pops back up in the living room wearing a somber expression. “What?” Jun asks, panicked, feeling his stomach drop out of his ass. “What’s wrong?”
“Bad news,” Hoshi replies, heaving a sigh. Won’t look up from the floor. Does an impeccable job at selling it, before he looks up at Jun with a shit-eating grin, barely able to contain his excitement. “For the Devil! Ha ha ha!”
Whiplash. All Jun can feel is whiplash, and he stumbles out of the chair, can barely feel the ache in his bones. Trips over a rogue object on his way to the living room. “What? You mean—”
“You did it! Kim Mingyu officially measured in at a glorious six-foot-one-point-nine repeating.”
Jun grabs onto the back of the couch so he doesn’t pass out. Oxygen is not reaching his brain right now, nor is coherent thought. All those agonizing days in law school during which he resigned himself to being a failure. All those back-breaking nights he had to run to the bus stop to get home from his internship, only a handful of hours before he had to be awake again for class. All the meals he upchucked from anxiety before critical exams. All his classmates that’d ignored and belittled him. And now—
“I did it…” he says, voice colored with pure disbelief.
Hoshi starts doing some kind of concerning, robotic-looking dance. “Yeah, bitch!” A bolt of lightning strikes right in front of him and Hoshi startles. Rubs at the back of his neck and has the good sense to look sheepish. “I forgot I’m not supposed to swear.” He looks up at the ceiling. “Sorry, Boss!”
He turns his attention to Jun. “Go take a shower and get dressed. Wear something nice; we’re going out to celebrate.”
Whatever club Hoshi has brought him to is humid and sticky.
With what, Jun can’t be sure, but every time he presses his fingertips together it takes a concerning amount of time for them to peel apart.
Hoshi leads him to the bar. Hops onto a stool and kicks his feet as he waves over the bartender. She’s cute, Jun thinks; a bright, open smile splits her face as she pulls away from Hoshi, clearly endeared by whatever it was he had said. She moves around the bar with an easy confidence, does a little twirl to avoid her coworker, and Jun doesn’t realize he’s hypnotized until Hoshi digs an elbow into his ribs.
“Take it easy, killer. I ordered us some shots.”
Jun snaps out of his reverie. “Can you even drink?”
“Of course I can, I just can’t get drunk. Not here, anyway. Big Boss made the real good stuff exclusive to you-know-where after a few, uh… mishaps. Down here.” He coughs. “Let’s find somewhere to sit. I’ll come back for the drinks.”
There’s an empty booth tucked away in a corner. Jun takes the side that gives him an eyeline shot of the bar even though it feels a little creepy, and if Hoshi knows what he’s doing he doesn’t mention it. He’s back to yapping about one thing or another, gets distracted by all the commotion in the club—the group playing darts, the packed dance floor, a couple making out near the restrooms. Quite enthusiastically, Jun might add.
True to his word, Hoshi disappears for a second to retrieve the drinks. Jun watches as the bartender hands over a tray of rainbow-colored shots and also as Hoshi pats the pockets of his skin-tight pleather plants. Watches as he panics and frantically waves Jun over. Once he’s in his personal space, Hoshi leans in and whispers, “They say they need a card for the tab. I don’t know what that is so I’m assuming I don’t have one.”
Jun sighs. Explains, “It’s a credit card. How do you survive down here with no money?” Nevertheless, he digs out his wallet and hands his card over. “I can’t believe you invited me out and I’m getting stuck with the bill.”
Hoshi tuts. Hands Jun’s credit card to the bartender without an ounce of remorse. “Relax, I’ll have Matt reimburse you.”
“Who the heck is Matt—” Jun begins to say, but he’s interrupted by the most annoying angel God ever created placing the tray of drinks in Jun’s hands, then asking, “Can you take this back to the table? I’ll be right there.”
Hoshi is not going to be right there. Hoshi is going to hover around the bar because the cute bartender was making eyes at him, and Jun is going to return to their formerly-shared table to drink alone. There aren’t many things more depressing than going out with a friend to celebrate a personal achievement only to end up downing six shots on his own.
…Which are not to Jun’s taste at all.
He’s a habitual Tsingtao drinker. Never bothers to order anything else because he knows what he likes and it has never steered him wrong. Never had his head stuck in a toilet bowl, either, which is territory he’ll rapidly be approaching if he actually goes through with this.
“Is this seat taken?”
Jun knows it’s you without having to look up. Your aura is tangible—something thick and syrupy like molasses and just as dark; something suffocating, something that would drown him—and it follows you like a shadow. Slides into the booth before Jun can answer, just a nanosecond before your physical form does the same, and when you’re at eye level he has to swallow his gasp.
You look completely different.
Still beautiful, he thinks, because it’s hard to think of anything else. Jun knows who and what you are, of course; remembers the warning Hoshi had given him. Knows that this is just another one of your tricks, another layer of temptation, but it’s a beauty like quicksand. It’s a beauty like the misunderstood creatures at the heart of every fairy tale—those haunting kinds of myths meant to both make you wary and suck you in. It’s a beauty accentuated by darkness.
Worst of all, it’s a beauty that’s making his pants a little tight in the dick area.
“What does that imbecile have you drinking?” you ask, reaching for one of the remaining shot glasses. You grimace as you hold it up to the light. “You know, I once watched a man throw back twelve of these things before he stripped down to nothing but a diaper and attempted to rob a convenience store across the street.”
“Oh. What happened?”
You sigh. Place the glass back on the tray. “A comedy of errors, of course. He somehow managed to make it into the store unnoticed, but he had neither a weapon nor something to store the money in. He tried climbing across the counter to get to the cash register, but the clerk hit him in the head with a metal step stool and knocked him unconscious before calling the police.”
“I’m assuming he got arrested?”
“Oh, no.” You laugh, and Jun’s taken aback by how normal it sounds. “He came to before the police got there. I guess the sirens freaked him out because he ran out of the store and got hit by a bus.” Jun must be wearing a particular look, because you follow that up with, “He was always meant to be one of ours, so don’t worry, you won’t have to meet him.”
Right.
Jun had expected this. Not that he’d had a whole lot of time to expect it, considering Kim Mingyu had been freed from his contract for a whopping fifteen minutes before Hoshi was shoving Jun into the bathroom to shower, but it had been a passing thought on at least four separate occasions.
You’re not going to apologize, he tells himself. Wonders if you can hear his thoughts and desperately hopes you can’t, considering he’d thought about getting a semi from how pretty you are. It wasn’t even a semi, really, if he’s being honest. What’s half of a semi? One-fourth of a boner? That’s what he’d gotten, and if you can read his thoughts it’s very important that you know that.
“I’m not Joshua.”
Jun startles. Feels all the normalcy leak out of his body and form a gloopy puddle on the floor. “Um,” he replies stupidly. “Then how did you—”
“I can feel you thinking. Always feels like chickenpox when humans overthink around me.”
He wrings his sweaty hands together. Rubs them on his jeans when that doesn’t work. “Sorry,” he says instinctually. “It’s just—I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say.”
“Why?” you challenge. “Is there something you want to say?”
“I don’t think so. But I can’t imagine you’re very happy with me, and I get this sort of, um. When I know someone’s upset with me it feels like chickenpox, too. And even though I know, logically, that I did a good thing, I still feel like I’m going to throw up?”
Tense silence hangs between the two of you. Jun’s on the verge of word-vomiting another apology when you snap your fingers and turn the remaining shots into something resembling watery honey. You hold one out to him. “Drink this,” you instruct, and Jun makes a point not to let your fingers touch when he takes it.
“Is it poison?”
You heave another sigh. “Wen Junhui, there are some things you need to understand about me. First of all, this is an inherited job. Being The Anointed One comes with a lot of work and responsibility so we get burned out, okay? So there’s only ever been one devil as far as humans are concerned, but in a weird avatar-y kind of way that’s hard to explain and not worth my time to explain to you, specifically, considering you’re the enemy now. Second, I am capable of killing you in ways your human brain cannot even begin to conceive of. I do not need to poison you with ginger tea to take you out.”
Jun looks down at the glass. Raises it to his noise and takes a hesitant sniff.
Oh. Yeah, that’s ginger tea.
That you conjured him… because he said he felt nauseous?
“The last thing you need to understand is that the loophole you found was… unfortunate, to say the least, but Kim Mingyu’s contract was not one of mine. The next contract that idiotic angel is going to ask you to work on was also not my work. If you free him, too, it will be regrettable, but it will pale in comparison to what will happen to you if you even think about touching one of mine.”
You’re gone before the fear can even set in.
Jun blinks, staring at the empty seat across from him. No indication at all that you’d been there, no lingering shadow, just the taste of ginger on his tongue and one of those cartoon scribbles in a thought bubble hovering metaphorically above his head.
He doesn’t—
He can’t—
No, he decides, he is not going to have a mental break in this club. Not while “Friday” by Rebecca Black plays on a loop. Not while he can hear someone to his left vomiting all over the floor. Not while he watches Hoshi skip back to the table and he notices, for the first time all night, what he’s wearing.
“Did you change?”
Because he swears the angel wasn’t wearing that when they left the apartment. The pleather pants, yes, but not the baby pink cropped tank with a decal of a creepy child in the middle that says BOYS ARE STUPID, THROW ROCKS AT THEM.
“What? No,” Hoshi answers, sliding into the seat you’d occupied only moments earlier. “Why does it smell weird over here?”
Jun plays stupid. “One of the dartboard girls puked on the floor.” He’s not very good at it.
Hoshi shakes his head. “Not that.” An exaggerated sniff, not unlike a bloodhound. “It smells like… it definitely smells familiar. I know this smell. It’s like—you know how it feels when it’s about to snow? How the cold and the air burn your nose, but it doesn’t actually smell like anything? As if it used to have a smell, once, a long time ago, and all it is now is just an imprinted memory?”
Jun lies, “No. Nope, no idea.”
Hoshi visibly deflates. “Well, it’s kind of like that. Also a little bit like you used wet moss to put out a wildfire. It fills me with—” Hoshi pauses. Narrows his gaze as he studies Jun intently. Being stared at like this by a guy in that particular shirt is a bit disorienting, he must admit. “She was here, wasn’t she?”
He’ll know he’s lying, but Jun says no again because it’s a lot easier than explaining that being threatened within an inch of his mortal life made him cum in his pants a little.
After the club, Jun gets a few days of reprieve.
He doesn’t hear from Hoshi at all, nor does he materialize unexpectedly in his apartment. No mysterious books show up, either, which is a relief. He’d stored both Theological Contract Law: A Very Comprehensive Introduction: Cases and Materials - 2326th Edition and Theological Law For Mortals: An Introduction on a seldom-used bookshelf in his living room and now the shelf is starting to bow in the middle. One more tome of that size and the whole thing is going to come tumbling down and earn him a noise complaint.
Another one.
Because Hoshi has already racked up three in Jun’s name.
So he tries to go back to life as usual until he’s needed again. Does his grocery shopping in the middle of the week in the middle of the day when it’s not so busy and he can navigate the aisles without crippling anxiety. Goes to a check-up and has to lie about turning over a new leaf and taking his health seriously when his cholesterol levels are back within perfect range. He plays video games, picks a nice willow tree in the park to sit beneath and read (normal books this time), takes some of the Mingyu money to buy a decent watch and a few tailored suits.
For the first time in a while, he’s able to sleep through the night.
But he can’t shake the feeling that it’s all… strange. Ever since you’d shown up at the bar, he swears he sees you everywhere: in line a few registers over at the supermarket, in the waiting room of the hospital, coming out of a fitting room in the mall. It’s that aura again. Stalks him like prey. Has paranoia pricking at his skin, and it’s not healthy, the way it has him looking over his shoulder at every turn, scurrying away from every attractive woman with a frown and mumbled apologies.
Surely this cannot be the rest of his life.
Hoshi swings by on a Tuesday. Just like you said he would, he asks Jun to work on an assignment for one Lee Chan who tried to sell his friend to the devil but accidentally sold himself instead. “Wouldn’t have really mattered,” Hoshi explains. Today, his shirt says BIG DICK IS BACK IN TOWN. “It’s sort of against the rules to try and sell other people.”
Jun spits toothpaste into the sink and prays the towel stays snug around his waist. Hoshi had cornered him in the bathroom. “So why do you want him back, then?” Rifles through the medicine cabinet for his nice hair serum. “Seems pretty open and shut to me.”
“Why do They want him back,” Hoshi corrects, “and I don’t know why They want this one.”
Jun thinks about what you said: how Mingyu and Lee Chan hadn’t been your contracts, were basically freebies; the… avatar-ness; the not-subtle-at-all threats on his life. Says, “Can I ask you something?” as he rolls on antiperspirant.
Hoshi, who’s sitting in the tub making animals out of shaving cream, simply nods.
“She said something interesting to me—”
“Before or after being mean to you made you ejaculate in your pants like a teenager?”
Jun blinks. “Before,” he answers slowly. When Hoshi makes no move to interrupt him again, he continues, “She said the Kim Mingyu and Lee Chan contracts weren’t hers. That the role is… inherited? Something about an avatar? How does that work?”
The angel hums. Adds what appear to be bunny ears to an amorphous blob that does not look rabbit-shaped at all, and Jun tries to tamper down his excitement at the impending explanation. Everything he’s dealt with so far will have been worth it because he’s going to be in the know. The powers that be will reward him with their trust. He’ll finally get some answers to all those questions he fell asleep pondering as a child.
And then Hoshi waves him away dismissively and says, “You know I can’t tell you any of that,” and everything comes collapsing down like a house of cards.
Fair enough, Jun thinks—he’s only successfully completed one assignment. It’s still early days. “But you will eventually,” he says, and whoever’s listening in must think the optimism in his voice is so pathetic, “right?”
Hoshi is not cruel. They haven’t known each other long, but Jun knows that much. He wasn’t created from some Old Testament mold, when cruelty was the point of it all—intended to impress fear and strict adherence to Their Word. So when Hoshi laughs it isn’t meant the way Jun takes it. When Hoshi laughs it isn’t meant to make Jun feel disregarded and unimportant, small and irrelevant, but that’s where it strikes him all the same.
When Hoshi laughs and has no reassurances to offer, Jun is seventeen again, reckoning with his loss of faith. Now he’s a decade older and is constantly confronted by all those old names and characters, and when you’re trapped in the middle of their bidding, where can you go when you need to hide?
Jun has the Lee Chan assignment completed by Thursday night.
A significant amount of money appears in his bank account. He wakes up on Friday to an enthusiastic message from his landlord, thanking him for paying his rental contract through the end of his lease. His parents thank him for the grocery delivery. On the side, away from the proud ears of his father, his mother is especially thankful. She’s choking back tears as she thanks him profusely, says business has been slow, tells him he’s a good son and he’s made them proud, always, even if he traveled a different path than the one he originally planned to take.
None of it takes away the ache in his chest.
None of it makes him feel any less empty. It’s hard to feel fulfilled when you know you’re just a pawn, stuck in the middle of a holy war that existed long before him and will persist long after he’s gone. Wen Junhui will always be on the outskirts, because everyone needs him, but he’s not important enough to trust. He is someone and no one all at once. He is Purgatory.
He needs to feel human—needs to make human mistakes, destroy himself the way humans do. Needs to commit a few cardinal sins and scold himself, wonder what the fuck he’s doing as he rattles ice around his third glass of baijiu. Needs to wake up with a splitting headache and a fractured memory. Needs a hoarse voice beside him to ask what time it is as he stares at their naked back and wonders how to get out of it.
There’s a bar not far from his apartment. A dive, by every definition of the word: broken, flickering neon sign out front, cheap linoleum floors peeling at the corners, 70s paneling on the walls, the stench of cigarette smoke outlasting all the old regulars. It’s the kind of place ghosts gather; the kind of place Jun was always too scared to go, knew the questioning, distrustful stares that’d be there to greet him as soon as he stepped through the door.
Tonight, though, it’ll do just fine.
He sits on a stool at the bar and orders a beer to start. Intends to stay a while. Watches a trio of old men play dou dizhu at a table near the back, empty bottles at their feet, fat cigars stuck between their teeth, insults and accusations shouted around them. To his left, a middle-aged man tries bartering for another drink. Needs it, he says, because he lost his job and his wife in the same week. Fourth job this month, the bartender replies, no pity to be found. It’s only the twenty-second.
Across the bar sits a kid that reminds Jun a lot of his brother. Can’t be much older than eighteen. Might not be old enough to drink legally at all, but that’s none of his business. There’s dirt beneath his fingernails and a large chip taken out of a front tooth. Not a clean break, all jagged edges—the kind that probably hurts to run his tongue over.
Jun feels guilty for a moment, surrounded by all these people with real problems. He’s got money and a respectable career. Has a roof over his head that’s been paid for by someone else. He’s good-looking, has his health and his youth. Has enough to take care of his family.
“Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.” You sit beside him with a humored smile that shines through a truly pinched expression.
Jun snorts as he empties his drink. “Thessalonians. Gotta be honest, not one of my favorites.” Spares a glance at you: you’re different again, appearance-wise, but the scent you wear like a signature perfume is the same. Heady, like it was bottled at the center of the earth. “Is this your way of telling me that comparison is the thief of joy or whatever?”
Your turn to laugh. The bartender sets a drink in front of you that Jun hadn’t heard you order. “No,” you reply simply. “I’m not all that concerned with human joy. Just thought it was ironic. Come sit with me.”
“This is starting to sound familiar,” he snarks, but he follows anyway.
A rickety table by the window. Winter air seeps through, frosts the glass; has Jun wishing he’d worn a thicker coat. It was warmer by the bar. The two chairs you occupy are upholstered in peeling vinyl, one ripped with the stuffing peeking through. Jun takes that one, figuring you’ll laugh at his human chivalry, but you take the seat opposite him without a word. That old flickering sign outside reflects on your face.
He didn’t come here for a therapy session—he came to get drunk on questionable liquor surrounded by people who don’t know him. You do, of course, which throws a wrench in his plan. You seem to know everything about him, including that he’d be here brooding. “Why’d you follow me here?”
“Well, it certainly wasn’t for your jubilant demeanor and fantastic conversation.” You put your drink to the side. Fold your hands in front of you. “Congratulations on Lee Chan. The outfit upstairs must be very pleased with the work you’ve done thus far.”
There’s no bite. No sardonic tone.
Jun realizes then how differently you treat him. How honest you are. You don’t lie or stretch the truth; you don’t brush off his questions. Hoshi is truthful at an arm’s length. Makes his stomach feel sour.
“I’m just a pawn, aren’t I? It doesn’t really matter if they’re pleased so long as I get the work done.”
You hum an acknowledgment. “People forget what They used to be like. The atrocities They committed and had others commit in Their name—humans, just like you, who were so desperate to appease their God they would’ve done whatever was asked of them.” Jun’s drink refills. He empties it in one go. “They killed their sons, waged war on their neighbors, have done unspeakable evils in Their name. It’s not only you, Wen Junhui, that has been a pawn to Them.”
He doesn’t react. A glass shatters at the bar. “And you?” he questions. “What are you, then, if those are the things They demand?”
“I’m a foil, of course. Would you still believe in good if there was no evil? Would you believe in the promise of eternal life if there was no threat of eternal damnation? Would you still be moral if there was no corruption?” Rhetorical questions. “Although you’re no stranger to crises of faith, are you?”
He isn’t. The handjob had rattled him, sure, but it hadn’t been the catalyst. Not really. Jun had still gone to church that Sunday. Still kneeled and received Communion and allowed himself to be blessed and prayed over. Still bowed his head before each meal and mouthed along as his mother said grace.
No, his loss of faith had been gradual: a question he couldn’t find an answer to, suffering he could no longer brush off with blind faith, words he used to treat as gospel that began tasting acrid in his mouth as he also lost his conviction. Everything started feeling like bullshit, and once everything started feeling like bullshit, he had to wonder what he’d spent eighteen years of his life chasing. What he spent eighteen years of his life believing in.
Until he found he didn’t believe in all that much anymore.
He has to ask: “Was it your doing?”
You shake your head. “People forget who I am, too. They call me the original liar. They say I am the source of all evil. They attribute every sin and misdeed to me, say it must’ve been my will, and yet it says right there in their holy book, in Isaiah 45:7: I form the light, and create darkness: I make peace, and create evil: I the Lord do all these things.” You focus all your attention on Jun—he feels the weight of it like a millstone. “I was the anointed one until I was overcome by sin and became the tempter, right? That’s what they say; how they wrote my story. And yet, by Their own word, it was They who created evil. It was God who created darkness.” A hefty pause. “Some may look at me and say I, too, was a pawn.”
“Do you feel like you were?”
You don’t respond. Instead, Jun watches as his view of the bar crumbles once you snap your fingers: block by block replaced with the interior of his apartment. His dining table instead of the off-balance one in front of the window. The ambient noise of his building instead of the bar. A mug of coffee in place of the baijiu.
“What the he—”
It’s within the four dull walls of Jun’s apartment building that you answer: “Even if I was, why should I feel like a victim? Did I not get the better end of the deal?” Jun feels like he’s standing atop a trap door. Like any second it’ll swing open and down, down, down he’ll go. “I rule over my kingdom and make no demands of anyone. I am a consequence of free will and not an inhibitor of it. I dole out punishment only for those deserving of it.”
The coffee is strong. Bitter. Just for a second before it melts away into something sweet. “You are temptation, are you not? Do the demons not do your bidding? Sow chaos in your name? Are you not the originator of all these contracts I’ve been tasked with destroying? If They are to be believed, those people were not meant to be yours, and yet you wound up with them anyway.”
“I like you, Wen Junhui,” you say. “You have an insatiable curiosity that is both admirable and ill-advised.”
He feels his face flush. “Sorry. Got carried away, I think.”
“It’s of little consequence to me. I must admit I have smited men for asking questions, but they were of a more crude variety. More coffee?” Jun nods. “I am who I am. It is who I’ve always been—I was created to walk this path and so I know no different.”
“Predestination.”
“Precisely, just as those dreadful fucking Puritans believed. God needed a foil, a betrayer, and so They created me. I know no other role.”
“You were an angel,” Jun argues. “They say you were beautiful, powerful, and intelligent; they say you were full of light. You don’t remember any of that?”
Sorrow etches across your face. Only for a second—blink and you’ll miss it. It is not in the same realm of pain Jun is experiencing. Yours is an ancient grief. It is something palpable and overwhelming, something liable to consume and destroy everything within its reach if left uncontrolled. Jun wonders if it has been; if you’ve let it unfurl before reigning it back in. If those are the plagues they speak of. Catastrophic disasters and genocides and everything on earth he cannot conceive of.
And then your face shutters. That grief is now nowhere to be found, borrowed features rearranged neatly once again. “Of course I remember,” is all you say.
Companionable silence. Jun sips slowly at his coffee and enjoys it. Wonders, briefly, how he wound up here, with the CEO and overseer of Hell sitting at his dining room table, before he lets those thoughts get chased away by a more pressing fact: there is an extremely beautiful and kind of terrifying woman sitting at his dining room table, and she hasn’t murdered him—yet.
He’s not above noticing it. Isn’t going to pretend he hasn’t thought about the night in the club roughly every twenty minutes since it happened; isn’t going to pretend he didn’t get a little hard in the shower that same night and that he didn’t relieve himself. Isn’t going to pretend that this isn’t doing something for him—the different disguises, each one just as enticing as the last, all of them conjured from deep within his psyche, checking off all his boxes.
Jun also isn’t going to pretend he has very much game. He hadn’t left university a virgin (although it’d been close) and nowadays women aren’t really falling over themselves to date a newly-licensed lawyer with little money and thrifted suits that feel like they’re playing at adulthood. However, if nothing else, this… partnership he has going on has served him well in the confidence department. He has disposable income and no debt. His clothes fit. He upgraded his cheap Casio watch to something that doesn’t turn his skin green.
“You didn’t really answer my question earlier.” You roll your head to the side, cock an eyebrow. His bravado falters slightly at the line of your throat. “Are you stalking me?”
What he aims for: cheeky, a little saucy; the kind of question that’s delivered with a shit-eating grin and earns him a coy laugh in response as you tuck your hair behind your ear. Oh, knock it off, you’d say as you playfully swatted at him. Of course I’m not. He’d catch your hand and press his lips to your knuckles before trailing them up your arm. The first kiss to the side of your neck would be gentle, a little hesitant, and then the heat would take over.
How it lands: an accusation completely lacking in charm and sass. Jun’s eyes widen in panic as soon as the question leaves his mouth, has him wondering how he’s still alive if the glare you send him is any indication of how you’re feeling. He should’ve known better. Jun is not the sort of person who can pull off a comment like that. Doesn’t have the charisma or the confidence. Isn’t sleazy enough. Jun is the kind of guy who lurks your social media after a one night stand to figure out your favorite breakfast so he can have it waiting the morning after; the kind who takes note of where you work so he can have flowers delivered to your desk and not for any other nefarious purpose.
Which, now that he’s thinking about it—
Every accusation is a confession, or whatever it is they say.
“That’s not—”
“What you meant,” you finish for him. Thankful for the lifeline, he nods, not trusting himself to not dig a deeper hole. “You want to know why it is I’ve shown up twice now, during both of your nights out.” He nods again. “You wanted to be suave when you said it, maybe even a little seductive, but you forgot your claim to fame is crying for three days over a handjob and how excruciatingly awkward you are.”
He waits for you to continue. When you don’t, he nods again, wishing he’d spent more time as a teenager on the degenerate parts of the internet rather than at Bible study.
“Are you an idiot?”
Not that it’s undeserved, but the question leaves him stunned. Has his mouth gaping open and shut like a goldfish. This is a trap, right? There’s a correct answer here that he’s expected to give. “...No?” he tries, and when your eyes narrow he quickly changes course. “Yes,” he says definitively. “Yes, I am an idiot. Sorry for my… idiocy.”
It looks like it’s being dragged out of you by force, but the clouds part, birds start chirping in perfect harmony, Jun feels the warmth of the sun—you laugh. You laugh, and it’s reluctant but it’s real, and Jun’s smile is so wide his face feels heavy under the weight of it. It’s so wide you say, “Wow, even your mouth is heart-shaped,” and, if Wen Junhui knows nothing else, he knows he’s in real big trouble.
“You know what else is heart-shaped?” You gesture for him to continue, except he’d just been yapping. Didn’t have a plan. There’s no punchline. And he can’t set it up as a dick joke because that doesn’t make sense. My dick is heart-shaped? What does that even mean? Unless it’s in a cute way? My dick is heart-shaped… for you. It could work, he reasons. Worse things have worked for other men. “My di—”
“No.”
He pretends to pout. “You didn’t let me finish.”
“Because you were going to make a dick joke.”
“No I wasn’t.” You roll your eyes. “I was going to say my… digantic heart.”
A pause. Another beat of silence.
“I’m not going to laugh at you twice.”
A shit-eating grin on Jun’s face. “But you would, is what you’re saying? If you didn’t already meet your one-laugh quota?”
“Don’t push your luck.”
I want to kiss you, he wants to say. Feels the words biting at the back of his teeth, begging him to open his mouth so they can escape and be real. I want to kiss you but I don’t know if it’d be real. Because it can’t be, can it? All the ways you’ve been described throughout human history, not once has anyone said you’re capable of love. Which—that’s not what Jun is looking for here, right? That’d be ridiculous. He has a crush.
A crush on a beautiful woman who looks like all of his wet dreams combined. Who’s terrifying and smart and maybe misunderstood in all the same ways he is. Who is halfway responsible for his current employment. Who conjures ginger tea for him when he feels sick and hasn’t snapped her fingers to turn him into dust… yet. It’s natural, especially for a late bloomer such as himself.
But that doesn’t mean anything.
You look like all of his wet dreams combined but it’s still just a costume. The same way Jun was playing at adulthood in his ill-fitting suits, you’re playing at being human. Take it off and you’re still the devil. Still primordial. Still not bound by the constraints and constructs of time. Not bound by mortality, which is probably the second-most pressing issue behind the whole fallen angel, prime ruler of Hell, purveyor of iron-clad contracts that are really, really pissing off Heaven thing.
“Congratulations,” you say, ripping Jun out of his spiral, “your overthinking has bypassed chickenpox completely and went straight to shingles.”
“They have a vaccine for that now.” Wow, he is really not nailing this.
“I know. Pestilence was devastated. Moped around for ages. Imagine all your hard work gone, just like that, because of science? That’s why I created Jenny McCarthy.” You sigh. “Anyway, out with it.”
Jun chews at the inside of his cheek. “I’m trying to figure out how to ask in a non-offensive way.”
You blink. “I am literally the devil.”
“Who can kill me,” he says slowly, trying to buy time. So are you, it seems, because you’re content to stretch the silence. Wait until it settles in Jun’s bones as anxiety. One of those old tricks he learned during law school that’s now being turned on him. He coughs. “Anyway, I—” He deflates. “It’s stupid, I don’t know why I even thought—”
“Out with it,” you repeat.
“Right.” He sucks in a breath. “Does this mean anything to you? Not in, like, an affectionate, I’m in love with you kind of way, but in a… human… way? Is it offensive to phrase it like that?”
“I think you’ll find not much offends me—except for you and your fucking lawyer thing ruining my contracts.” There are those flames behind your eyes again. The temperature in the room increases tenfold. “So no, it’s not offensive to wonder how human I am or am not, but I don’t know if the answer will be to your satisfaction or understanding.”
“Try me.”
You huff a laugh. Mumble something about the hubris of man. “You’ve read Their book, so you know how and why the angels were created. Ministering spirits, I think it says. Spirits without bodies. I have never known what it means to be human because I never was. I appear as one to you out of necessity.”
“Because my brain would melt if I saw your true form?”
“What? No. Because it’s terrifying. Would you rather hand over your mortal soul to someone who looked like an eldritch horror or someone who looked like one of those women you’ve jerked off to in porn magazines?” Jun swallows audibly. “Exactly.”
“But what does it feel like when you’re like this? When you’re here?”
“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. “It feels different, but I can’t say it feels human because I do not know what that feels like. You’ve interacted with me and have been to Hell—if I asked you how it felt to be the devil, how would you answer?”
Jun doesn’t have to think. He says the first word that comes to mind, which is, “Lonely. I think it’s lonely, because They have worshippers, Their followers are devout and love and trust without proof, and you were created to be hated and feared.” You move to interject, but Jun continues. “Maybe you have those things too, but they’re not the same. They gave you everything and then They ripped it away. Their followers heed every word of the Bible, name their children after its characters, but where’s your book? Why wasn’t anyone allowed to tell your story?”
“Maybe you should write it.”
What you aim for: cheeky, a little saucy; the kind of suggestion spoken around a sly smile that’s also a little self-conscious at someone taking you into consideration—at someone seeing you.
How it lands: fractured; words spoken slowly and intentionally so nothing is given away. How ironic that it’s the most human Jun has heard you sound.
But your bravery is inspiring, even if you’re unaware of it. Even if you aren’t making a conscious choice to be so, Jun can watch you be vulnerable and think he can do the same. He can finally say what he’s been dancing around this entire time, which is, “If I kiss you, what will it feel like for you?”
“The same as any other kiss, I imagine.”
“You’ve done this before, then? As a… human?”
Seems your patience with him has run out. You stand, make your way to Jun’s side of the table slowly. Drag a finger along the back of each chair, nails cherry red and sharpened to a point. He wants to feel them. Wants the sting as they dig into his thighs; as they scratch down the length of his back and mark him up. He wants to feel the phantom bite for days, long after you’re gone and he’s come to his senses. When he stands beneath the spray of the shower and his skin feels raw, he wants to know it was you that had done it.
He understands, now, why people make those deals and shake your hand.
As you loom above him, slowly encroaching upon his space—as the heady scent of you overwhelms him and makes him dizzy, has his eyes fluttering closed and rolling back in his head—he thinks he’d give you anything you asked for.
You lean in close. One hand on the arm of the chair, one wrapped around the meat of his thigh, just on the edge of sharp. Closer, closer, until he can feel the warmth of your breath against his cheek, the line of his jaw, the lobe of his ear. “Tell me: does this feel human?”
It does. Drives him a little crazy how he can feel each word punctuated against his skin; how he can feel your body heat seep through the fabric of his pants—heat he didn’t expect to find. And it isn’t like it matters, because he’d want you no matter how you felt, but it helps to ground him. Keep him in the moment. So he says, “Ye-yeah,” and knows you’re smiling at the need in his tone.
Need that starts in his toes and settles in his belly. Need that grows as your hand trails up his thigh and settles over his zipper, over the bulge you find there. Jun’s breath catches in his throat. He knows the mechanics—in, out; in, out; in, out—but can’t convince his lungs to work. Feels lightheaded and a little embarrassed because you’re not even touching him properly and he already feels untethered.
All you do is pull away, back out of his space, and for all he knows his world’s been turned upside down. Doubly so when he cracks one eye open and sees you on your knees, looking up at him with a half-lidded gaze, lashes impossibly dark. He can’t help it. He reaches out, places his thumbs in the contours of your cheek, cups your jaw, and presses his lips to yours.
Immediate searing heat.
Jun is engulfed in it. You taste like a storm—taste like the first deafening crack of thunder and the lightning that follows. And he knows he’s coming across too eager with the way he licks into your mouth, but you don’t seem to mind. You match his pace, groan into his mouth, palm at his cock with more intention. Jun’s hips roll, seeking the friction; wants more of the stinging pleasure. Wants to haul you into his lap and fit his hands in the curve of your waist, leave bruises on your hips with his thumbs. He wants to trace every inch of your skin and commit it to memory.
But you’ve got plans of your own.
You plant your hands against his chest and push. Jun goes willingly, chest heaving, missing your mouth already. There’s a crooked grin sitting on your face that sends a spark of excitement up his spine, has alarms sounding in his head, but he can’t look away. Everything you do mesmerizes him: the way you run your tongue along your bottom lip, the slow drag of his zipper, how your voice is husky and deeper than he’s ever heard it when you ask him, what do you want, and your smile when he answers, whatever you do.
And what you seem to want is to destroy him in record time. Pants at his knees, hard cock straining against his briefs, he feels like he’s back in high school. Has that same sense of adolescent urgency, like everything’s happening both in slow-motion and not fast enough, because he knows what’s coming. Watches with a lip tugged between his teeth as you free his cock. Whimpers when you wrap your hand around him, reminds himself to breathe; grips white-knuckled at the arms of the chair when you begin to move.
Your pace is torturously slow to start. You seem to delight in tormenting him; in hearing all those breathy moans that escape him and spur you on. You lean forward and spit and everything is slick. Jun feels like he’s going to come out of his skin. He grips at the chair tighter. Digs his nails into his thighs when that doesn’t work and lets his head roll back, neck on full display. Maybe it’s to tempt you. Maybe he wants you to sink your teeth into him and mark him up. Maybe he has a million fantasies, and not a single one compares to—
Your mouth. The sound that comes out of him is unholy. It takes every ounce of restraint he has not to roll his hips and fuck his cock deeper into your mouth, down your throat. All he wants to do is chase the bliss of that wet heat and give in to it.
But he needs this to last. If this is the only time he’ll have you like this, he needs to make it worthwhile.
He needs to tell you, needs you to slow it down before he embarrasses himself by coming in your mouth, except he can’t find the words. Doesn’t want to deny himself even a second of pleasure. Five minutes is all it’s taken to make a hedonist out of him. And that’s… well, it’s not a philosophy he ever thought he’d adopt, but who could blame him when you feel like velvet? When he starts babbling nonsense and you hum in response and everything feels electric?
“I’m gonna—” A sharp nip at the inside of his thigh has his declaration dead on arrival. His body shivers, trembles, tries to collapse in on itself. “Shit, don’t do that, I’m gonna—”
He feels your smile against his skin. Whimpers as you mouth at his balls. Wonders if he’s going to die like this; if someone will come to check on him and find his pitiful, half-naked body right here in this chair, and that is not a sight he wants anyone to walk in on, so he reaches for you, finds your hair and tugs at you gently. Seals his lips over yours before you can come up with any more ideas.
He hauls you into his lap, just like he’d wanted, and dips his hands beneath your top. Skims his hands over the warm skin he finds. Digs his nails in when you bite at the column of his throat and groans as his cock—so hard he can barely think straight; can’t think of anything except burying himself inside of you—brushes against the harsh fabric of your pants.
“God, c’mere.” You oblige. Kiss him with such intensity he no longer cares where he dies, so long as this is how he goes out. Watches as stars explode behind his eyelids when he realizes he can taste himself on your tongue, that you taste like him. Moves his hands to your chest, traces lightly over your hard nipples, delights in the way you react, that it’s him making you feel good. That it’s him you let pull your top over your head. That it’s him that presses praise into your skin like scripture.
He mouths at you indiscriminately: your collar bones, the space between your breasts, the swell of skin there. Whines as you grab at his hair and tell him how to please you. Thinks he’s learning a lot about himself when he does as you say, when he sucks and bites at your nipples, and grows impossibly harder.
You sigh, blissed out; tell him you want his mouth elsewhere, fill his mind with thoughts that have him rolling his hips uselessly, thrusting at nothing, but fuck, he wants it all. Wants to taste every part of you. Wants to drag you to the edge and watch as your body writhes in satisfaction. Wants to know how beautiful you look when you come on his tongue, head thrown back, your nails digging into his scalp.
Wants to bury his cock inside of you before you can come down and watch as your eyes roll back and know, with every thrust of his hips, that he’s leaving his mark just the same as you are.
So that’s what he does. He stands, lifting you with ease, tells you to wrap your legs around him as he carries you to his bedroom. Lays you in the middle of the bed and helps strip you bare. Tells you, in every way he can think of, how much he loves seeing you like this, how stunning you are, how lucky he is. Kisses his way down your body until he’s level with your cunt. He breathes in your scent, desperate for all of you, before he circles a thumb over your clit and follows it with his mouth.
Ironic, he thinks, that you taste like heaven.
He gives as good as he got—flattens his tongue and works you over with long licks. Laps and sucks and doesn’t let up when your legs start to shake. Places one over his shoulder and dives back in. Swears fall from your lips in fractured syllables, breathless cries in between commands to keep going. He’s a man possessed. Doesn’t want to waste a second. Doesn’t want the taste of anyone else on his tongue.
You come with a sob, his name the only thing you seem capable of saying. Jun, Jun, Jun, like a chant.
…Like something he’d hear in church.
No reprieve. He stretches you on his fingers, almost delirious as he presses against your g-spot and feels how much wetter you get. Ruts against the mattress at all the crude sounds he’s pulling from you, unable to help himself. Says, “Can I…?” and slicks himself up with what he’s gathered from you when you nod.
He buries his face in the crook of your neck. Kisses the spot just below your ear as he runs his hands up and down your thighs. “How do you want me?” he asks. “Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you.”
He expects you to want it from behind. Maybe on top so you’re in control, turned away. He doesn’t expect you to say, “Just like this,” as you hitch a leg around his hip and pull him as close as possible. He doesn’t expect you to say, “I want you to look at me,” in that tone, like it’s imperative. Like you need it. He doesn’t expect you to grab the back of his neck and kiss the air from his lungs as he pushes inside.
Heat. Everything is white, blinding heat.
Jun whines into your mouth. Rolls his hips slowly as you swallow it. Your hands move to his shoulders and down his spine, settle in the small of his back, press into the dimples there. He pulls back only so he can tell you to mark him up, that he wants to feel you days from now, and you indulge him. Shallow at first—your nails ghost across his skin, more ticklish than painful, before they dig in a little deeper. Jun feels the bite as the welts begin to form and he thinks his smile must look crazed.
He keeps his pace steady. Fucks in as deep as he can and rocks back slowly, trying to hold on to the way your cunt squeezes him, but you need more. You tell him as much and don’t say please, and when Jun tries to be a little cocky, when he thinks he has a modicum of control and says, “You’re okay, baby, you can take it,” you send him such a nasty glare he immediately gives it to you harder and faster.
But he can’t help but laugh. “What, I can’t call you baby?” he jokes. There’s a rebuttal on the tip of your tongue that Jun does away with with a sharp thrust of his hips. He knows he’s playing with fire, that he’ll pay for this one way or another, but the thought thrills him more than anything else.
“I’m the—fuck,” you swear. Jun doesn’t have to ask why. Everything’s starting to feel tighter, wetter. Both of you are hurtling toward the inevitable, and Jun needs to feel you come on his cock, needs to watch you unravel beneath him.
He grabs your hand. Sucks two of your fingers into his mouth. “Touch yourself,” he says. “Make yourself feel good, I wanna see you come.” He moans, loud and unabashed, when you do as he says.
Each pass of your fingers over your clit makes you jerk, has electricity licking at your heels. Jun feels each one. Feels the way you clench and tremble. A bead of sweat runs down the column of your throat and he traces it with his tongue. Keeps fucking harder, deeper; grinds his pelvis against your clit and falls in love with the way you sound in the throes of lust. Wants to bottle it and keep it forever.
“Jun, I’m gonna—”
Another roll of his hips. Deep, deep, deep. “I know.” Two words he’s barely able to choke out. Feels like he’s being suffocated as his vision starts to go hazy at the edges. All he knows in this moment is your pleasure, your satisfaction, you.
Your orgasm hits with a shattering cry. Jun follows right after, unable to put up a fight against the vice grip of your cunt. It feels pathetic, the way his body shakes with the force of it, but when it passes, when he comes back into his body, all he feels is bone-deep euphoria.
He collapses onto your chest. Presses another kiss there. Sighs contentedly when your nails scratch lightly at his scalp. “Okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” comes your easy answer.
Minutes pass in blissful quiet. Neither of you speak, letting your heavy breathing do the talking, and for once Jun enjoys the sounds of the city outside when there’s someone beside him to hear it, too. “I’m gonna pull out,” he tells you, even though it feels a bit silly.
He feels the loss immediately.
Unsure of the protocol for something like this, Jun does what he always does: pretends there’s absolutely nothing out of the ordinary happening at all.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, punctuating his words with a kiss to your temple. He grabs a clean pair of underwear from a drawer, pulls them on, pads down the hall to the bathroom. He pointedly does not look at his reflection as he turns the tap on and waits for the water to warm. Knows his face is blotchy and flushed and his hair’s a mess and that you’re spread out on his bed looking like the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, so he doesn’t want to look at his reflection and feel bad about himself. Doesn’t want to taint this moment by feeling unworthy of it.
But a bit of that self-doubt still manages to creep in, because he returns to his room and is surprised to find you haven’t left. That, above all else, you look content: laying on your front, one of Jun’s pillows tucked beneath your head, sheets barely covering your ass. You smile when Jun puts a knee on the mattress and you feel it dip. Smile wider when he kisses the length of your spine and tells you, in a voice unrecognizable even to his own ears, to roll onto your back so he can clean you up.
If it’s too intimate, you make no mention of it. If there’s no room in this moment for this kind of care and affection, if all of this is for Jun’s sake and you’re just letting him go through the motions, you don’t mention that, either.
He works slowly and with care. Apologizes when you hiss at the first swipe of the washcloth, the water warm but still colder than your skin. Cracks a joke about taking you out for breakfast in the morning even though both of you know you’ll be long gone by then, and he waits for that knowledge to sting but it never does, but he’s relieved when you laugh anyway.
It’s when you stop laughing, when your smile slowly disappears from your face, that it all starts to sink in. Because you ask, “Did it feel real to you?” and he’s not sure how to interpret that. If it’s a masked plea for reassurance or if you want to make sure he got his money’s worth.
Maybe it’s both. Or maybe it’s neither.
“I know it can’t be for you what it is for me,” he answers, “but if you’re asking if I had a good time, then my answer is yes. And I know what this is, so you don’t need to look like that, okay? I’m not about to confess my love for you and start crying.”
(That’s not entirely true. He really might start crying, but he’ll at least have enough sense to wait until you’re gone.)
“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time, so I…” You sigh, avert your gaze, tangle your fingers in the sheets. “It’s just—you’re doing all this nice stuff for me, so I didn’t… I wanted to make sure.”
“‘Nice stuff’? You mean helping you clean up and offering you a glass of water?”
You laugh again, but there’s no humor in it. “You’re treating me like I’m human, Wen Junhui. Like I’m the same as any other woman you’d sleep with.”
He cocks his head. “Why wouldn’t I?” he asks, and that’s the end of that.
Jun doesn’t use his downtown office much, but since his apartment still smells like you, he figures he can use a change of scenery. Hoshi will know where to find him if he’s needed.
He ducks into a recently-opened coffee shop and orders an expensive latte with ingredients he’s never heard of. When he pops the lid, he’s both horrified and intrigued by the purple-blue coffee that greets him. Back outside, he breathes in the musk of the city: the exhaust fumes, cigarette smoke, the sweat from people rushing to work.
A jianbing vendor is set up at the corner, fills him with nostalgia—smells just like the ones he ate nearly every morning during law school. He smiles as he orders and asks for extra lajiao, foolishly ignoring the questioning glance he receives in return, and he’s happy as he walks the remaining two blocks to his office with it warm in his hand. Sticks it in his mouth to hold between his teeth as he digs in his pockets for the key. Jiggles it in the lock as he accidentally bites down, and it takes a second, maybe five, but then—
He should not have asked for the extra chili sauce.
All 182 of his centimeters crash through the door and carelessly toss aside his briefcase. Water. He needs water desperately, even though it’s just going to make it worse, which he knows, but his mouth all the way down to his esophagus feels like it’s been set ablaze. Feels like he’s breathing magma. Feels like if someone stood in front of him right now and caught wind of his breath, they’d turn to ash.
Which explains how he misses the person sitting at his desk, their feet kicked up and face hidden behind a newspaper from six months ago.
He finally notices them some ten minutes later, after he locks himself in the bathroom and douses his face in cold water and can be sure he’s not about to die from excessive heat intake. Not that this is any less embarrassing for him: he shrieks, clearly not expecting anyone to be there, and the stranger shrieks in turn. The shriek-off lasts approximately thirty seconds and is cut off by an elderly woman sticking her head through the door and asking if everything is alright, to which Jun sheepishly nods and bows in apology as he thanks her for her concern.
Once she’s back on the street, he whirls around to face his intruder.
“Good morning,” Hoshi says, seemingly nonplussed by the entire sequence of events that have transpired. “Had a little mishap with the chili sauce, huh?” Jun ignores him. Snatches the newspaper out of his hands and shoos him out of his chair and into one intended for guests. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”
Jun glares. “Why are you—”
“Or should I say the only side of the bed, considering you had erotic entanglements with the devil.”
Annoyance flares within him. Has that lajiao heat rushing back to his skin. Hoshi’s got a lot of nerve—the same guy who refused to tell him much of anything, who just takes and takes and takes, is now criticizing him for exercising his free will. Well, Jun’s not going to accept that, he decides. Adopts a snotty little tone and says, “So you were spying on me? Wow, okay, you pervert.”
Hoshi balks. Trips over his words as he tries to mount a useless defense. “I didn’t—that’s not—no,” is the best he can come up with.
“Did you like the show?”
“Wen Junhui—”
“Very convenient that’s the thing you watched. Missed my whole crisis of faith, huh? Both of them? Didn’t think I’d maybe need some support during those times?” He shakes his head. Tries to hold on to the anger, because it’s less humiliating than crying after acting like a hard-ass. “At least she’s been honest. At least she’s always been upfront about who and what she is. You guys—you guys have all these demands, all these requirements, but at the end of the day none of it matters. We’re all just pawns, and that’s all you’ll ever see us as.”
The angel stays quiet. Can’t quite discern if Jun’s tirade is over. He narrows his gaze, opens his mouth as if he’s going to speak just to see if Jun will interrupt him. (He doesn’t.) He clears his throat and tries to remember the correct pitch for his Comforting Voice: this will prove to be a pivotal moment in Wen Junhui’s partnership with Upstairs, and he’s going to need it.
“Wen Junhui,” he attempts again. No, the tone isn’t right—needs to be a little lower. “Wen Junhui, I am… holding space for everything you’ve just told me.” That’s better. Sounds convincing enough. “Is it fair to say you feel abandoned and unimportant?”
Jun’s cheeks warm to a mortifying shade of red. “I guess,” he mumbles.
“Great!” Hoshi beams. “Thank you so much for trusting me with this sensitive information.” He snaps his fingers and another manila folder appears in front of Jun. “Since you’re feeling better, this is your next assignment! If you open to the first page, you’ll see the contractee’s name is Choi Seungcheol and that he is of the utmost import—”
“No.”
“—ance.” Hoshi, unused to being caught unawares not once but twice in the same conversation, simply blinks, limbs frozen mid-air. “Pardon?”
“I said no.”
“Right, right… See, I heard that, but I’m not following. What do you mean no?”
Jun stands and starts clearing off the desk. Not that there’s much on it besides a framed picture of himself sandwiched between his parents at his graduation and an unused candle. Peach bellini. Hoshi had procured it from who-knows-where, said it was “an important part of Internet history” (that Jun must’ve missed) and called it a “belated graduation gift,” except the smell was so sickly-sweet it immediately gave him a migraine as soon as the lid came off.
All of this is besides the point, which is this: Jun doesn’t need this office. He doesn’t need this weird job where he reports to these weird people.
He says as much.
“Hey!” Hoshi objects, to which Jun responds, “You’re wearing a shirt with a cartoon wolf on it that says Fighting the Gay Allegations Again. I mean come on, dude, where do you even find these things?”
“You don’t like my shirts?”
“No! And I also don’t like that you just pretended to care about my feelings so I’d get back to work like a good little corporate soldier!” He’s able to fit the picture frame in his briefcase, but the candle doesn’t fit. Even if they’re arguing, it seems rude to give it back to Hoshi when he’d gone out of his way to get him a gift to begin with, so he lets out a frustrated screech and decides to carry it back to his apartment. “Find some other would-be Pope to help you.”
Although his face is blotchy and wet, Hoshi seems undeterred. There are, of course, no other would-be Popes available on such short notice—especially not one that’s earned the favor of the devil—so he needs to think up a plan quickly. If he fumbles Wen Junhui, he’ll either never hear the end of it from the lower-ranking angels or he’ll be stoned, and neither sounds very favorable right now.
So he does the only thing he can think to do: he snaps his fingers.
Kim Mingyu looks exactly like his picture.
He’s just as tall and symmetrically good-looking as Jun thought he would be, dressed in an impeccably-fitting white suit that elongates his legs and makes him look far taller than the six-foot-one-point-nine-repeating he’d measured in at. Dark, slightly wavy hair frames a perfect set of cheekbones, and whatever cologne he’s wearing nearly has Jun drooling.
He might actually be doing that, he realizes with horror, because Kim Mingyu also looks supremely uncomfortable. Is fluttering from one thing to the next, never staying more than a few seconds in each spot, tidying and organizing the same items over and over, muttering apologies all the while. And the board room really is not that big, so all that anxiety is starting to wear off on Jun, who was in his own office only a few minutes ago arguing with an angel that is currently nowhere to be found.
“So sorry about the mess!” Mingyu chimes. Jun can tell he’s trying (and failing) for unaffected. “I didn’t know we were having visitors, but no matter! My mother always used to say…” He pauses. Straightens his posture. Grabs a bouquet of white hydrangeas from a stunning pearlescent vase just to drop them right back in. “Er, I suddenly don’t remember anything my mother used to say.”
Jun grimaces and hides it behind his hand. “‘Have a wonderful day at school’?” he offers.
Mingyu smiles, makes a little a-ha! sound as he snaps his fingers; seems thankful for the lifeline he’d been thrown. Says, “Yes, yes, of course!” and starts fussing over the state of the table. He squirts a concerning amount of cleaner and wipes at it so aggressively Jun fears he’s going to wear a hole in the wood. “I’ve been told there was a slight security issue, but please rest assured that the rest of our guests should be arriving very soon! Any second now!”
That last bit comes out more like a demand.
Even though he feels far less intelligent than Hoshi claims he is, Jun is still smart enough to deduce he’d been snap-blasted to Heaven, not only because Mingyu is here and there are vaguely ominous security issues, but also because there’s a placard next to the door:
Board Room 17
Pearly Gates Wing
“It’s weird seeing you in real life after staring at the picture in your file for so long,” Jun says, continuing to look around. Everything is stark white, which he expected, with accents of gold that dazzles so brightly it hurts his eyes and pink freshwater pearl, and the flowers are abundant and fragrant. Jun feels at peace here. If it weren’t for Mingyu and his rapidly-fraying nerves, he might even call it tranquil. “I think I have a crush on you.”
Mingyu flushes. Unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth to stammer out a response that’s interrupted by three more figures materializing by the door.
Hoshi stands in the middle of Jeonghan and Joshua, arms slung around both of their shoulders. The two demons, naturally, do not look pleased. Jeonghan especially looks tortured, which is at odds with his new pink hair, and he’s the first to shrug off the angel. He grabs the chair closest to him and makes sure it scrapes against the floor as noisily as possible before slumping into it, arms crossed, scowl so fierce his frown lines nearly touch his jaw.
Joshua does the same, though he looks far more delighted to have a seat at the table.
From an invisible speaker, Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 in C Minor comes blaring. Hoshi and Mingyu startle; the latter goes in search of a tablet, completely frazzled, mumbling oh no oh no oh no as he rummages through drawers. Jeonghan and Joshua side-eye one another and come away wearing matching glares. To his credit, Jun sits ramrod straight and doesn’t flinch. When no one’s looking he sticks his fingers in his ears to dampen the noise and smiles politely at Mingyu when they make awkward eye contact.
The music cuts out, Mingyu heaves a sigh of relief, and once the tense silence settles back into the room, he turns to Hoshi and stage whispers, “Should I put it back on, or…?” to which Hoshi frantically nods.
Opening blaring once again, it’s then that you walk through the door, flanked on all sides by an impressive security detail. (Heaven’s, of course. They’re also dressed in all white and wearing mitre hats with SECURITY embroidered across the front in gold beadwork. Jun wonders, briefly, if this is where Hoshi gets his inspiration from.)
You’re escorted to a seat. There are seven chairs on the side of the table opposite Jun; you’re given the one in the middle, and Jeonghan and Joshua immediately move to sit on each side of you. You carry yourself with an easy confidence, not at all rattled by being here in this setting. It’s almost comical how your body language contrasts with Hoshi and Mingyu: how they’re at home, where they’re meant to be, and their unease is so apparent; and you’re where you’ve been exiled from, antithetical to what you’ve been put in charge of, a place that Jun knows picks at all those old wounds like a buzzard, and your composure is faultless.
Something you have to be, he figures.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, what’s with the long faces?” you ask, brows knit in faux-concern. You look the same as the last time Jun saw you—he’s sure it’s a power play, meant to throw him off, and it works. Heat simmers along his skin as the memories come flooding back. He wonders what you look like to everyone else. “It’s so lovely to see you all again.” You turn to Mingyu, who seems to shrink under your undivided attention. “Especially you, handsome. We’ve all been mourning the loss of our favorite eye candy.”
Mingyu squeaks. “Um!” He scrambles to the head of the table. His hands shake as he tries to unlock the tablet. “There’s, uh—an ag-agenda! For this me-meeting. Very important! Just one moment, please, and I’ll—”
“Very fascinating,” Jeonghan interjects. “Do you anticipate this happening at any point today? I have to oversee a workshop this afternoon about new ways to make men insecure about their penises and I simply cannot miss it. It’s my second-favorite event of the year.”
“What’s the first?” Jun can’t help but ask.
“The social media workshops. Next month’s is about online bullying and new ways to avoid getting banned by safeguarding teams so you can continue trolling in peace without fear of repercussions. The one after that is about sending in anonymous gossip to those Spotted In Such-and-such Facebook pages for places no one cares about.”
Joshua nods. “I think the Stevenage one is my favorite. When’s the workshop about the new Lego shapes to step on?”
Mingyu’s mouth snaps closed. In an attempt to nip the derailment in the bud, Hoshi says, “I think what our Head of HR meant to say was—”
“HR? None of you are human.”
“It stands for Heaven Relations, obviously,” Hoshi snaps, “and we’ve called this emergency meeting because we’ve been made aware of a very troubling development.”
You gasp. Lean forward and widen your eyes like you have no idea what he could possibly be referring to. “No! A troubling development, you say?” You fold your hands on the table. “Tell me all about it.”
Jun, however, cannot possibly play it so cool. Feels dread overtake his body as restless anxiety sets in. The mind reader that he is, Joshua sends him a discreet wink that does very little to settle his nerves. Still feels like he’s drank fifteen cups of light roast coffee and is about to sit for a law school exam he forgot to study for.
“It has come to our attention that…” Mingyu looks down at the tablet. Looks up and over at Hoshi. Grimaces. “Do I really have to say this?”
“Yes.”
He huffs and continues. “It has recently come to our attention that one Wen Junhui, would-be Pope and recently-licensed lawyer accepted into a contracted position at Their approval, has engaged in… sexual relations… with the being known colloquially as the Devil.”
Jeonghan looks sideways at you with the most disgustedly disappointed look Jun has ever seen appear on a face. To the contrary, Joshua leans across the table to high-five him and say, “You dirty dog! I bet it was better than that handjob, huh?” He leans back, whistles low. “Goddamn, why is it every time you get some action it’s like some end of days shit? You ever consider becoming celibate?”
“Not involuntarily,” Jun mumbles.
“Shame,” Jeonghan intones. You laugh at this.
Hoshi, once again fed up with his meeting being derailed, says to Jeonghan and Joshua, “Why are you two even here?” to which they reply, “We’re her advocates. We’re advocating.”
“No advocating has ever taken place while the three of you have been in this room.”
Jeonghan rolls his eyes. “At ease, Megamind.”
“Metatron,” Mingyu quietly corrects.
Jun snorts. Of course. Of course Hoshi is one of the most powerful archangels in Heaven. Speaker of God, permitted to be in Their presence and at Their side; celestial scribe and guide to humanity—the guy who appears earthside wearing crude t-shirts and stupid hats. Of-fucking-course.
All of this is enough to drive him to lunacy. All the things he didn’t and doesn’t know, all the secrets kept locked up tight, all the jokes he continues to be the butt of. Everyone in this room is on equal footing except him, and he’s the one seemingly on trial. Heaven doesn’t care what you do—your role is to sow chaos and they’re powerless to stop you, just as you’re powerless here. No, the only one that will feel the repercussions of this is Jun, not only because he’s the only one capable of being punished, but because he’s human.
He must sense his distress again, because Joshua mouths a watch this before saying, with all the conviction and tenacity of a seasoned prosecutor, “Allow me to advocate, then: we do not accept these accusations as fact without being presented with irrefutable proof, which I’m sure you have, considering you’ve made such a show of gathering us all here.”
Mingyu and Hoshi share a look.
“I—well, you see—”
“Surely you don’t need irrefutable proof to understand what a conflict of interest this is and why we’re concerned.”
“A conflict of interest which surely has already taken place?” Jeonghan tacks on. Joshua nods with grave sincerity. “Or have you called an impromptu, emergency meeting to discuss hypotheticals?” Mingyu and Hoshi share another look. “Gentlemen, need we remind you of the criteria that must be met before an emergency meeting may be called? I cannot imagine two high-ranking employees such as yourselves disregarded such strict protocols simply because of the parties involved?”
“Haaa, of course not!” Hysterical, frenzied laughter ensues. “No, no, we would never—”
Joshua shakes his head. “It sure is looking like that’s what has taken place here today, but I hate to assume the worst, so if you could just show us the permits I’m sure we can get this all cleared up.”
“Per-permits…?”
Jeonghan has all the patience in the world as he replies, “Section 894, subsection 12 of the accords states that in order for an emergency meeting to be called and granted between the constituents of Heaven and Hell, the proper permits must be filed and signed off on by the governing bodies of each at least 72 hours in advance. Now, it’s possible the paperwork was signed on our side, but as you know our boss is very, very busy and it seems to have been misplaced, so we have no way of confirming this.” You nod, sharing Joshua’s very serious look. “Hence the permits. Show them to us, please.”
There’s hope yet that Jun will get out of this. Be on the receiving end of his own strategy. Jeonghan and Joshua start up a show us the per-mits! show us the per-mits! chant that sends Hoshi and Mingyu into a panic. The latter, now soaked through with sweat, does a fruitless search on his tablet, while Hoshi tries to distract everyone with an interpretive dance none of them can make sense of.
“I believe this is a reflection of his current state of mind,” you say solemnly, playing the part of an esteemed art critic. “It’s histrionic on the surface, but once you dig deeper, it’s uncontrolled and frenetic at its roots. A wonderful metaphor for a fractured, disjointed mind, but severely lacking in execution.”
“Amen,” Jeonghan and Joshua say in unison.
Minutes pass. It’s clear the permits don’t exist, but Mingyu keeps up the charade of searching anyway, much to the delight of the Hell delegation. “Have you tried the top drawer of that thing?” Joshua asks right after Jeonghan suggests checking the trash folder on the desktop in his office. You, of course, stay quiet, content to soak up your victory in silence—albeit while looking extremely smug.
“Well!” you say, clapping your hands together with a wicked smile. “This was fun. Thank you both so much for the invite, but I fear we must be going. Duty calls.”
Hoshi is having none of this. Permits be damned, another snap of his fingers finds you bound to your chair, chains wrapped around each of your forearms. You hiss at the contact. “Whoa,” Jun whispers, and if Jeonghan’s and Joshua’s mouths hadn’t been removed by the same finger-snap, he assumes there’d be a crude joke coming his way.
“The three of you would do well to remember who and where you are.” Hoshi speaks with all the authority bestowed upon him. It’s a stark difference from how Jun usually sees him—aloof and unserious, more like a court jester—and it has him straightening in his chair. “None of us will be leaving this room until the matter is resolved.”
You roll your neck. Press your tongue into the fat of your cheek but otherwise don’t move. Pain flashes across your face each time the chains leave fresh wounds in your skin and Jun wants to tell them to cut it out, call this whole thing off, say it doesn’t mean anything, but he’s still so clueless. Still so far out of his depth. These matters concern him but are so far beyond his pay grade it’s all he can do to keep treading water.
And you know this, because you say, “There is no conflict of interest. Everything is business as usual.”
Hoshi doesn’t even make eye contact as he retorts, “Which is useless, coming from you.”
Mingyu offers up a tight-lipped smile. “I think what my colleague is trying to say is that we simply cannot trust word of mouth in a matter as serious as this. As I’m sure you understand, Wen Junhui is a special case. It’s quite rare They enlist the help of humans in such circumstances, and if he is no longer able to perform his duties in an unbiased manner due to your influence—”
Teeth grit, you repeat, “There is no conflict of interest.”
Mingyu sighs. Sets down his tablet and narrows his gaze. He seems to have shaken off the dregs of doubt and uncertainty, because he looks powerful. Looks intimidating, which is not a word Jun would have used to describe him twenty minutes ago. “Need I remind you of your role in this universe? Chaos and temptation; calamity and destruction. You serve no one. You do not speak in truths, nor are you concerned with them. Your ambition and pride were your downfall, and it seems you have learned nothing in the years since.” He turns his attention to Jun. “And if you doubt what I say, remember I witnessed all of this with my own eyes.”
“Scandalous! And what were you doing at the devil’s sacrament, Kim Mingyu?”
Jun nods, earning him an incredulous look from Hoshi. “Well, she has a point,” he defends. “There is that saying about stones and glass houses or whatever. He wouldn’t have seen all of those things if he hadn’t made a deal with her in the first place.”
Hoshi is quiet. Mingyu looks betrayed. “Are you not going to—”
“He, too, has a point,” the angel concedes. “I mean, did you really have to do all that? You were already hot and tall, I just don’t—”
Even with no mouths, it’s obvious Jeonghan and Joshua are snickering.
The bickering continues before eventually devolving into baseless name-calling. Jun’s head snaps back and forth like he’s watching a tennis match, and it’s not that far off. Mingyu hones in on your lack of character, prompting Hoshi to chime in with something equally cruel or just nonsensical in an attempt to back him up, and you handle both of them with ease, laughing off their taunting just to get under their skin. Which works, of course, so on and on it goes, ad nauseam, until Jun puts everyone out of their misery and puts an end to it.
“Isn’t anyone going to ask me how I feel?” At once the room goes silent, all squabbling ceased, and the sudden quiet has his ears ringing. “I know you don’t need me,” he says to you, amazed he can meet your eye when he feels like that admission is going to make him vomit. He turns to Mingyu and Hoshi. “But you two do, and throughout this whole experience I have been left out, lied to, and talked over. Did either of you ever stop to consider that’s why I refused the assignment and it has nothing to do with her? That she’s telling the truth when she says there’s no conflict of interest?”
At least they have the good sense to look embarrassed.
Mingyu is the first to crack. He bows slightly at the waist and says, “On behalf of Heaven, I would like to offer you our deepest and most sincere apologies.”
Hoshi follows suit. “Right. Exactly what he said.”
Jun studies each of them. Mingyu, he knows, is just doing what any human resources officer worth their salt would do: protect the company at all costs. Fortunately this works out in Jun’s favor. He’s important and necessary and, against all odds, has proven his worth and abilities to boot. Heaven can’t negotiate with Hell without him, and it’s this knowledge that spurs him on, has him crossing one leg over the other and folding his arms across his chest. Total power stance. Hoshi gapes a little.
“I think there’s a compromise to be found here.”
The compromise is this: just as there are souls in Hell that were meant to go to Heaven, the reverse is also true. Jun had stumbled across them during his hours of research: souls that had somehow slipped through the cracks and went north when they were meant to go south; souls stuck in an endless purgatory that a lax Judgment Deliverer let in because they didn’t feel like doing paperwork; judgment numbers in which an integer got input incorrectly. What he proposes is a one-for-one trade. Heaven wants Choi Seungcheol, so they’ll have to give up someone in return.
It evens the playing field—
“Which was the original intention, was it not?”
More importantly, and perhaps more selfishly, Jun will no longer be able to be used as a pawn. He’ll uphold his original agreement while doing the same for you—for Hell. He’ll rewrite the terms and conditions of the contracts after each soul has been judged fairly and impartially by both factions, essentially voiding the concept of sides.
“I would be working for you both,” he concludes. “It’s the only way any of this remains fair.”
(He’s also not trying to invoke your wrath and spend eternity getting dipped in hot oil, but he doesn’t feel it’s the right time to admit that.)
After a lengthy silence that Hoshi spends pressing against his ear, the angel eventually says, “Heaven is amenable to these terms if Hell is.”
You heave a long-suffering sigh that has Jun on the edge of his seat. This proposal was certainly better than the last one he’d pitched you, but you’re giving nothing away. Also of little help are Jeonghan and Joshua who have fallen asleep and are snoring loudly. Mingyu leans over to wipe a spot of drool from the corner of Joshua’s mouth. He doesn’t move.
After what feels like a lifetime, you nod. “Fine. Hell is also amenable to these terms.” A chorus of cheers. Jun does an embarrassing little wiggle out of excitement. Hoshi stands on top of the table and pumps his fist. Mingyu, still in HR mode, starts listing off all the potential new job titles for Jun.
(In the end his new name tag reads: Wen Junhui, Special Counsel to Heaven & Hell, Contracts Division.)
Before you leave, and before the celebrations can get too out of hand, Jun clears his throat. “I have a request,” he says, before adding on, “if the whole payment in forms other than money thing is still on the table.”
“It is,” Mingyu confirms.
“Great.” He sucks in a breath. Lets it go all disjointed and shaky. There’s no going back once he says this and they grant it—which they will, considering the way Mingyu’s nearly tripping over himself to give him whatever he wants. But it’s still a massive ask. It will still change the trajectory of his existence, just like that handjob had done. And even though he’s certain it’s what he wants, he still wonders if he’s making a mistake as he says, “I want to be immortal.”
Jeonghan and Joshua jerk awake. “What the fuck did he just say?”
Hoshi, too, looks stunned. “Uh, are you sure?”
No, Jun wants to say, please talk me out of it, but the words die in his throat when he looks at you. There’s not a hint of bewilderment to be found. No shock or awe. There’s just the smallest nod of your head, meant just for him, that says all he needs to hear—that you see him, that you recognize he’d gone through all of this insanity because he needed to find his own path, and that he’s finally found in it the meaning he’d been searching for.
“I’m sure,” he confirms, completely void of hesitation.
Hoshi scratches at the back of his neck. “Well, I—that’s quite a big request. I’ll have to see what we can do.”
Mingyu, however, spoils the inevitable surprise by giving him a thumbs-up.
After that, there isn’t much left to say. Mingyu formally concludes the meeting and thanks Hell for their attendance and participation, to which Jeonghan gives him the finger before disappearing in a plume of smoke that causes everyone to gag. Joshua takes advantage and slips out the door undetected. Mingyu and Hoshi are none the wiser until some of the employees down the hall start screaming. “Please excuse us,” Mingyu chokes out before he, too, disappears in the direction of the shouting. Hoshi hangs back, tries to swallow his amused smile, but then Mingyu returns to drag him away.
Only you and Jun remain. “What did Joshua do?” he asks, less to break the silence and more because he’s nosy.
“Released roughly three dozen of those terrifying tarantulas that eat birds.”
“Oh.”
Silence creeps in anyway—not awkward, but Jun can tell there’s something you want to say. Should he hover? He doesn’t want you to feel obligated (not that you would), but he can’t deny that he’s curious. You, the literal devil, reluctant to say something to him, just a human? It’s too good an opportunity to pass up.
“You’re not gonna get all clingy and weird now that we’ve had sex, are you?” he jokes.
Shockingly, you do not find this funny. “I may have lied about inventing Jenny McCarthy, but I did invent the guillotine. And the electric chair. And the rack—”
“Noted,” Jun replies, giddy all over. Can’t help it as he shoves his hands in the pockets of his slacks and rocks back on his heels. “Should I walk you to the door?”
“Don’t you dare,” comes your response, but Jun does it anyway. Gets away with it by dropping some quip about his mother raising him to be a gentleman, and it’d just destroy her if she knew Jun wasn’t abiding by her teachings.
Your reluctant smile is akin to pulling teeth, but it still shows up.
Whatever havoc had been wreaked by Joshua seems to have been solved. There’s blissful silence as the two of you reach the door, and Jun knows his escort is pomp and circumstance, that you could disappear in the blink of an eye the way Jeonghan had, but he appreciates you going through the motions for his sake, that you’ve allowed him a moment of normalcy.
“Was it hard coming back here?” he asks, leaning against the door frame to stem his desire to reach out for you.
“Well, it’s certainly never easy, but I’ve got plenty of psychologists down there I can talk it over with if need be.” You check an invisible watch. “Do you think Freud is available for lunch tomorrow?”
“If he’s not, I am.”
A bark of shocked laughter has you covering your mouth. “I did not expect that from you.”
“Did it work?”
“No,” you reply instantly. “Have a great weekend, Wen Junhui. I’m sure our paths will cross again soon.”
Jun nods… which is about all he can do, considering he’s stuck here for the time being. Hoshi sent him here, which means Hoshi’s the only one who can send him back—some stupid security rule Jun wasn’t paying attention to when it’d been explained to him. So he sticks the corner of his thumb in his mouth, thinks about how great your ass looked in those pants as you walked away, and pivots back into the conference room to await the angel with the stupid t-shirts.
Except, as soon as he turns around, there you are. Face to face. Close enough that your scent is paralyzing, but it’s different now—softer, he thinks; something that makes him feel less like he’s been ensnared in your web and more like he’s been invited in. Close enough that when you lean in he can feel the warmth of your breath on his skin, that sensitive spot just below his ear.
“You were wrong,” you say, so quiet he’s not sure he isn’t imagining your words, filling in the blanks of what he wants to hear. “What you said earlier, about me not needing you.”
Then you’re gone.
In the blink of an eye, just like he thought you’d be.
He makes a mental note to be available tomorrow around lunchtime.
If you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading! Sharing and reblogging my work is the best way to say you enjoyed it, but I also accept any and all feedback and screaming in my inbox. <3
PAIRING: Jester!Jeonghan x Princess!Reader
SUMMARY: You've spent your entire life hiding behind the mask of a princess, forced to perform perfection at every moment. There is a single person who see's beyond your mask, but you see beyond his too - and you don't think the jester is as harmless as everyone thinks.
WC: 6,244
AU: Royalty, Implied Magical AU
GENRE: Smut
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: Mild mentions of what's proper/what's not in a royal society, reader being frustrated and having repressed feelings of desire and arousal, sexually explicit content featuring vaginal fingering, some mild dirty talk, mild biting, mild exhibitionism (hooking up where anyone could find them), the use of pet names (love / good girl), Jeonghan being a bit of a menace, some magical ambiguity at the end re: Jeonghan, he's kinda a weird lil guy in this I don't know how to explain it, he's implied to be dangerous but he doesn't do anything necessarily scary on paper.
A/N: This is for my milestone request for @gimmegoodname! And part 8348934 of Hali doesn't know how to keep to a reasonable request word count :) Thank you jesus for landing on Jester and Jeonghan - this actually is not at all what I originally intended to write but fuck it we ball because the other idea would have taken me aprox 40k words lmfao
AN 2: This is not beta read so I’m sorry - there will definitely be mistakes! I did proof read/spelling and grammar check but I often miss a lot!
MAIN M. LIST | ASK | FOR MY MILESTONE EVENT
ORANTE PARTIES ARE PERHAPS YOUR LEAST FAVORITE RESPONSIBILITY AS A PRINCESS.
The castle's grand ballroom has been transformed into a glittering display of excess, the crystal chandeliers reflecting torchlight and dappled shadows across polished marble floors, the heavy velvet drapery covering the walls in hues of crimson and midnight blue - all of it tailored to make the inside of the room feel like something from another world.
You hate every inch of it. You hate the weight of your gown and its scratchy material, you hate how you can feel the bone stitching of the corset digging into your ribs, you hate the brittle laughter and the clink of crystal goblets, the venomous whispers behind delicate gossamer fans. Most of all, you hate the way every eye in the room seems to track your every movement, measuring you, judging you, waiting for the perfect princess to make a single mistake so they can talk about it with practiced smiles.
A bard stands at the center of the hall, his fingers dancing over the strings of a lute as he sings a soulful ballad of lovers lost in the heat of one another, of stolen touches and a kind of passion you'll never understand. You wonder what it might be like to experience something like that, to be touched by someone who wants you so badly they risk everything, to have hands on your skin that aren't bound by protocol and propriety. To do something dangerous and sinful, to have someone hold you the way those lovers in the song held each other, with urgency and desire instead of duty.
You'll never be that, of course. You are forever bound to this kingdom where the entire world is your stage, where you must remain untouched and controlled, and you're constantly expected to perform.
You're not the only one performing tonight, of course. You're halfway through a painfully boring conversation with the Lord of Coin regarding taxes when a burst of laughter cuts through the murmur of the party. Your gaze drifts against your will toward the small crowd forming near the arched windows, and though you can't see the man at the center of their attention, you know he's there.
The court jester's voice drifts toward you, mischief wrapped in pretty velvet clothes and a silly hat. You'd seen him earlier tonight, dressed in his best midnight blue velvet doublet and matching pants, little crystals stitchy to the fabric to make it look like he's lost in a midnight sky. His eyes had been filled with particularly vicious mischief when they'd landed on you, but your father had whisked you away to greet the Lady of Harvest before the fiend could slink your way.
Jeonghan is a fiend. You are perhaps the only person at court who thinks behind the practiced smiles, card tricks and juggling that there's something far more dangerous, but you've never been able to convince anyone of it. And why should anyone agree with you? Jeonghan is favored among the court for his wit, rhymes and tricks, thrilling the men and charming the women as he slides through each party like smoke, taking the shape of whatever his audience desires most.
A fresh wave of laughter erupts from his audience, brighter and more genuine than anything else you’ve heard tonight. It makes your skin itch and you turn away from the crowd, focusing back on the conversation at hand and determined not to let Jeonghan ruin your night like he does at most parties, determined to vex you and make you feel affronted and flushed and-
No.
You shove him from your mind as the conversation drags on while you sip spiced wine from your glass. As the Lord of Coin talks, you wonder what it would be like to leave this room. To go get somewhere lost in the city below. To fall into the bed of someone who would touch you like the lovers in the bard’s song, someone who smells like sandalwood and smoke and whose smile is sharp and familiar.
For now, you stay put and keep your eyes on the lord in front of you, ignoring the growing laughter coming from Jeonghan's corner. You hate that he enthralls them so - hate that even though you’re suspicious of him, he charms you in his own way, worming into your thoughts on lonely days, leading your mind astray to wonder how it is he does those tricks of his.
Your father appears suddenly, the Lord of Coin fumbling over whatever he was saying about inflation as the king puts a hand on your shoulder, grinning jovially. "Lord Hastings, forgive me, but I'm here to steal my daughter and spoil her with the fun part of the night!"
"Of course, Your Majesty!" Lord Hasting bows. "Thank you for the conversation, Your Highness."
"The gratitude is all mine, Lord Hastings," you nod, letting your father spin you away as dread knots in your stomach.
The crowd near the arched windows opens up as you approach, the members of the court bowing as you and your father approach the entertainment. Torchlight flickers on their faces, showing how flushed with delight they are as they watch the spectacle in front of them. Jeonghan stands in the middle of the, his midnight doublet fitting him perfectly as the crystals sparkle with his every movement.
Though the jester hat might look silly on anyone else, Jeonghan makes it look fashionable. His long, dark hair frames his angelic face, all sharp cheekbones and carefully sloped nose. His dark eyes find yours immediately, flashing as he grins. Your heart skips a little but you remain uneffected, staring at him as he juggles three daggers for the crowd as they ooo and ahhh at him.
You watch as the blades flash in the torchlight, each one caught cleanly while people gasp and clap. A lady nearby giggles behind her fan just as Jeonghan makes the daggers disappear into his sleeves with a quick motion. The crowd claps as he grins and bows politely, his dark eyes finding you again.
Irritation simmers, your gaze locking onto his and holding it. While everyone seems impressed, your instincts scream danger, wolf in fool’s clothing. The corner of his mouth tilts upwards as he steps toward you, the smell of his sandalwood and smoke clinging to him.
"Your Highness," he greets smoothly. "You look bored. Let me change that."
You say nothing but your father claps, his laughter booming as Jeonghan starts his performance. Cards fly from his hands in quick patterns and your attention is drawn upward as they flit through the air. He dances away from you and leans toward Lord Jeon, plucking a card from behind his ear before flicking his hand and turning it into a coin. The crowd laughs and claps as you stand there stiffly, watching as he charms his way through the nobles until he comes back toward you.
Jeonghan stops in front of you and holds out his hand, bowing slightly at the waist. The crystals on his double clink together as you stare at him, your stomach twisting when he looks up at you through his dark, silky lashes. To anyone else, the look might be reverent, but you see it for what it is - hunger.
"For the best trick tonight, I need a volunteer," he murmurs. The crowd claps excitedly and when you glance at your father, the king urges you forward, excited. “Your Highness, would you do me the honor?”
Swallowing thickly, you place your hand in Jeonghan's. His skin is warm, sending a spark of heat up your arm as he guides you toward the center of the circle where he spins you in a twirl, the skirts of your dress flaring. The lords and ladies clap, delighted and shouting how beautiful you look, how wonderful their princess is. Jeonghan’s touch lingers a moment longer than necessary before he grins and lets go, eyes glued to you as he circles you like a wolf might its prey.
When he stops, he leans close enough that you can see the silver threading in his collar and the way his sleeves are tailored to allow free movement, probably full of pockets for all of his cards and daggers and other baubles he uses for his performances. He's close enough that the sandalwood and spice makes your lashes flutter, making you think of something dark - not at all the cheery jester he claims to be.
"Try not to look so afraid," he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear him. "The court might think you're afraid of a simple card trick."
"I'm not afraid," you snap.
"No? Then why is your pulse racing?"
You grimace. Ever the observationalist, seeing far more than anyone ever dares to give him credit for.
"Do your trick, jester," you growl.
Jeonghan grins as he produces a deck of cards from one of his sleeves, fanning them out again. "Choose any card but don't show me, love."
Ignoring the casual way he uses a pet name entirely unfit for his station, you select a card from the middle of the deck and when you flip it, you see the seven of swords. You angle it away from him, eyes darting between him and the card. His eyes watch you closely, the heat of them making you fight off a shiver.
"Show the crowd, I'll look away. Cross my heart and hope to die."
You roll your eyes when he turns his back to you. The crowd leans in as you flip the card, showcasing the front to them all. They all nod excitedly, tittering behind hands and fans until you flip the card back around, holding it close to your chest and away from Jeonghan.
"Good," he says when he turns back around, tucking the deck away in one of his sleeves. "Put the card against your palm, card face down."
You follow his instructions, holding your palm out with the card face down to conceal the seven of swords. Jeonghan reaches for your hand, his fingers warm as he presses his palm on top of yours, the card firmly kept between both of your hands. You hate the way your skin responds to the contact, the way the sudden awareness of him prickles up your arm.
"Do you trust me?" he murmurs.
"Hardly."
"Clever." He guides your pressed palms upward so that you're both holding the card between you, each of your hands pressing forward with equal force. "Good girl. Keep your hand steady."
A snarl works its way to your lips at the pet name, but before you can snap at him for the impropriety, Jeonghan shuffles closer and the crowd goes quiet. You realize how far away they seem, the sound dull like it's on the other side of a bubble. Jeonghan is close though - so close you have to tilt your chin up to look up at him, his eyes glittering as they watch you.
"You're quite good at playing a dutiful princess," he notes.
"You know nothing about me."
"Don't I?" His eyes search yours, and there's something sharp in his gaze, something that cuts through the fool's mask he wears. "I know you watch everything. I know you see more than you let on. I know you're the only person in this room who looks at me and wonders what I'm really doing here."
Your heart pounds harder, the rhythm so forceful you're certain he can see it in the pulse at your throat. He's far too close and far too observant for a mere jester. The air between your palms feels charged, almost electric, and you're acutely aware of every inch of space he occupies. You want to step back, to put distance between you and whatever game he's playing, but the crowd is watching and so is the king. So you look onward, staring at him as he smirks.
"Breathe," Jeonghan says, softer now, and there's something almost gentle in his tone that makes it worse somehow. "You're holding your breath, love."
“Stop calling me that.”
"Nervous?"
You glare. "No."
His grin widens a fraction. "Liar."
The word hangs between you, intimate and dangerous. No one else speaks to you like this. No one else would dare, but Jeonghan isn't like the others at court. He refuses to be cowed by your title and your cold shoulder, protected by the silly little performance he puts on, convincing others that he's a fool. It gives him a freedom that feels threatening, and you're the only one who seems to notice.
The hand that isn't pressed against yours moves, tracing a slow circle in the air around where your palms are joined. The movement is hypnotic, and you find yourself following the movement, watching as he repeats the motion a few times. For a moment, you feel a little hazy, eyes fluttering as your thoughts grow foggy. Then, your mind sharpens again, Jeonghan’s intense gaze coming into focus.
"Picture your card," he instructs, loud enough for the crowd to hear. "Imagine exactly what it looks like - the edges, the images. The way it's shaped. The colors used, the details of the card face."
You think of the seven of swords, trying to focus on the image of it, trying to use it as an anchor against the way your pulse races. It's difficult to do so with the warmth radiating from his palm and the way his breath stirs the air between you. He's close enough that you can count every one of his eyelashes and see the way his dark eyes catch the light from the chandeliers overhead.
As you try and picture the curling red numbers on the card and blue paint of the swords, you let your eyes flit over his sleeves. His hands. His pockets. You try to work out what exactly the charade is, ready to catch him in his trickery. You always try, and you always fail, never quite able to pin down the source of the performance.
"You're thinking about the card," he says, dropping his voice again so only you can hear. "But you're also thinking about how I'm doing this. Trying to work it out. Trying to catch me." You don't answer, feeling the heat hit your chest and cheeks as you flush under being caught. Jeonghan smirks, nodding. "You also don’t like being caught. Are you afraid of what I'll see when I look at you?"
"You see nothing, jester."
"Untrue." He tilts his head slightly, studying you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. "I see someone who's hungry to be wanted. Someone who wants to be touched like those lovers in the ballad the bard was singing, with heat and urgency and desperate desire. Someone who wishes there was a person bold enough to touch her the way a princess is never supposed to be touched. To want her not because of the crown but despite it." His eyes glint with something darker. "And I see someone who looks at me and knows exactly what I am. A wolf in fool’s clothing, right?”
You want to deny it, but the words stick in your throat. You hate that Jeonghan is right and that he sees through you as easily as you see through him. There's a part of you that's always craved this kind of understanding, someone who could look past the crown and what lies beneath, but not like this. Not from him.
Being known by Jeonghan feels like standing naked before a predator, and the worst part is that you're not entirely certain you want to cover yourself. Your chest tightens with the contradiction of it, the simultaneous ache to be truly seen and the primal need to hide from his gaze.
"Now," Jeonghan says, and his voice drops again, intimate and teasing. "I'm going to find your card without ever touching the deck again. Without you saying a word." He leans in, just slightly, and you can feel the whisper of his breath against your temple, warm and deliberate. Your skin tingles where it touches. "Would you like to know how?"
You can't answer. Your throat has gone tight, and you're frozen there, caught between the urge to pull away and the strange, unwanted pull that keeps you rooted in place.
"I'm going to read your mind," he murmurs, and his lips are so close to your ear now that you feel each word as much as hear it. "I'm going to look into those careful, guarded eyes and see exactly what else you're hiding."
Your hands are shaking now, both of them, and you know he can see it. The crowd can probably see it too, but they likely think it's part of the act, part of the performance. They don't know that your heart is hammering so hard it hurts, that every nerve in your body is screaming at you to move, to step back, to break whatever spell he's weaving.
"It's the seven of swords," Jeonghan says, and his voice is soft enough to raise the hair on your arms.
Your eyes widen before you can stop yourself, before you can school your expression into something more controlled. The reaction is instinctive, damning, and you see the exact moment he registers it. See the satisfaction that flickers across his face.
"There it is," he murmurs, so quietly that you almost don't hear it over the blood rushing in your ears. "That's what I wanted to see."
Suddenly he steps back, and the loss of his proximity should be a relief but instead feels like an absence. His hand that was mirroring yours drops away to reveal that the card that was pressed between your palms is no longer there. You frown, mouth falling open slightly as he reaches toward your face. You go still as his fingers brush the edge of your jaw, feather-light and deliberate. It's barely contact at all, the barest whisper of his fingertips against you, but you feel it everywhere.
When he pulls his hand away, he's holding a card between two fingers, flicking it to show you the seven of swords. The crowd erupts in applause and delighted exclamations, the sound washing over you while you stare at him. You want to know how he did it, to know what you missed. Had his whispers distracted you from when he placed it there? Was it a trick of the light?
"Your Highness," Jeonghan says, and his voice is pitched for the crowd now, all performance and charm. He bows deeply, flourishing the card. "Thank you for your assistance."
When his eyes meet yours again, they tell a different story. They say he knows exactly what effect he's had on you. That he planned it, wanted it, enjoyed watching you unravel. It makes you step back, putting necessary distance between you as your heart hammers, your pulse deceiving you.
You excuse yourself as soon as the opportunity presents itself, your father turning to another lord as he laughs about something and the crowd pressing around Jeonghan, cutting him off from you. No one notices when you slip away from the gathered nobles, picking up the skirts of your dress as you rush for the exit, skin overheating.
Cool night air washes over you as you step into the gardens and away from all the noise and eyes. The sound of the ballroom has long since faded behind you, replaced by the gentle rustle of leaves and the soft trickle of water from the fountain somewhere deeper in the garden. You inhale deeply, letting the scent of roses and night-blooming jasmine fill your lungs, trying to steady the frantic beating of your heart.
The gardens are empty. Everyone is inside, drinking and dancing and watching Jeonghan perform his tricks. Out here, there's only moonlight filtering through the branches overhead, casting everything in silver and shadow. The paths wind between tall hedges and rose bushes, their blooms pale in the darkness. Your footsteps are quiet on the stone walkway as you move deeper into the maze, away from the ballroom, away from the noise and the eyes and the suffocating weight of your crown.
You walk without direction, letting your feet carry you past marble statues and flowering vines that climb the garden walls. The moonlight catches on the petals of white roses, making them glow like ghosts. Everything is still and quiet, peaceful in a way the ballroom could never be.
Out here, you can think. Out here, you can try to make sense of what just happened.
Except you can't make sense of it. Can't explain why Jeonghan's proximity affected you so deeply, why his whispered words felt like they were carving themselves into your skin, why the loss of his touch left you aching in ways you don't want to examine. You barely know him. You don't trust him. And yet-
"Running away, Your Highness?"
You spin around, heart leaping into your throat to see Jeonghan standing in the middle of the path behind you as though he's materialized from the shadows themselves. His little hat is nowhere to be found, dressed only in the velvet outfit with crystals glittering like stars. The moonlight above catches in his dark hair, turning it silver at the edges. His eyes gleam, and you become hyperaware of the unnatural quiet of his presence.
"I needed air," you say, trying to keep your voice steady.
"Mm." Jeonghan takes a step closer, his movements fluid and unhurried. "Or you needed to escape me."
You don't answer - can't answer, because he's right and you both know it. He moves closer still, slow and deliberate, and you suddenly feel like he's a wolf giving the sheep time to run if it wanted to. You don't run, your feet planted to the stone path even as your pulse hammers in your throat, even as every instinct screams that you should walk away.
"You know," Jeonghan says conversationally, stopping just within arm's reach, "most people can't wait to be near me. They laugh at my jokes, beg for my tricks, hang on my every word." His head tilts slightly, studying you. "But you? You look at me like I'm something dangerous."
"You are dangerous," you say before you can stop yourself. “Even if I can’t prove it.”
His smile is slow and devastating. "Yes. I am."
The admission should frighten you. Instead, it sends heat curling through your belly, making your breath catch in your chest. He's standing close enough now that you can see the way the moonlight plays across his features. He's beautiful, with a sharp jawline and elegant nose, the curve of his mouth full and dangerous, the kind of beauty that bards say is dangerous, luring people into the spider’s web.
"But that's not why you ran," Jeonghan continues.
"It's not?"
He shakes his head. "You ran because of what I said in there. Because I saw through you, and you didn't like it."
"You don't know anything about me."
He takes another step, and now he's close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, can see the way his gaze travels deliberately over your face, your throat, the rapid rise and fall of your chest.
"I already proved that isn't true, love."
Your breath catches. Heat floods your cheeks, your chest, spreading through your entire body. "You're far too presumptuous and entirely impromper."
"I'm observant."His eyes meet yours, and there's something raw in them now, something that makes your stomach flip. "And I know you felt it too. In the ballroom, when I was close to you. The way your breath changed. The way you leaned toward me even as you tried to pull away. The way you're looking at me right now, like you can't decide if you want to run or-"
"Or what, jester?" You demand, huffing. "If you know me so well, just say it."
Jeonghan's smile turns predatory. "Or if you want to stay right here and let me show you what you desire, no matter how improper it is."
Your heart is pounding so hard you're certain he can hear it. "You wouldn't dare."
"Wouldn't I?" He takes one more step, closing the distance until you can feel his breath against your lips, until you're backed against the rough bark of a tree you didn't realize was behind you. "I'm not afraid of your crown, love. I'm not afraid of what anyone would say or do. I'm not afraid of you."
The words send a thrill down your spine that you absolutely should not feel. His hand comes up, not touching you but hovering just beside your face, close enough that you can feel the heat of his palm against your cheek. You grit your teeth, refusing to lean into the hand the way you want to, refusing to give him the satisfaction again tonight.
"Why risk it, then?" You ask. "Only a fool would."
"I am a fool," he agrees. "Let me show you how foolish I am. Let me show you what it's like to be touched and desired. Let me show you what I've wanted to do since the moment I've met you and how I want to make you come undone. Let me make you lose all that polished control you loathe so much."
You should say no. Should push him away. Should remember every reason this is a terrible idea. But your body isn't listening to your mind, and you find yourself leaning toward him, drawing by the magnetic pull you've been fighting all evening.
"What do you say," he asks, hand coming to cradle your face and tilt it upward until you're looking at him with half-lidded eyes. "Do you want your desires answered?"
You lick your lips and his eyes track the movement, pupils expanding. Swallowing dryly, you give the shallowest nod, damning yourself to desire, to the feeling of being wanted and seen.
It's all he needs. Jeonghan's eyes darken, and then his mouth is on yours and the world narrows to just the heat of his lips, the press of his body as he crowds you back against the tree, the rough bark catching on the fabric of your gown. He kisses you like he's starving for it, deep and demanding, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes your knees weak.
You gasp into his mouth and he swallows the sound, one hand tangling in your hair while the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise. The kiss is nothing like you imagined. It's not gentle or reverent or careful, but instead it’s consuming, devastating, the kind of kiss that you never knew existed.
He tastes like wine and something darker, something that makes you want more even as your lungs burn for air. His teeth catch your lower lip and you whimper, your hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders, feeling the lean muscle beneath the fabric of his costume.
"I've wanted this for so long," Jeonghan murmurs against your mouth, then trails his lips down your jaw to your throat. "Wanted you. Do you know how difficult it was to keep my hands to myself during that trick? To stand so close and not touch you the way I really wanted to?"
His teeth graze your pulse point and you can't stop the sound that escapes you, half gasp, half moan. He makes a satisfied noise low in his throat, then his hand slides from your hip to your thigh, gathering the heavy fabric of your gown and pulling it up as you pant against the tree, your head digging into the bark.
"Tell me to stop," he says, but his fingers are already tracing the inside of your thigh, moving higher. "Tell me you don't want this. Tell me all my chasing and teasing and prodding is for nothing and that I should leave."
“I can’t.”
"Fuck," Jeonghan breathes against your throat, and the crude word from his elegant mouth sends another wave of heat through you.
His fingers find the edge of your undergarments and he pulls them aside with deliberate slowness, exposing you to the cool night air. When his fingers press against you directly, finding you already slick, you bite down on your lip to keep from crying out. The gardens are secluded and shadowed, but not so far from the ballroom that sound wouldn't carry.
"Don't," Jeonghan says, his free hand coming up to pull your lip from between your teeth. "I want to hear you. Want to know exactly what I'm doing to you. Want to hear every sound you make when I touch you like this."
His fingers slip between your slick folds and you do cry out then, unable to stop yourself. Your hands tighten on his shoulders, nails digging in through the fabric of his costume, and he groans like your pleasure is his own. You feel a shiver go through him and you realize he’s just as affected by you as you are by him and it makes the heat even worse, the knowledge that he wants you this badly turning your blood to fire.
"So wet," he murmurs, his fingers sliding through your folds, exploring you with maddening slowness. "So perfect. Is this what you were thinking about during the bard's song? Someone touching you like this? Making you fall apart?"
You can't answer. Can't form words. All you can do is gasp as his fingers circle your clit with devastating precision, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your entire body. Your legs turn molten and Jeonghan pins you against the tree with his hips, sliding one of his knees between your legs to keep you pried open for his hand.
"Answer me," Jeonghan demands. "Tell me what you were thinking about."
"Yes," you manage, the word coming out broken. "Yes, I was thinking about being touched."
His fingers press harder, moving in tight circles that make your vision blur. His fingers slide lower, teasing your entrance, and you can feel how wet you are, your entrance clenching around nothing as his fingers trace laze circles where you need him most, your hips twitching.
"I'm going to give you exactly what you want," he promises. "Going to make you come so hard you see stars.
He slides one finger inside you and you cry out, your back arching off the tree. He's watching your face with an intensity that should make you self-conscious, but you're too far gone to care, too lost in the sensation of his finger moving inside you, curling just right, finding spots that make you shake.
It feels so good - better than you imagined, even. Jeonghan is precise, leaning forward to leave bite marks and kitten licks up and down your neck as he works you slowly, finger pressing against your front wall in a way that sends you squirming against him. Your breath comes out in short, quick gasps, sweat gathering at the back of your neck as he fucks you with his finger, the wet press of his hand maddening.
"Look at you," Jeonghan murmurs, his voice rough with desire. "So beautiful like this. So desperate. I want to see you fall apart. Want to see your face when you come."
He adds a second finger and you whimper, your hands sliding from his shoulders to grip his arms, needing something to hold onto. The stretch is perfect, overwhelming, and when he curls his fingers inside you while his thumb finds your clit, you nearly sob, rolling your hips forward into his hand, thighs trembling as you clench down on his fingers.
"You're so tight," Jeonghan continues, his voice a dark purr in your ear. "So perfect around my fingers. I can feel how close you are. Can feel you clenching around me. Do you want to come, love? Do you want me to make you fall apart right here in the garden where anyone could find us?"
The thought should horrify you. Instead, it sends another wave of heat through you, making you clench harder around his fingers. You nod desperately, squeezing your eyes shut as your cunt throbs around his fingers and you writhe against the tree.
"You like that," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Like the danger of it. Like knowing that you're supposed to be in there playing princess while you're out here letting the court jester play with this pretty pussy."
His words are filthy and crude, and they shouldn't affect you the way they do, but combined with the movement of his fingers, the pressure of his thumb on your clit, the heat of his body pressed against yours, you feel overwhelmed and strung out, the feeling low in your stomach coiling and coiling and coiling until you're babbling and squirming and squeezing your eyes shut.
"Please," you gasp, and you're not even sure what you're begging for.
"I know what you need." His fingers move faster, harder, curling inside you with devastating precision. "You need to let go. Need to stop thinking and just feel. Need someone to take control so you don't have to be perfect for once in your life."
His thumb presses harder against your clit, circling in tight, relentless patterns, and you can feel the pleasure building to an impossible peak. Your thighs are shaking, your breath coming in desperate gasps. Jeonghan invades your senses - the smell of him, the heat of him, the way his teeth scrape against your neck, the way his hair tickles against your skin.
"You're mine right now," Jeonghan growls. "Not a princess. Not a performance. Just mine. Say it."
"Yours," you gasp. "I'm yours."
"Good girl. Now come for me. Let me feel it. Let me watch you fall apart."
His fingers curl one more time, hitting that perfect spot inside you while his thumb works your clit, and the orgasm crashes over you like a wave. You cry out, unable to stop yourself, your body convulsing against the tree as pleasure floods through you. You clench around his hand, throbbing as your body shakes until you feel like you can't breathe.
Jeonghan works you through it, his fingers never stopping, drawing out your orgasm until you're boneless and gasping and oversensitive. He's murmuring praise in your ear now - how beautiful you are, how perfect, how he wants to do this again and again until you can't remember your own name - and it makes you dizzy, feeling like you're drunk off of him alone.
Finally, the waves subside and Jeonghan withdraws his hand slowly. You feel the loss of him like an ache, your legs still trembling and barely holding you up. He brings his fingers to his mouth, and you watch through hazy eyes as he licks them clean, tasting you. The sight sends another pulse of heat through you despite your exhaustion.
"Delicious," he murmurs, his eyes dark and satisfied. "Even better than I imagined."
Reality begins to seep back in slowly. The cool night air on your heated skin. The distant sounds of the party still going on inside. The rough bark of the tree against your back. What you've just done, and who you've done it with.
You should feel ashamed. Should feel horrified. Should be scrambling to fix your dress and run back to the safety of the ballroom. You don't. You feel satisfied and boneless and strangely alive all at once, like you've finally done something that feels real instead of the pretty performance.
When you look up at Jeonghan, you see him watching you, his expression unreadable in the shadow of the tree. The breeze makes the leaves dance, kissing your cooling skin as his hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing across your cheek with surprising gentleness.
"Regrets?" He asks, voices soft as the smoke that clings to him.
You should say yes and that this was a mistake, that it can never happen again and that you need to return to the ballroom and pretend this never happened. You should remind him that this is improper and unacceptable. Yet instead, you find yourself leaning into his touch, lashes fluttering.
"No," you admit. "No regrets."
Something like satisfaction shifts in his gaze, and he leans in and kisses you again. This time it's different - softer and slower, less consuming and more like he's savoring the taste and feel of your lips against his. You kiss him back, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling the crystals click against your skin as his heart pounds beneath your palms.
When he finally pulls back, you're both breathing hard again, and your mind is spinning with questions you're not sure you want answered.
"How did you do it?" you ask suddenly.
Jeonghan tilts his head, a small smile playing at his lips. "Do what?"
"The card trick. In the ballroom."
His smile widens, and there's something dangerous in it now."I already told you. I read your mind."
You shake your head, confusion and disbelief warring inside you. "That would make you something magical. Not just a jester with clever tricks."
"Yes," Jeonghan agrees, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "It would."
The implication of his words hits you like a physical blow. Your breath catches, your mind racing through everything you know about him, everything you've seen, the way he seems to move through the world like something other. Like something more.
He's grinning now, watching the realization dawn across your face, and then he's kissing you again, harder this time, more possessive, like he's claiming you. Like he knows exactly what he's revealed and doesn't care. When he pulls back, his lips are still close enough that you can feel his breath against your mouth.
"You thought it yourself earlier, didn’t you?" he murmurs, teeth catching your bottom lip sharply. "I'm a wolf in fools' clothing."
Summary: Jeonghan played a role he was never meant to keep. Until he finally found a place to call home—where the performance ended, and he could simply be himself..
Jeonghan was so fucked.
Completely, utterly, irreversibly fucked.
When he stepped out of the car, one he borrowed from Seungcheol, because no way was he pulling up to a charity event in his own, he expected something… intimate.
A modest gathering of well-dressed elites, or maybe… a quiet dinner with polite applause between speeches. That made sense. It fit the image he had pieced together of you—humble, grounded, refreshingly normal.
Oh, how wrong he was.
The moment he looked up at the grand entrance, lined with press and security, his stomach plummeted. Cameras flashed as reporters whispered among themselves. Then, right by the entrance, he spotted a display showcasing the event’s purpose—complete with a blown-up image of the host.
The prime minister.
Your father is the prime minister.
Jeonghan went rigid. The weight of realization crashed down on him like a damn tidal wave. His mind scrambled, trying to recall every conversation he had with you, every small clue he should have picked up on. The ease with which you carried yourself, your careful yet casual way of speaking, your quiet but unmistakable air of authority—it all made sense now.
Ji Y/n. Ji Jaekyung.
He should’ve connected the dots. He should’ve questioned why someone as well-educated and sophisticated as you chose to teach at a cram school. Instead, he had been too preoccupied judging your practical outfit and your unpretentious behavior during your first date. Now, he was standing in front of a nationally broadcasted event, fully aware that he had walked straight into the lion’s den.
And he still had time to run. He always ran.
Running was easy. It had saved him more times than he could count. But as his feet itched to turn back, he hesitated. Because now that he knew who you really were—now that he had seen you not as the prime minister’s daughter, but as someone warm, self-assured, and unexpectedly real—walking away felt... wrong.
He had promised you he’d come.
Jeonghan was no one. Just a man who navigated the world of the elite through charm and carefully crafted interactions. His life revolved around dating the daughters of the wealthy, women whose mothers he conveniently befriended in art and culinary classes. A charming conversation, a well-placed compliment, and he’d find himself indulging in designer gifts, chauffeured rides, and exclusive experiences. It was a delicate game—one he played flawlessly.
When the relationship inevitably fizzled out, he stayed just long enough to soak in whatever luxury he could before moving on. It wasn’t about love. It was about survival.
He had never met you before, only your mother, who had gushed about you during a cooking class.
"My daughter is really pretty! She's also a very intelligent woman. You two would get along well!"
And then that night, you stood before him—dressed in a crisp yet simple blouse and slacks. Your hair was slightly disheveled, and the faint sheen of sweat on your forehead suggested you had rushed to get here.
"Thanks for waiting," you said, a polite smile on your lips as you caught your breath. "The commute was a nightmare."
Jeonghan blinked. Commute? His past dates never commuted. They arrived in sleek black cars with drivers waiting outside.
With a deep breath, Jeonghan climbed the ballroom stairs, nodding at the suited staff by the door. He gave his name, expecting them to glance at a guest list and wave him through. Instead, they barely checked before stepping aside with smooth efficiency, as if he were someone important.
It wasn’t until he caught a glimpse of the guest registry that his breath hitched.
His name was written under the family list.
Not as a guest. Not as a friend.
Ji Y/n’s plus one.
A sudden weight settled onto his shoulders. His fingers twitched at his sides. He was no stranger to high society, but this was an entirely different league. A world of power, scrutiny, and unspoken rules.
He schooled his expression, squared his shoulders, and walked inside. If he was already in this deep, he might as well make it look like he belonged.
Your mother was the first to greet him, her poised smile barely masking the subtle scrutiny in her gaze. She wasted no time in informing him that you hadn’t arrived yet, her tone carrying a hint of exasperation as she sighed.
"That daughter of mine," she muttered, shaking her head. "Always prioritizing those students of hers over her father’s business. She should be here already."
Jeonghan hummed in response, unsure whether he should agree or defend you. He had barely opened his mouth when she looped her arm through his, effortlessly pulling him into the crowd.
Before he knew it, he was being paraded around the room, introduced to your mother’s circle of socialites. Wealthy figures, business moguls, and politicians—each one scanning him with polite curiosity, trying to place him in their world. Jeonghan smiled when necessary, nodded at the right moments, but his mind was elsewhere.
Then he saw you.
The moment you stepped through the entrance, the noise around him faded.
Gone was the casual, practical look from your date. Tonight, you carried yourself with quiet elegance, dressed in a modest but effortlessly stunning gown. The soft lighting of the ballroom caught the delicate shimmer of your makeup, accentuating the natural beauty he had already memorized.
For a second, Jeonghan forgot to breathe.
Because this—this poised, graceful version of you—was the one that belonged in this world. And he was just starting to realize how many time you had surprised him just by tonight
"Jeonghan," you called, your voice smooth yet carrying a warmth that was out of place in such a formal setting.
He straightened up instinctively, feeling more exposed than he ever had. You looked so different, so composed—so belonging in this world. And yet, your smile when you reached him felt exactly the same as the one from your date.
"You actually came," you said, tilting your head slightly, amusement flickering in your eyes.
"I did promise," Jeonghan replied, trying to appear unfazed. But the weight of his name being listed under your family’s guest list was still pressing down on him. "Though, I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting… all of this."
You laughed softly, leaning in just enough that only he could hear. "You thought it’d be a small charity gathering, didn’t you?"
He exhaled, shaking his head with a lopsided smirk. "I really should’ve done more research on you."
"Probably," you teased, then slipped your hand through his arm with ease, guiding him further into the event.
"Come on, my father would like to meet you."
Jeonghan stiffened. Meet your father?
Yeah, he was so, so screwed.
*
"Your dating game has officially reached Ji Jaekyung level."
Seungkwan slid a file across the café table with the kind of flourish that made Jeonghan’s stomach twist. He knew that look—pure mischief, the kind that ended with him either losing money or losing his dignity. Probably both.
Jeonghan didn’t touch the file. Instead, he took a slow sip of his coffee, giving Seungkwan a blank stare over the rim. "You couldn’t possibly be threatening me. I practically rescued you in college, remember?"
Seungkwan scoffed. "Rescue? Please. You groomed me, hyung."
Jeonghan choked on his drink. "Don’t say it like that, you little menace." He set his coffee down with a thunk, glaring. "That makes it sound illegal."
Seungkwan only grinned, completely unbothered. He tapped the file again. "Go on. Open it. I promise it won’t explode. Just a little light reading. Oh, and a delightful photo of a power couple moment.."
Jeonghan sighed but flipped it open anyway, already bracing himself.
There it was. A nightmare in high resolution.
A perfectly timed shot of him and you, walking arm-in-arm out of the event, looking like a picture-perfect elite couple. Elegant. Respectable. Utterly fabricated.
Jeonghan tapped his finger against the page, then flicked his gaze up to Seungkwan.
"This—"
"Yes?"
"Burn this before I burn your entire journalism career."
Seungkwan burst out laughing. "Hyung, you can’t even burn calories properly. What makes you think you can burn my career?"
Jeonghan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He hated that Seungkwan had a point.
"You know," Seungkwan continued, stirring his drink with exaggerated nonchalance, "people are very interested in the life of the mysterious son of Yoon Group. And now that you’re linked to the prime minister’s daughter? Oh, the clicks, the engagement, the public fascination—it’s all very compelling. The media lives for this kind of narrative, and you, my dear friend, are the perfect headline."
Jeonghan let out a long, suffering groan, rubbing his temple. "You are insufferable."
"But I’m employed, though," Seungkwan shot back with a smug grin.
Jeonghan scowled. He knew where this was going, and he already hated it.
Seungkwan leaned in, lowering his voice to something much more devious. "How about a deal?"
Jeonghan really didn’t like the way that sounded.
"Help me get some inside details on the election," Seungkwan said smoothly, "and I’ll make sure this never sees the light of day. I can be very discreet. Your name? Wiped clean. No suspicions. No drama."
He paused, letting his words settle before adding the final blow.
"Especially from your family."
Jeonghan stiffened. His fingers curled slightly on the table, the weight of the threat pressing down harder than he wanted to admit.
Seungkwan just smiled knowingly.
Jeonghan exhaled slowly, narrowing his eyes. "You think I’d trust you with something this sensitive?"
For the first time in the conversation, Seungkwan’s expression turned serious. He met Jeonghan’s gaze without his usual playfulness, leaning forward until their faces were inches apart. Then, with all the dramatics of a third-rate romance drama, he reached across the table and placed a hand over Jeonghan’s.
"You can trust me this time, hyung," he whispered, eyes glinting.
Jeonghan stared at him for a long moment.
Then, with a heavy sigh, he muttered, "I hate you so much."
Seungkwan beamed, squeezing his hand like they’d just exchanged vows. "Love you too," he chirped before casually swiping a fry from Jeonghan’s plate.
Jeonghan sighed, yanking his hand away from Seungkwan’s grip like he had just touched something contaminated. He picked up his coffee and took a long sip, as if the caffeine could somehow prepare him for the rest of this conversation.
“For the record,” he muttered, “I just found out about her father last night.”
Seungkwan blinked. “You just—hold on.” He set down his drink, looking utterly baffled. “You’ve dated the prime minister’s daughter and you just found out?”
Jeonghan rolled his eyes. “I don’t Google people before I date them, Seungkwan.”
“You should start.”
“Noted.”
Seungkwan leaned back, still trying to process it. “But, she's like… I don’t know, humble?”
Jeonghan huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “That’s because she is.”
Jeonghan exhaled slowly, staring into his coffee like it held all the answers to his problems. “I might have to end things with her.”
Seungkwan raised an eyebrow. “You want to end things without ghosting her?”
He tapped his fingers against his cup, gaze softening for just a second. “She’s not caught up in all of it. She teaches because she wants to, not because she has to. She doesn’t use her father’s name to get ahead, doesn’t expect special treatment. She’s just… her.”
Seungkwan eyed him, a slow smirk forming. “You sound suspiciously fond right now.”
Jeonghan shot him a look. “Shut up.”
“I won’t shut up,” Seungkwan said gleefully. “Because this—” he gestured between them, “—this is very interesting. Yoon Jeonghan, the guy who never gets emotionally involved, actually likes someone?”
Jeonghan groaned, rubbing his face. “I will burn your career.”
Seungkwan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Alright, hyung. Let’s make this easy for you.”
Jeonghan narrowed his eyes. “I doubt that.”
"Stay with her for a little while," Seungkwan said, his tone almost too casual. "Just long enough to get some information about her father’s election plans. I mean, she’s his daughter—she must know something useful." He tapped the file on the table, the sound deliberate, calculated. "And in return, I’ll make sure this never sees the light of day. Your family stays blissfully unaware."
Jeonghan exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. This was getting way too complicated.
Seungkwan, ever perceptive, leaned in, resting his chin on his hand. "Come on, hyung. You’re already halfway in. Might as well make it worth your while."
Jeonghan shot him a look. "You make it sound so easy."
Seungkwan grinned. "Because it is easy. You charm people for a living. Just do what you do best—stick around, ask a few innocent questions, and when it’s over, you walk away. No harm, no foul."
No harm. No foul.
Jeonghan exhaled through his nose. “So you want me to spy for you?”
Seungkwan grinned. “Oh, spy is such an ugly word. I prefer exchanging favors.”
Jeonghan clicked his tongue. “You’re a little monster.”
“And you like it.” Seungkwan shrugged. “Look, you’re planning on leaving her anyway, right? Might as well get something out of it. Once you give me what I need, you can walk away, clean and easy. No drama, no messy emotional entanglements. Just another chapter closed.”
*
“You’re Yoon Jeonghan, right?”
After the meeting with Seungkwan, there had been no real conclusion—no agreement, no refusal—just Jeonghan leaving with the weight of a choice he wasn’t ready to make. Not yet, anyway.
Then fate, in its twisted sense of humor, shoved him a little closer.
He’d crossed paths again with your mother during one of his classes, her arrival as poised and deliberate as everything else about her. Without much preamble, she handed him a neatly wrapped package—an assortment of meticulously prepared, nutrient-balanced meals from the town’s most exclusive chef. The kind of thing that cost enough to pay someone’s monthly rent.
It wasn’t just food. It was… an opening.
At that moment, Jeonghan realized something dangerous—maybe, just maybe, he could make this work. Keep the charade alive for a while. At least two months, enough time to enjoy the perks before he quietly severed all ties.
So when your mother invited him to her birthday party—completely unprompted, with you blissfully unaware—he accepted without hesitation. He didn’t tell you, of course. This was no longer just about you. The connection was shifting, evolving into something more strategic… a mutually beneficial arrangement between him and your mother.
He told himself it was just another role to play. Another part in the game.
A game he controlled.
Or so he thought.
And then—
“Yoon Jeonghan! Long time no see!”
He froze.
That was Kim Jeni. Senior high school classmate.
And she was standing in the middle of your mother’s birthday party.
Why is she here? Is she related to you?
His mind raced through worst-case scenarios like flashcards. What if she remembered too much? What if she casually mentioned his less-than-polished past to the wrong person? What if she recognized that he didn’t exactly belong here?
And seriously—why did she have to remember him at all? It had been years. People were supposed to blur into the background after high school.
But no. Here she was, smiling like they were about to swap embarrassing memories over champagne.
And here he was, wondering if tonight was about to turn into a very public disaster.
Jeonghan’s first instinct was to look away, pretend he hadn’t heard.
But that was how amateurs got caught—by making the wrong move at the wrong time.
So instead, he smiled. The easy, slow kind of smile that said of course I remember you, even though in reality, he barely did.
“Kim Jeni,” he said smoothly, sliding into the familiar rhythm of a man who’d never been cornered in his life. “You look… exactly the same.”
Jeni laughed, touching her hair in the way people did when they weren’t sure if it was a compliment. “I should hope so. Although, I did finally grow out of my bangs phase.”
He chuckled like he remembered it perfectly. He didn’t.
“What brings you here? Are you…?” He gestured vaguely toward the crowd, buying time.
“Oh, my aunt is friends with Mrs. Ji,” she said, tilting her head toward your mother across the room. “I didn’t expect to see you here, though. Still in touch with our old classmates?”
Danger. That question was danger dressed in small talk.
“I move around a lot,” Jeonghan replied lightly. “Not much time to catch up.” Which was true, if “move around” meant hopping from one wealthy circle to another like a very well-dressed nomad.
Jeni’s gaze sharpened—not hostile, just curious. “And here I thought you’d left all this behind.”
His pulse ticked up. “All… what?”
She smirked. “The social scene. The handshakes, the networking, the pretending to care about canapés. You used to hate it.”
Jeonghan gave an easy shrug, as if the question amused him. “Hate’s a strong word. Let’s just say I’ve learned to… appreciate the art of it.”
Before she could dig deeper, your mother swept by with a glass of wine, laying a hand on Jeonghan’s arm.
“Darling, there you are! I want to introduce you to someone.”
Jeonghan flashed Jeni an apologetic smile. “Excuse me. Duty calls.”
And just like that, he was pulled back into the current, leaving Jeni in the eddies of polite conversation.
Still, he could feel her eyes on his back—curious, maybe suspicious.
One wrong move tonight, and she could turn from a harmless blast from the past into a problem he didn’t need.
Jeonghan hated mirrors at events like these.
Not because he disliked his reflection—he’d sculpted that image to perfection—but because they had a habit of showing the man beneath the polish. And tonight, his eyes betrayed him. They were restless.
When Jeni drifted away, her perfume fading into the hum of conversation, a shadow trailed behind her in his mind. She’d been there—at that party, the one after his graduation. The one that ended his place in the Yoon family like a guillotine blade.
It had been a warm June night.
The kind of evening where expensive champagne flowed like tap water, and music bled into the gardens. She was there—the woman—draped in pearls and wearing a smile that could make a man think dangerous thoughts. She was also the second wife of one of his father’s board members, the kind of man who wore power like a tailored suit.
He hadn’t meant to kiss her. Or maybe he had. The line blurred somewhere between flirtation and defiance. But there had been a camera. A flash.
And in a family where reputation was currency, one picture was enough to bankrupt him.
“Leave quietly,” his father had said, not even looking at him. “Before you take our name with you.”
That was six years ago.
Since then, the Yoon son became a ghost—spoken of in murmurs between wine sips. A scandal in a silk suit.
He learned to live by trading charm for survival. Socialites were his currency now. Wealthy, restless women who wanted a man to make them laugh between luncheons and look devastatingly good on their arm. In exchange, they gave him access—rooms he had no right to enter anymore, deals he could skim a percentage from, networks he could weave into a safety net.
And the first time he’d met you, he’d assumed you were naïve. A daughter shielded by privilege, unaware of the games her parents played. But he’d watched you—just a little—and realized that wasn’t it. You weren’t ignorant of this world. You simply refused to play by its rules.
He couldn’t decide if that made you foolish or dangerous.
It intrigued him, in a distant, intellectual way. Not attraction—Jeonghan had long outgrown such things—but curiosity. The same kind of curiosity that had once ruined him.
So when your mother had invited him tonight, he’d said yes out of calculation. A good connection, a potential ally, a well-placed woman with influence. You were a variable, but not a threat. Not yet.
Except now, as the evening unfolded, you were nowhere to be seen.
Guests murmured your name lightly—something about work, or disinterest, or perhaps distance between you and your parents—but no one seemed certain.
Jeonghan swirled the wine in his glass, watching the room’s glow blur through the deep red.
He didn’t look for you.
But he did wonder—what kind of daughter avoided her own mother’s birthday party?
For a man who’d spent years mastering the art of appearances, that question alone was enough to make him uneasy.
*
By the time the orchestra switched to slower jazz and most guests had migrated toward the dessert table, Jeonghan had already pieced together what he needed to know.
You weren’t coming.
It wasn’t just that you were late—your absence had settled into the air, quietly acknowledged, politely ignored. Your mother laughed too brightly whenever someone mentioned you, deflecting with graceful excuses about your “tight schedule.” The kind of lie polite people told when they were embarrassed.
Jeonghan understood that kind of silence.
He’d lived in it.
He took another sip of wine, watching the reflections ripple in his glass.
He didn’t care where you were. He told himself that twice, just to be sure. You were another variable, a missing piece in a puzzle that didn’t concern him.
And yet—somewhere deep down, under the weight of years and cynicism—Jeonghan wondered what could drive a daughter to abandon a mother who still smiled for her in front of a hundred people.
He stayed until the cake was cut, clapping when everyone else did, smiling at the right moments, before quietly excusing himself.
No one noticed him leave.
The next afternoon, the same corner café buzzed with weekend chatter, the scent of roasted beans lingering in the air. Jeonghan arrived first, as usual, claiming his preferred seat by the window. He liked the anonymity the place offered—dim lighting, a soft hum of conversation, nobody who cared enough to recognize him.
He was halfway through his espresso when Seungkwan arrived, slightly out of breath, a camera bag slung over his shoulder and the same smug grin plastered on his face.
“You look like you didn’t sleep,” Seungkwan said, sliding into the seat across from him.
“I didn’t,” Jeonghan replied, voice flat. He stirred his coffee idly. “You told me to keep an eye on her family. I did.”
Seungkwan’s grin faltered. “And?”
“She didn’t show.”
The journalist’s brows furrowed. “At all?”
“Not a glimpse,” Jeonghan confirmed. “Her mother covered for her all night. Smiled, laughed, pretended nothing was wrong. But people noticed. They just pretended not to.”
Seungkwan leaned back, rubbing his jaw. “Weird. Ji Y/n’s not exactly the rebellious type. At least, not publicly.”
Jeonghan arched a brow. “You’ve done your research.”
“I’m a journalist, hyung. I research before I blackmail.”
“Charming as always,” Jeonghan muttered, setting down his cup.
Seungkwan ignored the jab. “So, what do you think happened? Argument? Scandal? Secret boyfriend?”
Jeonghan scoffed softly. “You think I care about that?”
“Usually, no. But you’re the one who noticed her absence before anyone else.”
He hated when Seungkwan said things like that—too perceptive, too accurate.
Jeonghan leaned back, gaze drifting out the window. “Her parents—both of them—they move like people who can’t afford to blink wrong. Every word, every smile, measured. And then there’s her.”
Seungkwan tilted his head. “Her?”
“She doesn’t fit,” Jeonghan said simply. “She’s polite, grounded, but not… conditioned. You know? Like someone raised in that world but refused to be molded by it.”
Seungkwan studied him quietly. “You sound almost impressed.”
Jeonghan’s lips twitched faintly. “I’m curious, not impressed.”
“Curious,” Seungkwan echoed, dragging out the word like it was an accusation. “That’s how it always starts with you. You get curious, then suddenly you’re knee-deep in something you can’t crawl out of.”
Jeonghan met his gaze evenly. “Don’t romanticize it. I don’t get involved.”
Seungkwan smirked. “You say that now.”
They fell into a brief silence, broken only by the clinking of cutlery and low music playing in the background. Jeonghan’s phone buzzed once—an unread message from your mother, thanking him for attending the party. No mention of you.
He stared at it for a long moment before sliding it face-down on the table.
“Whatever’s going on,” Seungkwan said eventually, lowering his voice, “it’s not public yet. But it will be. If the prime minister’s daughter disappears from a major event, the press will dig. I can’t stop that.”
Jeonghan didn’t answer immediately. He swirled the last of his coffee, expression unreadable. “Then let them dig.”
Seungkwan frowned. “You’re not worried she’ll drag you into it?”
“She doesn’t even know I was there,” Jeonghan said with a shrug. “And I intend to keep it that way.”
Seungkwan hummed thoughtfully. “You’re playing with fire again, hyung.”
Jeonghan smirked, finally standing and reaching for his coat. “Fire’s warm, though.”
“I’m planning to stay out of trouble,” Jeonghan replied smoothly. “But if she keeps disappearing like that…” He trailed off, glancing out the window again. “…I might need to find out why. For safety. Yours, mine, and your precious headlines.”
Seungkwan’s grin returned, slow and knowing. “Sure, hyung. For safety.”
Jeonghan ignored him, dropping a few bills on the table before heading for the door.
But even as he left, that image lingered—the way your mother smiled too brightly, the way your name sat unspoken between everyone.
For a man who didn’t care, Jeonghan found himself thinking about it far too much.
*
By the time Jeonghan returned to his apartment that night, the city outside had quieted. The glow of streetlights painted long shadows across his floor, and the half-finished glass of whiskey on his counter had long since gone warm. He stared at his phone for a long while, thumb hovering over your contact.
He shouldn’t.
You hadn’t texted him since before the charity event. He’d already decided to stay detached, to play this role carefully until he could slip out clean.
But curiosity—it was always his undoing.
He finally typed,
“Are you free tomorrow?”
The message hung there for a moment before he hit send. No greeting, no context. He wanted it to sound casual, like a man with time to waste, not one caught between intrigue and necessity.
He set the phone down and exhaled, running a hand through his hair.
Because truthfully, he didn’t just want to see you—he needed to understand.
A daughter who skipped her mother’s birthday in a family built on image and influence? That wasn’t rebellion. That was strategy.
And strategy always came with motive.
His phone buzzed.
One unread message.
“Depends. Who’s asking?”
A faint smirk tugged at his lips. You hadn’t changed—still sharp, still unbothered by his evasive way of speaking.
“The man who made it through your mother’s party alive.”
“You owe me coffee.”
A few seconds passed before your reply came through.
“I don’t remember owing you anything.
But sure. Tomorrow, 2 PM. Same café.”
Jeonghan set the phone aside, the small, humorless smile still lingering on his lips.
He told himself it was for Seungkwan.
For leverage. For the information that might keep his name out of a journalist’s headlines.
But beneath that, quieter and harder to ignore, was something else—an itch under his skin that demanded answers.
He glanced at the window, where the reflection of his tired face stared back at him.
“If there’s such a rumor like that in the prime minister’s family,” he murmured to himself, echoing Seungkwan’s earlier warning, “it’ll be lunch for the other party.”
And he couldn’t afford to be on the menu.
*
Jeonghan hadn’t meant to care about what he wore.
At least, that’s what he told himself as he buttoned the crisp white shirt that fit a little too perfectly across his shoulders. The navy trousers were pressed to a sharp line, his hair neatly styled back, and his wristwatch—an heirloom he rarely used—gleamed faintly in the café light.
He looked like a man who belonged somewhere better. Someone who hadn’t been exiled. Someone who still mattered.
The watch on his wrist pointed to ten minutes past the agreed time.
His other hand held his phone, thumb scrolling absently through old headlines, articles, and photos of you.
Ji Y/n — The Prime Minister’s Daughter Chooses a Life of Service
From Politics to Education: How Ji Y/n Stays Grounded Amid Power and Privilege
Each headline painted the same narrative: the ideal daughter, the humble prodigy, the perfect contrast to her family’s glittering political image.
Seungkwan was right. He needs to do some research before saying yes to a date.
Seungkwan’s voice echoed in his head.
“You’re too tempted by all the money and glory. You might be the most materialistic conglomerate son in the world.”
And Jeonghan had countered without hesitation.
“I was kicked out of the family, remember? I’m technically nobody’s son.”
It had shut Seungkwan up, but the words lingered even now—an echo of something he’d never quite recovered from.
The low hum of the café faded when he saw you.
You entered in a rush, phone pressed to your ear, brows furrowed, your expression tight with focus. You muttered something into the receiver, nearly colliding with a customer before catching yourself. The moment you hung up, you exhaled deeply—then your eyes found him.
Jeonghan stood automatically, hand lifting in a small wave. For a fleeting second, something unfamiliar flickered in his chest—relief, maybe. Or recognition.
You crossed the room quickly, still slightly out of breath.
“I’m so sorry, Jeonghan,” you said, sliding into the seat across from him. “One of my students fell from the stairs and broke his leg.”
Your voice carried that same calm warmth he remembered, even under stress. No embellishment, no dramatics. Just quiet concern.
Jeonghan’s brows lifted slightly. “Is he alright?”
You nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “He will be. I just came from the hospital.”
Of course you did. The prime minister’s daughter, tending to an injured student instead of attending a political luncheon. It didn’t make sense—and that’s exactly why Jeonghan found it so hard to look away.
He leaned back in his chair, studying you with the cool composure of a man who pretended not to care. “You’re quite dedicated, aren’t you?”
You smiled faintly, eyes weary but genuine. “Someone has to be.”
Jeonghan hummed, gaze dropping briefly to the faint ink smudge on your wrist, the kind teachers always had from grading papers. You didn’t belong to the world he’d seen in headlines. You didn’t fit the image. And that mismatch—it fascinated him.
He studied you a moment longer, curiosity tugging harder now. There was something in your tone—an edge beneath the politeness, a shadow behind the smile.
Jeonghan didn’t know yet if you were someone he could trust, or someone who could destroy him.
But for the first time in a long while, he wanted to find out.
The conversation had begun to flow more naturally than either expected. Between sips of coffee and light bites of cheesecake, Jeonghan found himself watching you more than he should—how your expression softened when you talked about teaching, how you smiled politely even when dodging questions about your family. You weren’t evasive, exactly. You just knew how to draw a line.
He liked that.
“You don’t talk much about politics,” Jeonghan remarked, stirring his coffee lazily. “That’s unusual for someone who grew up surrounded by it.”
You shrugged, lips curling slightly. “I prefer things I can actually change.”
A quiet laugh escaped him before he could stop it. “You sound idealistic.”
“I sound tired,” you corrected, smiling faintly.
Before Jeonghan could respond, a familiar perfume hit him—a sharp mix of jasmine and expensive regret.
“Jeonghan?”
The voice was sweet, practiced, and far too loud for the cozy café. Both of you looked up to see a woman in her forties approaching the table, dripping in luxury—diamond earrings, a glossy handbag that cost more than a small car, and a smile that belonged to someone who’d never been told no.
For a second, Jeonghan froze.
What should he call her?
A past companion?
A benefit from a darker time?
A victim of his own charm?
Whatever she was, she wasn’t supposed to be here.
“Wow,” she breathed, eyes raking him over with unhidden satisfaction. “You look more handsome than last year.”
You glanced between them, curiosity flickering behind your calm expression. Jeonghan straightened slightly, the easy mask sliding over his face. “Good to see you,” he said smoothly, voice stripped of warmth.
She leaned closer, manicured fingers brushing his shoulder. “I need to go, but call me if you need some entertainment, okay?”
Her wink was quick, practiced—too public to ignore, too intimate to explain.
Then she was gone, heels clicking like a punctuation mark on his past.
Jeonghan exhaled slowly, but before he could say a word, you let out a small, amused chuckle.
He looked at you, brows lifting. “What’s so funny?”
You shook your head, biting back a smile. “Nothing. It’s just… you didn’t strike me as someone who’d need entertainment.”
His mouth twitched. “I don’t.”
“Mm,” you hummed, unconvinced. “You just look like you used to.”
Her words, your tone—it all tangled somewhere in his chest. He leaned back, forcing a smirk to cover the discomfort. “You talk like you’ve known me longer than a week.”
You met his gaze evenly. “Maybe I’m just a good observer.”
That silenced him. For a moment, neither spoke—just the faint clink of spoons against porcelain, the quiet tension threading between curiosity and judgment.
And Jeonghan realized that for the first time in a long while, someone wasn’t dazzled or intimidated by him.
You were simply watching—reading him.
And that unsettled him more than any scandal ever could.
*
The relationship between you and Jeonghan had begun to bloom—unexpectedly, almost naturally. The two of you talked more often now, your texts weaving into his days like quiet background music. He wasn’t sure when it started, but he found himself looking forward to your messages.
It was ironic, really. Because when he wasn’t speaking to you, Jeonghan was living a life that couldn’t be further from yours.
His nights were spent drifting between yachts owned by bored socialites, women who craved charm more than truth. He knew exactly what they wanted and how to deliver it—a smile, a word, a presence. It was easy. Meaningless.
And yet, in between champagne laughter and the clinking of glass, his thoughts would always circle back to you.
What were you doing right now?
Had you eaten?
Were you still awake, reading, or lost in thought like you always were?
He hated how natural it felt to care.
“You look distracted, honey.”
A woman’s voice pulled him back. She was beautiful—of course she was—dressed in silk, her manicured fingers tracing the rim of her glass.
Jeonghan blinked, forcing a smirk. “Do I?”
She tilted her head. “You’re not feeling well?” she asked, recalling what he’d said last night about being under the weather—an excuse to avoid following her to her room.
The ocean breeze rolled over the yacht deck, soft but cold, brushing his hair and cooling the drink in his hand. He looked at her, sitting on his lap with the practiced ease of someone used to being wanted.
And suddenly, he felt sick.
Because in that flicker of a second, he imagined you there instead.
Crazy.
Absolutely insane.
You, with your clear eyes and deliberate words, would never set foot in this world. And even if you did, you would never look at him the same way again.
You were the Prime Minister’s only daughter—an emblem of grace, the family’s shining jewel.
And he…
He was the son who had been exiled.
Cast out after a scandal that nearly ruined his father’s reputation. He’d paid for it with his name, his home, and every shred of privilege he once had.
“How about going back to your family?” Seungkwan asked one night, his voice echoing through the line.
Jeonghan sighed, eyes fixed on the dark waves outside the yacht window. “It’s complicated.”
“Too complicated, or too cowardly?”
He chuckled dryly. “I’m still a man, Seungkwan.”
“Yeah?” Seungkwan shot back. “Then act like one. A man keeps his promises. You promised me a cup of tea and the full story about Prime Minister Ji.”
Jeonghan leaned back, running a hand through his hair. “And you promised to stop nagging me.”
“Not until you tell me why the Prime Minister’s daughter texts you at midnight.”
Jeonghan’s lips curved into a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Because she doesn’t know who I really am.”
And maybe, he thought quietly, that was the only reason you still did.
The morning broke harshly—sunlight slicing through half-drawn curtains, the faint hum of the city seeping into the luxury suite he’d fallen asleep in. Jeonghan’s head ached faintly from the night before; too much noise, too much pretending.
His phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.
One call after another, a stream of names he didn’t want to see—women he barely remembered, old acquaintances from the club scene, and one from Seungkwan.
He rubbed his face, groaning. “What now…”
Then his screen lit up with a notification from a news outlet.
And his world stopped.
‘The Yoon’s Mysterious Son Revealed — Never Leaving the Scene: Living a Life Among Socialites’
The headline sat above a collage of photos—him on a yacht, laughing beside women in designer dresses, champagne in hand. The shots weren’t just candid—they were curated. Deliberate. Someone had been watching him for months.
The phone rang again.
“Jeonghan!” A familiar female voice burst through the line. It was one of the women from the article, her tone both scandalized and gleeful. “You didn’t tell me you were that Yoon! Do you have any idea how many reporters called me this morning?”
He hung up.
Another call came. Then another. Each voice brought the same mix of curiosity and accusation. His pulse quickened with every word, the weight of exposure sinking into his chest.
And then—Seungkwan’s name flashed on the screen.
Jeonghan answered immediately. “You wrote about me?” His voice was low but sharp, every word laced with accusation.
“What?” Seungkwan sounded genuinely startled. “No—Jeonghan, I would never!”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not!” Seungkwan’s voice cracked slightly, the sound of hurried typing in the background. “I just saw it too! It’s everywhere! Someone leaked your pictures. The article’s not even signed—it’s a ghost drop, probably from an independent outlet.”
Jeonghan stood up, pacing across the room, the floor cool beneath his bare feet. His thoughts spun faster than he could control.
He’d worked for years to stay off the radar. To bury the name Yoon Jeonghan under layers of half-truths and fleeting company.
And now, everything was out.
His hands clenched. “You told no one about me?”
“Of course not,” Seungkwan shot back, indignant. “You think I’d ruin my own source? Jeonghan, listen—this isn’t my doing. But someone knew where you were and who you were with. Someone’s feeding this.”
Jeonghan’s jaw tightened. He turned toward the window, the city sprawling beneath him, glittering and cold.
He hadn’t even finished processing the article when another call came through.
This time, the caller ID froze him mid-step.
“Secretary Min — Father’s Office.”
Jeonghan’s pulse kicked hard against his ribs. It had been years since anyone from that number dared to call him. For a moment, he considered letting it ring out, pretending he hadn’t seen it. But curiosity—or maybe masochism—won.
He answered.
“Kim— I mean, Jeonghan speaking.”
The secretary’s voice was clipped, businesslike, but there was a tremor beneath the tone.
“Mr. Yoon. The Chairman would like to have a word. It’s urgent.”
Jeonghan’s throat felt dry. “About what?”
There was a pause, then the quiet rustle of papers.
“About the news. Not only the one from this morning.”
His heart sank. “There’s another one?”
“Yes, sir,” the secretary replied. “Apparently, the Prime Minister’s daughter was mentioned. You were seen together at an event. The headline reads—”
Jeonghan could almost hear the man hesitate, as if choosing the least damaging way to say it.
‘Disgraced Yoon Heir Seen with Prime Minister Ji’s Daughter — A Scandal in the Making?’
He went still.
Completely still.
The ocean outside, the faint hum of the city, even his own breathing—all of it faded into a dull, buzzing silence.
“I see,” he said finally, his voice even, detached—like a man already used to ruin.
“The Chairman requests you come in immediately,” the secretary added, his words precise but cautious. “He said… if there’s even a grain of truth in this, it could cost both families dearly.”
A bitter laugh escaped before Jeonghan could stop it. “He cares about the family’s name now?”
“Sir, I’m just relaying the message.”
“Of course you are.”
He ended the call before the man could say another word. For a long moment, he stood in the middle of his room, the phone still in his hand.
It wasn’t just about him anymore.
Your name was in it.
You—who had nothing to do with his past, who had only shown him quiet kindness—were now tangled in his chaos.
And that realization hit harder than any headline ever could.
*
You swiped the incoming call from Jeonghan to the left without hesitation, the screen dimming just as your reflection caught in the polished surface of the dining table.
It wasn’t the first call you’d ignored tonight. Or this week.
You had done it deliberately, under Mrs. Ji’s strict orders.
“Don’t you dare mess this up,” she had said earlier, her voice carrying that cold, commanding edge she never let her socialite friends hear. The kind of tone that could freeze air.
Now, sitting across from her and the Prime Minister, you kept your hands neatly folded in your lap. You hadn’t touched the food. The clinking of silverware and the low hum of polite conversation between your parents filled the silence that wrapped tightly around you.
Mr. and Mrs. Ji looked perfectly composed, pleased even. They were savoring their dinner, their expressions calm and satisfied—the unmistakable faces of people whose plans had unfolded exactly as intended.
“With his son’s scandal, Yoon Daemun will never be able to enter politics,” Mr. Ji said, cutting through the air with calculated satisfaction. His tone was casual, but his words were sharp, deliberate. “The timing couldn’t be better.”
Mrs. Ji dabbed the corner of her lips with an embroidered napkin, her expression softening with the kind of smile she reserved for strategy. “We’ve prepared a statement for your response, Y/n. Make sure you show up in public looking… a little heartbroken, perhaps?”
You stared down at your untouched plate, the gleam of silver cutlery blurring in your vision.
‘Victim of manipulation.’ That was the phrase they’d chosen for you. The headline they had already fed to the press.
You—the fabricated daughter of the Prime Minister—were to be portrayed as the naïve woman deceived by Yoon Jeonghan, the disgraced heir.
It was all theater. Every word, every tear, every silence rehearsed. And just like every performance before, you would play your part. Because that was the role you had been chosen for.
It had been ten years since you first met Mr. and Mrs. Ji. Back then, Mr. Ji was merely a Seoul mayoral candidate, still polishing his image. They were looking for a bright, idealistic student from the National Seoul University to elevate their campaign—someone with a clean past, a sympathetic story, and a face the public could love.
They chose you.
A parentless girl raised in a foster home. No blood ties. No history. No one to ask questions. A perfect daughter for a perfect family.
“You’re Ji Jae Kyung's daughter? Woah…”
You could still remember the awe in their voices—the way their eyes gleamed with admiration. Compliments came easily, falling like confetti around you. Some went to him, the respectable politician who raised such a brilliant daughter with perfect manners and flawless grades. The rest went to you—the quiet, low-profile daughter of a man everyone wanted to impress.
But none of it was real.
It was all staged.
Every smile, every headline, every carefully constructed image.
And behind it all stood Ji Jaekyung and his wife—the masterminds who turned you into what the public wanted to see.
You were never their daughter.
You were the performance.
The story they wrote to complete their picture-perfect life.
Ten years later, the role still clung to you like a second skin. You’d played it so long, you weren’t sure where the lie ended—or where you began.
*
You were just about to put on your coat when a voice stopped you near the cram school gates.
“Excuse me—Miss Ji?”
You turned. A man you vaguely recognized from Jeonghan’s circle stood a few meters away, his expression unsure yet determined. The streetlight above flickered faintly, painting both of you in amber.
“I’m sorry for showing up like this,” he began, hands tucked into his coat pockets. “I’m Boo Seungkwan. I’m… Jeonghan’s friend.”
Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag. “I know who you are.”
He nodded, a faint sigh escaping him. “Then I’ll be quick. I just—wanted to ask if what the news said about him was true.” His voice softened. “That he manipulated you. That he used you.”
You said nothing.
Seungkwan studied your face for a moment, as if searching for a flicker of the girl Jeonghan used to talk about—the one who laughed too easily, who didn’t care about names or titles.
“I don’t mean to be disrespectful,” he continued carefully, “but… Jeonghan doesn’t deserve this. He might have his flaws, but that’s not who he is.”
You looked down at your shoes, at the way the shadows of the streetlight split across the pavement. Every word he said pressed against the guilt you had tried to bury since dinner.
“He hasn’t been the same since the article came out,” Seungkwan said quietly. “He keeps saying it doesn’t matter, but we both know it does. That kind of lie—” He paused, catching himself. “Sorry. I shouldn’t assume it’s a lie.”
You finally met his gaze. His tone wasn’t accusing—just heavy with confusion and the quiet plea of someone who wanted to believe the best in his friend.
“I didn’t write it,” you murmured.
“I believe you,” Seungkwan replied almost immediately. “But maybe you can tell the truth. Even a little of it. It might help him stand again.”
His words lingered in the cold air long after he bowed politely and walked away. You stood there for a long while, watching his figure fade down the street, your throat tightening.
You wanted to tell him that it wasn’t Jeonghan who manipulated anyone.
It was you—
or at least, the version of you that the Jis had created.
You glanced at Seungkwan’s face — he looked too sincere, too out of place standing in front of a cram school after hours, holding nothing but good intentions. That made it worse.
“I think there’s a misunderstanding,” you said finally, voice calm but distant. “Jeonghan and I… we were just friends.”
Seungkwan blinked, as if trying to make sense of it. “Just friends?”
“Yes.” You tightened your scarf. “We met a few times, talked about work, shared coffee. That’s all.”
There was no tremor in your voice, but something in your eyes must have betrayed you, because Seungkwan’s expression shifted—disbelief shadowed with pity.
“I see,” he said slowly. “Then the pictures, the dinner, the event—”
“Coincidence,” you cut him off. “The press twisted it.”
He looked at you for a long moment, weighing whether to push further. But there was something in the way your gaze avoided his—composed, but fragile—that made him stop.
He exhaled softly. “I didn’t mean to bother you. It’s just… Jeonghan’s been through a lot. I wanted to understand what really happened.”
You froze for a fraction of a second.
But before he could say more, you bowed politely, murmured, “Good night, Mr. Boo,” and walked past him into the drizzle-soaked street.
He stood there for a while, watching as you disappeared into the blur of city lights. Something about your words didn’t match your expression—the kind of contradiction that Jeonghan had mentioned before.
When Seungkwan finally pulled out his phone, he hesitated before typing.
“She said you were just friends.”
*
The chauffeur’s eyes in the rearview mirror said everything Jeonghan didn’t need to hear. Pity. Disgust. Fear of being associated with the wrong Yoon. The mansion hadn’t changed — white pillars, too much marble, the smell of money and order. Yet when Jeonghan stepped inside, he could almost hear the echo of that night six years ago, the one that tore his name from the family register.
The housekeeper didn’t greet him. She bowed, eyes lowered, and walked away. In the dining room, his father was already seated, posture like a statue carved from ice.
Yoon Daemun, the man the country admired, the man Jeonghan could never please. “Sit,” his father said, without looking up from the newspaper.
The headline lay sprawled across the front page:
THE YOON HEIR SCANDAL CONTINUES — LINKED TO PRIME MINISTER’S FAMILY. Jeonghan took the seat across from him, his movements deliberate, controlled.
“So,” Daemun began, folding the paper neatly. “You managed to humiliate me again.”
Jeonghan’s lips quirked upward. “I’d say the timing was convenient for you. The Prime Minister’s name on the same line—good distraction for the party board, isn’t it?”
Daemun’s gaze sharpened, the kind that used to make Jeonghan feel twelve years old again. “Still the same. No shame. No sense of consequence.”
“You taught me that, didn’t you?” The silence that followed was heavy. Only the faint ticking of the antique clock filled the room.
His father finally leaned back. “Do you know what happens when your name appears next to a politician’s scandal?”
Jeonghan didn’t answer.
“It ruins both sides.” Daemun’s tone was calm, almost too calm. “But it’s not you they’ll remember. It’s me. The man who couldn’t control his own son.”
Jeonghan clenched his jaw. “I didn’t ask to come back.”
“No. You were summoned because I’m still cleaning up after you.” His father’s voice rose a fraction. “And this time, Jeonghan, there won’t be a next time. You’ve already cost this family enough.”
“I stopped being part of this family six years ago,” Jeonghan said quietly. “You made sure of that.”
Daemun stood. The air between them felt sharp enough to draw blood. “You’ll fix this,” he ordered. “You’ll meet with the press, issue a statement—say you lied, that it was all fabricated to harm the Prime Minister’s reputation. They’ll buy it if it comes from you.”
Jeonghan let out a humorless laugh. “You want me to destroy myself for your seat in Parliament?”
His father’s lips tightened. “For once in your life, do something useful.”
The words sank deep, the same as they always had.
When Jeonghan left the mansion, the night air hit him hard. He stood by the gate, hands trembling around a cigarette he didn’t light.
He had promised himself never to come back here again. And now, he realized, nothing had changed — not even the way his father still called him son only when it served a purpose.
Across the street, reporters were already gathering, their cameras flashing faintly in the dark. He straightened his collar, tucked his hands into his coat pockets, and walked away from the house without looking back. This time, he wouldn’t run. He would play the game his father started — but on his own terms.
*
An exclusive interview with Yoon Jeonghan appeared on the front page of The Daily Standard, written by none other than Boo Seungkwan — a name the political and corporate world had learned to both admire and fear.
The article was a masterpiece of restraint and precision. Seungkwan had fought tooth and nail with his editor-in-chief to have it published uncut. It wasn’t a defense piece, nor was it an attack. It was simply truth, stripped of bias — and that made it all the more dangerous.
“He was just a man looking for love one night,” the article began, “and somehow became a family scapegoat by morning.”
Through Seungkwan’s words, Jeonghan’s story unfolded not as a scandal, but as a slow dissection of how narratives were manufactured by power. The way a single whisper could become a headline. How a name could be tarnished to save another.
Every paragraph carried Seungkwan’s voice — calm, analytical, and sharp as glass. He wrote about Jeonghan’s fall from grace, about the exile that followed his first scandal, and how his father’s silence had been louder than public condemnation.
But what caught everyone’s attention wasn’t Jeonghan’s tragedy — it was the twist.
“Mrs. Ji herself had insisted Jeonghan meet her daughter,” Seungkwan wrote. “Even sent gifts, meals, and handwritten notes — tokens of gratitude, or perhaps, persuasion. Who does that for a stranger?”
It was phrased like a question, but the implication was clear. The spotlight had shifted — subtly, cleverly — from Jeonghan’s so-called manipulation to the Ji family’s orchestration.
By the second half of the article, Mrs. Ji was no longer the grieving mother of a deceived daughter; she was a woman who had played the public like a symphony.
The nation devoured the story. News anchors repeated excerpts with caution, as if afraid the words themselves might bite. Political commentators speculated whether Boo Seungkwan had overstepped, or whether he had just cracked open something no one dared to question.
And Jeonghan — sitting alone in his dim apartment with the paper spread across his coffee table — couldn’t decide how to feel.
The world was finally hearing his side of the story.
But the irony was, it didn’t feel like victory. It felt like standing in the eye of a storm that was only beginning to turn.
After the article, Jeonghan disappeared again — not in shame this time, but in pursuit of something real. For the first time in years, he stopped attending events with rich women's names printed on the invitation. No more charity galas where everyone smiled with their teeth clenched. No more private dinners where the wine was expensive but every conversation was a transaction.
He sold all of his luxury things and moved into a smaller apartment on the edge of Mapo. The windows were cracked, and the heater worked when it felt generous, but it was quiet. His kind of quiet.
He started from the bottom — as a project consultant for a small local architecture firm that took contracts no conglomerate would touch. His job wasn’t glamorous: long meetings, stubborn clients, coffee that tasted like burnt wood. But there was a strange comfort in it. Each blueprint, each rejected proposal, each late-night revision — it all belonged to him.
He refused to take calls from people who once claimed to be friends. When invitations from the “rich circle” arrived — networking parties, art auctions, political birthdays — he left them unopened. He no longer wanted to be someone’s favorite scandal, someone’s well-dressed pawn.
For months, Jeonghan worked in silence. He kept his hair shorter, his words simpler, his gaze level. He didn’t try to charm anyone anymore. He didn’t need to. People at work found him odd — polite, reserved, sometimes intimidatingly composed. They whispered about his past, about the man who once made headlines. But they couldn’t deny his efficiency. He had a way of solving problems others didn’t even see.
And when a construction site mishap almost cost the firm a major deal, Jeonghan was the one who stayed overnight, reorganizing the logistics report by hand. The next morning, his boss found him asleep on the office couch — tie loosened, pencil still in hand, a faint trace of graphite on his jaw.
For the first time, Jeonghan’s value wasn’t built on his last name. It was built on effort. Still, every now and then, he caught himself looking at the city skyline — the one his father’s empire had helped shape — and wondered if redemption meant cutting ties completely, or learning how to stand on his own without hating where he came from.
“Do you want to hear what I just found?”
Seungkwan’s voice came through the phone one quiet night. Jeonghan answered without much thought, assuming it was another late update — a joke, a story, something light to end the day.
But Seungkwan’s tone was different. Too steady. Too careful. “There was a report that Ji Jaekyung’s daughter had passed away.”
The words didn’t register at first. They hung in the air like smoke — shapeless, heavy, unreal. Jeonghan froze, the pen in his hand slipping onto the desk.
“What?” His chest tightened. His mind went blank — except for the image of you: laughing behind a cup of coffee, brushing your hair from your face, the way you used to hum when you thought no one was listening.
“Y/n… had passed away?” The words barely escaped his mouth, trembling, as if speaking them might make them true.
“It’s not what you think,” Seungkwan said quickly, his voice low. “It wasn’t her. Not Ji Y/n. The report says a girl — eighteen years old — died by suicide ten years ago. The attending physician confirmed it.”
Jeonghan’s pulse roared in his ears. “What are you trying to say, Seungkwan?” He spun in his chair, the room suddenly too small, too bright.
“I’m saying,” Seungkwan breathed out, almost afraid to finish, “Ji Y/n isn’t Ji Jaekyung’s real daughter.”
Silence. The world seemed to tilt — slow, then all at once. Jeonghan sat there, hearing nothing but the echo of that sentence. Every moment he’d spent with you — every glance, every half-truth, every piece of you he thought he knew — cracked open in his mind.
If you weren’t Ji Jaekyung’s daughter… then who were you?
*
“I wake up every day thinking I’m nobody’s child. Just myself, doing the things I’m best at — teaching, meeting my students, seeing my friends. That’s the real me.”
That’s the real you…
Jeonghan could still hear your voice — soft, certain, echoing in the quiet of his memory. It had started as a casual conversation, one of those late-night talks that drifted aimlessly until he’d asked, almost teasingly, “What’s it like to be Ji Jaekyung’s daughter?”
You laughed faintly before answering, “Whosever child you are won’t define you. Your own work will.”
Those words had stayed with him longer than he expected.
He’d spent years buried under the weight of his family name, letting it dictate who he was supposed to be. When the burden grew too heavy, he rebelled — escaping through decadence, luxury, and fleeting attention. Drowning himself in everything that dulled the ache of being a Yoon.
But none of it had ever defined him.
“Hyung, you’re one of the smartest, most quick-witted people I know,” Seungkwan once told him. “You just need to use it for yourself — not to prove anyone wrong.”
And that was what he finally did.
He started small — late nights, small contracts, learning the bones of the business from the ground up. Day by day, Jeonghan built his own name, one that carried no trace of his father’s shadow.
“This,” he murmured to himself one morning, staring at the blueprint on his desk, “this is what defines me.”
A few months later, his phone rang. It was Seungcheol.
“I need your help with a new building for our firm,” he said.
Jeonghan didn’t know it then, but that call would change everything — the first stone on the path that would carry his name further than his family ever imagined.
Katalk …
Seungkwan: You need to see this.
He frowned, clicking the link. The screen opened to a live stream — a press conference, crowded with reporters and flashing cameras. And there you were, standing behind the podium, composed but pale under the harsh light. The banner above you read:
Your voice trembled at first, but you steadied yourself, eyes gliding across the sea of cameras.
“I was raised under the Ji family for ten years,” you began. “But I am not Ji Jaekyung’s biological daughter. The truth is—” you paused, swallowing hard, “the real Ji Y/n passed away ten years ago. I was… chosen to take her place.”
A low hum of whispers rippled through the room. Cameras clicked like rain. Jeonghan leaned forward, his heart pounding, his hand gripping the edge of the desk.
You exhaled shakily before continuing, “I was an orphan. I didn’t have a family or a name that mattered. I was offered a home, an education, a life that didn’t belong to me. And I was too young to understand what it truly meant.”
Reporters began raising their hands, their questions overlapping into chaos.
“Who orchestrated this?”
“Was the Prime Minister aware?”
“Why are you revealing this now?”
You didn’t flinch. “Because the lies have gone too far. And someone else has paid the price for them.”
Jeonghan could feel his chest tightening. You didn’t mention his name — but everyone knew who “someone else” was.
He could barely hear Seungkwan’s voice over the call when it came seconds later.
“She’s doing this for you, hyung.”
But Jeonghan couldn’t answer. His mind was spinning. You — the woman who once told him not to let his family name define him — were now standing in front of the world, tearing down the false identity that once defined you.
The screen flickered as the conference ended, replaced by a headline that felt like a scream in his chest:
“Prime Minister’s Daughter Admits to False Identity — Public Shock Ensues.”
The room was silent after the live broadcast ended.
Jeonghan sat still, staring at the frozen image on his screen — your bowed head, your shoulders straight despite the weight of everything you’d just confessed.
You didn’t defend yourself.
You didn’t accuse anyone.
You simply told the truth.
And somehow, that humility hit him harder than any scandal ever had.
He leaned back, running a hand through his hair, the city lights flickering against his tired eyes. For the first time, Jeonghan realized how small his own pride had been — all those years spent hiding behind charm, rebellion, and fleeting company. He’d called it freedom, but it was just fear wearing expensive clothes.
You, on the other hand, had stood in front of the nation stripped of everything — your name, your protection, your image — and yet you looked freer than he ever had.
“She doesn’t owe them anything,” he murmured under his breath. “And she still chose to be kind.”
It humbled him.
It changed something inside him that no lecture or consequence ever could.
That night, Jeonghan opened his window to the chill of the city air. The same wind that once carried gossip about his downfall now felt strangely cleansing. He poured himself a drink, not out of habit, but to think.
He replayed your words in his head, line by line.
“I’m just myself, doing what I’m best at.”
He understood it now.
It wasn’t about running away from a family name. It was about building a life so honest that no one could ever take it away again.
A small smile tugged at his lips. “You win, Y/n,” he whispered, half amused, half proud.
For the first time in years, Yoon Jeonghan didn’t feel like the son of anyone — not Daemun’s mistake, not society’s scandal. Just a man finally ready to start living right.
*
Jeonghan swore he wasn’t imagining things when his eyes landed on a woman he hadn’t seen in years, running across the school field with a group of children. His client—perhaps the principal, or maybe the chairman of the school foundation—kept talking, explaining how they wanted to preserve the school’s historical character.
“This school was founded before the war. We’d be grateful if your team could— Jeonghan-ssi?”
The two of them stopped walking. Jeonghan remained still, his gaze fixed on the field. His client probably assumed he was simply watching the children.
“Who’s that woman?” Jeonghan finally asked.
The chairman followed his gaze before smiling, seemingly misunderstanding the reason for the question.
“She’s new here. She moved from Seoul. Oh—aren’t you from Seoul as well?”
Jeonghan nodded absentmindedly. “Yes…” But he couldn’t tear his eyes away. He had seen it all unfold.
The media had talked about it relentlessly—and perhaps they still were. Ji Jaekyung had fallen from his political pedestal. It had become the nation’s biggest headline. Questions spread everywhere—from conversations between neighbors to comment sections and online forums.
How long had Ji Jaekyung replaced his real daughter with another girl to play the role of the perfect daughter?
Seungkwan had made sure to send Jeonghan countless articles and conspiracy theories. Some claimed the real daughter had been assassinated. Others insisted she had escaped years ago.
Jeonghan had eventually called him. “Isn’t a journalist supposed to be busy?” Seungkwan had stopped sending them. At least for a few days.
If Jeonghan was being truthful, he had been terrified for you. Proud—but terrified.
What you did was incredibly risky, especially so close to Ji Jaekyung’s election campaign. It wasn’t because you could ruin his chances of winning. It was because it could cost you your life. Ji Jaekyung had turned out to be a complete psycho—someone who wouldn’t even spare his daughter.
So Jeonghan had tried to find you. To contact you. Maybe offer whatever help he could. But he couldn’t. You had disappeared. And that frightened him even more. Because he had no idea whether you were safe or not.
Now, you were only a few strides away. Yet Jeonghan couldn't find the courage to walk over and say something as simple as hey.
Because hey was never simple when it came to you. It could never be, not after years of searching, asking around, following every lead he could find… And, perhaps, missing you.
Maybe Seungkwan had been right all along. Jeonghan really was a great pretender whenever your name came up.
"You know," Seungkwan had once said, "you deny it better when we talk about her than when your neighbor asks you to fix their toilet."
"She thought I was a handyman!" Jeonghan had shot back immediately. Another denial.
His phone rang while Jeonghan was driving home.
It was the grandmother from next door—the one who particularly adored, or perhaps nagged, him so much that he had started wondering whether she genuinely liked him or simply pitied him. Somehow, she had convinced herself he was a handyman with no real job, just a man who stayed home all day.
"Yes, Grandma?"
He was greeted by a suspiciously sweet voice. Too sweet. Not the usual one that told him to eat more or complained that he worked too slowly, but the gentle voice she reserved for her own grandchildren.
"There's a young woman who just moved in next door, and her gate isn't working properly. Could you help fix it?"
She continued, enthusiastically explaining what a reliable handyman he was.
For heaven's sake. He had studied engineering, not so his elderly neighbor could recruit him as the neighborhood repairman.
Jeonghan sighed. "I'll take a look. I'm on my way home anyway."
He heard her chuckle. She must be in a good mood, he thought. She had been oddly pushy yesterday while handing him containers of side dishes. Kind, as always—but with an unusual edge to it.
"Go check on her," she insisted. "She looked worried because the gate won't lock properly."
Very pushy.
By the time Jeonghan reached the house next door, he immediately crouched to inspect the gate. The lock was rusted beyond repair. It had needed replacing for quite some time. Pulling out his phone, he ordered a replacement lock online. He'd rather spend the money now than endure another week of the grandmother pestering him about it.
He was still standing by the gate, scrolling through the order confirmation, when the sound of footsteps behind him pulled his attention away from the screen. He turned, expecting to see the new homeowner. He was already rehearsing what to say—that the lock would hold for tonight, that he had arranged for someone to replace it in a few days, and that there was nothing to worry about.
But the words never came. His mouth went dry. His eyes widened. God really had a twisted sense of humor.
"...Jeonghan?”
*
After getting help from a very reliable lawyer, you finally received the compensation you had demanded from the Ji family.
It was finally time to find a place of your own instead of continuing to stay in the tiny studio apartment Minseo had generously lent you. You had been her unexpected roommate for almost three months now, and although she had never complained, you knew you couldn't impose forever.
Or maybe she didn't mind. Her boyfriend, on the other hand...
So, after weeks of searching, negotiating, and stretching your budget as far as it could go, you finally found a place at a reasonable price. A house, even. You can only afford a detached house in this economy if something's terribly wrong with it, you thought. The suspicion was confirmed the moment you saw it in person.
It definitely needed a lot of work.
...Or maybe your eyes needed fixing too, because standing in front of your new house was a figure you never expected to see again.
"Y/n?"
He sounded just as surprised as you were. Thank goodness.
"You're the handyman Grandma from next door was talking about?"
Jeonghan immediately shook his head. Then nodded Then shook it again, waving both hands in surrender.
"No—I mean... she thinks I'm a handyman."
You nodded thoughtfully. "That makes sense. She told me all about how you fix things around her house."
Jeonghan let out a defeated chuckle. He glanced between you and the old house before asking quietly, "So... you live here now?"
You stepped closer, following his gaze toward the weathered building. "Yeah." You sighed. "The listing forgot to mention it's one strong wind away from collapsing."
He studied the house for another moment, hands tucked into his pockets. "It's surprising someone actually bought this place."
"Because it's me, or because it's the house?"
The question escaped before you could stop it. The moment the words left your mouth, you wanted to take them back. Obviously because of the house. What a strange thing to ask.
Jeonghan looked at you. Then back at the house. Then at you again. "...Both." A beat passed. "But mostly because it's you.”
That night, your phone buzzed just as you were unpacking another box.
"Hello?"
It was your lawyer. Or rather, your old junior high school friend. Choi Seungcheol. He called to check on your settlement after the case had officially concluded, but mostly to give you an update on the Ji family's situation following the trial and the media storm.
"I'll send over the final documents," he said. "Legally, you're Choi Y/n now."
You laughed softly. "So... we share the same surname now."
"Hey, I don't mind." Seungcheol chuckled. "I told you before—it's an honor to handle your case. Having you share my surname? That's just a bonus."
Despite the joke, his voice carried genuine warmth. Seungcheol had been the first person to reach out after your televised confession. The moment he saw the broadcast, he called. The next day, he was standing at your door with a briefcase in one hand and coffee in the other.
"I'm taking your case."
There hadn't even been room to argue.
Known for his razor-sharp arguments and quick wit in court, Seungcheol had built quite a reputation as one of the country's most formidable young lawyers. And just as he had promised… He won.
You still weren't sure how to thank him properly.
"You helped me first," he said, as if reading your mind. "I'm just returning the favor."
Back in junior high, Seungcheol had been the stereotypical chaebol heir. Spoiled. Reckless. Completely convinced that money solved everything.
Until one afternoon, when a group of older students cornered him behind the gym.
You hadn't been strong enough to fight them. So you'd done the next best thing. You blasted a fake police siren from your phone. The bullies scattered before realizing it wasn't real. Seungcheol had laughed until he cried. Then he decided you were the coolest person he'd ever met.
"I also have a friend living near your new place," Seungcheol said, pulling you back to the present. "He's an architect."
"Oh?"
"Want me to introduce you?"
You glanced around the old house, where peeling wallpaper practically waved at you.
"He might actually faint when he sees this place."
"He'll probably renovate it for free."
You raised an eyebrow. "...For free?"
"Sure." His grin was audible through the phone. "If the two of you end up dating."
You sighed dramatically. "We both know I already have enough on my plate after everything that's happened."
"Fair point." His teasing faded, replaced by the quiet sincerity that had always made him such a dependable friend. "Then just focus on settling in."
You smiled to yourself. "I will."
"I have a feeling good things are waiting for you there."
*
Definitely not a good thing.
Seungcheol burst out laughing the moment he saw you and Jeonghan freeze like statues. His plan to visit his college friend, Jeonghan, and check in on his client, You, a week after you moved in had somehow turned into his favorite comedy show.
"How do you two know each other?" he asked, feigning innocence.
The moment Seungcheol had mentioned that his client lived nearby, Jeonghan's expression had changed ever so slightly. That was all Seungcheol needed.
Interesting.
He knew Jeonghan's history. He knew Jeonghan's "game." And judging by that reaction… Maybe you weren’t just another woman from Jeonghan's past.
Jeonghan let out a quiet sigh. "We met years ago."
"Yeah..." you echoed with a polite smile.
Neither of you elaborated.
Seungcheol looked from one to the other, a knowing grin slowly spreading across his face.
"Well then," he said, clapping his hands once. "Since we're all here, how about lunch?"
You smiled apologetically. "I'd love to, but I already promised to meet someone."
"No worries," Seungcheol replied easily.
After exchanging a few more polite words, you excused yourself and walked away. The moment you disappeared around the corner, Seungcheol slowly turned toward Jeonghan.
Then, with the biggest grin imaginable. "So..."
Jeonghan already knew what was coming.
"...Who was she to you, Yoon Jeonghan?"
He sighed so deeply it almost sounded painful before casually draping an arm over Seungcheol's shoulder.
"Let's get you something to eat first." He gently steered him toward the opposite direction. "You ask strange questions when you're hungry."
Seungcheol frowned in protest as he was dragged along.
"I do not."
"You do."
"I absolutely don't."
"You once asked a judge if he'd skipped breakfast."
"...He looked hungry."
Jeonghan laughed despite himself. "Exactly my point.”
Once the food arrived, the conversation drifted into comfortable silence. Jeonghan absentmindedly stirred his stew before finally speaking. "Do you remember lending me your car a few years ago?" he asked. "I told you I had to attend some political event."
Seungcheol frowned, trying to remember. "The one where you made me pick it up the next morning because you said you were 'emotionally exhausted'?"
Jeonghan let out a quiet laugh. "That one."
A beat passed.
"It was her."
Seungcheol froze, his chopsticks suspended halfway to his mouth. "...You're kidding."
Jeonghan shook his head. "I met her there. Mrs. Ji introduced us herself and invited me to the Prime Minister's event. I met her parents."
For a long second, Seungcheol simply stared at him. Then he slowly lowered his chopsticks onto the table. "Not her parents," he corrected quietly.
Jeonghan's smile faded. "I know." His gaze dropped to his bowl. "I only found out after everything was over."
A heavy silence settled between them.
Then Seungcheol's eyes widened as another thought struck him. "Wait..." He leaned forward. "So she was the woman from the scandal."
Jeonghan answered with nothing more than a small nod. He still remembered those headlines.
The photos of the two of you standing side by side. The articles that turned a few dinners and conversations into a fabricated romance. One picture after another, each one adding more fuel until the entire country caught fire.
"It didn't end well, then?" Seungcheol asked carefully.
Jeonghan gave a small shrug. "I don't even know if there was anything to end." He smiled bitterly. "Her mother was the one who insisted we meet in the first place."
Seungcheol leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his chest. "...That's strange."
Jeonghan looked up.
"What's strange?"
"I was her lawyer." His voice became noticeably more serious. "I know almost everything that happened inside that house."
He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Her relationship with Ji Jaekyung and his wife wasn't normal."
Jeonghan's brows slowly knit together.
"They forced her to become someone she wasn't."
"They dictated how she dressed, what she studied, who she met, what she said in public."
Jeonghan's fingers tightened around his spoon. The words lingered heavily between them. Neither spoke for a while. Finally, Seungcheol frowned, more to himself than to Jeonghan.
"Which is exactly why none of this makes sense."
Jeonghan looked at him.
"If Mrs. Ji controlled every aspect of Y/n's life, why was she so determined to introduce the two of you?"
Jeonghan replayed those evenings in his head. Mrs. Ji invited him to events. Mrs. Ji encouraged you to accompany him. Mrs. Ji smiled every time they talked. At the time, he had assumed she simply wanted her daughter to meet someone.
Now, that explanation felt too simple.
"There had to be a reason," Seungcheol murmured.
"A woman like Mrs. Ji never does anything without expecting something in return."
Jeonghan stared at the untouched food in front of him. For the first time in years, he wondered whether meeting you had ever been fate at all, or just another move in someone else's game.
*
“So,” Minseo began after swallowing a spoonful of soup, “your lawyer came to visit… and the ‘architect friend’ he mentioned turned out to be him?”
She calmly flipped a slice of beef on the grill as though this kind of ridiculous coincidence happened every Tuesday.
You nodded weakly. “Apparently.”
Living with Minseo for three months had stripped away every layer of privacy you once had. She wasn’t even your closest friend from university. Yet somehow, she’d become the one person who knew everything.
Minseo had been there the night you confessed the truth—not to the nation, but to her. That you weren’t Ji Jaekyung’s daughter. Never had been. Just an orphan the Ji family had paid to become one. You still remembered the way she’d stared at you, speechless, before quietly asking only one question.
“Where are you staying tonight?”
When you admitted you had nowhere to go, she’d answered without hesitation. “Pack your things. You’re staying with me.” No pity. No unnecessary questions. Just a spare key pressed into your palm.
“It isn’t supposed to be a big deal, is it?” Minseo said, pulling you back to the present. “Meeting him again, I mean.”
You rested your forehead against your palm, your elbow nearly knocking over your glass of water.
“I know…” You sighed.
“But I still can’t shake the guilt. I dragged him into all of this.”
Minseo looked at you for a moment before laughing softly.
“Girl, you told me he used to be a player with no direction in life.” She pointed at you with her chopsticks.
“And now? He’s an established architect. From everything you’ve told me, he rebuilt his entire life after the scandal.”
“If anything…congratulations?” She shrugged.
You stared at her. “What kind of conclusion is that?”
“My conclusion is that you accidentally gave the man a character-development arc.”
Despite yourself, a laugh escaped. Minseo smiled triumphantly. “There she is. You’ve been making that guilty face ever since the trial ended.”
The smile quickly faded from your lips. “I still ruined his life.”
Minseo shook her head. “No.”
She spoke so firmly that you looked up. “Your mother did. That woman intentionally introduced the two of you because she knew exactly who Yoon Jeonghan was.”
You lowered your gaze. “She was trying to get rid of his father.”
“Exactly.” Minseo pointed her chopsticks again, this time for emphasis.
“She leaked your photos together and controlled the narrative. She made him the villain. Every single step was planned.”
You quietly stirred your soup. The words settled between you.
“You weren’t the one calling the photographers.”
“You weren’t the one writing the headlines.”
“And you certainly weren’t the one trying to destroy a political rival.”
You remained silent. Minseo sighed before reaching across the table to nudge your bowl toward you.
“Eat.”
You obediently picked up your spoon. After a few bites, Minseo spoke again, much more gently.
“You know what I think? I think Mrs. Ji underestimated the two of you. She expected you to keep playing the perfect daughter forever.”
She smiled to herself. “But she never imagined her ‘perfect daughter’ would bring down an entire political dynasty with one press conference.”
A small smile tugged at your lips. “She definitely didn’t see that coming.”
“No.” Minseo grinned. “And judging by the way you described your reunion… I don’t think she expected you two to become neighbors either.”
You groaned, dropping your head onto the table. “Please don’t remind me.”
She raised her glass. “To the terrible house…and even more terrible coincidences.”
*
On his way home, Jeonghan noticed a few familiar faces working on your house. They were contractors he had hired before—people whose work he trusted enough to recommend without hesitation. Seeing them there, he couldn’t help wondering which developer you had chosen. Apparently, it was one he knew well.
The fact that the two of you still hadn’t spoken since Seungcheol’s visit last month proved just how hopeless you both were. Or perhaps it was just him.
Every morning, Jeonghan rehearsed countless conversations in his head. A greeting. A joke. Maybe even an apology. Yet the moment he saw you, all he managed was a polite bow and a small smile. Pathetic.
Night fell.
He had just finished dinner when rain began hammering against the windows. Within minutes, the entire neighborhood was swallowed by darkness as the power went out.
Jeonghan didn’t even have to think. He opened a kitchen drawer, took out a few candles, grabbed an umbrella, and stepped outside.
“Grandma? I brought some candles.”
The old woman shuffled carefully from her room to answer the door, smiling as she welcomed him inside. While Jeonghan lit the candles one by one, she complained nonstop about the blackout.
“Is it already the rainy season?” she grumbled. “Why didn’t they announce it on TV? If it rains this hard every day, I’ll go crazy!”
Jeonghan laughed quietly. “I think the TV is the least of your worries right now, Grandma.”
“Hmph. Easy for you to say.”
As she continued talking, his eyes drifted toward the window. Your house stood completely dark. Not a single light. He glanced down at the few candles still left in his hand.
“Grandma, you’re all set.” He picked up his umbrella again. “If you need anything else, just call me.”
The old woman nodded.
“Nari? Are you home?”
A few seconds later, the door opened. “Jeonghan?”
You blinked at the sight of him standing on your porch, rain dripping from the edge of his umbrella. “It’s pouring. What happened?”
He held up the candles in his hand. “I brought these.”
It took you a second to realize the entire house was dark. “Oh…” A sheepish smile crossed your face. “I completely forgot the power went out.”
Jeonghan chuckled quietly. “I noticed.”
You stepped aside, opening the door wider. “Come in before you catch a cold.”
He hesitated for only a moment before stepping inside, carefully folding his umbrella near the entrance.
Your house looked even older from the inside. Half-unpacked boxes lined the living room. Rolls of wallpaper leaned against one wall, while paint samples and renovation sketches covered the dining table. It was messy—but lived in.
“I’m sorry,” you said, noticing where his eyes wandered. “I’m still unpacking.”
“It’s fine.” His gaze settled on the exposed ceiling beams. “They’re in better condition than I expected.”
“You can tell just by looking?”
“I’m an architect.”
“…Right.”
The corner of his lips lifted.
“So…”
You rubbed the back of your neck. “I guess you’re not actually a handyman.”
He let out a laugh. “I’ve been trying to convince Grandma of that for years.”
You laughed too.
For the first time since meeting again, the silence between you no longer felt heavy.
You took one of the candles from his hand. “Thank you.”
“It’s nothing.”
He lit the candle with a lighter from his pocket, shielding the small flame with one hand until it steadied. The warm glow slowly spread across the room, softening the unfinished walls and the distance that had lingered between the two of you for weeks.
Rain continued to drum against the roof. Neither of you seemed in a hurry to break the quiet.
“You’ve done a lot already,” Jeonghan said after a while, glancing around the room.
“I’ve had help.”
“The contractors outside earlier?”
You nodded. “They’re good.”
“I know.”
You looked at him curiously. “You’ve worked with them before?”
“A few times.” A small pause followed. “I trust their work.”
You smiled. “Good.”
The room settled into silence once more, but it no longer felt empty.
Between you, the candle gave a small, wavering pulse of light, its flame bending whenever the wind pressed against the old windows. The glass panes gave a soft, uneven rattle in their frames, as if the house itself were listening in. Outside, rain moved steadily over the roof and down the eaves, a constant hush beneath the occasional sharper tap of a branch against the siding.
Jeonghan’s gaze drifted toward the windows, his expression thoughtful in the candlelight.
“You should replace those before winter.”
You followed his line of sight, watching the faint tremor in the glass.
“I know. I've been telling myself that for the past two weeks.” A sheepish smile touched your mouth, small and apologetic.
He let out a quiet chuckle, the sound low and warm in the dim room. “I can make you a list.”
“You’ll charge me, won’t you?”
“I thought I was the neighborhood handyman.”
“Right.”
You tipped your head, pretending to consider it, though the corner of your mouth was already giving you away. “So… free?”
Jeonghan laughed, a little more openly this time, and for a moment the tension in the room loosened with it. “I walked right into that one.”
The laughter faded as naturally as it had come, leaving behind something gentler. For the first time, the quiet between you didn’t feel strained or careful. It simply existed, soft and unhurried, the kind of silence shared by two people who had run out of things to say and found they didn’t mind. The rain filled the spaces around you, and the candlelight moved over the table in slow, trembling gold.
“You’ve changed,” you said at last, your voice quieter than you intended.
Jeonghan looked up from the candle, his eyes catching the light. “I have?”
“You smile differently.”
He blinked once, as if turning the words over in his mind.
“I used to think you smiled because you enjoyed teasing people.”
“And now?”
“Now…” You hesitated, searching his face for the right shape of the thought. “It feels quieter.”
His gaze dropped to the candle flame, and for a moment the light softened the line of his mouth. “I got older.”
“I suppose we both did.” A faint smile crossed your lips, brief but real.
“You still bow every morning.”
“You never miss returning it.”
Another pause settled between you, but this one carried no sharp edges.
“I wasn’t sure if I should talk to you.” The confession slipped out before either of you could stop it, and once it was spoken, it seemed to hang there in the warm, dim air.
Jeonghan lifted his eyes to yours. “…Neither was I.”
A small laugh escaped you, half relief and half disbelief. “So we’ve been greeting each other like strangers for an entire month.”
“Apparently.”
“That’s embarrassing.”
“It is.”
Outside, the rain thickened, drumming harder against the roof. Somewhere beyond the windows, the lights remained dark, the world reduced to weather and shadow. You traced the rim of your mug with your thumb, the ceramic cool beneath your skin.
“I thought you hated me.” The words came out so softly you almost wished the rain had swallowed them before they reached him.
Jeonghan didn’t answer right away. He looked at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable at first, then slowly shifting into something more honest, more tired.
Then he shook his head. “I did.”
You went still.
He seemed to notice your reaction and continued before the silence could harden into misunderstanding. “For a while.”
His fingers tightened slightly around the mug, the warmth of it lost beneath the tension in his hand. “I blamed you.”
“I blamed myself.” His eyes lowered for a second, then lifted again, steady and clear.
“It was easier than accepting I had no idea what had really happened.”
You swallowed, the weight of his words settling somewhere deep and quiet inside you. “I wanted to apologize.”
Jeonghan’s gaze sharpened, as if that had reached him more than anything else you’d said. “I looked for you.”
Your breath caught.
“I couldn’t find you. I asked people. I even asked Seungkwan if he’d heard anything. He worried too, you know.” A small, reluctant smile tugged at his lips, softened by memory.
The room fell silent again, but this time the quiet felt different. It wasn’t the silence of distance or uncertainty. It was the silence of two people standing at the edge of something old and painful, finally beginning to see it clearly from both sides. The candle burned lower between you, its flame smaller now, but steadier somehow, as if it had settled into the shape of the night.
Outside, thunder rolled across the sky in a long, distant rumble. Inside, neither of you seemed to notice that the candles had already burned halfway down.
*
The final school bell rang just as Jeonghan and the principal finished their last inspection of the newly restored building. Jeonghan couldn’t help but chuckle every time a fourth grader came running over to complain.
“The tiles near the stairs are too slippery!”
“The sink by the football field is too tall!”
The principal immediately shooed them away with a laugh. “Off to class. You can file your complaints later.”
Jeonghan watched the children disappear down the corridor before turning to the principal. “They’re definitely the toughest clients to please.”
“They always are.”
“Teacher Y/n.” At the principal’s call, Jeonghan turned.
You stepped out of your classroom, your bag slung over one shoulder, clearly finished for the day. You bowed politely to both of them before smiling at Jeonghan.
“Amazing work, Architect Yoon.”
The principal blinked in surprise. “Oh!” He laughed. “I was just about to introduce the two of you.”
He looked between you and Jeonghan. “So… you already know each other?”
Jeonghan smiled and nodded. “Yes, sir. We’ve known each other for years.” He glanced at you before adding, “We’re neighbors.”
The principal’s eyes widened. “Neighbors?” He looked genuinely delighted.
“Then the two of you should’ve been going home together this whole time! No need for Teacher Y/n to take the bus anymore.”
Jeonghan smiled. “That works for me.”
You nodded, unable to hide a small smile of your own. “Then let me grab my things from the teachers’ room first. Excuse me.”
As you walked away, the principal let out a quiet sigh of relief before turning to Jeonghan. “To be honest, I still don’t understand why someone like Teacher Y/n chose our little school.”
Jeonghan raised an eyebrow.
“Her résumé is remarkable,” the principal continued. “We’re lucky she even accepted our offer.”
Jeonghan smiled to himself. “She’s always been like that.” He remembered the woman who had once told him that a person’s work—not their family name—was what truly defined them.
The principal nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly! She just came back from volunteering in Africa, and this was the very first school she applied to.”
He shook his head with an admiring smile. “Sometimes I wonder what kind of life she’s lived.”
Jeonghan watched as you disappeared down the hallway. A quiet smile settled on his face. “…An amazing one.”
The principal followed Jeonghan’s gaze before smiling to himself. “I suppose so.”
After parking the car, the two of you still had to walk another five hundred meters to the neighborhood. Jeonghan carried the box of materials you had brought home from school while you explained they were your students’ art projects.
For most of the walk, neither of you spoke. Then you turned to him. “I read it. Seungkwan did a good job.”
Jeonghan looked over and smiled. “He did almost too good of a job. My father must be pleased.”
“Your father is a good politician,” you murmured.
“He is.” A small smile lingered on his lips. “Not a very good father, though.”
You nodded. “That’s true.”
He looked ahead as the afternoon breeze rustled through the trees. “But… thanks.”
You turned to him.
“Because you were willing to tell the truth—even knowing how much it would cost you—my relationship with him finally got better.”
You smiled faintly. A month ago, Seungkwan had visited to ask for an exclusive interview for his feature, The Fall of Ji Jaekyung’s Legacy. It told the whole story. How the Ji family’s real daughter had been hidden. How you had been forced to take her place. How they had manipulated the media and used both you and Jeonghan in their attempt to bring down Yoon Daemun and several other political rivals.
“That was the least I could do,” you said quietly. “After everything I put you through.”
Jeonghan let out a small laugh. “Didn’t we agree to stop feeling guilty about that?”
You smiled apologetically.
“Besides,” he continued, “your mother was unbelievable.” He shook his head in disbelief. “How she even found out I was Daemun’s estranged son is still beyond me.”
You laughed. “I have no idea either. The whole family was… something else.”
Before either of you could continue, a familiar voice called from across the street.
“There you are!”
Grandma waved excitedly from her front yard. “I’ve been waiting for you two to come home!”
She pointed at Jeonghan. “Jeonghan! Help me with the plumbing. It stopped working again.”
Jeonghan groaned dramatically. “Grandma… I’m not a plumber.”
“You’ll figure it out.”
“I’m not a handyman either.”
Ignoring his protest entirely, Grandma grabbed his wrist and started pulling him toward the house.
You couldn’t hold back your laughter.
Jeonghan sighed in defeat before handing you his bag.
“Which pipe is it this time?”
As he rolled up his sleeves, Grandma happily led him inside.
“He complains every single time,” she whispered to you with a grin. “But he always fixes it.”
You smiled. “Grandma… He’s not a handyman. He’s an architect.”
Grandma blinked before breaking into a sheepish smile.
“I know.”
You looked at her in surprise.
She pointed toward the house next door. “There’s a big sign in front of his house.”
You laughed. “So you’ve known all along?”
Grandma simply shrugged. “Architects know how to fix things too.”
You glanced toward the kitchen window, where Jeonghan was already crouching beneath the sink, muttering to himself while trying to figure out the plumbing.
Maybe Grandma had been right after all. Some people didn’t just build houses. They made them feel like home.
🔞 18+ 🚨 minors and blank blogs will be blocked
masterlist • part one • part two
When you inherit your parents' unpaid debt to the Devil, you're given two choices: serve their eternal sentence of servitude in Hell or negotiate a contract of your own. Surprisingly, choosing the latter and accepting a position to become his live-in assistant doesn't exactly dole out the torment you expect it to. As Hell begins to feel more like home than Earth ever did, both you and your impossibly ancient boss find yourselves navigating a far more confusing negotiation: falling in love.
PAIRING: devil!junhui x assistant fem!reader
WC: 19.4K / 40K (complete)
TAGS: crack, humor, roommate/boss to lover
CW: implied demisexual reader, corporate hell, power dynamic, demons, kidnapping, mentions of alcohol, mentions of vomit, mentions of eternal servitude, bad parents, reader has abandonment/attachment issues and is clingy, god is a woman, mentions of torture and people in hell, brief appearance of a cult/cult leader, mention of the orange man, jealous junhui, possessive junhui, he's toxic in this one and threatens to hold reader against her will lol
SMUT: marked at start and end, unprotected piv, creampie, virgin reader, possessive, fingering, oral f. receiving, sniffing? lol, his eyes turn completely black during oral, hickeys, biting, lotus, missionary, idk lmk if i missed anything
A/N: here ya go! lmk what you think! unless u hate it! then just scroll! LOL <3
DAY FIFTY-FIVE
YOU AND YOUR BOSS CALL IT A DAY AND RETURN HOME AFTER THREE SUMMONINGS, ONE AFTER THE OTHER. Today, you negotiated terms for fame and a plea for everlasting beauty. The last one, though, was interesting.
Jun had been summoned to a small apartment, where a single mother waited for him, begging for just enough money to send her only daughter to college.
"She just got into her dream school. She has scholarships, but it's not enough and I can't afford it. She has to go. She's been working for this her entire life.
I'll exchange anything you want. I'll pay every cent back if you want. You can have my soul, too. Anything—please. As long as you take nothing from her."
You were dumbstruck. Her daughter was living a life parallel to yours on the opposite track. Here was a mother who was willing to do whatever she could to secure her daughter's future, while shielding her from their struggles and from the consequences of dealing with the Devil. While yours… yours offered you to him on a silver platter. It was only by Jun's grace that it didn't work and another deal was agreed upon.
And it was by his grace again that this single mother wasn't given a deal at all. Instead, he told her this was a case better suited for God.
"I've already prayed so hard to God."
"She receives millions of prayers a day and does her best to attend to them. But I'll talk to her personally. She'll grant you a miracle that you won't have to pay her back for."
"'She'?!"
It was a short visit, but you know it's one you'll think about for the rest of your life—and maybe even well into your impending demonhood.
"That was really nice, Junnie," you tell him as you two slouch against the sofa, covered in ghost pepper chip crumbs and still in your work clothes—you in your stupid cloak, him in another jaw-dropping outfit—too lazy to get to your respective rooms right now.
"Ugh, don't start."
"What?" you laugh. "It was!"
"Yes, well, I'm not totally incapable of kindness."
"I know that!" you scoff, slapping the couch since he's too far to slap and you don't want to move. "It was just… very touching."
The silence that follows is a little heavy with a lot of unspoken words on your end, but you force yourself to sit in it. You don't know how long it's been when Jun says, "I know it's really gross and selfish, but I'm the literal fucking Devil so I can say this." You smile at the disclaimer. "I'm glad your parents were so shit." The smile is wiped off your face.
"Huh?!" you exclaim, sitting up straight to face him fully. "Why would you say that to me?"
"That's what you were thinking about, wasn't it?" he asks, the picture of composed as he remains unflustered by your outburst. He doesn't even bother looking at you when he says it, eyes lazily zoning out on the marble pillars bracketing the hallway to your suite. "How this girl has one parent who would do anything for her, including damning her own soul… and you had two parents who were perfectly fine with giving you away to the objectively worst person you can give someone away to? You were thinking about what must be so wrong with you that your parents couldn't love you the way that mother could."
It takes you a few moments to truly process what just came out of his mouth, and when you do, you're unexpectedly hurt by the words even though they're the same ones that have been bouncing around inside your head since the summoning ended.
You know he's the Devil. You know that thousands of years of stories and countless cultures have all painted him to be vile and cruel. Ruthless and merciless. But in the few months you've known him now, you've cast those stereotypes aside. It's clear to you that Jun is as good as you suspect God is—maybe even better honestly. After all, he's the one charged with punishing the wicked. He is justice and vengeance and karma, and while he can't deliver any of it while on Earth like God can, he still does it exceptionally well, down here in Hell. But even with how unfeeling his job forces him to be sometimes, he's been soft. He's been kind. He cares.
You would've never expected him to say something like this, and it's why you give him the benefit of the doubt before deciding to immediately start crying and screaming and demanding Hell expense you a therapist.
"What do you mean?" you ask hesitantly.
He shrugs, either missing how badly he's hurt your feelings or ignoring it. "I told you it was gross and selfish… but if they hadn't been so… nauseatingly despicable, you wouldn't have ever wound up here."
You pause, neither inhaling or exhaling—finding yourself kind of incapable of either, actually. You wanted to take a chance that someone wasn't trying to hurt you despite history saying otherwise, and you were right. Jun actually meant the opposite. In a really sad and messed up and yes, slightly gross and selfish way, the Devil was trying to tell you he liked having you here.
"DAD is over, y'know," you point out pathetically.
He chuckles. "Today was unique. You should remember you're appreciated today too." His voice gets stern all of a sudden. "But just DAD and today. Do not even think of feeling valued any other day of the year."
You grin. "Fine. I won't."
"Good."
You feel your muscles relax as you sink back into the cushions, relieved that Jun wasn't pointing out how unwanted you were by your own parents for shits and giggles. How funny—that in the end, you finally do feel wanted. By the creatures of Hell, no less.
"Do you have parents?" you ask quietly.
Jun inhales sharply, heaving a sigh before he answers, "The stars are my mother, the dawn my father."
You glance at him, ready to tell him to be serious, but when you see the wistful, almost sad look on his face, you know he is. You turn over onto your stomach, prop your chin on your hands, and openly stare at him. Feeling your gaze, he turns to look at you, one eyebrow raised.
"Do you miss them?" You don't know if it's a silly question to ask, especially since you can't fully wrap your mind around his parents being so abstract.
His questioning eyebrow lowers as he thinks over the question, those dark brown eyes piercing through you as he does. You think he looks human like this, so pensive and unsure. A world away from the confident, untouchable king everyone views him as. And maybe one time he was—human. You think you're lucky to be able to see him like this.
"It's been a long time," he finally says. "I sometimes think I don't remember them or that period of my life at all. But then I go to Earth at the magic hours just to catch a glimpse of them, and I remember that they named me Junhui—outstanding and bright. And I was loved… and cherished and so carefully raised to take my place here." He smiles a little sheepishly at you and shrugs. "And I don't feel like I need to miss them. They're everywhere I am and in everything I do."
You roll your lips between your teeth to keep them from trembling as your eyes water. He groans and rolls his eyes, pushing to get off the couch and away from you.
"Stop it!" you shout, lunging forward to grab a hold of his bicep and pull as hard as you can. Still, he barely budges and you know you only succeed at keeping him in place because he allows you to. "I'm sorry! That was just really lovely! And I'm already emotional from tonight! I'm only human!"
You mean it as a joke, but Jun looks at you with wide eyes, searching your face like he's making sure you're not going to have a mental breakdown on his sofa. When he sees you're not, he leans back into the cushions with you.
"Junhui," you repeat, saying his full name for the first time. "It's very beautiful. I love it."
He smirks but the blush that creeps onto his cheeks tell you it means more to him than he lets on. "Thanks. Don't go using it in front of everyone, darling."
"No promises," you joke. You won't. You knew the moment he said it, Junhui was something you'd want to keep for yourself.
You only remember your fingers are still wrapped around his bicep when he pries them off. You're about to rip your hand away and apologize, but then he transfers it to his own hand resting against his abdomen, staring down at it like it's the sky—something he'd travel to Earth every day to catch a glimpse of. He cradles your hand in both of his, so gentle, it makes you melt.
"I forget sometimes," he says. "That you're human." He traces the lines in your palms with his fingertips, the sensation sending goosebumps up the same arm. "It feels like you've been here my entire reign."
You laugh nervously, unsure why your palms are suddenly becoming clammy and your heart is thrashing in your chest.
"It's weird, huh? It's only been a few months." Jun nods as you take your hand back and wipe it furiously against your thigh under your stupid summoning cloak, hoping he doesn't notice.
"Do you still feel like you've been kidnapped?"
You blow a raspberry and pretend to think. "Uh yeah, because I was." He scoffs. "It might be gross and selfish to say, but I suppose I'm glad you did." You cringe at yourself. How was he able to achieve this kind of vulnerability without making it sound so cheesy? "At least I wound up here."
The smile that paints his face isn't like any smile of his you've seen before—so big and wide that his gums show and his eyes crinkle in the corners. His mouth makes that pretty heart shape you get to see so rarely, and it's impossible to refrain from mirroring his joy right back.
"Yeah?" he asks for confirmation.
"Mhm." You give it to him.
DAY SIXTY-THREE
"Hold it, please!"
You know from the way the voice doesn't gurgle with the sound of a little blood that it isn't any of the damned souls, so you comply, holding the elevator doors open for whoever asked you to (strictly forbidden for damned souls; in fact, you're expected to hit the emergency close button should any of them ask you to hold the doors). You shove a foot over the threshold without looking up from your tablet.
"Thanks," the man breathes, entering the lift. You hum in acknowledgment but don't bother looking up.
You instead try not to lose your concentration as you search for the best time to fit in grooming for Key, who you were just informed got thrown up on by another Hellhound who'd gotten into some cannibals while at doggy daycare. He will not be coming home with you until either you get him an appointment or Junhui himself cleans him up.
It takes you another minute or two and a few ascended floors to find the perfect gap in your boss's schedule for him to take Key over. You don't care that you're the assistant; you refuse to be near Hellhound puke ever again if you can help it. You send a quick ping to Junhui to let him know he will be taking his dog to the groomer before you finally look up.
"You're Y/N, yes? His Infernal Majesty's business manager?" the stranger asks now that you're not preoccupied.
You're put off more from the title than from the demon knowing your name. You look up to find a tall man, around Junhui's height, with a polite smile and long, luscious, dark hair that frames his face.
"Yes. Though 'business manager' is generous," you laugh nervously.
"That is effectively what your role is, no?" he asks, eyes twinkling as he tilts his head at you. "From what I've seen, you've really whipped this place into shape. You practically run half of Hell at this point."
"I do not!" you insist quickly, still overly sensitive to agreeing to anything that can misconstrue you as Junhui's opposite—or as Soonyoung keeps calling you, his queen. Ugh. "I'm just his assistant."
"Sounds like a gross understatement but fine," he relents. He places the hand not holding his briefcase against his abdomen and bows his head slightly. "I'm Minghao, from—"
"Minghao?!" you shriek, voice bouncing off the marble walls of the elevator. "Minghao from Accounting, Minghao?!"
He just barely subdues an amused smile and nods. "Yes. That would be me."
You fully turn toward him, tuck your tablet under your arm, and grab his hand with both of yours, shaking enthusiastically.
"Oh!" he startles a little.
"Oh my god, I have heard so many things about you," you inform him. "Your work on making filing taxes a never-ending form of torture was so impressive."
"Why thank—"
"I mean, making it so that every single box on the return references another form they're not sure they even have? Genius!" He grins wider as you shake your head in astonishment. "And that exercise at the soul intake window? The one that forces all new damned souls to do the math and figure out how many lives they could have improved if they hadn't carried out every, single bad decision they've ever made—is it true that was your idea?"
He blushes the way only a humble mastermind like him would. He coughs over another laugh and nods. "Ah yes, my first-ever contribution to Hell. I was just an intern back then."
Your mouth makes a small o at that piece of information you hadn't heard prior. "Wow. Truly remarkable."
"Not as remarkable as getting His Infernal Majesty to start an entire department dedicated to building a torture chamber specifically meant for the day that one, orange American arrives in Hell," he shoots right back, inspiring a roll of the eyes from you.
"Oh please. Bare minimum. Any respectable Hell would've already had one."
"Okay. How about creating Hell's first-ever paid holiday?" he points out, raising his eyebrows like he's suggesting it's something you can't refute. He doesn't know you, though. You can refute anything you set your mind to.
"That was more so I could have a day off than anything else."
"Still no small feat."
You shrug, not having much to say to that. If the demon is committed to complimenting you, you're not going to stop him. It takes him clearing his throat and pointedly staring down for you to realize you're still holding his hand in a handshake that's been long over.
"Oh god!" you exclaim, releasing him. "I'm sorry! Didn't mean to hold you hostage. I just got a little excited. You feel like some sort of celebrity."
"Is that so?" Minghao asks, pursing his lips to keep his smile from getting ant larger. "You know, Y/N, I've heard quite a lot about you myself."
"Like what?" you laugh. "I'm really good at annoying the archangels?"
He tucks the hand you released into the pocket of his slacks, and you take a moment to observe just how elegantly out of place Minghao is in Hell.
Every demon you've met here has an enchanting and almost uncanny beauty about them, which is probably mandatory for the job if they're meant to lure humans to Hell. But Minghao doesn't ooze chaos and destruction the way the others do. He doesn't have a frenetic energy that almost vibrates off the surface of his skin and threatens to suffocate you. He seems too mature for that. There's something ancient about him—not unlike Junhui.
"Actually, yes," he confirms, chuckling. "But I've also heard about your very attentive and kind nature."
You look up at him, mortified. "Someone down here called me 'kind'?" You don't take it as an insult, but you know depending on the demon who used that word, it could very much be meant as one. "Who was it? Was it Jeonghan? Because if so, you should know that the other day, that fucker voluntarily beat the shit out of the vending machine until it released my Snickers bar. He's the 'kind' one!"
Minghao laughs freely now and shakes his head. "No. No, it wasn't Jeonghan…" The way he says it makes it sound like he's in on some joke that he has no intention of filling you in on. You narrow your eyes at him, but all he does is smile that disarming smile. "I speak with His Infernal Majesty quite often."
"Oh," you utter, the anger in your posture deflating. "Jun said that?"
He smirks now. "In his own very cagey and obliquitous way, yes."
"Obli… quitous…"
He nods. "Roundabout. Indirect. Honestly, a little bit of a ramble."
"Oh okay. Obliquitous," you repeat.
He nods. "He's right. You're very endearing."
"'Endearing'?" you repeat, even more mortified than you initially were. "He called me 'kind' and 'endearing'?" Your mouth drops and you dazedly bring your tablet back to your chest as the elevator approaches your floor. "Does he hate me?"
Minghao coughs suddenly, waving a hand when you ask him if he's okay. "I'm fine. Just, uh, breathed down the wrong tube. Anyway, all I meant to say was I've heard a lot about you and you seem to be doing a great job. Hell is lucky to have you."
You feel heat rising in your cheeks. and you try your best to accept the compliment, nodding shyly. "Thank you. That means a lot coming from the demon that singlehandedly audited God's spending and actually succeeded in cutting her budget." You frown. "Actually, kind of rude of you. Stop silencing women."
He scoffs then. "She started it." Before you can ask what he means, the elevator dings a few floors below yours, and he sticks his hand out. "Well, Y/N, it was nice officially meeting you."
"You too. Don't go telling people I'm kind, though. I have a reputation to maintain," you grumble, slipping your hand into his and shaking it once more.
"I won't, promise. Just a quick one this time," he laughs, looking pointedly at your joined hands as the doors slide open. "Maybe we'll have more time for you to hold me hostage again another day."
You snort. "I'm—"
"Oh? And what do we have here?"
Junhui stands at the open doors, and even though his words come out light and easygoing, his face is so carefully blank, you're actually not sure you've ever seen him so expressionless. For whatever godforsaken reason, it drives a horrible chill down your spine and right between your legs. And for the first time in a while, you're reminded of what your doctor told you.
Arousal. You immediately rip your hand out of Minghao's, step away, and avert your eyes from your boss's prying gaze.
"Jun!" Minghao greets him happily, a mischievous lilt seeping into his voice. He's officially the first demon you've ever heard call the Devil by his name. "I've finally met your incredibly lovely business manager."
You quietly groan at the title, your face turning even hotter. You feel Junhui's eyes boring holes into your forehead as you busy yourself with the black marble under your feet. Very shiny.
"Hm."
"She's every bit as charming as I expected her to be," he says, confusing you because you're sure you were the opposite of charming. In fact, you might have been borderline embarrassing with the never-ending handshake and all the unsolicited fangirling. He steps forward, making to leave the lift but turns to you one more time and smiles. "Y/N, it's been grand. If you're free next week, I'd love t—ungh!"
Minghao stumbles back as Junhui yanks him by his collar, shoving him away roughly before he can barrel into your boss. He replaces the man in the lift next to you and shoots Minghao an icy glare, who has his own displeased frown on his face.
"She's busy," Junhui answers for you. "And come to think of it, you are too." His subordinate raises an eyebrow at him. "I want a report of how many improved lives the damned souls have counted at the intake window this week, complete with their full names and a brief summary of how their lives would have improved."
Minghao balks at him now, the elegance replaced by sheer disbelief. "We get millions of souls a week."
He finally smiles, but it's all kinds of wrong. Like a predator smiling at food. "I told you you'd be busy."
"Oh come on, dude, it was a joke!" he complains, scratching his scalp violently in irritation. He's also the first demon you've heard call the Devil "dude."
Junhui laughs, cold and forced, even bending over and shaking his shoulders as he does. He points at Minghao as he does. "Good one!" He stops immediately, his glare returning. "Get to work."
The doors slide closed, and the space is engulfed in silence as you rise toward the top floor, where both your and Junhui's desks await. You fidget in the wetness of your underwear, and you decide you will be sifting through that list of therapists when you get home.
"So. Business manager, hm?"
Your eyes widen. "I did not call myself that. He pulled that out of his ass! In fact, you should ask for two weeks of metrics as punishment!"
Junhui hums again but says nothing else, forcing you to exist in the discomfort of whatever just happened.
DAY SIXTY-FOUR
"What's this?" you yawn, rubbing one eye with a knuckle as you sleepily stare at the familiar red glimmer of a contract floating above your bed, where Junhui just woke you up for the day.
"Updated employment agreement," he huffs, turning away from you to leave your room. "Hurry up and sign it so we can get going."
You read the gist of it, scoffing when you finish. You sign as requested before getting ready for the day and meeting Junhui in the kitchen for breakfast and coffee like you always do.
"So. Chief of Staff, hm?" you ask, trying not to let on how pleased you are about your new title.
His cheeks turn a light pink as he shrugs, refusing to look up at you from his phone. "Business manager is a dumb fucking title anyway."
You grin, taking your seat at the kitchen island as he puts his phone down and begins pulling you an espresso shot. "Agreed."
He finally turns to look you in the eye, and when he sees you're serious, he smiles. A real one this time. He extends a hand to you, and you shake it, that same hot sensation taking over as your new deal is cemented in Hell.
"Congratulations on your promotion."
"Thanks, boss."
"Hm."
DAY SIXTY-SIX
"Hi, Minghao. Here for your meeting with Jun?"
"Sorry, so so crazy busy, cannot talk to you ever again, even if it's just a harmless fucking joke," Hell's accountant grumbles as he speed walks right past your desk and allows himself into your boss's office.
You frown, turning as your gaze follows the demon to the chair across from Jun, who simply slouches back in his seat, a smug grin on his face as he stares at an irritated Minghao. His eyes slide to you and his grin just widens. He winks and you turn back to your desk, blindly picking a therapist and making an appointment.
DAY SEVENTY
"So. Therapy, huh?"
It takes everything in you to keep from bolting out of the office. You sink deeper into the plush couch in an attempt to keep yourself grounded. The silver lining is that you're within proximity of God. She is walking these very halls as you breathe. That's it, though.
Heaven is entirely too bright and white and polite and full of talk about the weather (how much can someone talk about clouds?), and you would rather be cleaning up Key's vomit back in Hell.
"Yup," you answer, popping the p.
"And what compelled you to pick me?"
"I didn't. It was like… a blind box of therapists."
"And I'm your therapist Labubu?"
"Yes, Joshua," you sneer, rolling your eyes at the archangel, who's nestled into the armchair adjacent to you, his massive wings tucked in around him like a comfy cocoon. "You're my therapist Labubu."
The archangel nods, his expression surrendering nothing. "Okay, well, you can choose someone else if you're uncomfortable, but I'd like to let you know that should you remain my patient, anything you tell me will be kept between the two of us, and Satan will never have to know."
"What makes you think this is about Jun?" you ask, voice rising and heart rate spiking at the implication that he knows you're here because of the devil.
"I don't," he assures you, doing a fantastic job of not looking at you like you have two heads the way you would have anyone else. "Since our paths cross professionally, I just want you to know that everything that is said here will not leave this room. In case that is a concern for you."
"It's not." It is. It very much is. Junhui meets with Joshua at least once a week. He is the last person who needs to hear about your clammy hands and soiled panties.
"Okay, good."
"Great."
"So do you want to discuss why you're here?"
"No!" you shout suddenly. His eyebrow twitches—the closest it gets to a frown. He still succeeds in keeping his face neutral.
"Alright," he says easily. "We don't have to talk about anything in particular. Is there something you do want to talk about?"
"I… um," you stammer, stopping to chew on your lower lip.
You didn't notice Joshua was even on the list of therapist recommendations when you chose blindly. Why would an archangel be moonlighting as a therapist serving both celestial bodies? Does he not have enough responsibilities liaising between God and Junhui all hours of the day? Or managing idiots like Brayden?
"Why are you a therapist?" you blurt.
He smiles. "I've always liked listening to people and helping them through their thoughts and feelings. So I started with just Heaven. Then, my archangel duties took me to Hell, and I figured I'd expand my services."
"So you just have two jobs?"
"A few more," he admits. "I have many interests."
"And this is not a conflict of any of those interests?"
"Oh, no, it very much is," he confirms, nodding. "We just don't care here. There isn't exactly an abundance of therapists for our hundreds of thousands of angels and demons to choose from. So. We overlook some things."
"Right."
"Again, you're free to choose someone else if you'd like. I can give you a list—"
"No lists!"
He purses his lips and nods. "Okay." He lets the silence sit for a full minute before he finally asks, "Are you feeling alright? You're jittery today."
You exhale through your lips and nod. "Yes. I'm fine. I just… wasn't expecting you to be here."
He nods. "Fair. How long have you been with us now, Y/N?"
"Uh, three months soon," you say, unsure if that's even correct. Your mind is so foggy.
"Wow, time really flew, huh? Feels like there isn't an angel or demon who doesn't know who you are."
"I don't know about that," you refute, shaking your head. "I just have to talk to a lot of people on behalf of Jun."
Joshua nods. "Yes, I imagine you do. Well, either way, you've been doing a really great job. We notice it up here too; since you've arrived, things have been going very smoothly."
It makes you feel proud. "Thank you. I've been having fun."
"Good!" he says, sounding genuinely pleased that you like your job. "Plus, Satan has been in a much better mood these days. Less annoying."
You clear your throat to stop yourself from having a cough attack. You nod but say nothing else.
He smiles. "He's been a good boss?" You nod again. "I know the way you were… hired was a touch unconventional. Does it bother you at all?"
You shake your head. Other than the occasional jibe that Junhui kidnapped you, you wholly view your station in Hell, ironically, as a blessing.
"That's great to hear," Joshua says despite not actually hearing anything. "You fit very well with all of us despite being human. Do you feel at home?" You nod. If he's tired of your nonverbal answers, he doesn't show it. "And are you making friends?"
There's Soonyoung, who is determined to die at the hands of his boss because he never leaves you alone. There's Jeonghan, who frequently comes by to run his ideas for torture by you. There's Jeongyeon, who lets you cut all the damned souls whenever you want water and gives you all the best gossip. Junhui. Junhui, who has become the best of all your friends. You talk to your human friends less and less these days, giving you even less reason to visit your apartment on Earth. You're very much making a life in Hell. And you like it.
"I like it here," you murmur.
"What do you like?"
"Um," you start to rifle through the things that come to mind. In the end, you rattle them all off without much thought. "I like my home. Jun making breakfast. I like my work. I like being around people. My friends. I like Jun's pets."
Joshua shudders, and you stifle a laugh at the thought of all the stories Junhui has told you about the archangel's encounters with Lock and Key.
"I, um, think I enjoy it more than I did my life on Earth," you admit, feeling a little embarrassed to.
"Why do you say it like that?" he asks, eyebrows furrowing.
"Like what?"
"Like you don't want to say it at all."
You shrug.
"What was your life like back on Earth?"
You snort. "I was a bartender at a nightclub. I had a good amount of friends. My parents were absent, but you know that." He nods, giving you a comforting smile.
"It sounds like you had a nice life back on Earth."
"I guess." He makes you sit in the silence again, just softly smiling at you even as you start to feel awkward, picking at the nonexistent lint on your pants. When you can't stand the silence anymore, you tell him, "It was quiet."
"Nothing wrong with quiet."
You correct yourself. "Lonely."
"Ah," he nods. "Why were you lonely?"
"I lived alone. My friends were 'just for fun' friends—people who only hit me up for a good time or to get into the club for free. I didn't really know my coworkers much beyond covering shifts for each other. I was just… living day to day. I felt like if I disappeared, no one would notice." You pause and laugh a little as you come to the realization in real time. "No one did notice. I've been gone for almost three months, and no one has tried to see me outside of a night at the bar."
Joshua studies you carefully, and he must see something because he doesn't speak, allowing you to gather your thoughts before you continue.
"I can go for weeks without hearing my own name. If I didn't have the job I did, I think I could go for months without talking to anyone at all," you tell him, feeling an uncomfortably prickly feeling behind your eyes.
He hums, nodding. "How about now?"
You shake your head. "It's the complete opposite. I hear my name all day. Demons randomly check in to talk about nothing. They invite me places. They ask how I am. Jun always has ghost pepper chips stocked at home. He brings me to Earth to watch a movie I mentioned or visit a place I miss. I went to the doctor's early one morning without telling him, and my absence was noticed immediately. I feel… I feel… I don't know how I feel."
"Wanted, maybe?"
The word punches a hole through your chest. You inhale deeply. "Yeah. Wanted. I feel wanted. Like I matter here. Like…" There's suddenly a knot in your throat and you recognize too late that the prickly feeling are your tears fighting for release. "Fuck."
You turn away from Joshua and wipe at your eyes, mortified to be crying in front of your boss's colleague.
"Here." A tissue box prods at your knee and you take it without looking at him.
"Thanks."
"What's going through your mind?"
You press a tissue to your eyes, and when you're certain you won't start sobbing out of nowhere, you face Joshua once more, crossing your arms and driving your back into the couch as far as you'll go.
"I was just thinking that I feel like I belong somewhere. Like…" You clear your throat and roll your eyes at yourself. "Like, if I disappeared, someone would actually miss me."
"Someone?"
You look up at him, finding that same, neutral, unjudging face. He smiles at you encouragingly, and you only understand now why Joshua is a therapist. He's fucking good at it. You told him you didn't want to talk about why you came here, and now you're doing even worse—you're talking about the real reason why you came here. The reason you weren't even consciously aware existed. Because the truth is, you feel like if you disappeared right now, there isn't anything Junhui wouldn't do to make sure you made it back home. And you've never had that.
Your doctor had it right. It's not so much the things about Junhui you find attractive. It's the fact that you feel like he cares. He cares deeply—enough to want to provide a safe space for you.
"I don't know, this is dumb."
Joshua raises his eyebrows at the sudden retreat back into your shell. "Why do you think so?"
"I'm crying because people notice I exist," you scoff, shaking your head at the ridiculousness. "It's pathetic."
"No," the archangel insists, correcting you gently but firmly. "It's not pathetic. It is innately human—actually, it's not even human. All creatures crave that. Demons and angels included." He adjusts himself in his seat, the feathers of his wings ruffling as he does. "Have you ever thought about the possibility that it isn't that you're crying because people notice you exist? That maybe you're crying because for the first time, existing doesn't feel like something you have to justify?"
You frown. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, before, your existence seemed to hinge on how fun you could be to your friends or how useful you could be to your coworkers—things meant to justify why you should matter to them, right?" You don't answer. "Well, here, you get to experience what it's like to simply… exist, period. You don't have to do anything other than be exactly who you are here, and people still care about you. People still want you around. You don't have to offer anything to feel like you belong." He pauses to let his words land before he eventually asks, "Is it possible that's why you're crying?"
Your tears slide down your face quickly, one after the other, and you groan, plucking several more tissues out of the box and burying your face into them.
"Fuck, you're really fucking good at your job, you motherfucker," you practically wail into your hands.
"I think this has been a very productive first session." His voice is so smug.
"Yeah, I bet you do!" You're met with the melodic chuckles of an angel.
DAY EIGHTY-ONE
You think you're being much too obvious that something fundamental has changed inside you. Junhui watches you carefully these days, a little more than usual.
The man has taken to waking you gently in the morning, simply laying a warm hand on your shoulder and squeezing instead of ripping your blankets and eye mask off. He also lingers a little before going to the kitchen, asking how you slept and if you feel okay. He tells you to take your time in the mornings, blocking out the first few hours of his day so the two of you don't have to rush into work. Throughout the day, he'll poke his head out of his office and ask you how you are, and on more than one occasion, he's forced you on a break to walk with him or even visit Earth for a meal. And weirdest of them all, he cooks dinner for you. He only knows how to do hotpot, but it's still surprising to you.
It isn't that you aren't grateful for the gentle treatment; you love it, actually. You think it's the most regulated your nervous system has ever been in your entire life. It's that now that Joshua has helped you identify how badly you crave stability and safety and unconditional love and care, Junhui's change of pace is inspiring dangerous feelings you don't think you ever learned how to properly feel in the first place.
"Why are you being so nice?" you blurt out over the table.
He looks up at you from the belt of revolving sushi he had been relentlessly staring at. He's been pulling all your favorites without being told, never missing a single plate that crawls by even though you're pretty sure you can't eat anymore. Junhui doesn't answer right away, taking his time watching you like he always does. And usually, that's fine. Today, you fidget uncontrollably.
The Devil shrugs. "I told you. I'm capable of kindness."
You roll your eyes. "Stop. You know what I mean."
"Maybe I don't."
You glare at him before glaring at the restaurant around you pointedly. The restaurant he whisked you away to for lunch in the middle of the day despite having a packed schedule of meetings. Meetings he had you cancel for him.
He smirks, unashamed of being caught so blatantly lying. He reaches for the spicy tuna, popping it into his mouth and leisurely chewing, not-at-all in a rush to answer your question.
"You're being weird."
"Am I?" he asks around his food. "Why do you say that?"
You don't want to have to say it out loud because how do you even explain to your boss that his behavior is weird because it's making you feel valued? "You just are" is the genius answer you settle for.
He sighs when he finishes swallowing, putting his chopsticks down and leaning back. "You've been visiting Joshua a lot."
You nod. It isn't a secret you've been seeking therapy. But try as he might to get you or Joshua to tell him anything, everything else about your appointments has—thankfully—remained a secret.
"Can you blame me if I'm concerned that you've visited a therapist three times in the last 10 days?" he asks, glowering at nothing in particular.
You snort. "Therapy is good for you. You should try it."
"I'm a million years old," he spits your most-used hyperbole to describe everyone in Hell back at you. "I have been in and out of therapy before therapy was even a word." You raise your eyebrows at the admission. "Don't look so surprised." He smirks when he quotes you, "Therapy is good for you."
"Well, I'm fine," you tell him. It's the truth. You're more than fine; you're happy. Your appointments with Joshua so far have revealed that much. Now, you're just sifting through the confusion of being employed by someone you've come to think of very fondly. And that someone doesn't need to know that. "You don't have to worry."
His smirk fades, and he leans forward, openly staring at you as he does. "But I do worry. So that can't really be helped, hm?" You open your mouth, but he doesn't let you respond. "Are you happy?"
You make a surprised noise at the question, but when he sits in silence, waiting for your answer, you nod quickly. "Yes, Junhui. Of course I'm happy. I'm not seeking therapy because I'm unhappy."
"Then, will you tell me why you are seeking therapy?"
"That is sensitive information you shouldn't be asking about!" you admonish him, feeling your cheeks heat up at the mere thought of telling Junhui why you needed an appointment in the first place.
"I'm the Devil. I can ask whatever inappropriate question I want," he grumbles. When that doesn't work on you, he sighs. "Fine. But you promise you're okay?"
It makes your heart want to burst. "I promise. I am very happy."
He smiles a little at that. "And you promise if that changes, you'll let me know?"
You roll your eyes. "Yes. I will let you know. Is that all? Your weird behavior was just you being worried?"
He shrugs but says nothing else. That "weird" behavior you love so much doesn't stop even after Junhui seems to accept your assurances as truth, and you're secretly glad for it.
DAY EIGHTY-NINE
"Congratulations on completing your probationary period."
"Junhui, can you hurry up?" You complain as you open an email invitation requesting his presence at what is essentially Hell's Met Gala—except instead of fashion, they appreciate their own torture methods. "I have, like, 20 Ouija Board calls to screen."
"Please put your tablet down for one minute so I can give you your first performance review."
"Hold on."
He barks a singular, disbelieving laugh but allows you your one moment as you respond "Yes" to the invite. You also make a note to have him fitted for whatever ridiculously attractive outfit he wants to wear to what you've now decided to call Hell Gala. Something with abs showing, you note.
You saw his abs a total of one time. You had woken up early for once after Lock had pounced on your chest and scared the ever living shit out of you. Unable to go back to sleep, you made your way to the kitchen to find Jun dialing in the espresso, nothing on aside from black silk pajamas hanging for dear life on his hips. He'd turned around and made the most interesting noise as he flinched in surprise. You couldn't even make fun of him because your eyes zeroed in on the muscles rippling across his torso. You didn't expect your boss to look like a chocolate bar. And if it were you, you would go everywhere shirtless. You're not sure why he doesn't, but you should probably be glad you don't have that distraction to worry about.
You pucker your lips in thought before adding an extra note: Probably wants to wear black, but let's float the idea of hot pink.
You lock your tablet, rest it against your lap, and smile widely at him. "Alright. Ready."
"Thank you so much for gracing the King of Hell with your attention," he grumbles as he turns to his right. A screen materializes—a shimmery red that displays what you know is information about your performance.
"You're very welcome, Junnie."
He shakes his head, muttering things under his breath before he starts.
"You are a very effective employee," he starts monotonously. "You do your job very well, you have made life very efficient, and the demons all love you. Well, as much as a demon can love, I suppose."
You think it's the Soonyoung-shaped conscience you've unfortunately developed that prompts you to ask, "Can demons… not love…?"
Jun frowns at the question. "They can." Relief, curiously, is the first feeling that washes over you. "It just takes an insane amount of time. Probably more time than it's worth. Y'know… bloodthirst and a general craving for chaos can get in the way of other feelings sometimes."
You snort. "Right."
"Now, let's go over some of your big wins and room for improvement." He reads off the screen. "Big wins: everything you've done thus far… improvements… none." He narrows his eyes as they slide to you.
"Amazing!" you exclaim, clapping and moving to stand. "Thanks, boss! I'll continue doing an impeccable job and get back to screening those c—"
"Sit."
You squeak in surprise as the chair behind you jerks forward, forcing you to fall back down on it. You gasp in disbelief. "What was that for?!"
"I don't know, going into my computer and messing with your review notes, for one? How did you even get into this? It's literally in my mind." He pauses momentarily before muttering, "You're going to make a fantastic demon, it's infuriating."
You roll your eyes. "Why do we even need to do this? Since when have you cared about performance reviews?"
"Demon Resources insisted I at least do your 90-day probationary review so they have it in their records. For what, I do not know, and I do not care. But they did just have a record quarter with their torture retention, so I will give them this one thing as a reward."
You groan. "I have so much work to do!"
"I'm your boss. I say you have no work right now, so you have no work right now. Sit still, let me review you, and this will go faster than it currently is with all of your interruptions!"
You sigh, annoyed that you find his rising voice attractive. "Fine."
"Big wins!" he shouts, emphatically shoving his sleeves up his forearm and leaning toward his screen, glaring at it as it deletes what you'd written. It begins writing new notes as he speaks. "Since your employment, scheduling conflicts have decreased by 96 percent."
You smile smugly.
"Thanks to your help, we've able to hit all our targets on pace, and several demons and department heads have personally reached out to me to tell me you've helped them a great deal."
Your mouth drops open in delighted surprise. "Like who?"
Junhui scrolls for a little. "Ah, here it is. Jeonghan said, 'Thanks for letting us use Y/N for the latest brainstorm on our automated torture project. She's insane and her contributions were better than my useless demons.' Insane used positively, of course."
"Of course," you agree, grinning. "Go on."
He gives you a flat look.
"What? If you're going to review me, you should tell me these things, no?"
"Don't let 'em get to your head, darling," he murmurs, oblivious to how the pet name now makes you squirm. He reads on. "Seungkwan said you're a 'joy' to work and talk shit with." He cocks an eyebrow at you. "Should I be worried?"
"I have never talked shit about you, Junnie."
"Hm." He returns to the screen. "Minghao said—" He cuts himself off, his expression turning dark immediately as he reads on without reciting it.
"What?" you ask. "What did Minghao say?"
"Nothing," he says, skin turning a dark pink as he scrolls back to where he originally was. "Anyway, like I was saying, your contributions are very valuable." He doesn't let you get a word in, barreling on so you don't have the space to. "You do a fantastic job negotiating contracts during summonings. In fact, you would do very well in Contracts and Collections once you're a demon in case that option interests you."
You find that it does and lean forward. "As in, I would only do summonings?"
He hums a yes. "And debt collection. You'd take lower-level calls that don't explicitly ask for the Devil."
"Ah, so no longer with you."
He hesitates but ultimately shakes his head. "No." He takes a deep breath before reminding you, "Your time with me will be complete once your human life ends. You'll be free to do as you wish once you're a demon."
"What if I want to continue being your assistant?" you ask, frowning.
Jun looks confused. "Why would you want to continue being my Chief of Staff?" he asks, subtly correcting you.
"Why wouldn't I…?"
The question stumps him.
"I like this job," you say when he remains silent. "Who knows, I might change my mind since I have quite some time before I die, but I really like doing this."
"Sure, but enough to do it… forever?"
You raise an eyebrow at him. "You know, you're lucky I'm in this role because you would never be able to sell it to anyone else." He continues staring at you blankly. "Yes, I would not mind being your Chief of Staff forever."
Your boss's stare is relentless, and you're almost convinced he managed to completely dissociate while you were talking. After a long, painstaking silence, though, he finally speaks, and when he does, you wish he hadn't.
"That's not a good idea," he announces, leaning away from his computer. The screen disappears altogether.
"Huh? Why not? You just said I'm a very effective—"
"The agreement explicitly states that employment will end upon your human death," he says, clearing his throat uncomfortably. His Adam's apple bobs a few times, and you kind of want to punch it because of how annoying he's being right now.
"The agreement doesn't say anything about me not being allowed to continue working the same role after, though."
"I don't care what the agreement says."
"You're the one that just referenced the agreement!"
"Don't care. I say it's a bad idea."
You glare now. "It's fine if I'm doing it to escape the debt of my asshole parents, but once I actually have the autonomy to choose to work for you, it's suddenly a bad idea?"
Jun exhales slowly. "It's not like that. But even if it were, I'm within my right to choose when it is and isn't 'fine.' I'm literally the—"
"The Devil! We fucking know!" you shout in frustration. Junhui's face settles into an eerily calm expression as he watches you with slightly narrowed eyes. "You're the Devil and you get to do whatever you want—I know. I also know you're never going to find someone better than me for this job."
"That won't be your concern once your contract is over."
You feel a horrible tightness in your chest. Of all the feelings you had been sorting through in therapy, you never considered that fear should be one of them. You never stopped to be afraid you could lose any of this; in your mind, this was eternity. This was it. You exhale a single laugh and shake your head.
"I did do something wrong, didn't I?"
"What?" He tilts his head at you, perplexed.
"When you were sick. I did something wrong." His face falls at the mention and you know you've hit the nail on the head. "Right? That's why you were giving me the cold shoulder, and that's why you're saying I shouldn't work with you anymore once I'm a demon." He doesn't answer, his eyes coming down to his desk as he thinks back to his bout of the Demon Flu. "So what was it? What did I do? I can't properly apologize until you tell me."
"You didn't—"
"Bullshit." He raises an unimpressed eyebrow at you, but it doesn't scare or deter you. "Did I cross a boundary? Maybe I shouldn't have entered your room or helped you eat or… whatever it is you're mad about—"
"I'm not mad."
"—but if that's why you don't want me to be working under you anymore, that's a dumb reason! You love me being your direct report!" you insist. The tips of his ears turn a bright red and he can't meet your gaze, eyes flying about the room. "And I know you would love to have me as your Chief of Staff forever! Now tell me what I did so I can apologize!"
"I have to go to Earth for business," he says abruptly and stands.
"No, you don't. We have 45 minutes left of this stupid review you wanted to do so badly. So review me. Tell me what's so wrong with me being your Chief of Staff."
"I will be back late."
"What?" you ask, voice coming out small and helpless as all of your stubbornness is immediately forgotten. "How late?"
"Not that late," he walks his words back immediately, shaking his head frantically and waving his hands to retract his statement. "Actually, not late at all. Sorry. Uh, I'll be quick. I'll be home before you go to sleep. I just—I'm—yeah, I need to go."
"Junhui, what the fuck is—" He disappears without another word, nothing but red flecks of light and dark smoke in his wake.
DAY NINETY-FOUR
If you thought what happened the week following Junhui's Demon Flu was bad, you were wrong. Because this time, it isn't even fully a cold shoulder, which you can stomach since that's an obviously petty response to something. No, this time, it just feels like you've been put in a box, forbidden to interact with Junhui at all. You hardly see him anymore, and when you do, it's only brief glances as he makes his way to whatever next meeting he scheduled himself. You haven't added anything new to his calendar in days.
You know what you did wrong; you pushed on a boundary that, although he never verbally expressed, he had still drawn clearly. You pushed and pushed and pushed, and he snapped, and now everything that has to do with you makes him uncomfortable. And it deeply hurts your feelings.
You just wanted to keep being his Chief of Staff after death. You thought that would be a good thing—flattering, even. That in your death, you would still choose to sit outside Junhui's office, answering his phone and fielding calendar invitations and spending time with someone who felt like the first real friend you had in ages. Not someone who thought you were a fun time out, or someone who liked that you got discounts at the bar you worked at, or someone that only ever talked about themselves and never cared to know anything about you. But an actual friend.
And that's probably where it all went wrong anyway. Even the Devil understands professionalism. You have no business being friends with your boss. You're his roommate, and that's already so questionable on so many levels. Now that you've had all week to think about it, you recognize that your insistence that you stay his assistant is just another symptom of your fear of being left behind. The Contracts and Collections role didn't sound bad at all until he confirmed he wouldn't be with you. Then, it sounded like the dumbest job in the world.
Junhui could probably sense your desperation for friendship—for his friendship—as you pressed him for an answer during your probationary review. And of course that would be weird and uncomfortable. You put him in an awkward spot, and now you have no idea how to properly apologize, especially because you're still not confident you wouldn't still fall to your knees begging to keep this stupid job once you die.
What has your life come to?
"I don't know, what has it come to?"
You jump, turning to find Soonyoung entering the mail room again. You sigh, putting the fan letter to Jun you were failing to comprehend and respond to back down on the desk.
"I don't know," you mutter. "Sorry, didn't realize I was talking to myself."
He raises his eyebrows. "Whoa, no sarcastic quip? What's wrong?"
You look around. Save for a pair in the corner raiding the supply closet for packing tape to wrap a damned soul in, you and Soonyoung are alone in the room, and you've gotten to know the demon well enough that you think sharing some of your woes with him wouldn't be so bad.
"I have bad abandonment issues."
He freezes for a moment before dumping the packages he came in with into a random cart and taking the seat next to you. "Damn. That's heavy."
"Yeah."
"Parents or a bad ex?"
You snort. "Parents. I've never even been in a relationship."
"Oh. Do you want to talk about it?"
You shrug. "I have a therapy appointment soon."
He laughs, looking at you like you're silly. "Okay, that's nice, but you can still talk to a friend about your feelings. You don't have to wait to see your therapist."
Soonyoung turns his body to face you fully, propping his chin in his hand and giving you all his attention.
"C'mon. Tell Soonie all your woes. I'm listening."
Normally, you'd probably slap him and shove him away, telling him to leave you alone unless he has stories to share about his hot Earthling witch. But you've been sensitive about your review and Junhui's switch-up on you, so instead, you start to weep at the extended kindness.
"Oh!" Soonyoung squeaks, panicked. "Oh devil, don't cry! What's going on?" He scoots his stool closer to yours and wraps an arm around your shoulders. "Hey!" he calls to the other two demons. "Get out of here! We need the room."
They oblige, shooting you worried glances as they scurry out with arms full of packing tape.
"What's wrong?" he asks softly once you're both left alone in the mail room.
"I had my performance review," you tell him, sniffling. "And it was going well, but then—but then, Jun said he doesn't want me as his assistant anymore once my contract is over."
"Huh?" The demon sounds as confused as you feel. "Why not?"
"I don't know!" you wail, startling him a little. "He wants to transfer me to Contracts and Collections once I die! He got so weird and… and… cagey about it, and he just left without having a proper conversation! And he hasn't talked to me since then!
"He doesn't wake me up. He leaves breakfast and coffee, but he doesn't wait for me to go to the office with him. He schedules his own meetings. He doesn't ask me for anything, not even hot pot. He hasn't talked to me—hasn't even looked at me!"
Soonyoung's palm starts to rub circles into your back as your crying becomes more and more hysterical.
"It's like he suddenly hates me!" you hiccup. "And I know that maybe I haven't been the most p-professional because I—I treat him like too much of a friend or a roommate or, or, or—whatever. But I thought we were friends. If he felt like I was crossing boundaries, why didn't he just say that?! He doesn't need to… to transfer me!"
"Hey, it's okay," the demon says soothingly. "He doesn't hate you. Anyone with eyes knows he doesn't hate you. Even the damned souls who've had their eyes gouged out know it. That can't be why he's transferring you."
"What else would it be?!" you shriek. "I kick ass at my job! My performance review said as much, anyway!"
"Why don't you just… ask him?"
"Because he won't talk to me!" you repeat, the words sending your forehead forward until it meets the desk with a thunk. Soonyoung makes a startled noise, his hand hovering over your slumped figure hesitantly. "And I'm scared."
He freezes, a shit-eating grin growing across his face. "You're scared? Of the Devil you swore wasn't scary?"
"Oh fuck off!" you wail, your tears making it impossible to see.
"Okay! Sorry! Sorry! Bad time!"
"What if I talk to him and he just fires me? Then, what? What happens to me? Where do I live? What do I do? Who will care if I'm not there one day?"
Soonyoung inhales sharply and says your name softly. "Do you really think no one else would care if you just… stopped showing up?" he asks, no judgment in the question. When you don't answer immediately, he assures you, "Because we would. We all would. You don't have to stay in that position or be around Jun 24/7 for somebody to care about you."
Your eyes widen at his use of your boss's name, but he doesn't panic or take it back or start stuttering out of fear like you think he normally would. Instead, he just shakes his head at you, brushing your hair out of your face and catching a tear with his knuckle.
"When you become a demon…" he says quietly, "you'll have your own living quarters in any part of Hell you want. You can even move into the lot next to mine. And if that's still not close enough to a friend, you can just be my roommate. Though I have to warn you that I sleepwalk sometimes and have been known to stab a stuffed toy or two during one of the spells."
You stare at him, mouth agape at the idea of Soonyoung stabbing you in his sleep.
"And if you really do get transferred somewhere else, then you'll be transferred somewhere else," he says nonchalantly, shrugging. "You'll get a new job, you'll kill it at that one too, and you'll continue to live your life down here with all of us. We'll keep torturing souls and hiding away from our jobs in the mail room and all the fun things we do now."
You feel your breathing start to slow. "You'd still be my friend?"
He grins. "Wait—" he takes his phone out. "Can you repeat that? I need to record it. What did you just call me?" You roll your eyes and slap his phone out of his hand, ignoring his gasp when it bounces on the table. "See, despite this behavior, yes. I will still be your friend."
"But do you think Jun would be? Do you think he'd have anything to do with me if I weren't working for him?"
"Mmm, it's not about the position, is it?" he asks. "It's about him." You stay quiet, ashamed of the implications of your answer. Soonyoung doesn't tease you or judge you or tell you that whatever it is you're feeling is wrong. He just sighs. "He loves you."
You frown deeply at the words, but the demon is too busy staring at the wall absentmindedly to notice.
"I can't see a world where he wouldn't want to stay your friend. You're the best assistant he's ever had, and he likes you enough to keep you as a roommate. And create a holiday for you."
And get angel cake for you. And decorate the kitchen for you. And take you to Earth whenever you feel like it or he thinks you need it. Constantly ask after your health. Make sure you eat three meals a day even though he needs to be reminded it's time to drink blood and eat organs. Trust you with things he's never told anybody else. Never let you be alone in the house at night even if he's ignoring you because he must know by now how much you hate it.
He's meant to be the most despicable creature in the universe, and he likes you enough to be soft for you.
"Oh my god," you murmur, pushing yourself up off the desk. "You're right."
"Yeah. I usually am."
"Don't push it."
"Fine."
"But… if he doesn't want to fire me, what reason would he have to transfer me out?" To get you farther away from him.
Soonyoung looks at you in amusement. "He may be the Devil, but everyone feels afraid of something." He shrugs. "He's probably scared too."
DAY NINETY-EIGHT
The last person you expect to be in Junhui's office when you barge in is a woman so blindingly beautiful, it makes you want to rip your own eyeballs out of your head and stomp on them for ever having the audacity to look upon her. She's seated across from him, with perfect hair and perfect posture and a perfect manicure and a perfect aura that seems to pulse and glow around her.
"Y/N!" she exclaims, gasping and standing. "I've heard so much about you." She throws Junhui a look before she walks over to you, a stupid and perfect smile on her stupid, perfect lips. "I've been wanting to meet you for quite some time, but I think Jun here has been hiding you from me. Worried I might poach you." She leans in and theatrically whispers, "I can totally make that happen, by the way, if you ever want to cross over to the light side."
"Y/N, meet God," Junhui sighs, waving a hand at the woman. "God, Y/N."
The revelation overshadows the fact that that's the first thing Junhui has said to you in days. You gasp so loudly, your boss flinches, and your eyes widen, quickly darting between the two. "God?! Is that you?!"
"In the flesh!" she says cheerily, brushing her hair behind her shoulders and grinning with all her perfectly white teeth.
"Oh my god—I mean, uh—oh my—holy shit—I mean, what the fuck?!" you stammer. "I've been wanting to meet you since I heard you were a woman."
She laughs and the sound is like choir bells softly ringing in the distance. "Of course I'm a woman. They would never put Heaven in the hands of a man."
"Oh my god—shit, sorry."
She shakes her head. "You can say it. I don't care."
"Oh my god," you say again just to say it. "You're so beautiful. I've literally never seen someone more beautiful."
"Okay, this is ridiculous." Your boss goes ignored.
"What's your skincare routine?"
"I use the tears of incels as my toner."
"Ugh, duh, of course."
"Y/N," Junhui says your name in a way that reminds you he's been busy pretending to hate you all week. "Is there a reason you're barging in here, interrupting my meeting without so much as a knock?"
"I'm going to head out," God announces, smiling. "Y/N, let's get coffee sometime."
"She's busy."
"No, I'm not!" you deny immediately. "Coffee would be amazing!"
"Splendid. I'll have my assistant reach out. See you soon then." She turns to Junhui and raises her eyebrows at him, and when he rolls his eyes but nods anyway, you wonder if they can communicate telepathically. She disappears, leaving nothing but dove feathers and white petals in her wake—both of which dissolve before you can lean down and pluck either off the ground as a keepsake.
You exhale, the rush of meeting God leaving you quite breathless. After a few moments, Junhui clears his throat exaggeratedly, gesturing for you to get on with whatever you rudely barged in here for.
You step forward, taking a seat where God just was. "Wow, God was just sitting here," you mutter. Junhui doesn't entertain you with a response. "Um. Hello."
"Hi."
"Why are you ignoring me?" you ask.
"I'm not," he denies it. You stare at him but he doesn't offer you anything else. He knows he doesn't have to explain himself to you, of all people.
"You are."
"I'm busy. That's all. So if you don't mind…" He tilts his head toward the door of his office. You stay right where you are.
"Are you not going to admit things are weird?" you ask, giving it one last shot before you try your best to make your boss near-homicidal. "That the best thing for the both of us is for me to stay here, as—"
"You don't know what the best thing for me is," he cuts in, face too blank for how cold his words are. "I've been alive longer than you can fathom, and I've fared just fine. I don't need you pretending you know what's best for me."
"You're being cruel, Junhui," you say, squeezing your hands into fists to keep them from trembling.
He smirks. "Yeah. Well. Welcome to Hell, darling."
You have no idea what happened in the last week—what could have caused Junhui to switch on you so fast—but it's clear to you now that you're not going to get an honest answer out of him with civil conversation.
"I've been thinking," you say, trying not to lose your nerve as you lie through your teeth. "If we both know that our time is limited and that you'll release my employment as soon as my contract is over, then maybe we should terminate my contract altogether. Maybe you should just… send me back to Earth."
He freezes, that blank mask falling over his features again. "Repeat that?"
You swallow. "Maybe we should—"
"And why the fuck would I do that?" he snaps before you can do as he asked and repeat yourself. "Your employment replaces the eternal servitude your parents were indebted with. Terminating now, a measly three months into your contract, would not benefit me."
"According to our termination clause," you say, begging your voice not to shake, "I'm under no obligation to deliver the equivalent of eternal servitude at the time of termination. The only requirement for termination is my natural death, the collapse of reality, or a mutual agreement."
"None of which you have," he hisses. "Because you sure as hell don't have my agreement. Now if you're done being a nuisance—"
"The fourth option was a legal challenge by three cosmic authorities and one archangel."
His eyes narrow at you, without a doubt hearing your negotiation voice through your nervousness. "You're aware that the only cosmic authorities are me and God, right? That the inclusion of that in your termination clause is a trick meant to present you with the illusion of choice?"
You scoff. If you were serious about terminating your employment, you'd be seriously pissed.
"I don't know why you keep needing me to remind you who I am," he says, his words landing sharp around the edges. You have no idea why he's so angry, but it's giving you more courage to do what you need to. "It's my job to be deceitful."
"Okay, let's try something new then," you say through gritted teeth, smiling tightly. "I'll remind you who I am. To answer your question, yes, I'm aware that you think the only cosmic authorities are you and God." His eyebrow furrows at the distinction. "So while you were busy throwing a tantrum and ignoring me all week, I have been studying. It turns out there are quite a few authorities I can choose from."
You see it clear as day—the panic that briefly flashes across his face before he schools it back into that careful mask again. His fingers grip the arms of his seat tightly as his eyes search you for some sign that you're bluffing.
"I happen to know a witch," you explain. "She communes with Pagan gods—a number of which she has assured me would be happy to uphold a challenge on my behalf."
"Pagan gods have no authority in Hell," Junhui's voice is low and dangerous, and you think if you were someone he liked even just a little less, your head would already be rolling right now.
"I'd imagine that has no bearing since the clause says 'cosmic authority,' not infernal authority," you point out, delighted when you catch his eye twitch. "But if that's your argument, I have another back-up."
"Wow. You really thought this through, didn't you, darling?" he asks, glaring at you. "So eager to be rid of me?"
"You've reminded me so many times who you are," you say simply. "I wasn't going to bring a knife to a gun fight with the Devil."
He hums in mock amusement, seeming more devilish now than you've ever seen him. His eyes flash a deep red. "Cunning little thing. Fine. I'll play along. Tell me about this back-up of yours."
You smile. "There's no higher authority than the Devil and God."
"Glad you agree."
"Except for the deities that made them."
He stares at you for so long, you'd assume he malfunctioned in any other scenario. You don't know how much time has elapsed when he asks, "You called my mom and dad…?"
You grin. "Yes! With the help of my witchy friend. Very lovely—your parents. Your dad took a little convincing, but with the help of your very understanding mother, we were able to secure his agreement to help." You shrug. "So with all of these options, I'd say I have more than enough authorities to legally challenge my contract."
"Wrong," he seethes. "You also need an archangel, and if God wants to avoid the guarantee of me absolutely decimating Heaven, she will be smart to advise her little, feathered flies to stay far, far, far away from you."
You purse your lips. "Well, that makes this a little awkward because Joshua has already agreed to—"
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
His voice causes a sort of sonic boom in his own office as he stands and slams his hands on his desk. You shriek as your hair is blown away from your face and the marble under his hands fractures into several hairline cracks. The Devil disappears, reappearing at your side and yanking your seat violently away from his desk. You gasp at the motion, the sound of it getting caught in your throat when Junhui hinges at the hips and cages you in with a hand on each arm of the seat. You're almost nose-to-nose as he speaks.
"What the fuck do you think you're playing at, hm?" he asks, his eyes bright red now. "Do you really want to do this with me right now? Because I'll fucking do this."
"Do what, Junhui?" you ask quietly.
"If you think you can leave me before I say it's okay to, you're so mistaken, it's pitiful," he tells you. "I own you. Do you understand? I own you. You belong to me."
"No I don't!" you protest weakly. "We specifically negotiated that when I first came here! It's in my—"
"I do not care," he accentuates each syllable, his voice drenched and dripping in so much venom, it shuts you up. "You think I need words to make you mine?" he barks a laugh out at the thought.
For the first time since meeting him, you truly see the Devil now. You think you understand why the others are so scared of him sometimes. Unfortunately, you don't quite have the same survival instinct they do, because all this does is make way for that familiar ache low in your stomach to return.
"Your contract is binding. If I have the means to leave, then—"
"Oh, baby, I'll have you chained up at home faster than you can ask any of your so-called gods for help," he informs you, snickering as he does. You squeeze your thighs together uselessly. It does nothing to alleviate your pain.
When the sound of his laughter dies, he takes a slow, deep breath, his exhale brushing up against your lips. He clicks his tongue in disapproval as his eyes sweep your face, his face deceivingly soft even though he looks like he's ready to eat you alive.
"I fear I've given you the wrong impression of me," he says quietly, one hand coming up to trace the side of your face as his gaze follows his own movement. The ache inside you grows nearly unbearable as he drags his finger down your cheek, across your jaw, and to your throat. "I'll admit it, though. It is my fault.
"I was nice to you. I cooked for you. Made sure you were happy. Safe. I gave you all my time. All my energy. And now you think because I care about you, that I'm also going to play nice. That I'll play fair, and I'll stop being the Devil."
One by one, his fingers slowly and delicately wrap themselves around the front of your throat. His gaze comes up to meet yours when he feels you swallow under his palm, and whatever he sees just makes his eyes glow a brighter red. He smirks.
"But you've got it all backwards. It's because I care about you that I'm going to play dirty. I care about you more than I've cared about any damn thing in my life," he says, stealing your breath away. "And you think I'd let something as trivial as our fucking signatures keep me from you?"
His grasp goes from your throat to your cheeks, and he squeezes, bringing you right back to the first night he appeared in your apartment.
"I'll tear that contract up right now, Y/N. I don't care. I'll keep you here anyway. You don't get to change everything about my life and then decide to leave it, darling. I don't care how ugly it makes me. I don't care if you think I'm a monster. I don't care. You're going to be here for fucking ever."
You glare at him, wriggling your face until it's free of his hold. He snorts, bringing it back down to the arm of your chair. "So you don't want me to leave."
He narrows his eyes at you. "I barely want you out of my sight. Why would I want you to leave?"
"God, was that so fucking hard?!" you shout, planting both hands on his chest and shoving him away from you. He steps away, clearly baffled as you stand and put space between the two of you before whipping back around. "You want me here! You want me to stay! You want me to be with you!"
His cheeks turn pink even as he looks at you like you're losing your mind. He doesn't confirm it, simply staring at you as you breathe hard at the realization that you and Soonyoung were right. Junhui is scared to lose you. If this isn't a man as equally terrified of being without you as you are of being without him, you don't know what is. It's just infuriating that he could only communicate that once you pretended you were set on leaving.
"I want to be here too," you say breathlessly. "I love it here so much. I love being here. With you. I love being with you. I…" You swallow hard, shaking your head. "Junhui, I love you."
He doesn't move a muscle, doesn't say a word—doesn't really show any sign of life, really. But you force yourself to keep going.
"I'm not even sure what to do with all of it because I've never felt this before. I've never cared like this before either. And if you're being honest… if you care about me too… then I'm confused.
"I don't know why you're trying to push me away. Why you're trying to make me go somewhere else, or have to be without you. I don't know why you want me to leave when my contract is up. If you need space, then say that. But… don't cast me out. Don't make me be without you," you plead pathetically.
You don't register that Junhui is walking toward you until you're done speaking and he's already reaching you, stopping when you're toe-to-toe. There's a split second where he seems to give you the chance to take everything you said back, but it passes too quickly for you to even fully register. Because his patience snaps and his large hands cradle your face, walking you backward until your back hits the wall. You find that he's taken the both of you back home, and you're in his room, pushed right up against his door.
He looks like he's committing your face to memory as one thumb runs across your bottom lip, before it pulls it down enough to open your mouth. He inhales sharply when you take it in, eyes fluttering closed as the warm saltiness of his skin hits your taste buds. He presses his thumb into the center of your tongue, dragging it out of your mouth and groaning at the obscenity of your spit coating his digit and dripping off down his wrist. He lifts his thumb off you and you look up at him through your eyelashes, swallowing as you do.
"I wasn't trying to push you away. I'm sorry—I was—I'm…" He falters, unsure where to start. "I don't want you to be without me either," he finally says, voice husky as he stares at you like you're actively torturing him. "I need you. I need you so badly, you have no idea."
"Show me."
Without waiting another moment, Junhui leans down, and his mouth is on yours, hot and commanding as his hand snakes around the nape of your neck to bring you impossibly closer. His other hand comes to your waist, balling your shirt up and squeezing like he's fighting the instinct to tear it off.
You let your body give into its own instincts, kissing him the way it tells you it needs to and grabbing him wherever it wants to. You swear it feels like you spent your whole life doing this. Like you've never done anything other than kiss Junhui senseless. His tongue prods your mouth open, and you surrender, giving him entry to any part of you he wants.
You moan, sighing into it when his tongue meets yours, licking into your mouth so fervidly and getting you so burning hot, you're half worried your body is actually catching on fire.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," he whispers as you break away for a breath, not missing a beat as he starts leaving open-mouthed kisses down your neck.
"Junhui," you gasp, "if you stop, I swear I'll find a way to fucking kill you."
He chuckles against your skin, the mere feeling of his breath causing you to roll your hips into his. He groans at that, roughly pressing his already hard dick against you and pinning you to the door completely. You whimper, immediately trying to create friction on your clit but finding that you can't move under him.
"Be careful, darling," he warns you, his voice vibrating through his chest and into yours, where you're pressed together. "You don't know what you're playing with."
"Please," you whine, throwing your head back and sighing impatiently. "Please, please, please. Need more."
"Ugh, sound so pretty," he grunts, allowing just enough space for him to fit his hand between you and unbutton your pants. "So needy, hm? What do you need, darling? Tell me."
He brings the zipper down, his pointer finger resting against the bare skin right above your panties.
"Need you."
"I'm right here."
"Touch me," you beg, trying to roll against him. He flattens his palm against your stomach and keeps you in place, smirking when you whine in frustration. "Please!"
"Mmm," he hooks one finger into your panties, running it back and forth teasingly. "So impatient." He slips his finger in further, making your breath hitch. "You should know by now…" he whispers, finally slipping his hand down your panties. "That I'll give you anything…" He cups your cunt, holding you steady when the sensation makes your entire body jerk. "Anything you ask for."
You gasp and grip his shoulder tightly as he parts your folds, running two fingers through them and collecting your arousal before he presses your clit firmly.
"Oh fuck," you breathe, head tilting back against his door. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. Junhui."
"Fucking love it when you say my name," he confesses in a broken whisper to your ear, massaging you too slowly. You look up at him, dazed and convinced you'd collapse to the floor if he stepped away from you. He watches you with hooded eyes and a lazy smile. "Will you say it again for me, darling?"
"Junhui," you near cry, gasping when he rewards you with faster, harsher circles. "Junhui, I—"
You squeal as you're suddenly bouncing back in his bed, his tall frame towering over you as he kneels between your legs. You didn't anticipate Junhui using his Hell-given abilities while fooling around, but you find it useful, wasting no time sitting up and whipping your shirt off your body before reaching for the buttons on his and undoing them clumsily.
You're not even through all of them when you shove the fabric off his shoulders frantically, unable to help yourself as you giggle at the sight of a topless Junhui in bed with you. Before you can bring your hands to his bare skin, his fingers circle around your wrists, stopping you.
You look up at him to find him looking at you with wide eyes and parted lips.
"Are… are you okay?" you ask, unable to ask if he changed his mind. You don't think you'll be able to recover from the embarrassment of your eagerness if he's suddenly changed his mind.
He squeezes your wrists, absentmindedly bringing them to his chest and holding them there. You press your palms against his hot skin, exhaling when you feel his steady heartbeat underneath your fingertips.
Junhui utters your name so softly, it almost sounds like a hallucination. You look back up at him, and you're floored by how much reverence he looks at you with, his eyes searching you with an almost panicked energy—like eternity isn't enough time to spend looking at you. You melt into his grip.
"Junnie?"
"I, uh," he starts, licking his lips nervously. "I'm right there with you… I don't know what to do with everything I feel either. It's so—" He swallows. "It's so much. And I've never felt like this."
You swipe your thumb across his heartbeat, giving him an encouraging smile and nod as you wait for him to think through his thoughts. He exhales.
"I can't promise to know what to do at every turn," he admits. "I know I've already messed up. But… I love you too." The side of his mouth twitches up into a brief smile before it opens again to speak. Nothing comes out for a moment. Then, he says it again. "I love you. And you'll never be without me. Never."
You bring a hand to cradle his face, the grasp he has on your wrist sliding down to hang loosely from your forearm. He leans forward to rest his forehead against yours.
"Junhui," you murmur. "Are you going to show me?"
He nods, smiling as he starts to crawl over you until you're pressed flat against his pillows. He reaches down to kiss you, licking, sucking, and biting as he does. Then, he starts making his way down, mouth leaving marks in your skin as he does, and you're too busy getting lost in the pleasure of belonging to someone to protest the hickeys. You know you'll be mortified later, but right now, the thought of everyone seeing what Junhui did to your body makes you so unbelievably wet, you squirm underneath him.
"Junhui," you breathe, hips bucking up into his. "I, um—oh fuck."
His fingers hook into your pants and your underwear, shoving both down as he bites your collarbone. He runs his tongue across his marks before he sits back, pulling your clothes off your legs and tossing them aside carelessly and leaving you naked from the waist down. He rests his hands atop your thighs, massaging the flesh there as he stares down at your pussy, his eyes growing so dark, they're nearly black.
"Perfect," he whispers as he drops to his stomach between your legs, hooking each over his shoulders so he can get as close to you as humanly possible. "Tell me I can. Please."
His eyes don't leave your glistening cunt as he pleads, groaning when you clench around nothing because the ache is threatening to kill you at this point. You nod frantically.
"Ye—" You're cut off by your own gasp because that's all he needs.
He surges forward, his tongue lapping at your clit like he hasn't eaten in ages. You struggle to keep your hips still, your mind reeling as you experience something you never have before. How did people do this? How did people feel this good and keep from completely falling apart in someone else's hands? Because you think you might die tonight. You think you might die right here, in Hell, with the Devil's face pressed tightly against your cunt as he drinks you up.
He holds your legs open, groaning as he licks stripes up your folds, his tongue leaving no part of you unexplored.
"Junhui," you moan, hand slipping into his hair and pulling uncontrollably. The vibrations of his groans against you make your toes curl, and you think you're edging closer and closer to this imminent death. "I'm… I…"
"What is it, baby?" he sloppily speaks against you, refusing to let his mouth completely leave your pussy. He travels further down, until his tongue is poking into your hole, gently massaging its way in until his cheeks are practically welded to your inner thighs and his nose is buried in your folds.
"Holy shit!" you gasp, hips rolling on their own in rhythm with Junhui's tongue as it licks and thrusts into you. "Oh… oh my god… Jun… Jun, I… I… so good. It feels so good…"
He pauses for only a moment to tell you, "Come on my face, darling."
There's no time to respond before his tongue is inside you again, and the words alone are enough to push you toward what you thought was death and realize now was your orgasm. Your fingers close in a fist around Junhui's hair, your other hand gripping his sheets like you'll float right out of your body if you let go.
The noises that leave your mouth are noises you've never made in your life, and they just make Junhui move more aggressively—more desperately. Just before he retracts his tongue, he breathes you in deeply, his hips grinding into his bed as he groans at your scent.
"Jun!" you shriek, mortified as you shove his head away. It doesn't go far; after all, you aren't very strong compared to the literal Devil.
"You smell divine," he informs you, licking the entire length of your slit and taking another deep inhale. "You smell like you're mine. Taste like you're mine."
You whimper at the nearly overstimulating sensation. He lifts his head and when you meet his eyes, you flinch and it makes him smirk. The dark of Junhui's eyes had spread while he was between your legs, and there's no longer any white left of them.
"Are you scared?" he asks, his voice powerful and guttural. Almost wild. He crawls up over you, head tilting as he stares at you and waits for your response.
"No," you say truthfully. You writhe under him, hands reaching for his naked torso. He leans back before you can touch him, though, obviously amused when you're disappointed. "Jun."
"Hm?" he hums, clearly distracted as he's turning his attention back to your pussy. He takes two fingers through your folds before he brings them to his mouth, sucking hard and tilting his head back with a hedonistic moan. "You're delectable, baby."
You breathe hard, even as all you do is lay there, watching the man you've managed to fall in love with in a handful of months taste parts of you no one else has and now never will. It does something to you—knowing that he's consumed a part of you. That you're inside the Devil.
"Mmm, I'm part of you now," you whisper. He lets his fingers fall from his mouth and when he brings his head back down, his black eyes pierce right through you.
"Does the thought of that please you?" he asks, bending down to lick and nibble at the flesh of your inner thigh. You're too busy squirming to answer the question. "Do you like thinking of us as one?"
"Yes, Junnie," you sigh. "Oh my god, yes."
He smirks, two fingers slipping into you without much resistance after he's already made you come. "Do you want a part of me too, darling?" You mewl as he spreads his fingers, scissoring you open leisurely. "You can have my fingers…" He shoves his fingers into you until he's knuckle-deep, pulling a cry out of you before he starts curling his fingers into a spot that has you seeing stars when you squeeze your eyes shut. "You can have my mouth… my tongue…"
"You," you gasp. "Want you."
"Hm. Maybe soon… if you can give me another one," he tells you, fingers moving faster. "Do you think you can give me another one, baby?"
You nod, murmuring incoherently, no idea what you're even trying to say. Your body starts to move on its own, trying desperately to meet Junhui's fingers with so much fervor, you're sure his knuckles will leave you bruised. You don't care, not when you're so close.
"One more." Junhui's voice is suddenly at your ear, his tongue darting out to catch your lobe and suck. You let out a hysterical keen at the two sensations working together to bring you to your second orgasm. When you get there, the feeling pulls you under, and you officially lose yourself in the Devil's bed.
It feels like free-falling through the dark, nothing but the sound of Junhui's praise reminding you where and who you are.
"That's it, baby, that's it," he growls, his fingers becoming frenetic as he pants above you, hips grinding against you. "Oh, you're doing so good. You're fucking perfect."
"Need it," you gasp, finally blinking your eyes open as you register the rock hard body part pressed into your thigh as Junhui's cock. "Need it, please. Please."
You press Junhui away from you, holding your breath as his fingers slip out of you. You prop yourself up on your elbows, letting the straps of your bra fall off your shoulders. Junhui's black eyes drop at the movement as he brings his fingers into his mouth again. His eyes seem to roll into the back of his head momentarily, and you get chills only seeing more black. Once he's swallowed your slick, he leans over you, arm immediately coming up to wrap around your torso. His fingers make quick work of the clasps of your bra, popping it open easily and tossing it aside the same way he did your other clothes.
"Yes, yes, yes, yes," he whispers, chanting the word over and over again as he dips down to take your nipple in his mouth.
"Junhui," you call, clearing your throat when you hear how raspy your voice sounds. He hums but continues circling your nipple with his tongue. "Junhui, hold on."
He immediately releases you, head snapping up to look at you. You watch as his eyes return to normal, allowing you to see the concern in them upon hearing your request to stop.
"Are you okay?" he asks, pushing himself off your body slightly.
"No—yes! I mean yes," you say, laughing a little. "I'm okay. I just…" you reach up to trace the lines of his collarbone, into his pecs, and down his abs, feeling entranced and momentarily forgetting what you wanted to say.
"What is it, darling?" He reaches up to massage your breast and you let your eyes flutter closed.
"I'm… I've uh, never done this," you admit.
He freezes over you, and you open your eyes, a little panicked that he's about to stop before you get to the good part—the part you desperately need. But he looks down at you fondly, a small smile on his lips.
"You've never done what?" he asks teasingly.
You glare at him. "Junnie, please."
He laughs. "I'm just kidding, love." He bends down to catch your lips in a quick kiss.
"I like that."
"What?" he asks, leaning back to look at you once more. "'Love'?" You nod sheepishly and he grins. "Mmm, 'love' it is."
The two of you kiss for a few minutes, just enjoying the feeling of your tongues sliding against each other and your hands caressing each other's bodies. When you start bucking up into him again, he breaks the kiss and presses his hips to yours to stop you from moving. You groan in frustration.
"Are you sure?" he asks. "That you want to… do this? With me?"
You nod. "Yes. Yes. I've never been surer. Are you—"
"Don't even," he scoffs, rolling his eyes. You bite down a giggle. He sits back on his heels, unbuttoning his pants, and your heart leaps into your throat.
You sit up along with him, crawling onto your knees and gently pushing his hands away as you undo his zipper. When his slacks and his underwear are off, your throat suddenly feels dry as you wonder if there's enough room inside you for him.
"Oh my god," you breathe.
"C'mere," he says softly, taking your hand in his and guiding you until you're straddling his lap, his arms wrapped around your waist and hugging you to him. You wrap your hand around his cock between your bodies, pumping a few times before you press it against your clit for you to grind against. "Fuck."
You moan in agreement, your movements growing frantic as you chase the friction, your slick coating the underside of his cock until Junhui is near whimpering underneath you.
"Are… are you ready?" he asks, hand tracing gentle shapes into the skin of your back. You nod quickly.
"Yes, yes, please, I'm ready."
He untangles his arms from you, one hand planting itself on the bed behind him to support the two of you and the other finding yours and intertwining with your fingers. He guides you to lean your weight into your joined hands as you rise onto your knees to line his cock up with your hole.
"Take it as slow as you need to," he reminds you, leading your hand to his shoulder and wrapping his arm around your waist once more. "It might hurt a little at first. We can stop at any point, okay?"
You shake your head. "No, not okay."
He smirks but it quickly falls off his face when you start lowering yourself, the head of his cock sliding into you with ease at first. It quickly meets resistance, though, your muscles tensing at his size.
Your fingers curl against his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. He doesn't complain, simply leaning forward to leave gentle kisses across your collar and shoulder. He doesn't hurry you, either, saying nothing when you have to pause for a minute or two to adjust to his size. Between the kisses he leaves on you and the caress of his fingers, you relax enough to let him in inch by inch.
Then, finally, he bottoms out, your hips meeting with the delicious feeling of his balls resting against your ass.
He groans loudly, touching his forehead to your shoulder. You cradle his head, trying to breathe through the overwhelming feeling of being full.
"You're so big," you whisper.
"Mmm…" he hums absentmindedly, the hand on your back pressing flat against you like he needs you even closer than you already are. "Breathe, baby."
The command is the only reason you notice you're holding your breath. You try to exhale, struggling with the feeling that if you do, Junhui's dick will quite literally split you in half.
"Breathe…" he coos soothingly. "You're fine, love, you're fine. Just breathe… take your time."
You don't know how long it takes for your abdominal muscles to relax around the feeling of Junhui inside your guts. When you do, though, you know it's okay to move from the fact that breathing finally comes easily to you again.
"Junhui," you call, clearing your throat. "I want to move now."
"Go ahead, baby," he says, nodding. "I've got you."
He supports you, holding you with so much care as you start with rolling your hips to ease yourself into the feeling of him moving inside you. It's only a few more movements before you're lifting yourself off him and coming back down, the drag of his cock inside you pulling moan after moan out of you.
You bring both palms to either side of Junhui's face, tilting his head up. He looks at you through half-lidded eyes, his pupils vibrating erratically like there's a battle happening inside him. You take shallower thrusts to reach down and connect your lips to Junhui's, eagerly swallowing all the whimpers he makes.
Then, when you break apart, foreheads resting against each other, you look into his eyes and tell him, "Let go, Junhui. Let go for me."
Whatever is happening inside him comes to a head, and the black of his pupils start to seep into the brown, and into the white, spreading until his eyes are a bottomless abyss again. But Junhui's pleasure knows no bounds now, and the perimeter of his room also goes up in white hot blue flames. As his moans get louder, the fire pulses, growing and climbing up the walls and across the ceiling but never burning through anything or getting anywhere close to you.
You groan at the thought of you and your cunt being the cause of this burning loss of control the Devil is experiencing, and it suddenly isn't enough. You tilt your head up, eyes barely focusing on the rippling blue flames dancing above your heads as you lift yourself almost completely off him before crashing back down. The room is a cacophony of skin meeting skin, desperate gasps for air, and whines for more.
"Oh, fuck," Junhui curses, leaning back onto the hand on his bed to support himself as he starts to thrust his hips up to meet yours each time you come back down. The flames ferociously lick every surface of the walls.
"Junnie," you gasp when his movements start to get rough, the feeling of being split open no longer scaring you and suddenly becoming a sensation you're actively chasing. "Feels… feels so good."
"You feel fucking amazing," he tells you with a broken moan. "Made for me."
You nod desperately. "I was." You ride him easily now, smiling when you notice him watching your tits as they bounce in his face with every thrust. "Was made just for you."
"Fuck," he whimpers, the glow of blue fire illuminating just how much he enjoys that. "Say that again. Fucking say that again." His grasp on your waist becomes bruising and it makes the burn in your thighs tolerable as you slam down on him repeatedly.
"This pussy was made for you," you tell him, the words followed by a scream when Junhui suddenly turns the two of you over without warning, leaving you no time to adjust as he starts thrusting into you so fast and hard and violently, you're immediately rendered boneless.
"That's fucking right," he grunts, taking both your hands in his and holding them above your head as his hips piston mercilessly. "Just for me, huh?" You nod wildly. "Your first and your last."
"Junhui!"
He kisses you then, his mouth hungry and impatient and sending an electric sensation straight to your cunt. Almost like he knows what's happening underneath him, he starts grinding his pubic bone hard over your clit to drive you even closer.
"Jun…" You squeeze your eyes shut and your nails carve half moons into his hands. "I'm going to… I'm…"
"Me too, love," he breathes. "So close…"
"Please," you beg, though you're unsure what for. Junhui seems to know somehow because he nods at your pleas. "Please, baby."
"Gonna fill you up," he promises. It isn't until he says that that you realize that's exactly what you're begging for. "Is that what you want? Wanna be pumped full of my cum?"
"Fuck, yes. Yes."
It only takes two more thrusts before your thighs are clamping around his torso hard, the heels of your feet digging into the small of his back as you come. Your walls spasm and suck him in, demanding more of him even as you hug him as close as possible with your legs.
He grunts loudly, fucking you through your orgasm for only a few seconds more before his own hits him. The fire roars and the room is bathed in blue. "Take it, baby," he nearly shouts when he comes inside you. It feels never-ending as he fucks his own cum deeper and deeper into you. "You want it, take it all."
"Junhui," you whimper, feeling him beginning to spill out of you when his cum has nowhere else to go. "No, no, no, no. Please." He hums in question. "Keep it in. Keep it… keep—"
The flames slowly fade to red, calming down to a gentle flicker that's more reminiscent of candlelight than the wild Hellfire used to melt flesh off the bones of damned souls. Junhui's thrusts come to a stop, and he makes sure to go as far into you as he can to seal his seed inside you. You sigh happily at the thought of being full of him.
"Thank you," you mutter, hugging him close. "Thank you."
He peppers everywhere he can reach with kisses—your face, your neck, your hair—careful not to move his lower body so you don't start whining that he's letting his cum drip out of you again.
"How are you?" he asks after he feels that you've caught your breath. "Are you okay?"
You nod. Okay is an understatement. You don't think you've ever felt bliss quite like this. Your body is so loose and pliant and relaxed, and you know it's because you've been so thoroughly and carefully fucked.
"I love you." It's the last thing you say before you unintentionally drift off to sleep.
DAY NINETY-NINE
When you wake up, it's dark and warm, and you've been cleaned and changed into your silk pajamas. You don't doubt that all happened with a snap of Junhui's fingers. You take stock of your body, wincing a little at the soreness between your legs and in your thighs.
"Hey." Junhui's voice is gravelly and thick with sleep. His arms follow close behind his greeting, tightening around your waist and pulling you until your back is flush against his chest.
"Hi," you whisper through a yawn.
"How do you feel?" He plants a kiss on your shoulder. "Does anything hurt?"
"Yes, but it feels good," you tell him honestly. "Really good."
"Good. Now come on. You need to eat."
You immediately shake your head. "No."
"Yes."
"No—hey!" Junhui suddenly disappears from the bed, leaving you without his arms wrapped around you. You shriek when the covers are ripped off you and the eye mask you didn't even know you were wearing vanishes, allowing the lights of Junhui's room to blind you. "Jun!"
"Food time," he hisses, hauling you up and into his arms.
You're seated at the kitchen island before you can register what's happening, a breakfast already cooked and ready for you. You blink at it.
"You cooked?"
"Of course I cooked. When have I not cooked you breakfast?"
You frown, realizing the only time he's ever left you without a meal in the morning was when he was sick. You just shared yourself with Junhui in a way you've never shared yourself with anyone, and still, this makes you blush furiously for some reason.
He smirks but doesn't comment on it. "Eat up, love. We have a lot to talk about."
And he doesn't waste any time, starting as soon as you've put away the last piece of bacon on your plate. The dishes disappear and he sits next to you, fully facing you and resting his arm along the back of your seat. He watches you carefully, a soft smile on his lips as he takes in every bit of you.
"Hi," you say pathetically.
"Hi."
"Thanks for breakfast. And… everything else. It was perfect."
His smile widens drastically, eyes raking over all the exposed bits of skin where he can see the marks he left on you with his mouth. Mercifully, he doesn't say anything about them. "You're perfect. Thank you for trusting me. For sharing that with me."
You blush furiously and look away, ignoring the way it makes him chuckle. "Okay, anyway, what do we need to talk about?"
"Ah. Your contract."
Your stomach sours. You'd forgotten that you two had never finished your conversation. You got so lost in Junhui—or rather, he got lost in you—it didn't occur to you that you still had things to discuss.
"It's important to me that you know I wasn't trying to make you leave," he mutters, reaching forward to brush a strand of hair away from your face. "I think I've made it quite clear how much I do not want you to leave."
You nod, trying not to fidget as you think about how much his reaction to the termination of your contract turned you on. "Well, then… so why do you want me to transfer out?"
"Because you were always going to be mine," he says simply. You raise an eyebrow at him.
"Presumptuous of you."
He shrugs nonchalantly. "So be it. But I knew. And you can't be mine if you work directly under me."
You bark out your laughter, looking at him incredulously. "You mean to tell me… you're willing to hold me hostage and chain me up at home, but you draw the line at fucking your assistant?!"
He purses his lips to keep from smiling at the mere mention of sex with you. He rolls his eyes. "Say what you want, but chaining you up and holding you hostage is kind of par for the course in Hell. Fucking your direct report, though—generally frowned down upon. You moving into another department upon your contract completion would take care of that for me. I just… didn't know how to communicate that without having told you how I felt yet.
"So... I kind of panicked and thought if I just stopped communicating at all, maybe that would quicken the process and you'd just want to transfer on your own sooner, then I could explain myself. I didn't anticipate you threatening to leave Hell altogether. But I can see why my behavior would make you feel like I wanted you to. I'm sorry for that."
You hum, nodding as you process this information. "See, this is why you need to go to therapy. You probably could've figured that out before I had a meltdown, sobbing to a demon in the mail room."
He frowns. "You cried?" You shrug. "And who the fuck did you cry to?"
You scoff. "You're such a jealous person."
"I am not jealous."
"You buried Minghao under so much work, the man won't even look at me anymore."
"Good. That's the point."
You roll your eyes but can't help the feeling of satisfaction that blooms in your chest at that. You'll never admit to him how much his possessiveness pleases you.
"I'm sorry again," he says. "For making you cry."
You shake your head. "It was a misunderstanding. I'm sorry for goading you into your own little meltdown."
He glares at you. "Don't ever do that again. I was this close to leaving you mid-sentence to go eviscerate Joshua. That would've been incredibly unfortunate." You raise your eyebrows at the understatement. "Did you really call my parents?"
You nod, smiling. "Yes. They're lovely. I didn't tell them anything, though. Just called under the guise that I was updating all of your contacts."
He laughs, shaking his head. "You're insane."
"I didn't know how else to get you to admit you wanted me to stay."
Junhui sighs, cupping a hand behind your neck and reaching forward to kiss you like he needs to remind you immediately that he does want you to stay.
"Of course I want you to stay," he says as he releases you. "You don't want to see what I'd do if you left."
"I can imagine," you say, amused.
"You can't," he disagrees, shaking his head. The seriousness in his voice doesn't scare you, though. It just turns you on all over again. "But we won't have to worry about that. Right?"
You shake your head. "Nope. Not unless you randomly decide to push me away again." He groans, resting his forehead on your shoulder and sighing. "I'm kidding, Junhui. We're fine. Your ranking of what's immoral is a little skewed, but we're fine."
He raises his head and glares at you. "Chains in Hell are normal."
"Sure."
"Fucking your direct report is not."
"You technically just did."
He winces. "Well, that's what we need to talk about."
Your heart jumps. "What do you mean…?"
Junhui reaches over to hold your hand, threading your fingers together. "You're going to have to transfer before your mortal death, darling."
"What…?" you ask, crestfallen. "But… I…"
"Hey, hey, hey," he calls, standing and pulling your bar stool so that it's facing him. He pushes your legs apart so he can stand between them and take your face in his hands. "You're still going to live here for as long as you want. You're still going to see me as much as you want. You're still going to be mine, and I'm still going to be yours. You're not going to be without me, okay?"
Your breathing slows, the Devil effectively quelling your growing panic before it even becomes anything real. "Okay."
"Yeah?"
You nod. "Yeah… yes. I'm still going to have you and my friends and my job and everything I love." And you're still going to have therapy to help you remember that.
He hums in affirmation. "Yes you are. You're going to have everything you've ever wanted and will want. I'll make sure of it."
Your cheeks grow hot and you turn in a weak attempt to hide it. But your face is still in Junhui's hold, so he guides your gaze back to his. He smiles fondly at the pink dusting your cheeks and bends down to press a kiss to both.
"I love you," he says, looking deeply into your eyes when he says it. "No matter where in Hell you are and no matter what role you're in. I love you and you have me."
You smile up at him, closing your eyes as you nod. You feel his lips touch your eyelids before they press against your mouth. He tastes like coffee and ghost pepper chips and you fight to keep from laughing in his face because of it.
"What?" he murmurs, feeling the amusement in your lips.
"Nothing," you say, shaking your head. "I love you, Junhui. Now take me back to bed."
"Gladly."
DAY ONE HUNDRED
THE INFERNAL ADMINISTRATION OF HELL
Office of Internal Communications
Memorandum
Executive Leave
Please be advised that His Infernal Majesty and his Chief of Staff will be out of office on approved executive leave for the next week.
During this period:
Do not attempt to summon His Infernal Majesty for matters deemed "urgent" unless they are apocalyptic
Matters involving routine damnation, contract approvals, ritual inquiries, plague authorizations, and standard temptations should continue through normal channels
Ouija Board communications from minors should be redirected to and screened by the Community Outreach Desk
Please note that executive leave is not to be interpreted as an invitation to stage a coup.
Additionally, His Infernal Majesty would like to announce an organizational restructuring. Upon her return from executive leave, Y/N will transition from the position of Chief of Staff to Director of Contract Negotiations.
In her new role, Y/N will oversee:
High-value mortal negotiations
Executive-level contract drafting and review
Treaty negotiations with celestial representatives
Appeals involving legacy soul agreements
Cross-departmental bargaining strategy
Y/N will now report to the Chief Torment and Innovation Officer.
A message from His Infernal Majesty:
"Y/N has demonstrated exceptional judgment, professionalism, and integrity throughout her tenure as Chief of Staff. This move reflects not only her accomplishments, but the confidence I place in her continued leadership. She has my full authority in all matters pertaining to infernal negotiations."
Please join Executive Leadership in congratulating Y/N on her well-earned advancement and wishing both executives a restful leave. (Fun Fact: The last time His Infernal Majesty took more than three consecutive days away from the office, the Byzantine Empire still existed!)
We appreciate your patience as he attempts this exciting new experience known as "relaxing."
This memorandum has been reviewed and approved by the Office of Internal Communications and His Infernal Majesty.
summary: vernon's inner monologue about his feelings for you.
tags: vernon x reader. pure fluff, secretly in love!vernon, down bad!vernon, vernon's very fond of reader.
He noticed you shivering, biting your lips to keep them warm as the cool night air began to settle in. He saw you get goosebumps with every cold breeze, pretending not to be cold by focusing on Soonyoung’s silly conversation to distract yourself from the sharp, dry sensation on your skin.
He knew you weren’t going to say anything, and Soonyoung, immersed in his ideas, wouldn’t spot your shoulders uncomfortably shifting more often than usual. You were too stubborn to admit that he was right when he told you, “The weather’s been acting up lately, y’know? Especially at night. I don’t think it is a good idea to go out on that top, you’ll freeze”, when he picked you up.
“Don’t worry, Nonnie, I’ll be fine”, you answered simply, fixing your top.
You saw through the mirror his raised eyebrows, the question “are you sure?” in his expression.
“I’ll be ok, really!” you reassured him once again, “besides, I was looking forward to using this top since I bought it. It looks good on me, right? This color suits me well, don’t you think?”
He nodded and blinked just once, thinning his lips. That was enough confirmation for you, and you left together to meet the rest of your friend group.
Vernon, silent with his affections as always, took off his jacket and placed it over your shoulders without exchanging a single word, just a knowing look in his eyes that hung an implicit “told you”, then looked away, hands in his pockets. You smiled widely, nervously, like caught red-handed, but still thanked him under your breath. And he just nodded.
He did that very often, nodding and looking away.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to look at you; in fact, he was constantly watching you. That’s how he noticed things, and if it was up to him, he would never tear his eyes off of you. But Vernon couldn’t afford to let you know how much attention he paid to you. Primarily because that attention usually came with a million fake scenarios that he would reproduce over and over again at 2:00 a.m, when he couldn’t sleep, or throughout the day when he tried to concentrate on his job.
Sometimes he gets so shy about his delusions that he thinks about the massive amount of shame he’d feel if you could read his mind. Because, what would you think if you ever knew the way his chest filled with hope when he thought about the faint scent of your perfume sticking in his jacket? He was practically manifesting it.
His rib cage felt tight when he saw you snuggling in it. “Cute… In my clothes…” he thought, and just for a fleeting moment, he let himself imagine that his jacket warming up your body on a windy night was a claim. That it was him telling everyone that you were his.
He would also let out an insanely bright smile when looking at you doing something silly every so often, but it was not very common. Now, he was on the very edge of allowing one of those smiles to show. Yet, it did not matter how hard he tried to hold it back; before he noticed it, he already had that foolish smile on his face.
He shook his head as his smile grew wider after Seungkwan nudged his right arm with a knowing look in his eyes. Seokmin appeared from his left side, patting his left shoulder and looking at him just like Seungkwan.
Was he so evident? Damn, he was so screwed.
Repost from my previous writing blog aj-cupid. I'm not stealing! I hope you enjoy. <3
PAIRING: Detective!Mingyu x f. Reader
SUMMARY: In a city where technology makes it possible to shed your body as easily as changing clothes, Mingyu has built his reputation hunting criminals who disappear behind new faces. So when you become the prime suspect in a brutal string of serial murders, he should have no trouble closing the case. Except... the more he investigates you, the less he's convinced you're guilty.
TEASER WC: 2.3k
AU: Cyberpunk, Mystery, Crime
GENRE: Strangers to Lovers, some angst, smut
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.
TEASER WARNINGS: This teaser contains vivid depiction of a dead body that has been intentionally disfigured/messed with by a serial killer - I will call this body horror simply because I want to play it on the safe side, mention of dead bodies in general, depiction of gore and blood (in the dead body scene), bodies being referenced to as 'Skins' because replacing the body is possible in this world, lots of commentary on wealth gap, lots of references to how humanity just doesn't care about human livelihood the same way it did once, mentions of deep poverty, mentions of throw away Skins (bodies) being dumped in an alleyway, Mingyu is kind of emo, Mingyu is a cigarette smoker because what is a detective fic without cigarette smoking
A/N: This is for the Cyberpunk: Reload Collab hosted by @studiosvt and I could not be more excited to be bringing this to you! This is heavily inspired by Altered Carbon, Ghost in the Shell, and Blade Runner. This fic is a bit gritty in the visuals so I apologize for the gory bits when Mingyu is investigating murders, but that comes with the genre a little.
AN 2: Thank you to the beautiful, wonderful, talented, show stopping, ground breaking, earth shattering, amazing, beautiful, perfect @joshujin for this AMAZING banner because I hated all the ones I made and Trixie is an angel muah.
DROP DATE: Sunday, July 19
MAIN M. LIST | ASK | CYBERPUNK: RELOAD M. LIST
it has been said that something as small as the flutter of a butterfly's wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world.
- chaos theory
"THE BUTTERFLY EFFECT IS A PRINCIPLE IN CHAOS THEORY THAT STATES THAT SMALL, SEEMINGLY INSIGNIFICANT CHANGES IN INITIAL CONDITIONS CAN TRIGGER MASSIVE, UNPREDICTABLE, AND VASTLY DIFFERENT OUTCOMES IN COMPLEX SYSTEMS-"
Mingyu knows what the butterfly effect is. In fact, the exact audio recording playing on loop throughout the penthouse apartment is the same audio that's been haunting his dreams and the moments of almost sleep he's been having at his desk while filling out piles and piles of paperwork at the station.
Now, the audio is playing again at the third crime scene in as many months, and he's had it.
"Turn that shit off," he barks, walking through the flickering holograph of the caution barrier. His legs disrupt the light only for a second, shadows bounding off the walls as he enters the main living area. "I'm tired of hearing about the fucking butterfly effect."
He was tired of researching it, too. Researching why a serial killer would leave the same recording playing at each crime scene over and over again, researching what the murders could possibly have to do with one another. So far, the first five victims have no connection to one another, nothing that clues Mingyu into what's going on beyond the same audio on loop. He doesn't expect this sixth victim will have any connection to their predecessors, but he has to try.
A grisly scene paints the penthouse. It's a nicer home than anything Mingyu will ever afford with floor-to-cieling windows that overlook the neon smear of the city. Rain blurs against the glass, turning the glow beyond to a muted opaque color that clashes with the bright caution banners and the lights of the investigative unit called to the scene.
The penthouse reeks of the metallic tang of blood and the faint tang of the chemicals the collection team uses to take samples all around the apartment. The victim lies splayed across the massive obsidian coffee table in the main entertainment area, arms and legs extended at unnatural angles. It's a male body, the torso filleted open from sternum to pelvis with surgical precision, the ribs cracked outward like grotesque wings.
Mingyu has seen five of these now. Each one has been more elaborate than the last. Each one leaves him with the same hollow frustrating gnawing at his gut.
"Lee," he barks at the lead forensic tech hovering nearby. "Anything different this time? Prints? Core signature? A confession, perhaps?"
Chan shakes his head, his rain-slicked jacket shedding beads of water onto the floor. "Same as the others. No prints, and the audio rig is the same ghost job as the last. The victim owns the building, his name is Harlan Voss. He got a new Skin a few weeks ago at Sync Corp. Nice model, nothing too extreme."
Mingyu crouches beside the table, his boots squelching in the thin layer of blood that has spread across the marble. Through the windows, the city pulses below, bright signs for body rental shops and upgrade clinics flashing in the downpour. Towering buildings disappear into the clouds, connected by old elevated trains that rattle in the distance.
Mingyu looks at the body. Chan had said the Skin upgrade was nothing too extreme, but in a world where people swap bodies regularly, the word extreme has lost most of its value, especially for people like Harlan Voss who are wealthy enough to transfer the Core implanted in their brain stem to a new body anytime they want.
It makes permanent death uncommon for people of this caliber. Mingyu tilts his head to the side, examining the back of Harlan's neck where his Core is. Like the others, it's damaged, which means Harlan is dead dead. No transferring his Core to a new body after the death of this one, no regeneration.
It unsettles something deep in Mingyu like satisfaction, and he pushes it down. He has no time to be disgusted by the Skin jumping of the wealthy while the people below scrap together money to upgrade their Skins to something new or broken just for the prestige of doing it.
Mingyu pushes up to his feet, joints popping and back aching. He groans - unlike the dead victim in front of him, he can't pay to have the tiny device buried in his neck to be transferred to some upgraded flashy skin. One would assume that as law enforcement, he'd get some kind of special discount or offers to enhance his speed, strength or something, but Mingyu has quickly learned that only the wealthy benefit from anything in this city.
He looks around the room slowly, eyes scanning for anything out of place. A broken glass on the bar counter. A half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey tipped over, mixing with the blood into a pink mess. Framed pictures on the walls show vacation spots in brighter cities, the kind most people only see in ads. One frame lies smashed on the floor, exposing basic wiring behind the fancy cover. Typical rich place that looks expensive on top but cheap underneath.
"Why butterflies?" Mingyu mutters to himself. "Chaos theory. One small change leads to big results. Like a butterfly flapping its wings and starting a storm somewhere else."
The killer isn't hiding the message. Each killing has happened once a month - not on a perfect timing, but approximate. Each scene is bigger - more wing shapes, more lights, the same audio. But the victims are never the same and thus far, there's no link between them. No shared friends, no common jobs, nothing on the basic records. A nobody found in a cheap rental unit. An escort pulled from a job. Nothing ties them together except this ritual.
But Mingyu doesn't know what this ritual is.
Frustration burns in his chest. Five months of this, nights bleeding into days at the station, staring at paper files and holoscreens while rain water leaks onto his desk. His own body feels worn out - aches deep in his joints, eyes burning constantly from lack of sleep. Unlike the dead man in front of him, Mingyu can't afford a new Skin on a detective's pay.
"Detective Kim?" Chan calls, voice unsure. Mingyu spins on his heel to find Chan crouched by the body, holding a small device in his hand near the core in the victim's neck. "I think the core is damaged but not dead."
"What?"
Mingyu strides over, his long legs making it easy. Chan crouches lower, the glasses on his face sliding down his sweaty nose. Mingyu leans over, tilting his head as Chan gently nudges the victim's head to turn it more. The Core is exposed to the elements and cut, like the attacker had been cutting it out to kill it, but as it catches the light, there's a small blip of cyan along the side, flickering as it tries to regain connectivity.
"Holy shit," Mingyu whispers. "If it's still alive, can you re-gen this guy?"
"Maybe, but it's potentially damaged enough that he would come back with high-level personality disorders or other cognitive issues. We might be able to repair enough to access memory or information, though." Chan hesitates. "Legal might get involved. If he's got family or others left behind, they might demand the Core be delivered to them to figure out what to do with it or refuse access to us."
Mingyu's hums, thoughtful. The possibility of interference is higher than he'd like to admit. In the few cases that Mingyu has dealt with the elite, their spouses or family left behind have always been nearly impossible in active investigations. He's since learned that those who sit in gilded glass towers have more to hide than the criminals crawling on the ground, and they'd rather a case go cold than unearth their secrets.
"Are we required to notify them?" Mingyu asks, glancing at Chan.
"Yes?"
"What if we only found it was discovered functional later in a proper autopsy."
Chan looks uncomfortable for a moment before nodding. "Yeah. That would make sense."
"Autopsies get delayed, right?" Chan sighs and Mingyu grins, slapping him on the back as he stands again. "Glad we understand each other, Lee. Take care of this while I walk around the area, yeah?"
"Yes, Detective."
Mingyu leaves the apartment and takes the stairs instead of the elevator, his knees protesting with each step. The exercise feels good though, so he jogs down the winding stairs, mind racing. By the time he reaches the ground level, he's sore and his heart is pounding, both reminders that he's human and that he's in his natural body, two things he's grown to be proud of.
The lobby is sleek, made up of polished obsidian and soft blue recessed lighting. Mingyu strolls through the automatic doors, the air locks hissing as he lets himself out into the rain, shoes tapping wetly on the pavement.
Reaching into his pocket, he fishes out a cigarette - an ancient, old world habit in comparison to the sleek vapes most people use - and sticks it between his lips, digging around his pocket for a lighter. He finds it and flicks it, the orange flame licking upward as he lights the cigarette, taking a brief drag. The flame catches and he flicks it shut, taking a heavy drag and lets the smoke settle in his lungs before he exhales into the neon smear of rain.
The street level is quieter this time of night, most of the storefronts closed, their holographic signs still flickering anyway. The street is full of advertising and marketing for Skin modification services, Core implant repairs, temporary Skin rentals for people too poor to own one permanently but desperate enough to spend a night as someone else.
Neon bleeds across the wet pavement in streaks of magenta and cyan, reflecting off the rain to create a blurry kaleidoscope of light that makes Mingyu's eyes water as he takes another drag, flicking ash into a puddle where it melts.
He walks, letting his feet guide him around the perimeter of the building, cool raing tapping down on his head and neck like soft fingers. He doesn't bother with an umbrella, the rain sliding off his jacket as he examines the exterior, cigarette wedged between his lips.
The neighborhood is a mix of high-rises towering over strip malls, luxury boutiques selling pricey mods next to hole-in-the-wall clinics offering illegal and questionable upgrades. It's one of common liminal spaces in the city where the almost wealthy clash with the lower glass, each fighting for dominance on the ground while the megaliths of the city exist in their towers far above.
Mingyu wonders what the rest of them look like from on high. He imagines that they can't even see people like him, rotting beneath the clouds and scurrying around like ants beneath a boot that's constantly waiting to step on them. Mingyu has been stepped on plenty of times, but he hasn't died yet and he doesn't plan on it now, heading to the back alleyway behind the building.
Dumpsters filled with broken tech litter the alleyway, but Mingyu pauses when he sees a bunch of old, rotted Skins. He lifts his arm, covering his face with it to ward off the smell. Skins are still bodies - they're still organic material like any other living organism, and they break down the same way. Seeing tossed Skins isn't uncommon, especially near body-mod shops, but Mingyu is unsettled to see them just tossed, flies buzzing around them.
Pulling out his phone, he dials Chan up stairs. "Send a team down to the back alley, there's discarded Skins. None of them look fresh or functional, but maybe our killer tosses theirs."
"On it."
"Also have someone dispose of these before someone wanders around and tries to take them. They're rotted beyond use, the last thing we need is some kind of infection going around because people are re-genning bad Skins."
"Understood."
Mingyu hangs up the phone and takes the final drag of his cigarette before flicking it toward the dumpster. He continues on his way, searching - for what he doesn't know. Something. Anything. He just wants to find something to help him unravel the mystery upstairs, something he's missed previously.
As always, he finds nothing except the smell of wet concrete and biological decay, the distant hum of an elevated train line cutting through the noise somewhere. He circles back to the front of the building and finds himself looking upward. The building is a vertical monument to wealth that juts up into the rain-soaked sky, but it's got nothing on the monstrosities the corporation owners and mega-rich of the city live in.
The rain grows heavier, coming down in sheets. Mingyu slips under the overhang in front of the building, watching as the world vanishes to a blur of light behind the rain. From here, he knows the city by heart - it spreads out in layers, the commercial district with aggressive neon signage, the old industrial zones still smoking from plants that are ready to collapse any minute, and beyond, the entertainment and wealthy districts.
Trains arc across the space between buildings while autonomous vehicles move through the streets in perfect formation, headlights occasionally cutting through the dark toward him as they pass by the building.
They city pulses on despite the death upstairs, the desperation and money and excess and filth all tangled together, and somewhere in it, is the person Mingyu is hunting, the butterfly that haunts his dreams and all of the hours in between.
Mingyu sighs, jaw clenched as he watches the rain, the same words on loop in his head: The butterfly effect is a principle chaos theory that states that small, seemingly insignificant changes in initial conditions can trigger massive, unpredictable, and vastly different outcomes in complex systems.
PAIRING: Guard!Junhui x Oracle!Reader
SUMMARY: Your entire life has been plagued by visions and by an emperor who wields you like a weapon. When you've finally had enough, you ask the single man sworn to protect you for help you're not sure he's willing to give.
WC: 10,640
AU: Fantasy
GENRE: Forbidden romance, mild angst, smut
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 suffers from the after effects of visions which make her sick, vomit, faint, etc. She also sees visions of war, death, destruction and some mild description of gore, depictions of anxiety and fear, the emperor is obviously evil and cruel, perception of unrequited love, some mild angst and pining, the emperor does hit reader a single time, depictions of blood (her nose bleeds a lot), some kind of stupid world building re: gender roles and prophecy being tied to virginity that I do NOT endorse aka I don't believe power is tied to purity it's just for the plot ok, unprotected sex, oral (f. receiving) reader is a virgin so brief moment where that shit hurts, some mild praise and v v v barely there dirty talk, vaginal finger, multiple orgasms, ummm I think that's it this is very loving and tame.
A/N: This is for my milestone requests that I posted and then immediately went on hiatus because that's the way tumblr works! This is for @haologram who requested number 8 with Junhui :) ALSO please don't get used to the 10k word counts for these this was kind of unusual and I felt inspired and shout out to the movie The Scorpion King for the idea
AN 2: This is not beta read so I’m sorry - there will definitely be mistakes! I did proof read/spelling and grammar check but I often miss a lot! Also I was too lazy to make a banner lmfao
MAIN M. LIST | ASK | FOR MY MILESTONE EVENT
FIRST COMES THE SILENCE. It's your only warning as the world peels away from you, the murmur of the court fading to the background until even the sound of voices are lost to the stillness. The warmth leeches from you next, a cold tingle blooming through you like spreading frost in winter, your arms getting heavy. You sit abruptly as the world shifts and the throne room fades to something else, something wet and freezing cold.
Rain.
Rain is falling in relentless sheets that are so cold it hurts, even through the vision. In front of you is a battledfield churned to a sea of black mud, cut up by boots and the hooves of war horses and the deep wheels of the machines of war. Broken wagons lie half-stuck in the mud, their splintered wheels jutting up from the chaos, some still spinning. Banners in colors lost to the black mud with symbols you can't make out in the rain hang in sodden ribbons, snapped from their poles.
The smell chokes you. Wet earth. Wood smoke. Blood. So much blood that it fills your mouth, warm and metallic. You cough, falling forward into the vision so that your knees hit the mud with a wet squelch. Your hand catches on metal and when you look down, the broken body of a soldier is beneath you. His throat is a scarlet gash, opened up from a sword, his eyes vacant and staring at the rainy sky.
You recoil, snatching your hand away as you fall backward into the rain, ass sinking into the mud. Somewhere to your left, a horse screams, high and shrill until the sound is abruptly cut off. A man a few yards away crawls through the mud with a single arm, the other several yards behind him where the fingers are still curled around the hilt of a broken sword. He drags himself toward you as though he's asking for help, and you scream and look away.
The world tilts and your vision changes abruptly, each image overlapping the other in flashes of light and sound. Thousands of bodies. A river choked with them. A bridge with the banners of the northern king. The emperor - your emperor- on his war chariot, the wheels turning as he crosses the bridge.
Suddenly, the vision releases you. You crash forward, wood striking your knees hard enough that you cry out as your hands shoot out. Your palms skid across the ground, stinging as skin tears open. Bile burns at the back of your throat and you taste the blood before you realize you've bitten your tongue again, the iron taste in your mouth real. You feel the wet warmth of blood as it trickles from your nose, splattering too brightly against the dark wood beneath you.
The wooden floor is cold beneath you as your vision swims and the throne room reassembles itself. You look up to see the wooden pillars that vanish into a vaulted ceiling with incense burning in their holders. Torches and braziers fill the room with heat, the orange flames licking along the twisted metal and casting long shadows across the waiting courtiers. Everything feels too bright and too sharp and you wince, the headache behind your eyes hammering you as soon as the vision fades in full.
Someone kneels beside you and you know without looking that it's Junhui, the smell of vetiver and cedar comforting with the taste of blood and salt in your mouth. His hands find you first, fingers calloused from sword work as they wrap around your hands, steadying you. The touch grounds you and pulls you back from the battlefield that's turned to the headache stabbing in your skull.
When you don't pull away from him, Junhui slides one arm behind your shoulders and the other beneath your knees, hauling you up and into his arms as though you weigh nothing at all. He's careful when he sets you on your feet, hands braced on your biceps as you sway a little. You're vaguely aware of how close he is, lashes fluttering as you look up at him.
"You okay?" He asks, voice soft.
Before you can answer, the emperor demands, "What did you see?"
You don't look at him. Looking at him only makes things worse. Instead, you stare in the distance as you taste the copper dripping from your nose.
"The north," you murmur. Each word costs you, your head throbbing, vision blurry as the headache grows. "The northern kingdom."
Beside you, Junhui presses his hand to the small of your back. It's barely there, but it's something, your heart fluttering as his thumb moves in small circles, grounding. You don't know if anyone else notices, but you notice, and that's all that matters.
"You'll invade at the height of the rainy season," you continue as your ears begin to ring. "When the rivers are high and the roads turn to mud from the rains. You'll win."
The throne room erupts into applause and cheers as the courtiers shout in triumph. Soldiers pound their fists against their armor, and the emperor rises in your peripheral vision, spreading his arms as he laughs, the sound booming across the room. The firelight from the braziers seems to brighten with their glee, the shadows dancing across the pillars as smoke drifts in the rafters from the incense.
You want to vomit as the nausea rises sharply and suddenly. You press a hand to your mouth and Junhui notices immediately - of course he does. He always notices. His hand slides around your waist and pulls you toward him, steadying you as he angles you so that his body shields you from the worst of the light and sound.
"Your Imperial Majesty," Junhui says, bowing deeply. The emperor turns to stare at him, cheeks ruddy and red from the heat of the hall and the glee. "If I may, the Sacred needs to rest. The vision has taken much from her. Might I escort her to her chambers?"
Sacred. You hate the title. Hate that it chains you to the emperor you've just predicted another victory for, so long as he attacks at the precise time that you've instructed. You've been his sword and shield since you were a little girl gifted to him and his growing empire, helping him knock his opponents off the board one by one.
You hate him. You hate him more than you hate yourself for being useful to him, but you have no other options. He hates you too, you think. Beyond being a cruel man, he's as shrewd as they come. You don't think any of your glares go unnoticed, and though you think he'd love to revel in your misery, he's careful with you, too afraid to break you and lose access to the future you promise.
He waves a hand dismissively, turning back to the crowd. "Yes, yes, take her. We have plans to make. The rainy season is coming soon and we have to make preparations immediately."
Junhui doesn't hesitate, his hand urging you toward the great doors at the far end of the throne room. You lean into him more than you mean to, your legs unsteady beneath you as the smell of the hinoki incense cling to your robes.
Behind you, the celebration continues, growing louder as the emperor orders courtesans and entertainment. You're grateful when the doors close behind you with a heavy thud to muffle the noise, leaving only the muffled quiet and the cool winds of winter rustling the trees in the imperial courtyard.
Junhui's thumb traces small circles against your side, another one of those small gestures that's just for you. They are few and far between, so you hoard them like a gluttonous child hiding mooncakes in their pockets, determined to keep them for your darkest days. You know it means nothing - not the way you want it to. He's kind to you because it's his duty and because someone must be. Because perhaps he pities the broken oracle who bleeds for an emperor who doesn't deserve victory.
Still, you let yourself cling to these moments anyway, your small fantasies of romance and being stolen away keeping you from going mad.
The cold air hits your face, sharp and biting. It does nothing for the pounding in your skull and if anything, the headache splits deeper, a white-hot spike driving through bone with each step you take. Your stomach lurches as bile floods the back of your throat, bitter and burning. The courtyard tilts, the bare branches of the plum trees blurring into dark streaks against winter grey as you start to tip over.
Junhui catches you before you lose your footing in full, arms sliding beneath your knees and around your back to haul you up and against his chest. You want to protest as he cradles you against him, but another wave of nausea hits you and all you can do is press your face against the cool leather of his armor and hope you don't retch all over him and embarrass yourself forever.
"I've got you," he murmurs, voice low and right against your ear. "Just hold on."
He moves quickly through the courtyard. You're aware of his footsteps and the rustle of fabric, the soft sound of his breathing. The world narrows and becomes only the warmth of his body and the steady beating of his heart against your cheek.
Your chambers are in the eastern wing, far enough from the celebration that it fades to nothing as he walks. He shoulders open the red lacquer door to your room and carries you inside to the smell of sandalwood and jasmine.
The chambers provided to you are modest, silk screens painted with cranes and willows, a low platform bed draped in pale green silk and piled high with soft blankets and pillows. The latticed window let the winter sun filter, the delicate shadows dappled across the polished wooden floor. It's the only space in the palace that is entirely yours, and you crave it, spending most of the days in the dark as the pain in your head recedes.
Junhui lowers you onto your bed like your spun of glass before he arranges the cushions behind your back, propping you up so you're half-reclined. His hands linger at your shoulders for half a second before pulling away, and you miss his warmth immediately.
"Wait here," he instructs.
"As if I could do anything else."
He huffs, amused as he crosses to the small table near the window. He opens a porcelain pitcher and pours it into a wooden basin. You let your eyes close, the sound of his hands in the water the only sound. He crosses back toward you and when you open your eyes, he's kneeling at your bedside and reaching out with a cool, damp cloth to press against your head.
You can't stop the small sound that escapes you. The relief is immediate. It isn't enough, of course, but it's something and something is better than nothing.
When he puts it down, he gestures to your robe. "Your outer robe is making you overheart. Maybe I?"
You nod, too exhausted to care about prosperity or about rules. Junhui has seen you more vulnerable than anyone else has the right to, and you know it means nothing untoward as his fingers work on the clasps and ties with practiced efficiency, never lingering where he shouldn't.
He eases the heavy brocade from your shoulders, leaving the lighter inner layers. You can breathe again, feeling the winter air that slips through the cracks kiss your overheated skin. You sigh in relief, leaning back onto the pillows as he folds the robe and sets it aside before turning his attention back to you.
Taking the cloth up again, he leans forward and wipes at the dried blood under your nose and on your chin, his touch so gentle it makes your heart squeeze, the feeling inside of you that you refuse to name cracking open a little more. When he's satisfied, he leans back on his heels, watching you.
"You don't have to do this," you mutter, head falling back on the pillows as you stare up at the ceiling. Your head still hurts, thoughts swimming. "The emperor didn't assign you to nursemaid duty."
"My duty is to you," he says sharply. "Not to the emperor or court or anything else. It's to keep you safe and keep you well. That's all that matters to me. This counts."
You love that he says it. You hate that he says it. His words are both burden and balm, and he has no idea how much you want to believe them, how much you want to let yourself imagine that this devotion means what your foolish heart wishes it could mean. That you wish that when he touches you with tenderness, it's because he wants to and not because he must.
But you know better - you always have. The ancient scrolls about oracles - the Sacreds - have always been clean that oracles should remain untouched and unspoiled, pure in body and spirit. The moment an oracle is touched and spoiled by the intimacy only known between lovers or concubines, they become nothing more than ordinary women.
The emperor has no use for ordinary women. The moment you are anything less than the Sacred, he'll toss you out or worse - keep you as something to spoil and besot and remind you how far you've fallen from graze.
You accept Junhui's care because you're selfish enough to want it, even though it means nothing. You let him adjust the blanket around you and smooth the hair back from your damp forehead, and you let yourself pretend for a moment that this is a moment born of love rather than duty, and that you can have this. That you can have him.
"Thank you," you whisper, though you know he doesn't realize what for.
Your eyes close against the sting of the day, your headache taking over. His hand finds yourself beneath the blanket and his fingers thread through yours gently as he squeezes.
"Rest," he says softly. "I'll be here."
You nod and feel the weight of exhaustion pull you under, dreaming that his sweeping thumb across the back of your hand is because he loves you, and not because it's his duty.
-
Voices wake you. Junhui's voice is raised above them all, cutting through an argument like a blade. You open your eyes, the dark outside your window telling you that the sun has not yet risen. You sit up slowly and the room spins, the dull ache behind your eye and neck telling you that you're not yet free of your earlier vision's repercussions.
"She needs rest," Junhui snarls. "The visions are demanding and he has asked for them more and more. You will not-"
"The emperor has summoned her," someone else answers. "We have our orders."
"And I have mine. Yours can wait until morning."
"It is morning."
"It's barely beyond midnight!"
Your body still feels hollowed out, mouth dry and skin sweaty. You think you've only been asleep for a few hours, but you push yourself up onto your elbow, pausing as the room sways. When it stops, you get up and head to the door, opening it so that a sliver of the torchlight from the hallway falls across your room.
Junhui turns to you at once, his face twisted in anger. He blocks your doorway, his body a wall between you and the three imperial guards standing in the corridor beyond. Their armor gleams in the firelight, lacquered black and red, the emperor's colors. They don't care that you can barely walk or that your hands are shaking. They only care about their orders.
"You should be resting," Junhui growls. "I will handle-"
"It doesn't matter." You meet his eyes and see frustration burning there, a helplessness that you feel too. "If the emperor summons me, I go."
"You can barely stand."
"I must manage."
"You shouldn't have to."
"Can you help me dress properly?" You whisper the question for only him to hear, the other guards lingering.
For a moment, Junhui's eyes flash, something unreadable crossing his face so quickly it's there before you can understand. He nods tightly once and pushes inside, not letting the guards catch a glimpse of you before he shoulders the door shut.
Darkness swallows the room. You stand on unsteady feet as Junhui rummages around for a match before lighting a candle with a single strike. The orange glow makes him look haunting, sharp features sharper, eyes so dark they reflect the light of the candle back while he moves around the room.
He moves efficiently, retrieving a new robe from your wardrobe. It's deep blue silk embroidered with silver cranes, one of your favorites. He crosses the room toward you and you lift your arms a little as he settles it over your shoulders, helping you pull your arms through before he's tying off laces.
When he's finished, he grabs a single comb, gathering your hair low at your neck to twist it up and give you some breathing room. Cool air brushes against the back of your neck and you're grateful.
"There," he mutters, standing in front of you.
"I'm ready."
It's a lie. You feel like you're made of paper, like someone could blow you away or cut right through you. But you remain standing anyway, and Junhui sighs, hand sliding to the small of your back as he guides you in the candlelight toward the door and into the hallway.
Neither of the guards acknowledge you. They simply begin walking, expecting you to follow. You do, and Junhui stays close, his hand never leaving your back, his grip firm enough that you can lean into him whenever the room tilts and becomes unsteady again.
The walk to the throne room feels endless. Each step sends an unsteady feeling up through your legs, and though the sharp pain of earlier is gone from your skull, the dull ache that remains isn't much better.
Your stomach churns with anxiety as you walk through winding halls. You know that the emperor has summoned you for another vision. He's done it over and over more recently, each promised victory and small win making him hungry for more, making him addicted to the future, to moves and countermoves.
Winter air bites at you as you cross the courtyard. Junhui pulls you closer and you smell him, vetiver and cedar. His body blocks most of the cold, and you lean into him, seeking heat. He lets you as the guards lead you to the throne room doors, the massive panels of dark wood bound with iron looming ahead.
The guards push the doors open and the familiar scent of hinoki incense washes over you, mixing with the acrid smoke of the burning braziers in the hall. At the end of the hall, the emperor sits on his throne, leaning forward in his seat, fingers drumming against the carved armrest.
There is no court this time - just a small handful of advisors and generals standing in clusters along the pillars, which means this isn't spectacle. It's business. Nervousness settles sourly in your stomach as you approach, footsteps echoing on the polished wood floor. Junhui's hand stays at your back until you reach the proper distance where he steps aside - but not far. Never far, even in the presence of the emperor.
You lower yourself into a bow and your knees nearly give out. Junhui is there in an instant, his hands firmly on your waist to keep you from falling forward onto your face as the room spins. You grimace through it, hands clutching your sleeves as you take a few deep breaths to regain composure.
"Your Imperial Majesty," you manage. "I'm here."
"Finally. I've been waiting."
You straighten slowly with Junhui's help and meet the emperor's eyes. They're dark and calculating, fixed on where Junhui's hands remain for a moment before he steps a respectful distance away once more. A needle of fear stabs at the back of your neck, sharp and cool.
"I want to know about the Free Isles," the emperor says. "Can we take them immediately after the northern kingdom, when they think they're safe? With the resources from the north, they should be no match for me."
Your heart sinks. The Free Isles are a chain of islands far to the northeast, fiercely independent and protected by treacherous waters and storms that only northern ships are made to cut through. The emperor has wanted them for years, but has never had the ships to take them. Of course he wishes to take them as soon as he has ships, the greed and desire to plant his flag on free shores insatiable.
You lick your lips. "I may not be able to see right now, Your Imperial Majesty. Using the gift this close together-"
"I don't care about your discomfort." He waves a hand dismissively. "I care about the future of my empire. Now look. Tell me what you see."
Behind you, Junhui tenses. You stare at the emperor and see no room for argument, no mercy. You knew he was not a merciful man the way he conquered lands, but you hadn't expected him to risk damaging you like this.
Nodding, you close your eyes, taking a deep breath to calm yourself. You hate reaching for visions - oftentimes they come at random, seizing you when you're in a crowded room or alone in the bathing room. Sometimes they take you faster than you can summon them. But reaching for them feels like reaching into a wound every time, painful and sharp.
Pain explodes behind your eyes, white-hot and blinding as you dip into the well of your power. You feel your nose start to bleed again from the force, hot copper flooding your mouth. Your own heartbeat hammers too fast, too loud, thundering in your ears like the emperor's war drums.
The vision comes to you like a knife to the gut, stabbing and painful. You're on the deck of a ship - no. You are the ship, the wood of your body groaning, the spray from the sea cold and sharp. The sky above is storm-black, choked with clouds so dark they're almost green. Lightning splits the sky and for one blinding moment, you see dozens of ships bearing the emperor's colors, their red and black sails straining against wind that screams and tears at the sea.
In front of you, a wave rises ahead. It's impossibly tall, a mountain of water that climbs climbs climbs toward the sky until it comes crashing down. The world becomes water - cold, crushing. You can't breathe and salt water floods your mouth and nose, choking you. Your lungs scream and wood splinters, the sound like bones breaking. Men scream, but the sound is lost in the roar of the ocean.
When you surface, you're you again, not the ship. Another ship lets out a resonant crack as the mast falls, crashing through the deck. Some soldiers jump, some cling to the side. The sea takes them as the ship goes down, the water pulling them into the belly of its black depths. You feel terror like never before, but the storm doesn't stop.
Another wave. Then another. Ships splinter. Bodies vanish underneath the waves. So many bodies. The ocean swallows them whole, greedy and hungry, taking and taking and taking.
Through the ocean spray and chaos, you see land. The Free Isles rise from the sea like teeth, their rocky shores and cliff spread open like a mouth laughing to the sky. Warriors dot the cliffs, lit up only by the flash of lightning as they watch the storm do the work for them.
A wave crashes over you and drags you down to the bottom of the sea. In the flashes of light that shine through the murky ocean, you see pieces of ship floating, red and black banners sinking toward the depths of the sea, bodies thrashing as the undertow pulls them down down down.
The vision releases you and you're drowning in air instead of water, gasping, choking on nothing. Your knees buckle and you catch yourself on the floor, palms slapping against the polished wood as blood gushes from your knows. Junhui's hands are already on you, trying to stop you from collapsing into the red pooling on the floor beneath you. Voices swirl around you, but you can't make out anything they're saying, the roar of the sea - or your blood rushing in your ears - drowning out everything else.
Slowly, words come back to you. Your head lolls to the side as you look up at the emperor, his face furious and impatient as he slams his closed fist against the arm of his throne. "Well? What did you see?"
"Failure," you choke out, coughing on imaginary mouthfuls of water. "The Free Isles cannot be taken. The storms will do the work for them and the islands will not fall."
"Look again, then!" He booms. "Find a solution!"
"I cannot-"
You don't know when the emperor stood up, but he's in front of you suddenly, his hand moving faster than you can track. The blow catches you across the face, snapping your head to the side. Pain explodes along your cheekbone, bright and sharp and the throne room spins.
Junhui moves. One moment he's behind you, the next he's between you and the emperor, his body a wall of rage. His hand goes to his sword, fingers wrapping around the hilt to slide the blade free just enough that the ring of metal cuts through the room.
Every guard in the room tenses. Hands fly to weapons. You hear the whisper of steel, the creak of leather armor as soldiers shift their weight, ready to strike. The advisors along the pillars press themselves back against the wood, their faces pale that Junhui would dare to draw steel in front of the emperor.
The emperor goes very still. His eyes narrow, and for a moment you see something flicker there - surprise, maybe - before his face twists with rage at the affront. You look at Junhui, and though you can't see his face, his rigid shoulders say it all.
"You dare," the emperor hisses. "You dare to draw steel in my presence? You dare threaten your emperor?"
"My mandate is to protect her." Junhui doesn't move. Doesn't flinch. His shoulders are squared, his stance wide and grounded. "From any threat. Even you, Your Imperial Majesty."
The advisors go rigid. You can feel their shock radiating outward, a physical thing. This is treason. Open defiance. The kind of thing that ends with heads on spikes outside the palace gates. Your heart hammers against your ribs. The room swims, gaze blurry from the emperor's blow and the vision's aftermath and the realization that Junhui is signing his own death warrant for you.
You try to reach a hand up to tug on his sleeve but you can't move - you can barely think. You're broken on your knees, the taste of iron and salt in your mouth, looking up at Junhui as he remains in front of you.
"You forget yourself," the emperor snarls. "You forget who holds your life in his hands, who holds her life in his hands."
Junhui's grip tightens on his sword. "I forgot nothing, Your Imperial Majesty. I took an oath in front of you and this court to protect her from all, including the throne. This is my duty."
"Your duty is obedience. Your duty is to serve me. Everything in this palace - every guard, every servant, every Sacred - exists to serve me."
"I cannot break the oath I gave you, Your Imperial Majesty."
The emperor's face goes dark as silence permeates the room. Red creeps up into his neck and cheeks, his breathing labored as he works himself up, his rage choking the air in the throne room. Junhui stands in front of you anyway, his eyes forward, exterior calm.
You try to stand. Your legs don't cooperate, blood dripping from your nose and mouth, spattering beneath you. Your whole body trembles and you want to tell Junhui to stop, to save himself, but your voice doesn't work.
All you can do is watch. Watch him risk everything. Watch him stand between you and the most powerful man in the empire. Watch him choose you over his own life. Something cracks open in your chest. Something that feels like hope and terror and longing all tangled together. Something you can't afford to feel.
For a long moment, no one moves or breathes. The guards wait for the order to strike while the advisors stay out of the way, trying to become invisible in the pools of shadows between the pillars.
Finally, the emperor laughs. The sound is harsh and startling against the silence, echoing off the walls.
"Get out," his voice is ragged. "Both of you. Get out of my sight before I have you both executed."
Junhui doesn't wait for him to change his mind. He turns, hauling you to your feet with careful hands, and guides you toward the doors. Your legs barely work and your face throbs where the emperor struck you. You ignore the pain, instead focusing on the way Junhui's arm is around your waist, holding you up as you somehow make it across the throne room.
Outside, the world is bitter cold. The courtyard tilts on its axis, and you feel Junhui's arm tighten around your waist as he pulls you closer to him.
"Stay with me," he murmurs, breath hot against your ear.
"He'll kill you," you try to say. But your voice won't work. The words come out broken. Slurred. "Junhui, he'll-"
"Shh." His grip tightens. "Don't talk. Just breathe."
But breathing hurts. Everything hurts. The edges of your vision go dark and fuzzy, like looking through a tunnel. You can hear voices, but they sound distorted and echoing, like you're underwater again, drowning in that vision of ships and storms and mean screaming as the ocean devours them whole.
Your legs give out completely. You feel Junhui catch you. Feel his hands on your face.
Then nothing. Just silence.
-
The first thing you become aware of is warmth. It isn't the oppressive heat of the throne room, but it's the soft warmth of your room, the smell of sandalwood and jasmine comforting. The light comes second, soft and flickering, the orange glow soft behind your closed eyelids.
When your eyes flutter open, you see candles. Dozens of them burning in their holders, casting dancing shadows against the silk screens that divide your chambers. You're still in your bed, though the heavy outer layer of your robes are gone. Someone has covered you with a thick quilt embroidered with dragons - your favorite.
You try to sit up and immediately regret it. Pain lances through your skull - not the white-hot agony of a vision, but a deep, bone-weary ache that makes your stomach turn. You let out a small sound, barely more than a breath, and freeze when you realize Junhui is watching you from the side of your bed.
He's removed his armor, dressed only in the red and black robes of a palace guard. It catches you off guard - you've never seen him without his armor before. It makes him look unguarded, his dark hair disheveled and falling across his forehead slightly. His elbows rest on his knees, his head forward as his dark gaze pins you to the mattress.
"You're awake."
"I think so." Your voice comes out broken and harsh. "I hope so."
Junhui moves immediately. He reaches for a cup on the low table beside your bed and slides one hand behind your head carefully as he helps you lean forward to drink. The water is cool with a hint of medicinal herbs and you gulp, coughing a little.
"Careful," he murmurs. "Small sips, no gulping."
It soothes your throat and you manage three sips before pulling back, letting Junhui set the cup aside as he carefully sits back down beside you, pulling his chair closer.
"How long was I out?" You ask, sinking back down.
"Six hours. Maybe seven. I lost track."
Seven hours. You've been unconscious for seven hours. The weight of that settles over you like a stone. Seven hours of Junhui sitting here, watching over you, waiting for you to wake. Seven hours of not knowing if you would.
"The physician came," Junhui continues. "He said you need rest. That you can't keep doing this."
You close your eyes. The exhaustion is bone-deep. Soul-deep. It lives inside of you, in all of the spaces between your ribs and in the hollows of your chest, pumping through your blood, threaded with everything breath. You're tired of this, tired of being the Sacred, tired of having headaches, tired of being split open and rendered useless by visions you've never asked for, tired of serving a man you despise and resisting the man you want.
"I hate this," you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "I hate this. I hate the visions. I hate being this, I hate-"
Your voice cracks down the middle like ice over a frozen lake, everything you've kept inside of you welling to the surface, rushing forward in an onslaught you cannot stop. You feel the tears spilling over as your hands fists the quilt and you cry.
"I wish I didn't have them. I wish I didn't live like this," you choke out. "I've lived like this since I was a little girl, unable to live how I want, to do what I want. It isn't fair Jun. It isn't fair! I want to be nothing, I want to be no one!"
Junhui says nothing at first. You can't look at him - can't bear to see what's written on his face. Pity, probably. You hate that the most, that he probably pities you, that he's nice and sweet and kind because no one else is.
He startles you when he moves. You look up to see him move from sitting on the chair to the bed, his weight on the mattress making you dip toward him as his hand slips beneath the quilt to find yours, his fingers lacing with yours. The touch is unexpected and gentle, palm warm against yours. Solid. Real. Calloused but comforting.
Junhui is looking at you. Not at the wall, not at his hands, not at some distant point beyond your shoulder like all the other courtiers when you're collapsing or bleeding or writhing in pain. He's looking at you, his dark eyes are steady on your face, and there's something in them that makes your heart hammer, something that looks almost like pain.
"If I could take them from you," he says quietly, "I would. In a heartbeat I would take them away."
You stare at him - really look at him for the first time since you woke to see exhaustion etched into every line of his face, dark circles beneath his eyes. You examine each part of him - the slight slump to his shoulders that he never allows when he's on duty. The way his hair falls across his forehead, disheveled and uncombed. He looks like he hasn't slept. Like he's been sitting here beside your bed for hours, watching over you, waiting for you to wake.
The worry hasn't left his gaze. You can see it there, sharp and clear in the way his eyes move over your face, cataloging every bruise, every sign of pain. The way his jaw tightens when his gaze lands on the mark the emperor left on your cheek.
There's something else there too, something you've seen before but didn't know how to name, something you never let yourself hope for, but only dreamed about. Something in the way he holds your hand - not like a guard on duty, but like you mean something to him beyond being his charge.
Your heart pounds. This is dangerous. Forbidden. But you're so tired of being careful. So tired of denying yourself the one thing you want. So tired of pretending that his kindness is just duty, that his gentleness means nothing, that you don't feel the way you do.
"There is a way," you hear yourself say.
Junhui's brow furrows. His thumb stops its gentle movement across your knuckles. "What?"
Your mouth goes dry. This is it. The precipice. You could pull back now. Laugh it off. Pretend you meant something else. Say you were talking about running away, or finding some mythical cure, or anything other than what you're actually suggesting, but you're so tired of pretending.
"The visions," you say slowly. Each word feels like pulling teeth. Like dragging something heavy and sharp up from the depths of your chest. "They're tied to - um - purity."
Heat floods your cheeks. You can feel it spreading down your neck, across your chest. Can feel the way your skin burns with shame and something else. Something that might be hope or fear or both tangled together until you can't tell them apart.
You can't look at him anymore. Can't bear to see his reaction. So you stare at the quilt instead, studying the neat stitching and the way the gold thread weaves through the red fabric. At the way the dragons dance.
The silence stretches. You count your own heartbeats. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. By the sixth, you want the ocean from your vision to swallow you whole so you can escape this embarrassment, realizing that you've misstepped
"They would go away?" His voice is hoarse. Halting. "The visions?
"Yes."
Another silence. This one longer. Heavier. You can feel it pressing down on you like a physical weight. Can feel the way the air in the room has changed, like all the air has been sucked out and replaced with pure pressure. When you risk a glance up at him, he's not looking at you. His gaze is fixed on the blanket, jaw tight and lips pressed together in a thin line. You can see the way his chest rises and falls with each careful breath, can see the tension in his shoulders.
"Are you asking me to take them from you?"
The question lands in silence between you. You say nothing, and when Junhui looks up at you, his gaze is more intense than you remember it, his eyes dark and pupils blown. You swallow thickly, and when he squeezes your hand to push for an answer, you can't speak. You give a tiny, imperceptible nod, nearly shaking as you admit to the unspoken question.
For a moment, nothing happens. Junhui just sits there, his hand in yours, his breathing careful and controlled. You can feel the tension radiating off him in waves. Can see the way his jaw works, like he's trying to force out words that won't come. Can see the conflict written across every line of his face.
Then he pulls his hand away.
Devastation crashes through you, the loss of his touch immediately. He stands and turns away from you, shoulders rigid as he takes two steps toward the door before stopping, his back to you, his hands clenched into fists at his side.
"No."
The word comes out hard. Final like a door slamming shut, like the last nail in a coffin.The rejection lands harder than the emperor's slap, and you feel the shame hit you like a physical thing because why would he? Of course he doesn't want you like that, of course he wouldn't abandon his duty. And you are his duty, his burden, a Sacred he's wrong to protect and nothing more.
The shame is crushing. Suffocating. Heat floods your face, your throat, your chest. You can feel it burning through you like fever, like fire, like the aftermath of a vision but worse. So much worse because this pain is your own fault- your own stupid, foolish, desperate mistake.
You want to disappear. To sink into the bed and never emerge. To pull the quilt over your head and suffocate yourself with it. To take back the last five minutes and pretend this conversation never happened. To go back to before, when you could at least pretend that his kindness meant something. That you meant something to him beyond duty.
"I'm sorry," you say quickly. "I shouldn't have, I didn't mean-
"It would be an abuse of my power." Junhui still doesn't turn around. His voice is carefully controlled, but you can hear something underneath it. Something that sounds almost like anguish, maybe. "I'm your guard. You're vulnerable and desperate and I will not take advantage of that."
The words should make you feel better, should reassure you that he's honorable, that he's thinking of your wellbeing, that he's protecting you even from yourself. But all you feel is shame - the kind that is all-consuming and that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin. The kind that makes you want to claw at your face until the heat and the humiliation and the desperate, aching want are all gone.
"No, sorry," you rasp. "It's an abuse of my power. I'm the one asking. I'm the one - I'm sorry, Jun. That was awful of me."
Your voice breaks on the words. Cracks down the middle like everything else inside you.
"I'm so sorry. Forget I said anything. Please."
The embarrassment is crushing. Suffocating. You've never felt so small. So foolish. So utterly, completely exposed. You want to disappear and to take back everything you just said and pretend this conversation never happened.
Silence stretches so long that you can hear your own ragged breathing and can feel the tears leaking between your fingers as you press your hands to your face, trying to hide the same and agony there.
Footsteps draw your attention, but you don't lower your hands. You can't even look at him, can't bear to see the pity or disgust on his face. But then his hands are on your wrists, pulling gently.
"Look at me," he murmurs.
You shake your head. Keep your eyes squeezed shut. The tears are flowing freely now, hot tracks down your cheeks, and you've never felt more humiliated in your entire life.
"Please," Junhui whispers. "Look at me."
Something in his voice makes you obey. You open your eyes and find him kneeling beside your bed. His face is level with yours, close enough that you can see the gold flecks in his dark eyes. Close enough that you can see the way his own hands are trembling slightly where they hold your wrists.
"Do you have feelings for me?" The question comes out low and soft, his dark eyes searching yours with an urgency that makes your heart skip. "Please be honest."
Your heart hammers against your ribs. This is it. The moment where you could lie. Could protect yourself. Could pretend that this was only ever about the visions, about freedom, about anything other than what it really is.
"Of course I do," you whisper, heart hammering. "You're the only one who sees me as a person. Who treats me like I'm not a tool. I know I'm just your assignment and that you don't care for me that way, but you always-"
Junhui's mouth crashes against yours and the world stops. One hand cups the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair while the other frames your jaw gently, careful not to touch the bruise where the emperor struck you.
You gasp against his lips and he takes advantage, deepening the kiss, tasting you like he's been starving for it. Like he's been holding himself back for so long and finally, finally, he can let go.
You've never been kissed before, never been touched like this. It turns you to molten, your hands finding his shoulders to brush up toward his neck, your fingers threading though his hair as you kiss him back with everything you have. He tastes like tea and something spicey, something that makes heat pool low in your belly and makes you want more.
When he finally pulls back, you're both breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours, his eyes closed, his breath coming in ragged gasps that match your own.
"I've wanted to do that," he murmurs against your lips. "For so long."
He doesn't pull away. He stays close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath on your face, can count each individual eyelash, can see the way his pupils have blown wide with want. His hand is still cradling the back of your head, fingers tangled in your hair. The other still frames your jaw with that same careful tenderness, his thumb resting just below the bruise the emperor left.
Your heart is racing. Thundering so hard you're certain he can feel it. Your whole body is trembling, and you can still feel the ghost of his mouth on yours, the pressure and heat of it.
"Then why did you pull away before?" You pant. "Why did you say no?"
"Because I was afraid." He says it so quietly you almost don't hear him. His thumb moves against your jaw, soft and soothing. "I was afraid that if I touched you - that if I gave into the want - that I wouldn't be able to stop and that I would ruin you. That I'd take something from you that you couldn't get back, that I would spoil you and it would be the worst abuse of power I could imagine."
"You wouldn't-"
"I'm a man who wants something he shouldn't have." His eyes burn. "A man who is supposed to protect you, not have you. I could stand feeling for you and resisting - but if you felt the same…"
"I do."
His eyes close briefly, like hearing you say it causes him pain or relief. You cannot tell which. When they open again, there's something raw in them. Something desperate and hopeful and terrified all at once.
And then he kisses you again, softer and slower this time, like he's trying to memorize the taste of you. This kiss is different from the first. Less desperate. More deliberate. He takes his time, exploring your mouth with a patience that makes your whole body flush with heat. His hand slides from your hair down to the nape of your neck, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin that make you shiver.
When he finally pulls back, you're both breathing hard again. But this time, there's no fear in his eyes. No hesitation. Just want, pure and undisguised for once. His thumb traces your lower lip, and the way he's looking at your mouth is like it wants to kiss you again and again and again.
"If we do this," he says quietly, "there's no going back. You'll lose the visions. The emperor will have no use for you, and you'll be-"
"Free," you cut him off. "I will be free."
You catch the hand that's been tracing your lip and press it against your cheek, turning your face into his palm. His skin is warm against yours, rough with calluses. It's real and solid and everything you've ever wanted - everything you've ever dreamed about.
"I want to be free," you say again. "But I also want you. I've dreamed about it for so long - thought it could only ever be a dream. Nothing more."
Something shifts in his expression. His pupils dilate further until there's barely any brown left behind the want, behind the desire. He looks at you now like you're something to devour, not protect, like you're the only thing in the world that matters. A shiver that has nothing to do with the cold runs down your spine as his hand moves from your cheek to your throat, not squeezing but resting there, feeling the way your pulse thunders under his thumb.
"Are you sure?" His voice is rough and strained. "There's no undoing this. You need to be certain."
"I've never been more certain. Please."
Junhui nods, leaning forward to capture your mouth in a soft, sweet kiss. "Okay," he murmurs against your lips. "Okay."
He stands slowly, and for a moment you think he's leaving and that he's changed his mind. But then he shrugs out of his outer robe, letting it pool on the floor. His hands go to the ties of his inner robe, and you watch, entirely transfixed as he undresses. His body is all lean muscle and old scars, beautiful in the candlelight. Beautiful in a way that makes your mouth go dry and your heart race even faster.
Then he's on the bed with you, carefully moving the quilt aside, his hands finding the ties of your robes. He pauses and looks up at you, his eyes serious. "Tell me if you want me to stop. At any point. Promise me."
"I promise."
He nods and undresses you slowly, peeling back layers of silk with careful attention, his fingers brushing your skin gently. When you're finally bare before him, you expect to feel exposed and vulnerable, but he looks at you like you're something otherworldly, like he cannot imagine what he's seeing.
"You're beautiful," he murmurs. His hand traces the curve of your waist, your hip. "So beautiful."
Junhui leans down and kisses you again, slower and deeper this time, his mouth moving against yours with deliberate intent, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you open for him. The taste of him floods your senses as he cups the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, angling your face so he can kiss you deeper.
A soft moan escapes you and he swallows it, his other hand sliding down your side to trace the curve of your waist and your hip, dropping to your thigh. Each touch leaves fire in its wake. Your skin feels too tight, too hot, like you might combust from the inside out.
When he finally breaks the kiss, you're both breathing hard. His pupils are blown wide, his lips swollen and wet. He looks at you like he wants to devour you and it lights you up inside. You push closer to him, hands shaking as your fingers trace his forearms, feeling the veins and muscles beneath his warm skin.
"I want to taste every inch of you," he murmurs against your lips. His voice is rough. Raw. "I want to learn what makes you gasp. What makes you beg. Can I do that?"
You can barely form words. Can only nod, your heart thundering so hard you're certain he can hear it.
"Use your words," he says softly. His thumb traces your lower lip. "I need to hear you say it."
"Yes." Your voice comes out breathless. Desperate. "Yes, please."
The smile that curves his lips is devastating. "Good."
Then his mouth is on your throat, hot and wet and perfect. He kisses the hollow beneath your jaw, the sensitive spot behind your ear that makes you shiver. His teeth graze your earlobe and you gasp, your hands flying up to grip his shoulders. The muscles there are hard beneath your palms, flexing as he moves.
He works his way down, kissing and licking, occasionally biting just hard enough to make you gasp. When he reaches your collarbone, he pauses, his tongue tracing the delicate bone before his teeth close over it gently. The sensation shoots straight between your thighs, and you feel yourself getting wetter.
"Jun-"
"Shh." His breath is hot against your skin. "Let me take care of you."
His mouth moves lower to the swell of your breast, and he kisses the soft skin there, his hand coming up to cup you, his thumb brushing over your nipple. His touch is feather-light but it makes you arch into him, a whine escaping your mouth as you beg for more.
He gives it to you, his mouth closing over a nipple as he sucks gently. You arch into him, the sensation overwhelming as his tongue circles the sensitive peak, flicking over it before his teeth graze it gently. You almost come apart right there, melting.
"That feels- oh Gods-"
"Tell me." His voice is muffled against your breast. "Tell me how it feels."
You can barely think. Can barely form coherent thoughts. "So good. Please don't stop."
He doesn't. He lavishes attention to your chest - sucking, licking, biting - until you're trembling beneath him. You're so wet now you can feel it, the slickness between your thighs and the ache there driving you mad. As if reading your mind, his hand slides down your stomach, fingers tracing patterns on your skin. When he reaches where your thighs are shut tight, he pauses.
"Open for me," he murmurs against your breast.
You do. Spreading your legs, letting him see how wet you are, how much you want him.
"Gods," he growls. "Look at you."
His fingers brush through your folds, his touch light and barely there, but enough to make you gasp. He brings them to his mouth, maintaining eye contact as he licks them clean and the sight is so hypnotic that you find yourself staring, face flushing with heat as he grins.
"Taste like the Heavens," he murmurs. "Need more."
Before you can process what he means, he's moving down your body, kissing his way down your stomach, your hip bones, the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. When his mouth presses to your core, you nearly scream, his tongue licking through you slowly, parting your wet folds. The pleasure is unlike anything you've ever felt, sharp and overwhelming, and your hands fly into his hair, gripping the dark strands, unsure if you're pulling him closer or away.
"Oh," you gasp. "I can't-"
"Yes, you can." His breath is hot against you. "Just feel it."
His tongue circles your clit gently and your hips twitch to meet his mouth, thighs shaking as your eyes squeeze shut. It feels maddeningly good, and when his tongue starts flicking over your clit directly, you feel the way your breath catches, the way you twitch under him. He holds your hips down to keep you skill, humming lightly as he devours.
And Junhui devours, alternating between broad strokes of his tongue and focused attention on that sensitive spot. Sometimes he sucks on it gently, and the sensation makes you cry out. Sometimes he flicks it rapidly with the tip of his tongue, building the pleasure higher and higher until you think you might die from it. And just when you think you can't take anymore, he slides a finger into your heat and you feel yourself clench hard.
"So tight," he groans. "So perfect. You're going to feel so good around my cock."
The crude words make you clench around his finger. Make more wetness flood between your thighs. He notices, and you can feel him smile against you.
"You like that?" His voice is teasing. Knowing. "You like when I talk dirty to you?"
"Yes." The admission comes out breathy. "Yes, please."
"Please what?" He adds a second finger, stretching you, and the burn is delicious. "Tell me what you want. I'll give you everything."
His fingers curl inside you, finding a spot that makes you see stars. He works you patiently, fingers stroking inside of you, pressing against that spot over and over and over while he sucks gently on your clit, driving you higher and higher.
You're trembling. Shaking. Your hands are fisted in his hair, your hips moving against his mouth despite his attempts to hold you still. The pleasure is so intense it's almost frightening. Like standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down into the abyss.
The tension that's been building inside you finally snaps and you fall over the edge, your orgasm crashing over you. Your body convulses, clenching around his fingers, and you cry out his name as pleasure floods through you. It's overwhelming. All-consuming. Wave after wave of sensation that makes your vision go white, makes your whole body shake with the force of it.
Junhui works you through it, his fingers still moving inside you, his mouth still on you, drawing out every last tremor of pleasure until you're boneless and gasping beneath him.
When you finally come back to yourself, he's kissing his way back up your body. His lips are wet with you, and when he kisses you, you can taste yourself on his tongue. It should be embarrassing - should be shameful - but you don't care, licking into his mouth hungrily, pulling him as close as you can.
Junhui's hand slides between your thighs again, and despite the orgasm you just had, your body responds. Arching into his touch. Seeking more. He positions himself between your thighs, the hard length of him pressing against your entrance, and even through the haze of pleasure, you feel a flutter of nervousness. He's big. Bigger than his fingers. And you're not sure-
"Look at me." You do. His eyes are dark and intense, but soft and entirely focused on you. "We'll go slow. If it's too much, if you need me to stop, you tell me, understand?"
You nod. "Yes. I understand."
"Good." He kisses you again, soft and reassuring. "I've got you."
Then he's pushing in slowly - so slowly - the stretch is immediate and intense. More than his fingers, more than you expected and you gasp, hands flying to his shoulders, fingers sliding against his sweaty skin as your nails dig in.
He stops immediately. "Breathe. Just breathe."
You do. Deep breaths that help your body relax, help you adjust to the intrusion. After a moment, the burn eases slightly, and you nod. He pushes in another inch. Then another. The stretch intensifies, bordering on painful, and you whimper.
"I know." His forehead rests against yours. His whole body is trembling with the effort of holding still, of going slow. "I know it hurts. But you're doing so well. Taking me so perfectly."
The praise helps. Makes you want to be good for him, makes you want to take all of him. You breathe through the burn, through the stretch, and slowly your body adjusts. He steals another kiss from you as he sinks to the hilt, distracting you with his tongue and the way he groans into your mouth.
When he breaks the kiss, he's pressed as deep as he can go, the feeling so full and so good you can barely breathe. Junhui is just as affected, panting and shivering as he drops his head to gaze where you're joined, letting out a curse.
"You feel so good," he pants. "Like you were made for me."
You clench around him experimentally, and he groans, his hips jerking involuntarily. It feels good to squeeze down, a sensation you'd never imagined, and you do it again, a small little sound leaving your lips as he groans again.
"Don't," he rasps. "Don't do that or I won't last."
"I want you to feel good too," you whisper. Your hands slide down his back, feeling the hard muscles there, the way they flex and shift as he holds himself still. "I want to make you feel the way you made me feel."
"You do." He kisses you, tongues tangling briefly before he breaks the kiss to press his lips against your jawline. "You have no idea what you do to me. How long I've wanted this. Wanted you."
"Then have me."
Junhui lets out a desperate sound but nods, his hips starting to move slowly. It makes you gasp, the friction intense and the drag of his cock inside you so good. The pain has faded completely now, replaced by pleasure that builds faster than you can keep up with.
You wrap your legs around his waist, taking him deeper, and he groans into your shoulder. The angle changes and suddenly he's hitting something inside you, that same spot that makes the world spin and the pleasure spark right behind your eyelids.
"There," you gasp. "Right there, please."
"I know." His voice is rough. Strained. "I can feel you clenching around me. So tight. So perfect."
He picks up the pace, still careful but full of urgency now, thrusting deeper until you can feel yourself climbing toward another peak. His hand slides between your bodies and finds your clit again, circling it in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation is overwhelming, both too much and not enough and too everything.
The pleasure crests until it breaks and your second orgasm hits you harder than the first, your body clenching and spasming as you cry out his name. It's more intense than before, more overwhelming, like every nerve ending in your body is firing at once.
Seeing you lose it is all it takes for him. He buries himself deep as he can do and you feel the pulse of him inside of you as he comes, his entire body going rigid, every muscle locked tight as he whimpers a broken sound in the shape of your name.
He collapses on top of you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and for a long moment neither of you moves. You just hold each other, breathing hard, hearts pounding in sync. You can feel him still pulsing inside you, can feel the warmth of his release, and the realization that it's real and not a fantasy anymore makes your eyes sting with unshed tears.
Carefully, he pulls out. You both wince at the sensation but he's gentle, rolling to the side and pulling you against his chest, his arms wrapping around you tightly. You can feel his heart racing, and his lips press against your brow, soft and sweet while his fingers trace patterns on your spine.
"I'm taking you away from here," Junhui says eventually.
You lift your head to look at him. "What?"
"Tonight, if possible. Tomorrow at the latest. Somewhere the emperor can't reach you. Somewhere you can be free."
"Junhui, you can't - your position-"
"I don't care." He cups your face in both hands. "You are sacred to me. Not because of your visions or your gift. Because of who you are. And I'm not willing to share you anymore. Not with the emperor. Not with the court. Not with anyone."
Your breath catches. "You'd give up everything? For me?"
"I already have." He kisses you softly. "The moment I stepped between you and the emperor, I chose you. There's no going back from that. So we go forward. Together."
"Where will we go?"
"East to the river provinces. I have family there who owe me favors. They'll hide us until we can figure out something more permanent." His thumb brushes your cheekbone. "You'll have a life beyond the throne room. Beyond the visions. I promise you that."
Tears spill over. For the first time in your life, you feel safe - not because of prophecy or position, but because someone has chosen you for you. Because Junhui has chosen you over everything else.
"You wanted to be no one," Junhui whispers. "You can be no one to everything else. But to me, you are everything. You are not the Sacred - you're just sacred to me."
You nod, throat tight. "I would like that."
You fall asleep in his arms, and for once, there are no visions waiting in the darkness. No prophecies. No futures written in blood and fire. Just nothing, exactly like you asked for.
PAIRING: Guard!Junhui x Oracle!Reader
SUMMARY: Your entire life has been plagued by visions and by an emperor who wields you like a weapon. When you've finally had enough, you ask the single man sworn to protect you for help you're not sure he's willing to give.
WC: 10,640
AU: Fantasy
GENRE: Forbidden romance, mild angst, smut
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 suffers from the after effects of visions which make her sick, vomit, faint, etc. She also sees visions of war, death, destruction and some mild description of gore, depictions of anxiety and fear, the emperor is obviously evil and cruel, perception of unrequited love, some mild angst and pining, the emperor does hit reader a single time, depictions of blood (her nose bleeds a lot), some kind of stupid world building re: gender roles and prophecy being tied to virginity that I do NOT endorse aka I don't believe power is tied to purity it's just for the plot ok, unprotected sex, oral (f. receiving) reader is a virgin so brief moment where that shit hurts, some mild praise and v v v barely there dirty talk, vaginal finger, multiple orgasms, ummm I think that's it this is very loving and tame.
A/N: This is for my milestone requests that I posted and then immediately went on hiatus because that's the way tumblr works! This is for @haologram who requested number 8 with Junhui :) ALSO please don't get used to the 10k word counts for these this was kind of unusual and I felt inspired and shout out to the movie The Scorpion King for the idea
AN 2: This is not beta read so I’m sorry - there will definitely be mistakes! I did proof read/spelling and grammar check but I often miss a lot! Also I was too lazy to make a banner lmfao
MAIN M. LIST | ASK | FOR MY MILESTONE EVENT
FIRST COMES THE SILENCE. It's your only warning as the world peels away from you, the murmur of the court fading to the background until even the sound of voices are lost to the stillness. The warmth leeches from you next, a cold tingle blooming through you like spreading frost in winter, your arms getting heavy. You sit abruptly as the world shifts and the throne room fades to something else, something wet and freezing cold.
Rain.
Rain is falling in relentless sheets that are so cold it hurts, even through the vision. In front of you is a battledfield churned to a sea of black mud, cut up by boots and the hooves of war horses and the deep wheels of the machines of war. Broken wagons lie half-stuck in the mud, their splintered wheels jutting up from the chaos, some still spinning. Banners in colors lost to the black mud with symbols you can't make out in the rain hang in sodden ribbons, snapped from their poles.
The smell chokes you. Wet earth. Wood smoke. Blood. So much blood that it fills your mouth, warm and metallic. You cough, falling forward into the vision so that your knees hit the mud with a wet squelch. Your hand catches on metal and when you look down, the broken body of a soldier is beneath you. His throat is a scarlet gash, opened up from a sword, his eyes vacant and staring at the rainy sky.
You recoil, snatching your hand away as you fall backward into the rain, ass sinking into the mud. Somewhere to your left, a horse screams, high and shrill until the sound is abruptly cut off. A man a few yards away crawls through the mud with a single arm, the other several yards behind him where the fingers are still curled around the hilt of a broken sword. He drags himself toward you as though he's asking for help, and you scream and look away.
The world tilts and your vision changes abruptly, each image overlapping the other in flashes of light and sound. Thousands of bodies. A river choked with them. A bridge with the banners of the northern king. The emperor - your emperor- on his war chariot, the wheels turning as he crosses the bridge.
Suddenly, the vision releases you. You crash forward, wood striking your knees hard enough that you cry out as your hands shoot out. Your palms skid across the ground, stinging as skin tears open. Bile burns at the back of your throat and you taste the blood before you realize you've bitten your tongue again, the iron taste in your mouth real. You feel the wet warmth of blood as it trickles from your nose, splattering too brightly against the dark wood beneath you.
The wooden floor is cold beneath you as your vision swims and the throne room reassembles itself. You look up to see the wooden pillars that vanish into a vaulted ceiling with incense burning in their holders. Torches and braziers fill the room with heat, the orange flames licking along the twisted metal and casting long shadows across the waiting courtiers. Everything feels too bright and too sharp and you wince, the headache behind your eyes hammering you as soon as the vision fades in full.
Someone kneels beside you and you know without looking that it's Junhui, the smell of vetiver and cedar comforting with the taste of blood and salt in your mouth. His hands find you first, fingers calloused from sword work as they wrap around your hands, steadying you. The touch grounds you and pulls you back from the battlefield that's turned to the headache stabbing in your skull.
When you don't pull away from him, Junhui slides one arm behind your shoulders and the other beneath your knees, hauling you up and into his arms as though you weigh nothing at all. He's careful when he sets you on your feet, hands braced on your biceps as you sway a little. You're vaguely aware of how close he is, lashes fluttering as you look up at him.
"You okay?" He asks, voice soft.
Before you can answer, the emperor demands, "What did you see?"
You don't look at him. Looking at him only makes things worse. Instead, you stare in the distance as you taste the copper dripping from your nose.
"The north," you murmur. Each word costs you, your head throbbing, vision blurry as the headache grows. "The northern kingdom."
Beside you, Junhui presses his hand to the small of your back. It's barely there, but it's something, your heart fluttering as his thumb moves in small circles, grounding. You don't know if anyone else notices, but you notice, and that's all that matters.
"You'll invade at the height of the rainy season," you continue as your ears begin to ring. "When the rivers are high and the roads turn to mud from the rains. You'll win."
The throne room erupts into applause and cheers as the courtiers shout in triumph. Soldiers pound their fists against their armor, and the emperor rises in your peripheral vision, spreading his arms as he laughs, the sound booming across the room. The firelight from the braziers seems to brighten with their glee, the shadows dancing across the pillars as smoke drifts in the rafters from the incense.
You want to vomit as the nausea rises sharply and suddenly. You press a hand to your mouth and Junhui notices immediately - of course he does. He always notices. His hand slides around your waist and pulls you toward him, steadying you as he angles you so that his body shields you from the worst of the light and sound.
"Your Imperial Majesty," Junhui says, bowing deeply. The emperor turns to stare at him, cheeks ruddy and red from the heat of the hall and the glee. "If I may, the Sacred needs to rest. The vision has taken much from her. Might I escort her to her chambers?"
Sacred. You hate the title. Hate that it chains you to the emperor you've just predicted another victory for, so long as he attacks at the precise time that you've instructed. You've been his sword and shield since you were a little girl gifted to him and his growing empire, helping him knock his opponents off the board one by one.
You hate him. You hate him more than you hate yourself for being useful to him, but you have no other options. He hates you too, you think. Beyond being a cruel man, he's as shrewd as they come. You don't think any of your glares go unnoticed, and though you think he'd love to revel in your misery, he's careful with you, too afraid to break you and lose access to the future you promise.
He waves a hand dismissively, turning back to the crowd. "Yes, yes, take her. We have plans to make. The rainy season is coming soon and we have to make preparations immediately."
Junhui doesn't hesitate, his hand urging you toward the great doors at the far end of the throne room. You lean into him more than you mean to, your legs unsteady beneath you as the smell of the hinoki incense cling to your robes.
Behind you, the celebration continues, growing louder as the emperor orders courtesans and entertainment. You're grateful when the doors close behind you with a heavy thud to muffle the noise, leaving only the muffled quiet and the cool winds of winter rustling the trees in the imperial courtyard.
Junhui's thumb traces small circles against your side, another one of those small gestures that's just for you. They are few and far between, so you hoard them like a gluttonous child hiding mooncakes in their pockets, determined to keep them for your darkest days. You know it means nothing - not the way you want it to. He's kind to you because it's his duty and because someone must be. Because perhaps he pities the broken oracle who bleeds for an emperor who doesn't deserve victory.
Still, you let yourself cling to these moments anyway, your small fantasies of romance and being stolen away keeping you from going mad.
The cold air hits your face, sharp and biting. It does nothing for the pounding in your skull and if anything, the headache splits deeper, a white-hot spike driving through bone with each step you take. Your stomach lurches as bile floods the back of your throat, bitter and burning. The courtyard tilts, the bare branches of the plum trees blurring into dark streaks against winter grey as you start to tip over.
Junhui catches you before you lose your footing in full, arms sliding beneath your knees and around your back to haul you up and against his chest. You want to protest as he cradles you against him, but another wave of nausea hits you and all you can do is press your face against the cool leather of his armor and hope you don't retch all over him and embarrass yourself forever.
"I've got you," he murmurs, voice low and right against your ear. "Just hold on."
He moves quickly through the courtyard. You're aware of his footsteps and the rustle of fabric, the soft sound of his breathing. The world narrows and becomes only the warmth of his body and the steady beating of his heart against your cheek.
Your chambers are in the eastern wing, far enough from the celebration that it fades to nothing as he walks. He shoulders open the red lacquer door to your room and carries you inside to the smell of sandalwood and jasmine.
The chambers provided to you are modest, silk screens painted with cranes and willows, a low platform bed draped in pale green silk and piled high with soft blankets and pillows. The latticed window let the winter sun filter, the delicate shadows dappled across the polished wooden floor. It's the only space in the palace that is entirely yours, and you crave it, spending most of the days in the dark as the pain in your head recedes.
Junhui lowers you onto your bed like your spun of glass before he arranges the cushions behind your back, propping you up so you're half-reclined. His hands linger at your shoulders for half a second before pulling away, and you miss his warmth immediately.
"Wait here," he instructs.
"As if I could do anything else."
He huffs, amused as he crosses to the small table near the window. He opens a porcelain pitcher and pours it into a wooden basin. You let your eyes close, the sound of his hands in the water the only sound. He crosses back toward you and when you open your eyes, he's kneeling at your bedside and reaching out with a cool, damp cloth to press against your head.
You can't stop the small sound that escapes you. The relief is immediate. It isn't enough, of course, but it's something and something is better than nothing.
When he puts it down, he gestures to your robe. "Your outer robe is making you overheart. Maybe I?"
You nod, too exhausted to care about prosperity or about rules. Junhui has seen you more vulnerable than anyone else has the right to, and you know it means nothing untoward as his fingers work on the clasps and ties with practiced efficiency, never lingering where he shouldn't.
He eases the heavy brocade from your shoulders, leaving the lighter inner layers. You can breathe again, feeling the winter air that slips through the cracks kiss your overheated skin. You sigh in relief, leaning back onto the pillows as he folds the robe and sets it aside before turning his attention back to you.
Taking the cloth up again, he leans forward and wipes at the dried blood under your nose and on your chin, his touch so gentle it makes your heart squeeze, the feeling inside of you that you refuse to name cracking open a little more. When he's satisfied, he leans back on his heels, watching you.
"You don't have to do this," you mutter, head falling back on the pillows as you stare up at the ceiling. Your head still hurts, thoughts swimming. "The emperor didn't assign you to nursemaid duty."
"My duty is to you," he says sharply. "Not to the emperor or court or anything else. It's to keep you safe and keep you well. That's all that matters to me. This counts."
You love that he says it. You hate that he says it. His words are both burden and balm, and he has no idea how much you want to believe them, how much you want to let yourself imagine that this devotion means what your foolish heart wishes it could mean. That you wish that when he touches you with tenderness, it's because he wants to and not because he must.
But you know better - you always have. The ancient scrolls about oracles - the Sacreds - have always been clean that oracles should remain untouched and unspoiled, pure in body and spirit. The moment an oracle is touched and spoiled by the intimacy only known between lovers or concubines, they become nothing more than ordinary women.
The emperor has no use for ordinary women. The moment you are anything less than the Sacred, he'll toss you out or worse - keep you as something to spoil and besot and remind you how far you've fallen from graze.
You accept Junhui's care because you're selfish enough to want it, even though it means nothing. You let him adjust the blanket around you and smooth the hair back from your damp forehead, and you let yourself pretend for a moment that this is a moment born of love rather than duty, and that you can have this. That you can have him.
"Thank you," you whisper, though you know he doesn't realize what for.
Your eyes close against the sting of the day, your headache taking over. His hand finds yourself beneath the blanket and his fingers thread through yours gently as he squeezes.
"Rest," he says softly. "I'll be here."
You nod and feel the weight of exhaustion pull you under, dreaming that his sweeping thumb across the back of your hand is because he loves you, and not because it's his duty.
-
Voices wake you. Junhui's voice is raised above them all, cutting through an argument like a blade. You open your eyes, the dark outside your window telling you that the sun has not yet risen. You sit up slowly and the room spins, the dull ache behind your eye and neck telling you that you're not yet free of your earlier vision's repercussions.
"She needs rest," Junhui snarls. "The visions are demanding and he has asked for them more and more. You will not-"
"The emperor has summoned her," someone else answers. "We have our orders."
"And I have mine. Yours can wait until morning."
"It is morning."
"It's barely beyond midnight!"
Your body still feels hollowed out, mouth dry and skin sweaty. You think you've only been asleep for a few hours, but you push yourself up onto your elbow, pausing as the room sways. When it stops, you get up and head to the door, opening it so that a sliver of the torchlight from the hallway falls across your room.
Junhui turns to you at once, his face twisted in anger. He blocks your doorway, his body a wall between you and the three imperial guards standing in the corridor beyond. Their armor gleams in the firelight, lacquered black and red, the emperor's colors. They don't care that you can barely walk or that your hands are shaking. They only care about their orders.
"You should be resting," Junhui growls. "I will handle-"
"It doesn't matter." You meet his eyes and see frustration burning there, a helplessness that you feel too. "If the emperor summons me, I go."
"You can barely stand."
"I must manage."
"You shouldn't have to."
"Can you help me dress properly?" You whisper the question for only him to hear, the other guards lingering.
For a moment, Junhui's eyes flash, something unreadable crossing his face so quickly it's there before you can understand. He nods tightly once and pushes inside, not letting the guards catch a glimpse of you before he shoulders the door shut.
Darkness swallows the room. You stand on unsteady feet as Junhui rummages around for a match before lighting a candle with a single strike. The orange glow makes him look haunting, sharp features sharper, eyes so dark they reflect the light of the candle back while he moves around the room.
He moves efficiently, retrieving a new robe from your wardrobe. It's deep blue silk embroidered with silver cranes, one of your favorites. He crosses the room toward you and you lift your arms a little as he settles it over your shoulders, helping you pull your arms through before he's tying off laces.
When he's finished, he grabs a single comb, gathering your hair low at your neck to twist it up and give you some breathing room. Cool air brushes against the back of your neck and you're grateful.
"There," he mutters, standing in front of you.
"I'm ready."
It's a lie. You feel like you're made of paper, like someone could blow you away or cut right through you. But you remain standing anyway, and Junhui sighs, hand sliding to the small of your back as he guides you in the candlelight toward the door and into the hallway.
Neither of the guards acknowledge you. They simply begin walking, expecting you to follow. You do, and Junhui stays close, his hand never leaving your back, his grip firm enough that you can lean into him whenever the room tilts and becomes unsteady again.
The walk to the throne room feels endless. Each step sends an unsteady feeling up through your legs, and though the sharp pain of earlier is gone from your skull, the dull ache that remains isn't much better.
Your stomach churns with anxiety as you walk through winding halls. You know that the emperor has summoned you for another vision. He's done it over and over more recently, each promised victory and small win making him hungry for more, making him addicted to the future, to moves and countermoves.
Winter air bites at you as you cross the courtyard. Junhui pulls you closer and you smell him, vetiver and cedar. His body blocks most of the cold, and you lean into him, seeking heat. He lets you as the guards lead you to the throne room doors, the massive panels of dark wood bound with iron looming ahead.
The guards push the doors open and the familiar scent of hinoki incense washes over you, mixing with the acrid smoke of the burning braziers in the hall. At the end of the hall, the emperor sits on his throne, leaning forward in his seat, fingers drumming against the carved armrest.
There is no court this time - just a small handful of advisors and generals standing in clusters along the pillars, which means this isn't spectacle. It's business. Nervousness settles sourly in your stomach as you approach, footsteps echoing on the polished wood floor. Junhui's hand stays at your back until you reach the proper distance where he steps aside - but not far. Never far, even in the presence of the emperor.
You lower yourself into a bow and your knees nearly give out. Junhui is there in an instant, his hands firmly on your waist to keep you from falling forward onto your face as the room spins. You grimace through it, hands clutching your sleeves as you take a few deep breaths to regain composure.
"Your Imperial Majesty," you manage. "I'm here."
"Finally. I've been waiting."
You straighten slowly with Junhui's help and meet the emperor's eyes. They're dark and calculating, fixed on where Junhui's hands remain for a moment before he steps a respectful distance away once more. A needle of fear stabs at the back of your neck, sharp and cool.
"I want to know about the Free Isles," the emperor says. "Can we take them immediately after the northern kingdom, when they think they're safe? With the resources from the north, they should be no match for me."
Your heart sinks. The Free Isles are a chain of islands far to the northeast, fiercely independent and protected by treacherous waters and storms that only northern ships are made to cut through. The emperor has wanted them for years, but has never had the ships to take them. Of course he wishes to take them as soon as he has ships, the greed and desire to plant his flag on free shores insatiable.
You lick your lips. "I may not be able to see right now, Your Imperial Majesty. Using the gift this close together-"
"I don't care about your discomfort." He waves a hand dismissively. "I care about the future of my empire. Now look. Tell me what you see."
Behind you, Junhui tenses. You stare at the emperor and see no room for argument, no mercy. You knew he was not a merciful man the way he conquered lands, but you hadn't expected him to risk damaging you like this.
Nodding, you close your eyes, taking a deep breath to calm yourself. You hate reaching for visions - oftentimes they come at random, seizing you when you're in a crowded room or alone in the bathing room. Sometimes they take you faster than you can summon them. But reaching for them feels like reaching into a wound every time, painful and sharp.
Pain explodes behind your eyes, white-hot and blinding as you dip into the well of your power. You feel your nose start to bleed again from the force, hot copper flooding your mouth. Your own heartbeat hammers too fast, too loud, thundering in your ears like the emperor's war drums.
The vision comes to you like a knife to the gut, stabbing and painful. You're on the deck of a ship - no. You are the ship, the wood of your body groaning, the spray from the sea cold and sharp. The sky above is storm-black, choked with clouds so dark they're almost green. Lightning splits the sky and for one blinding moment, you see dozens of ships bearing the emperor's colors, their red and black sails straining against wind that screams and tears at the sea.
In front of you, a wave rises ahead. It's impossibly tall, a mountain of water that climbs climbs climbs toward the sky until it comes crashing down. The world becomes water - cold, crushing. You can't breathe and salt water floods your mouth and nose, choking you. Your lungs scream and wood splinters, the sound like bones breaking. Men scream, but the sound is lost in the roar of the ocean.
When you surface, you're you again, not the ship. Another ship lets out a resonant crack as the mast falls, crashing through the deck. Some soldiers jump, some cling to the side. The sea takes them as the ship goes down, the water pulling them into the belly of its black depths. You feel terror like never before, but the storm doesn't stop.
Another wave. Then another. Ships splinter. Bodies vanish underneath the waves. So many bodies. The ocean swallows them whole, greedy and hungry, taking and taking and taking.
Through the ocean spray and chaos, you see land. The Free Isles rise from the sea like teeth, their rocky shores and cliff spread open like a mouth laughing to the sky. Warriors dot the cliffs, lit up only by the flash of lightning as they watch the storm do the work for them.
A wave crashes over you and drags you down to the bottom of the sea. In the flashes of light that shine through the murky ocean, you see pieces of ship floating, red and black banners sinking toward the depths of the sea, bodies thrashing as the undertow pulls them down down down.
The vision releases you and you're drowning in air instead of water, gasping, choking on nothing. Your knees buckle and you catch yourself on the floor, palms slapping against the polished wood as blood gushes from your knows. Junhui's hands are already on you, trying to stop you from collapsing into the red pooling on the floor beneath you. Voices swirl around you, but you can't make out anything they're saying, the roar of the sea - or your blood rushing in your ears - drowning out everything else.
Slowly, words come back to you. Your head lolls to the side as you look up at the emperor, his face furious and impatient as he slams his closed fist against the arm of his throne. "Well? What did you see?"
"Failure," you choke out, coughing on imaginary mouthfuls of water. "The Free Isles cannot be taken. The storms will do the work for them and the islands will not fall."
"Look again, then!" He booms. "Find a solution!"
"I cannot-"
You don't know when the emperor stood up, but he's in front of you suddenly, his hand moving faster than you can track. The blow catches you across the face, snapping your head to the side. Pain explodes along your cheekbone, bright and sharp and the throne room spins.
Junhui moves. One moment he's behind you, the next he's between you and the emperor, his body a wall of rage. His hand goes to his sword, fingers wrapping around the hilt to slide the blade free just enough that the ring of metal cuts through the room.
Every guard in the room tenses. Hands fly to weapons. You hear the whisper of steel, the creak of leather armor as soldiers shift their weight, ready to strike. The advisors along the pillars press themselves back against the wood, their faces pale that Junhui would dare to draw steel in front of the emperor.
The emperor goes very still. His eyes narrow, and for a moment you see something flicker there - surprise, maybe - before his face twists with rage at the affront. You look at Junhui, and though you can't see his face, his rigid shoulders say it all.
"You dare," the emperor hisses. "You dare to draw steel in my presence? You dare threaten your emperor?"
"My mandate is to protect her." Junhui doesn't move. Doesn't flinch. His shoulders are squared, his stance wide and grounded. "From any threat. Even you, Your Imperial Majesty."
The advisors go rigid. You can feel their shock radiating outward, a physical thing. This is treason. Open defiance. The kind of thing that ends with heads on spikes outside the palace gates. Your heart hammers against your ribs. The room swims, gaze blurry from the emperor's blow and the vision's aftermath and the realization that Junhui is signing his own death warrant for you.
You try to reach a hand up to tug on his sleeve but you can't move - you can barely think. You're broken on your knees, the taste of iron and salt in your mouth, looking up at Junhui as he remains in front of you.
"You forget yourself," the emperor snarls. "You forget who holds your life in his hands, who holds her life in his hands."
Junhui's grip tightens on his sword. "I forgot nothing, Your Imperial Majesty. I took an oath in front of you and this court to protect her from all, including the throne. This is my duty."
"Your duty is obedience. Your duty is to serve me. Everything in this palace - every guard, every servant, every Sacred - exists to serve me."
"I cannot break the oath I gave you, Your Imperial Majesty."
The emperor's face goes dark as silence permeates the room. Red creeps up into his neck and cheeks, his breathing labored as he works himself up, his rage choking the air in the throne room. Junhui stands in front of you anyway, his eyes forward, exterior calm.
You try to stand. Your legs don't cooperate, blood dripping from your nose and mouth, spattering beneath you. Your whole body trembles and you want to tell Junhui to stop, to save himself, but your voice doesn't work.
All you can do is watch. Watch him risk everything. Watch him stand between you and the most powerful man in the empire. Watch him choose you over his own life. Something cracks open in your chest. Something that feels like hope and terror and longing all tangled together. Something you can't afford to feel.
For a long moment, no one moves or breathes. The guards wait for the order to strike while the advisors stay out of the way, trying to become invisible in the pools of shadows between the pillars.
Finally, the emperor laughs. The sound is harsh and startling against the silence, echoing off the walls.
"Get out," his voice is ragged. "Both of you. Get out of my sight before I have you both executed."
Junhui doesn't wait for him to change his mind. He turns, hauling you to your feet with careful hands, and guides you toward the doors. Your legs barely work and your face throbs where the emperor struck you. You ignore the pain, instead focusing on the way Junhui's arm is around your waist, holding you up as you somehow make it across the throne room.
Outside, the world is bitter cold. The courtyard tilts on its axis, and you feel Junhui's arm tighten around your waist as he pulls you closer to him.
"Stay with me," he murmurs, breath hot against your ear.
"He'll kill you," you try to say. But your voice won't work. The words come out broken. Slurred. "Junhui, he'll-"
"Shh." His grip tightens. "Don't talk. Just breathe."
But breathing hurts. Everything hurts. The edges of your vision go dark and fuzzy, like looking through a tunnel. You can hear voices, but they sound distorted and echoing, like you're underwater again, drowning in that vision of ships and storms and mean screaming as the ocean devours them whole.
Your legs give out completely. You feel Junhui catch you. Feel his hands on your face.
Then nothing. Just silence.
-
The first thing you become aware of is warmth. It isn't the oppressive heat of the throne room, but it's the soft warmth of your room, the smell of sandalwood and jasmine comforting. The light comes second, soft and flickering, the orange glow soft behind your closed eyelids.
When your eyes flutter open, you see candles. Dozens of them burning in their holders, casting dancing shadows against the silk screens that divide your chambers. You're still in your bed, though the heavy outer layer of your robes are gone. Someone has covered you with a thick quilt embroidered with dragons - your favorite.
You try to sit up and immediately regret it. Pain lances through your skull - not the white-hot agony of a vision, but a deep, bone-weary ache that makes your stomach turn. You let out a small sound, barely more than a breath, and freeze when you realize Junhui is watching you from the side of your bed.
He's removed his armor, dressed only in the red and black robes of a palace guard. It catches you off guard - you've never seen him without his armor before. It makes him look unguarded, his dark hair disheveled and falling across his forehead slightly. His elbows rest on his knees, his head forward as his dark gaze pins you to the mattress.
"You're awake."
"I think so." Your voice comes out broken and harsh. "I hope so."
Junhui moves immediately. He reaches for a cup on the low table beside your bed and slides one hand behind your head carefully as he helps you lean forward to drink. The water is cool with a hint of medicinal herbs and you gulp, coughing a little.
"Careful," he murmurs. "Small sips, no gulping."
It soothes your throat and you manage three sips before pulling back, letting Junhui set the cup aside as he carefully sits back down beside you, pulling his chair closer.
"How long was I out?" You ask, sinking back down.
"Six hours. Maybe seven. I lost track."
Seven hours. You've been unconscious for seven hours. The weight of that settles over you like a stone. Seven hours of Junhui sitting here, watching over you, waiting for you to wake. Seven hours of not knowing if you would.
"The physician came," Junhui continues. "He said you need rest. That you can't keep doing this."
You close your eyes. The exhaustion is bone-deep. Soul-deep. It lives inside of you, in all of the spaces between your ribs and in the hollows of your chest, pumping through your blood, threaded with everything breath. You're tired of this, tired of being the Sacred, tired of having headaches, tired of being split open and rendered useless by visions you've never asked for, tired of serving a man you despise and resisting the man you want.
"I hate this," you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "I hate this. I hate the visions. I hate being this, I hate-"
Your voice cracks down the middle like ice over a frozen lake, everything you've kept inside of you welling to the surface, rushing forward in an onslaught you cannot stop. You feel the tears spilling over as your hands fists the quilt and you cry.
"I wish I didn't have them. I wish I didn't live like this," you choke out. "I've lived like this since I was a little girl, unable to live how I want, to do what I want. It isn't fair Jun. It isn't fair! I want to be nothing, I want to be no one!"
Junhui says nothing at first. You can't look at him - can't bear to see what's written on his face. Pity, probably. You hate that the most, that he probably pities you, that he's nice and sweet and kind because no one else is.
He startles you when he moves. You look up to see him move from sitting on the chair to the bed, his weight on the mattress making you dip toward him as his hand slips beneath the quilt to find yours, his fingers lacing with yours. The touch is unexpected and gentle, palm warm against yours. Solid. Real. Calloused but comforting.
Junhui is looking at you. Not at the wall, not at his hands, not at some distant point beyond your shoulder like all the other courtiers when you're collapsing or bleeding or writhing in pain. He's looking at you, his dark eyes are steady on your face, and there's something in them that makes your heart hammer, something that looks almost like pain.
"If I could take them from you," he says quietly, "I would. In a heartbeat I would take them away."
You stare at him - really look at him for the first time since you woke to see exhaustion etched into every line of his face, dark circles beneath his eyes. You examine each part of him - the slight slump to his shoulders that he never allows when he's on duty. The way his hair falls across his forehead, disheveled and uncombed. He looks like he hasn't slept. Like he's been sitting here beside your bed for hours, watching over you, waiting for you to wake.
The worry hasn't left his gaze. You can see it there, sharp and clear in the way his eyes move over your face, cataloging every bruise, every sign of pain. The way his jaw tightens when his gaze lands on the mark the emperor left on your cheek.
There's something else there too, something you've seen before but didn't know how to name, something you never let yourself hope for, but only dreamed about. Something in the way he holds your hand - not like a guard on duty, but like you mean something to him beyond being his charge.
Your heart pounds. This is dangerous. Forbidden. But you're so tired of being careful. So tired of denying yourself the one thing you want. So tired of pretending that his kindness is just duty, that his gentleness means nothing, that you don't feel the way you do.
"There is a way," you hear yourself say.
Junhui's brow furrows. His thumb stops its gentle movement across your knuckles. "What?"
Your mouth goes dry. This is it. The precipice. You could pull back now. Laugh it off. Pretend you meant something else. Say you were talking about running away, or finding some mythical cure, or anything other than what you're actually suggesting, but you're so tired of pretending.
"The visions," you say slowly. Each word feels like pulling teeth. Like dragging something heavy and sharp up from the depths of your chest. "They're tied to - um - purity."
Heat floods your cheeks. You can feel it spreading down your neck, across your chest. Can feel the way your skin burns with shame and something else. Something that might be hope or fear or both tangled together until you can't tell them apart.
You can't look at him anymore. Can't bear to see his reaction. So you stare at the quilt instead, studying the neat stitching and the way the gold thread weaves through the red fabric. At the way the dragons dance.
The silence stretches. You count your own heartbeats. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. By the sixth, you want the ocean from your vision to swallow you whole so you can escape this embarrassment, realizing that you've misstepped
"They would go away?" His voice is hoarse. Halting. "The visions?
"Yes."
Another silence. This one longer. Heavier. You can feel it pressing down on you like a physical weight. Can feel the way the air in the room has changed, like all the air has been sucked out and replaced with pure pressure. When you risk a glance up at him, he's not looking at you. His gaze is fixed on the blanket, jaw tight and lips pressed together in a thin line. You can see the way his chest rises and falls with each careful breath, can see the tension in his shoulders.
"Are you asking me to take them from you?"
The question lands in silence between you. You say nothing, and when Junhui looks up at you, his gaze is more intense than you remember it, his eyes dark and pupils blown. You swallow thickly, and when he squeezes your hand to push for an answer, you can't speak. You give a tiny, imperceptible nod, nearly shaking as you admit to the unspoken question.
For a moment, nothing happens. Junhui just sits there, his hand in yours, his breathing careful and controlled. You can feel the tension radiating off him in waves. Can see the way his jaw works, like he's trying to force out words that won't come. Can see the conflict written across every line of his face.
Then he pulls his hand away.
Devastation crashes through you, the loss of his touch immediately. He stands and turns away from you, shoulders rigid as he takes two steps toward the door before stopping, his back to you, his hands clenched into fists at his side.
"No."
The word comes out hard. Final like a door slamming shut, like the last nail in a coffin.The rejection lands harder than the emperor's slap, and you feel the shame hit you like a physical thing because why would he? Of course he doesn't want you like that, of course he wouldn't abandon his duty. And you are his duty, his burden, a Sacred he's wrong to protect and nothing more.
The shame is crushing. Suffocating. Heat floods your face, your throat, your chest. You can feel it burning through you like fever, like fire, like the aftermath of a vision but worse. So much worse because this pain is your own fault- your own stupid, foolish, desperate mistake.
You want to disappear. To sink into the bed and never emerge. To pull the quilt over your head and suffocate yourself with it. To take back the last five minutes and pretend this conversation never happened. To go back to before, when you could at least pretend that his kindness meant something. That you meant something to him beyond duty.
"I'm sorry," you say quickly. "I shouldn't have, I didn't mean-
"It would be an abuse of my power." Junhui still doesn't turn around. His voice is carefully controlled, but you can hear something underneath it. Something that sounds almost like anguish, maybe. "I'm your guard. You're vulnerable and desperate and I will not take advantage of that."
The words should make you feel better, should reassure you that he's honorable, that he's thinking of your wellbeing, that he's protecting you even from yourself. But all you feel is shame - the kind that is all-consuming and that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin. The kind that makes you want to claw at your face until the heat and the humiliation and the desperate, aching want are all gone.
"No, sorry," you rasp. "It's an abuse of my power. I'm the one asking. I'm the one - I'm sorry, Jun. That was awful of me."
Your voice breaks on the words. Cracks down the middle like everything else inside you.
"I'm so sorry. Forget I said anything. Please."
The embarrassment is crushing. Suffocating. You've never felt so small. So foolish. So utterly, completely exposed. You want to disappear and to take back everything you just said and pretend this conversation never happened.
Silence stretches so long that you can hear your own ragged breathing and can feel the tears leaking between your fingers as you press your hands to your face, trying to hide the same and agony there.
Footsteps draw your attention, but you don't lower your hands. You can't even look at him, can't bear to see the pity or disgust on his face. But then his hands are on your wrists, pulling gently.
"Look at me," he murmurs.
You shake your head. Keep your eyes squeezed shut. The tears are flowing freely now, hot tracks down your cheeks, and you've never felt more humiliated in your entire life.
"Please," Junhui whispers. "Look at me."
Something in his voice makes you obey. You open your eyes and find him kneeling beside your bed. His face is level with yours, close enough that you can see the gold flecks in his dark eyes. Close enough that you can see the way his own hands are trembling slightly where they hold your wrists.
"Do you have feelings for me?" The question comes out low and soft, his dark eyes searching yours with an urgency that makes your heart skip. "Please be honest."
Your heart hammers against your ribs. This is it. The moment where you could lie. Could protect yourself. Could pretend that this was only ever about the visions, about freedom, about anything other than what it really is.
"Of course I do," you whisper, heart hammering. "You're the only one who sees me as a person. Who treats me like I'm not a tool. I know I'm just your assignment and that you don't care for me that way, but you always-"
Junhui's mouth crashes against yours and the world stops. One hand cups the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair while the other frames your jaw gently, careful not to touch the bruise where the emperor struck you.
You gasp against his lips and he takes advantage, deepening the kiss, tasting you like he's been starving for it. Like he's been holding himself back for so long and finally, finally, he can let go.
You've never been kissed before, never been touched like this. It turns you to molten, your hands finding his shoulders to brush up toward his neck, your fingers threading though his hair as you kiss him back with everything you have. He tastes like tea and something spicey, something that makes heat pool low in your belly and makes you want more.
When he finally pulls back, you're both breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours, his eyes closed, his breath coming in ragged gasps that match your own.
"I've wanted to do that," he murmurs against your lips. "For so long."
He doesn't pull away. He stays close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath on your face, can count each individual eyelash, can see the way his pupils have blown wide with want. His hand is still cradling the back of your head, fingers tangled in your hair. The other still frames your jaw with that same careful tenderness, his thumb resting just below the bruise the emperor left.
Your heart is racing. Thundering so hard you're certain he can feel it. Your whole body is trembling, and you can still feel the ghost of his mouth on yours, the pressure and heat of it.
"Then why did you pull away before?" You pant. "Why did you say no?"
"Because I was afraid." He says it so quietly you almost don't hear him. His thumb moves against your jaw, soft and soothing. "I was afraid that if I touched you - that if I gave into the want - that I wouldn't be able to stop and that I would ruin you. That I'd take something from you that you couldn't get back, that I would spoil you and it would be the worst abuse of power I could imagine."
"You wouldn't-"
"I'm a man who wants something he shouldn't have." His eyes burn. "A man who is supposed to protect you, not have you. I could stand feeling for you and resisting - but if you felt the same…"
"I do."
His eyes close briefly, like hearing you say it causes him pain or relief. You cannot tell which. When they open again, there's something raw in them. Something desperate and hopeful and terrified all at once.
And then he kisses you again, softer and slower this time, like he's trying to memorize the taste of you. This kiss is different from the first. Less desperate. More deliberate. He takes his time, exploring your mouth with a patience that makes your whole body flush with heat. His hand slides from your hair down to the nape of your neck, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin that make you shiver.
When he finally pulls back, you're both breathing hard again. But this time, there's no fear in his eyes. No hesitation. Just want, pure and undisguised for once. His thumb traces your lower lip, and the way he's looking at your mouth is like it wants to kiss you again and again and again.
"If we do this," he says quietly, "there's no going back. You'll lose the visions. The emperor will have no use for you, and you'll be-"
"Free," you cut him off. "I will be free."
You catch the hand that's been tracing your lip and press it against your cheek, turning your face into his palm. His skin is warm against yours, rough with calluses. It's real and solid and everything you've ever wanted - everything you've ever dreamed about.
"I want to be free," you say again. "But I also want you. I've dreamed about it for so long - thought it could only ever be a dream. Nothing more."
Something shifts in his expression. His pupils dilate further until there's barely any brown left behind the want, behind the desire. He looks at you now like you're something to devour, not protect, like you're the only thing in the world that matters. A shiver that has nothing to do with the cold runs down your spine as his hand moves from your cheek to your throat, not squeezing but resting there, feeling the way your pulse thunders under his thumb.
"Are you sure?" His voice is rough and strained. "There's no undoing this. You need to be certain."
"I've never been more certain. Please."
Junhui nods, leaning forward to capture your mouth in a soft, sweet kiss. "Okay," he murmurs against your lips. "Okay."
He stands slowly, and for a moment you think he's leaving and that he's changed his mind. But then he shrugs out of his outer robe, letting it pool on the floor. His hands go to the ties of his inner robe, and you watch, entirely transfixed as he undresses. His body is all lean muscle and old scars, beautiful in the candlelight. Beautiful in a way that makes your mouth go dry and your heart race even faster.
Then he's on the bed with you, carefully moving the quilt aside, his hands finding the ties of your robes. He pauses and looks up at you, his eyes serious. "Tell me if you want me to stop. At any point. Promise me."
"I promise."
He nods and undresses you slowly, peeling back layers of silk with careful attention, his fingers brushing your skin gently. When you're finally bare before him, you expect to feel exposed and vulnerable, but he looks at you like you're something otherworldly, like he cannot imagine what he's seeing.
"You're beautiful," he murmurs. His hand traces the curve of your waist, your hip. "So beautiful."
Junhui leans down and kisses you again, slower and deeper this time, his mouth moving against yours with deliberate intent, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you open for him. The taste of him floods your senses as he cups the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, angling your face so he can kiss you deeper.
A soft moan escapes you and he swallows it, his other hand sliding down your side to trace the curve of your waist and your hip, dropping to your thigh. Each touch leaves fire in its wake. Your skin feels too tight, too hot, like you might combust from the inside out.
When he finally breaks the kiss, you're both breathing hard. His pupils are blown wide, his lips swollen and wet. He looks at you like he wants to devour you and it lights you up inside. You push closer to him, hands shaking as your fingers trace his forearms, feeling the veins and muscles beneath his warm skin.
"I want to taste every inch of you," he murmurs against your lips. His voice is rough. Raw. "I want to learn what makes you gasp. What makes you beg. Can I do that?"
You can barely form words. Can only nod, your heart thundering so hard you're certain he can hear it.
"Use your words," he says softly. His thumb traces your lower lip. "I need to hear you say it."
"Yes." Your voice comes out breathless. Desperate. "Yes, please."
The smile that curves his lips is devastating. "Good."
Then his mouth is on your throat, hot and wet and perfect. He kisses the hollow beneath your jaw, the sensitive spot behind your ear that makes you shiver. His teeth graze your earlobe and you gasp, your hands flying up to grip his shoulders. The muscles there are hard beneath your palms, flexing as he moves.
He works his way down, kissing and licking, occasionally biting just hard enough to make you gasp. When he reaches your collarbone, he pauses, his tongue tracing the delicate bone before his teeth close over it gently. The sensation shoots straight between your thighs, and you feel yourself getting wetter.
"Jun-"
"Shh." His breath is hot against your skin. "Let me take care of you."
His mouth moves lower to the swell of your breast, and he kisses the soft skin there, his hand coming up to cup you, his thumb brushing over your nipple. His touch is feather-light but it makes you arch into him, a whine escaping your mouth as you beg for more.
He gives it to you, his mouth closing over a nipple as he sucks gently. You arch into him, the sensation overwhelming as his tongue circles the sensitive peak, flicking over it before his teeth graze it gently. You almost come apart right there, melting.
"That feels- oh Gods-"
"Tell me." His voice is muffled against your breast. "Tell me how it feels."
You can barely think. Can barely form coherent thoughts. "So good. Please don't stop."
He doesn't. He lavishes attention to your chest - sucking, licking, biting - until you're trembling beneath him. You're so wet now you can feel it, the slickness between your thighs and the ache there driving you mad. As if reading your mind, his hand slides down your stomach, fingers tracing patterns on your skin. When he reaches where your thighs are shut tight, he pauses.
"Open for me," he murmurs against your breast.
You do. Spreading your legs, letting him see how wet you are, how much you want him.
"Gods," he growls. "Look at you."
His fingers brush through your folds, his touch light and barely there, but enough to make you gasp. He brings them to his mouth, maintaining eye contact as he licks them clean and the sight is so hypnotic that you find yourself staring, face flushing with heat as he grins.
"Taste like the Heavens," he murmurs. "Need more."
Before you can process what he means, he's moving down your body, kissing his way down your stomach, your hip bones, the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. When his mouth presses to your core, you nearly scream, his tongue licking through you slowly, parting your wet folds. The pleasure is unlike anything you've ever felt, sharp and overwhelming, and your hands fly into his hair, gripping the dark strands, unsure if you're pulling him closer or away.
"Oh," you gasp. "I can't-"
"Yes, you can." His breath is hot against you. "Just feel it."
His tongue circles your clit gently and your hips twitch to meet his mouth, thighs shaking as your eyes squeeze shut. It feels maddeningly good, and when his tongue starts flicking over your clit directly, you feel the way your breath catches, the way you twitch under him. He holds your hips down to keep you skill, humming lightly as he devours.
And Junhui devours, alternating between broad strokes of his tongue and focused attention on that sensitive spot. Sometimes he sucks on it gently, and the sensation makes you cry out. Sometimes he flicks it rapidly with the tip of his tongue, building the pleasure higher and higher until you think you might die from it. And just when you think you can't take anymore, he slides a finger into your heat and you feel yourself clench hard.
"So tight," he groans. "So perfect. You're going to feel so good around my cock."
The crude words make you clench around his finger. Make more wetness flood between your thighs. He notices, and you can feel him smile against you.
"You like that?" His voice is teasing. Knowing. "You like when I talk dirty to you?"
"Yes." The admission comes out breathy. "Yes, please."
"Please what?" He adds a second finger, stretching you, and the burn is delicious. "Tell me what you want. I'll give you everything."
His fingers curl inside you, finding a spot that makes you see stars. He works you patiently, fingers stroking inside of you, pressing against that spot over and over and over while he sucks gently on your clit, driving you higher and higher.
You're trembling. Shaking. Your hands are fisted in his hair, your hips moving against his mouth despite his attempts to hold you still. The pleasure is so intense it's almost frightening. Like standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down into the abyss.
The tension that's been building inside you finally snaps and you fall over the edge, your orgasm crashing over you. Your body convulses, clenching around his fingers, and you cry out his name as pleasure floods through you. It's overwhelming. All-consuming. Wave after wave of sensation that makes your vision go white, makes your whole body shake with the force of it.
Junhui works you through it, his fingers still moving inside you, his mouth still on you, drawing out every last tremor of pleasure until you're boneless and gasping beneath him.
When you finally come back to yourself, he's kissing his way back up your body. His lips are wet with you, and when he kisses you, you can taste yourself on his tongue. It should be embarrassing - should be shameful - but you don't care, licking into his mouth hungrily, pulling him as close as you can.
Junhui's hand slides between your thighs again, and despite the orgasm you just had, your body responds. Arching into his touch. Seeking more. He positions himself between your thighs, the hard length of him pressing against your entrance, and even through the haze of pleasure, you feel a flutter of nervousness. He's big. Bigger than his fingers. And you're not sure-
"Look at me." You do. His eyes are dark and intense, but soft and entirely focused on you. "We'll go slow. If it's too much, if you need me to stop, you tell me, understand?"
You nod. "Yes. I understand."
"Good." He kisses you again, soft and reassuring. "I've got you."
Then he's pushing in slowly - so slowly - the stretch is immediate and intense. More than his fingers, more than you expected and you gasp, hands flying to his shoulders, fingers sliding against his sweaty skin as your nails dig in.
He stops immediately. "Breathe. Just breathe."
You do. Deep breaths that help your body relax, help you adjust to the intrusion. After a moment, the burn eases slightly, and you nod. He pushes in another inch. Then another. The stretch intensifies, bordering on painful, and you whimper.
"I know." His forehead rests against yours. His whole body is trembling with the effort of holding still, of going slow. "I know it hurts. But you're doing so well. Taking me so perfectly."
The praise helps. Makes you want to be good for him, makes you want to take all of him. You breathe through the burn, through the stretch, and slowly your body adjusts. He steals another kiss from you as he sinks to the hilt, distracting you with his tongue and the way he groans into your mouth.
When he breaks the kiss, he's pressed as deep as he can go, the feeling so full and so good you can barely breathe. Junhui is just as affected, panting and shivering as he drops his head to gaze where you're joined, letting out a curse.
"You feel so good," he pants. "Like you were made for me."
You clench around him experimentally, and he groans, his hips jerking involuntarily. It feels good to squeeze down, a sensation you'd never imagined, and you do it again, a small little sound leaving your lips as he groans again.
"Don't," he rasps. "Don't do that or I won't last."
"I want you to feel good too," you whisper. Your hands slide down his back, feeling the hard muscles there, the way they flex and shift as he holds himself still. "I want to make you feel the way you made me feel."
"You do." He kisses you, tongues tangling briefly before he breaks the kiss to press his lips against your jawline. "You have no idea what you do to me. How long I've wanted this. Wanted you."
"Then have me."
Junhui lets out a desperate sound but nods, his hips starting to move slowly. It makes you gasp, the friction intense and the drag of his cock inside you so good. The pain has faded completely now, replaced by pleasure that builds faster than you can keep up with.
You wrap your legs around his waist, taking him deeper, and he groans into your shoulder. The angle changes and suddenly he's hitting something inside you, that same spot that makes the world spin and the pleasure spark right behind your eyelids.
"There," you gasp. "Right there, please."
"I know." His voice is rough. Strained. "I can feel you clenching around me. So tight. So perfect."
He picks up the pace, still careful but full of urgency now, thrusting deeper until you can feel yourself climbing toward another peak. His hand slides between your bodies and finds your clit again, circling it in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation is overwhelming, both too much and not enough and too everything.
The pleasure crests until it breaks and your second orgasm hits you harder than the first, your body clenching and spasming as you cry out his name. It's more intense than before, more overwhelming, like every nerve ending in your body is firing at once.
Seeing you lose it is all it takes for him. He buries himself deep as he can do and you feel the pulse of him inside of you as he comes, his entire body going rigid, every muscle locked tight as he whimpers a broken sound in the shape of your name.
He collapses on top of you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and for a long moment neither of you moves. You just hold each other, breathing hard, hearts pounding in sync. You can feel him still pulsing inside you, can feel the warmth of his release, and the realization that it's real and not a fantasy anymore makes your eyes sting with unshed tears.
Carefully, he pulls out. You both wince at the sensation but he's gentle, rolling to the side and pulling you against his chest, his arms wrapping around you tightly. You can feel his heart racing, and his lips press against your brow, soft and sweet while his fingers trace patterns on your spine.
"I'm taking you away from here," Junhui says eventually.
You lift your head to look at him. "What?"
"Tonight, if possible. Tomorrow at the latest. Somewhere the emperor can't reach you. Somewhere you can be free."
"Junhui, you can't - your position-"
"I don't care." He cups your face in both hands. "You are sacred to me. Not because of your visions or your gift. Because of who you are. And I'm not willing to share you anymore. Not with the emperor. Not with the court. Not with anyone."
Your breath catches. "You'd give up everything? For me?"
"I already have." He kisses you softly. "The moment I stepped between you and the emperor, I chose you. There's no going back from that. So we go forward. Together."
"Where will we go?"
"East to the river provinces. I have family there who owe me favors. They'll hide us until we can figure out something more permanent." His thumb brushes your cheekbone. "You'll have a life beyond the throne room. Beyond the visions. I promise you that."
Tears spill over. For the first time in your life, you feel safe - not because of prophecy or position, but because someone has chosen you for you. Because Junhui has chosen you over everything else.
"You wanted to be no one," Junhui whispers. "You can be no one to everything else. But to me, you are everything. You are not the Sacred - you're just sacred to me."
You nod, throat tight. "I would like that."
You fall asleep in his arms, and for once, there are no visions waiting in the darkness. No prophecies. No futures written in blood and fire. Just nothing, exactly like you asked for.
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