PAIRING: Chan x f. reader
SUMMARY: Instead of working at your father’s flashy law office, you pick up shifts at the local pizza parlor just to prove you can. And if you convince them your up-to-no-good coworker is your boyfriend to pour salt in the wound… even better.
AU: Coworkers to Lovers, Fake Dating
GENRE: Romance, Mild Angst, Smut
WC: 19,147
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: Toxic and emotionally abusive parental dynamics (not like extreme though), heavy classism and socioeconomic themes, mild self-loathing/angst, intense pressure from family constantly on reader, sometimes reader is a bit woe is me, emotional confrontations with parents, her parents are just awful everyone anyway, explicit language, sexually explicit content including vaginal fingering, unprotected sex in a car, heaving making out, these two are totally idiots and reader is oblivious, one (1) smoking scene, some champagne sipping.... I think that's it.
A/N: This is for the Carat Ridge collab hosted by @100vern @imnotshua and @starlightkyeom. I am so so so eternally late please forgive me.
AN 2: This is not beta read so I’m sorry. This is also not my proudest work to be honest with you. I don't know how we got to almost 20k but I apologize for not putting my best foot forward with this, but I think at this point it's better to be done than not done at all. Literally this end result is not what I was going for but we ball lmfao I don't even know if they actually have chemistry but pls forgive me.
MAIN M. LIST | ASK | CARAT RIDGE COLLAB | NOW PLAYING: SWEETENER
when life deals us cards
make everything taste like it is salt
then you come through like the sweetner you are
to bring the bitter taste to halt
-
THE BRASS BELL ABOVE THE DOOR JINGLES, SLIGHTLY OFF KEY AND A LITTLE TOO SHRILL AS ANOTHER CUSTOMER PUSHES INSIDE. Warm air rushes in before the door can close, the smell of fresh cut grass and the sound of the mowers on Main Street humming cutting through the chatter of the diner and the current trending pop tunes on the radio playing throughout.
"Hi," you greet from the hostess stand, wiping sweaty palms on your pants, rings twisting on your fingers. "Welcome to Sweetner. Table for two?"
The couple nods and you grab two laminated menus that stick to your fingers no matter how many times to try to wash off the hot honey that the teenagers relentlessly spill on them every day. You lead the couple through the small diner, steps clicking against the black-and-white checkered linoleum floor that's scuffed and worn smooth from decades of families, kids and after-church crowds shuffling through.
After seating them, you head back to the hostess stand and lean against the stand. You're definitely not supposed to, but Mr. Hargrove isn't here right now and your feet hurt like hell even though you've only been on shift for an hour, and the baking heat from the ovens behind the counter makes everything too hot. You think about going and hiding in the ice cream freezer in the back, but you know if Mingyu finds you in there again he is going to lose his mind.
Outside, Main Street unfolds lie the little postcards that Mrs. Hong likes to keep in her bookstore. The sky stretches cloudless and impossibly blue over head, the kind of afternoon where everything is baked warm and sticky. You see the clocktower from the courthouse three blocks over, looming above the tiny strip mall that houses Kimi's Nail Salon, a FedEx, a Subway and a mom and pop decal shop.
It is exactly the part of town you like to hide in, a completely ordinary and predictable slice of the world that feels farther away from the manicured lawn of the estates and the sharp, perfumed offices of your father's sleek law offices just four blocks away. You can never get over how just four blocks makes all the difference in the world, but you're forever grateful for it, preferring the smell of baked pizza and the stickiness of the melted ice cream beneath your shoes.
Your phone buzzes in your back pocket and you take it out - another thing you're not supposed to do - and you wince when you see your dad's name flash across the screen.
Lunch tomorrow. Noon.
You stare at it, the knot in your stomach tighter than the garlic knots Mingyu makes in the back. Almost immediately, your father sends another sharp reminder because he knows if he doesn't, you'll use it as an excuse to dress how you want.
Wear something presentable.
You roll your eyes and shove your phone back into your pocket, the irritation simmering. Three weeks. It's only been three weeks since you'd escaped the law office for Sweetner. Three weeks of freedom without during strategy sessions or being introduced to your future clients, three weeks without being introduced as a future partner which was something you never agreed to. Three weeks of pure bliss, sore feet, being bitched at for breaking the rules by Mingyu and-
The front door opens again, letting in a fresh blast of heat as Lee Chan strides in like he owns the place, even though he's technically ten minutes late to his own shift. He's always late though, much to Mingyu's constant complaining, but for some reason Mr. Hargrove loves Chan anyways.
"Don't worry," he announces to the entire diner. "I am here and I was almost arrested, but I was not!"
His dark hair is messy today like it always is, slightly damp from the heat and whatever trouble he's just escaped. His t-shirt clings to him with a faded denim jacket slung over one shoulder, his apron crumbled under his arm. He smirks when he sees his favorite regulars who chuckle at his announcement, winking at a table of elderly women who preen under his attention.
You can't help the grin that tugs are your mouth. Chan has that effect on everyone, equal parts exasperating and magnetic, which is probably why he never gets in trouble.
"Chan," Mingyu booms from the kitchen. "I swear to God!"
Except with Mingyu, anyway.
"Relax!" Chan calls back, already weaving through tables while he ties his apron around his waist. “It was barely a misunderstanding. Some old lady thought I was stealing her cat when I was just trying to return it. Hero behavior, really.”
"Shut up and get back there," Joshua laughs, walking by while balancing a tray of drinks as he navigates the lunch rush entirely alone, the new server missing in action. "Mingyu's been cooking all this himself, he's going to lose his mind in a second."
"Yeah, yeah, Mr. Perfect," Chan grumbles.
As Chan vanishes to the kitchen, the door opens again and a family of four walks in. You repeat the cycle, grabbing another set of menus and leading them to a table, settling back into the routine that you've come to grow fond of at Sweetner. Seat, smile, refill waters, wipe tables when Soonyoung inevitably falls behind because he's making out with his most recent girlfriend behind the diner. It's a nice pattern, wildly different from the stiff back-to-back meetings and fancy luncheon's your family was used to.
You like how ordinary it all is. How nobody cares what your last name is. How Mr. Hargrove hired you after one interview because you showed up on time and didn’t flinch when a toddler threw a fist full of greasy french fries at your shirt. Most of all, you like that your father hates it with a purity that is laughable.
This phase is beneath you, he'd told you when you'd quit your summer at the firm and gone to work at the pizza and ice cream parlor. Rebellion is petty.
That was fine. You enjoyed being petty, especially if it meant doing something that was yours for once. Even if you still technically lived under their roof. Good thing the house was big enough to hide from them, and you knew your parents schedules in your sleep after years of having it drilled into you.
As the lunch rush finally ebbs, Joshua swings by the host stand, a little sweaty and tired. "Go take your break," he grins. "That way I can take mind and get off my fucking feet."
"Say less."
Leaving the stand behind, you head to the back and through the kitchen where Mingyu is singing something off key, sliding a pizza into the oven while Soonyoung and Mari do dishes together, whispering conspiratorily. You belatedly wonder if anyone has warned the new server not to risk sleeping with him, but you blow it off as you head out the back.
The heat behind the restaurant is different, humidity trapped between brick walls where the scent of warm asphalt and baked bread linger. You lean against the shaded wall, tilting your head back and letting your eyes close for a moment. The low hum of the town feels distant, a nice break to the beat of your day.
You flinch when the door creaks, looking up to see Chan slide through. He grins when he sees you, waving as he pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. You watch as he fishes one out and wedges it between his bubblegum pink lips, flicking the lighter a few times before it catches and he inhales, the acrid scent of his cigarette drifting over.
"Thought I'd find you out here," he says, leaning against the wall a few fet away. "How's today?"
"Not bad." You settle your head against the wall again. "The usual. The Mathersons were a pain in the ass again, but that's about it."
Chan exhales smoke through a laugh. "Hard Ass Hargrove needs to ban them. Do you know how many fucking comped meals they have?"
"None with me."
"That's why Hargrove adores you." He looks you up and down, brown eyes searching. Like always, you feel yourself heat up under his gaze. As much as you know Chan is a flirt, you are not immune to the same charm he lures everyone in with. "You holding up okay? I saw your dad’s car cruise by again yesterday like he was checking for escape attempts.”
You roll your eyes but can’t help the small smile. “He’s convinced I’m going to come to my senses any day now. Thinks this is me slumming it for attention.”
And is it?”
“No,” you say, more firmly than you expected. “It’s the opposite. I like that nobody here is trying to impress me or use me to climb some ladder. I like sore feet and sticky menus and Mingyu threatening to fire you every other day.”
"I am actually a linch pin to this place, thank you."
You smile. "I also like that I can mess up and it only makes people mildly annoyed. It's never the end of the world."
He nods slowly, taking another drag. "Well, if you ever want to run away for real, I know a guy with a decent truck and no questions asked.”
You turn toward him, letting your gaze linger on the line of his jaw, the way his eyes crinkle when he smirks. “That your idea of a grand gesture, Lee Chan? Offering me a getaway car?”
"Maybe."
You feel the flush creep up your neck. “Careful. Keep talking like that and I might take you up on it."
Chan’s grin flashes bright and quick as he blows out the last of his smoke before putting the cigarette out on the wall. He walks toward the door, leaning toward you close enough that you catch the faint mix of smoke, kitchen herbs, and whatever cologne he wears that always cuts through the fryer smell.
"I'll be here when you do," he teases, winking before he hauls the door open and heads back inside.
The door thuds shut behind Chan, leaving you alone in the narrow alley. You stay exactly where you are, back pressed to the sun-warmed brick, eyes half-closed against the glare bouncing off the opposite wall. The heat radiates up through the soles of your shoes, mixing with the faint, lingering trace of Chan's cigarette smoke.
You tilt your head back, letting the shaded overhang protect your face while the rest of you bakes. Just five more minutes, you tell yourself. Or ten. Time feels slippery out here, detached from the relentless rhythm of the dining room and Mingyu's booming voice calling out orders, the endless jingle of that off-key brass bell.
Your mind wanders. Three weeks somehow feels like both an eternity and the blink of an eye, your father's law office and rigid dress feeling more like a dream than anything. There, every gesture was calculated, every conversation layered with subtext and future implications. Here? You drop a tray, and Joshua just laughs while helping you clean it up. A toddler launches fries at you, and Mr. Hargrove shrugs and tells you its hazard pay. It's liberating in a way you hadn't anticipated, this ordinary grind. Sore arches, sticky fingers, the constant low-level annoyance of rules you're still learning to bend without breaking.
And then there's Chan.
The memory of his grin, the way he leaned in close enough for you to catch the smoke and cologne, sends a small, traitorous flutter through your stomach. Chan is trouble in the way that everyone tolerates - always late, always with a story, always making the elderly ladies blush while Mingyu threatens violence. You know better than to read too much into his teasing. He's like that with everyone, magnetic and entirely impossible to pin down.
And still. Still.
That casual wink and off to be a getaway car lingers, especially with the threat of lunch with your father tomorrow looming over you, surely another attempt to tug you back into the family mold.
You exhale slowly, pushing those thoughts aside as you push off the wall, brushing your apron down. The alley feels a touch cooler now, or maybe that's just the reset in your head. You roll your shoulders, paste on the practiced smile that somehow feels more genuine these days, and pull open the heavy back door, the wall of noise and heat hitting you immediately. For now, you're exactly where you want to be.
-
Afternoon sun filters through the manicured hedges of the family estate gardens, casting long shadows across the table set for two. Crystal glasses catch the light, refracting little rainbows onto to white tablecloth. A silver tray holds chilled cucumber water infused with mint from the estate’s own herb garden, and the first course of seared scallops with some delicate puree sits untouched in front of you. Everything is immaculate, as always.
You’d managed to avoid most of the day by staying holed up in your room on the third floor, earbuds in, pretending the rest of the house didn’t exist. The estate is large enough that it’s easy to disappear, but your father had eventually sent the staff to find you and remind you of your lunch plans today. So here you are wearing sundress he approves of with scuffed sneakers he does not.
He sits across from you, posture ramrod straight in his tailored shirt, sleeves rolled once with surgical precision. The lines around his eyes seem deeper lately, or maybe that’s just the weight of perpetual disapproval carving them in.
“You’ve had your fun,” he starts without preamble, cutting into his scallop with a sharp click of knife against porcelain. “Three weeks of this phase is enough. Do you have any idea what it looks like when people hear my daughter is waiting tables at a greasy diner?"
You grip your fork a little tighter, the metal cool against your palm. The gardens smell of blooming roses and freshly cut grass, but all you can focus on is the knot reforming in your stomach.
“It’s not greasy,” you say evenly. “And it’s not a phase. I like it there."
He sets his utensils down with deliberate care, leaning forward. The intensity in his gaze pins you in place. “Real? You’re slumming it for attention, and we both know it. You have a future at the firm, and it will be a good experience for you when you go to law school. Your mother and I have tolerated this long enough.”
You swear under your breath, dropping your head into your hand as your frustration mounts over. "I already told you, I'm not doing the law school thing."
"The law school thing? Young woman, this family has attended Yale-"
"I went to Yale."
"An undergraduate degree in marketing is hardly going to Yale. You're not even using that degree at the diner."
“So what?” You demand, lifting your head to meet his stare directly, heat rising in your cheeks. “If I use the degree, will you leave me alone? I’m sure Mr. Hargrove would love it if I did some marketing for him - redesigned the menus, ran social media for Sweetner, maybe even helped with local promotions. Would that make it respectable enough for you? Or is the real problem that I’m choosing something that isn’t under your direct control?”
He lets out a short, humorless laugh that carries no warmth. “Marketing for a pizza parlor? You’re throwing away a Yale education and a guaranteed path at one of the most respected firms in the region to play around with Instagram posts? This isn’t about respectability. This is about wasting your potential. I didn’t sacrifice years building this practice, cultivating these connections, so you could reject everything. Law school isn’t optional - it’s the foundation we’ve laid for you. The firm isn’t just a job, do you understand? It’s your legacy.”
You push your plate away, the delicate puree now congealing under the warm sun. “Legacy? That’s your word for control. I spent two years at the firm doing exactly what you wanted and I hated it."
The argument builds, his voice rising. You let him yell, staring at the beads of water as they race down the glass carafe, his voice not even making you flinch anymore. He lists the opportunities you’re discarding, the social calendar you’ve ignored, the disappointment it’s causing your mother. You absorb each one, all of them familiar.
"Not to mention how embarrassing it is to explain to the Yoon family that this is a phase," he scoffs. "Do you think someone the caliber of Yoon Jeonghan is going to wait around for you forever?"
The mention of Yoon Jeonghan ignites a new rage in you. Yoon Jeonghan, the perfect student and the perfect country club member your family is obsessed with. Yoon Jeonghan whose father owns half of the real estate in town. Yoon Jeonghan whose mother is some descendent from the Vanderbilt family, very involved in charity and politics and the Hamptons. Yoon Jeonghan that your mother has been trying to push on you since she forced you to prom with him.
"Sorry, but I'm not dating Jeonghan," you snort. And because you can't help yourself and because you're sweating and the fabric of your dress is itchy and because you're angry, you tack on, "I'm dating Lee Chan."
“Lee Chan?” His voice drops to a low, dangerous register. “That delinquent? The one who’s been causing trouble around town since high school?"
His fury is immediate and visceral. The muscle in his jaw ticks visibly, his face flushing with barely contained rage. This isn’t the calculated disapproval from earlier - this is rage at the idea that his daughter would choose someone like Chan, someone who represents everything chaotic, ordinary, and antithetical to the polished world he’s curated.
Your father stands abruptly, the chair scraping harshly against the stone patio. "Nonsense," he scowls. "Utter nonsense. We'll finish this discussion with your mother when she returns from her trip."
He doesn’t wait for a response. He turns sharply and strides back toward the main house, leaving the garden oppressively quiet except for the soft rustle of leaves. You remain seated for a long moment, staring at the abandoned table as the sun dips lower, painting the hedges in warmer gold and orange tones. Your hands tremble slightly from the adrenaline, lingering anger, and the dawning realization that this impulsive lie is going to complicate everything.
But beneath it all, there’s a spark of victory. A little bit of sweetener to make the bitterness more tolerable.
-
The thing about your job at the diner is that most of the time, it's pretty easy. The bad thing about it, is sometimes it's so busy that you can barely think straight, and on a Friday night after all the local baseball games and families are out to kick off their weekend, it's so slammed that you can barely think straight as you duck under a tray Joshua swings over your head to rush back to the hostess stand where you have a line of people out the door and the phone ringing off the hook for take out orders.
Soonyoung answers the phone for you, "Sweetner, you beat it I eat it!"
"Soonyoung!" You snap, yanking the phone away from him as there is audible confusion on the other end of the phone line. You wedge the phone to your shoulder and shove menus in his hand before pointing to an empty booth in the far corner. "Hi, sorry about that. How can I help you?"
Thankfully the stressed mother trying to order three large pizzas and garlic knots doesn't seem to be offended. You scribble the order down on a sticky notepad while simultaneously waving over the next group of four waiting by the door. The air inside Sweets N Eat is thick with the scent of melting cheese, sizzling pepperoni, and sweet waffle cones from the ice cream counter. The checkered floor is already scattered with stray crumbs and the occasional rogue french fry, and the brass bell above the door hasn’t stopped jingling for the last forty-five minutes.
"Chan!" Mingyu's voice booms from the kitchen. “Where the hell is my extra pepperoni tray? I swear if you’re flirting instead of working-"
“I’m on it, I’m on it!” Chan’s laugh cuts through the noise as he darts past you, from running out an order, shooting you a quick wink as he goes.
You shake your head with a smile, hanging up the phone to seat the next family.
The flow of the evening doesn't stop. Joshua brushes by with another loaded tray, Soonyoung is somehow taking an order when he shouldn't be, and the takeout line is growing longer by the minute.
The bell jingles again and you glance up, automatically reaching for menus. "Hi, how-"
You freeze when you see your parents are standing just inside the door. Your father looks exactly as stiff and out of place as you’d expect in a tailored button-down and slacks that cost more than most people’s monthly rent, expression tight with clear disapproval as he surveys the crowded diner. Your mother is beside him in a tasteful silk blouse and pearls, her perfect hair somehow untouched by the humid evening air. She’s scanning the room with polite curiosity, as if she’s attending a garden party rather than a pizza parlor on a Friday night.
For a second, your brain short-circuits. They never come here. Never. Four blocks might as well be four hundred miles in their world. The knot that had loosened during the busy shift slams back into your stomach with brutal force.
“Hi, sweetheart,” your mother says brightly, stepping forward as if this is the most normal thing in the world. She leans in to air-kiss your cheek, careful not to touch anything sticky. “We thought it was time we saw this… establishment for ourselves. And of course, we’d love to meet your new boyfriend while we’re here.”
The words hit like a tray dropped on your foot.
Boyfriend. Lee Chan. The lie you’d hurled at your father in the garden a week ago comes rushing back with crystal clarity. You’d said it to piss him off, to watch his perfect control shatter. You hadn’t expected them to actually show up. You certainly hadn’t expected your mother to latch onto it like this.
Heat floods your face and your pulse thunders in your ears, louder than the chatter of the dining room. Your fingers tighten around the menu and the phone starts ringing again, but you risk Soonyoung answering it this time as you stare at your parents.
"Oh," you manage. "You didn't have to come all the way here. It's busy."
“Nonsense,” your mother says. Your father mentioned you were seeing someone special. Lee Chan, was it?"
Your father says nothing, but his silence is heavier than any words. His jaw is set in that familiar line that makes your heart skip. You swallow hard, mind racing for an escape route that doesn’t exist. Mingyu is yelling another order. Joshua nearly collides with Mari near the soda fountain. And somewhere in the kitchen, completely unaware that his fake-girlfriend status has just escalated into a full parental ambush, is Chan.
This is going to be a disaster.
“Um,” you say weakly, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. “Let me… find you a table.”
Your mind is spinning as you lead your parents to the only semi-quiet booth you can find near the back. It's close enough to the kitchen that you can hear Mingyu’s constant yelling, but far enough from the worst of the takeout line that if this is as awful as you think it'll be, there's less witnesses.
Your mother smiles serenely, already unfolding her napkin. Your father sits like he’s attending a deposition, eyes scanning every scuffed tile and sticky table surface with thinly veiled disgust. Neither of them says anything, but the weight of their silence presses down on you as you turn on your heel and practically sprint toward the kitchen.
The swinging door smacks against the wall as you burst through. The kitchen is a war zone of heat, noise, and motion, ovens roaring, pans clattering, steam rising from the dish sink. Chan is at the prep station, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with flour as he stretches another pizza dough with practiced efficiency.
You make a beeline straight for him, heart hammering louder than the radio playing upbeat pop over the kitchen speakers.
“Chan,” you hiss, grabbing his wrist and yanking him toward the narrow alcove by the walk-in freezer, away from Mingyu’s line of sight.
He stumbles after you, eyes wide with surprise. “Whoa! You look like you just saw a ghost. Or did the Mathersons come back for round two?”
“We’re dating now. Okay? Just go with it. My parents are here. They want to meet my boyfriend. That’s you. Right now.”
Chan blinks at you, floury hands frozen mid-air, his expression cycling rapidly through confusion, disbelief, and something that looks dangerously close to amusement.
"We're what?"
"Come on, getaway truck," you growl, yanking him. "Your time to shine."
You don’t wait for more questions. You seize his hand and drag him toward the swinging door before he can protest further. Chan follows, half-stumbling as Mingyu immediately starts asking where you're going. Both of you ignore him as you vanish through the swinging doors and outfront.
Your parents look up as you approach their booth, totally unaware that your heart is hammering as quick as this dinner rush is moving and that your hands are so sweaty that the only reason you don't lose your grip on Chan is because of the sticky residue on his wrists. Your mother’s face brightens when she sees you, but your father's is venomous
"Mother," you greet between clenched teeth. "Father. This is Chan. My boyfriend."
Chan recovers faster than you expect, straightening up as he flashes his trademark grin as he wipes his hand quickly on his apron before extending it toward your father.
"It's nice to meet you," he offers. "I've heard a lot about you. Sorry about the flour. Friday nights get pretty wild around here.”
Your mother extends her hand gracefully. "We’ve been so eager to meet the young man who’s been keeping our daughter so occupied lately.”
Your father does not shake Chan’s hand. He simply stares, jaw tight, eyes narrowing as he takes in every detail of Chan's messy hair, the faint smear of pizza sauce on his collar, and the easy confidence that doesn’t quite mask his confusion.
“So this is the boy,” your father says. “The one responsible for the detour.”
Chan, still visibly trying to piece together the context you denied him, rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. “Detour, sir? I mean, I guess working here is pretty different from the law office stuff she’s told me about.” He shoots you another quick, questioning look, eyebrows raised in a silent help me out here, but he keeps playing along, bless him. “She’s been killing it on the floor though. Best hostess we’ve had in months.”
"Is that so?"
"For sure. I think Hard Ass Har- Mr. Hargrove is going to make her employee of the month."
"Employee of the month?" Your father's eyes cut to you. "How nice."
The diner noise swells around you, plates clattering, kids laughing too loudly at the ice cream counter, the constant ding of the service bell from the kitchen. You stand there trapped between your parents’ booth and Chan, still gripping his hand like it’s a lifeline while your face burns hotter than the pizza ovens.
Chan clears his throat, clearly deciding that since he’s been thrown into the deep end with zero context, he might as well start swimming. He flashes your mother his most charming, slightly crooked grin.
"I can see where your daughter gets her good looks," he says and your fingers dig into his. "She's told me lots about you. Like how you have that huge garden with fancy hedges. Sounds real peaceful. We’ve only got a dumpster, but the raccoons are kind of cute."
"Oh!" Your mother seems taken aback. "Charming. What do you do here?"
"Oh you know. Line cook, occasional delivery guy, professional cat rescuer on my days off. I make a mean garlic knot."
Your father’s expression could curdle milk. “Fascinating. And do you plan on doing this professionally long term?"
“Professionally?" Chan shrugs. "I mean, I’ve been thinking about it” No one laughs and Chan winces. “I’m kidding. I have a business degree I’m just not… using it right now.”
The silence that follows is excruciating. Your mother tilts her head, still smiling that careful, assessing smile, while your father looks two seconds away from standing up and dragging you out by the elbow. Chan’s thumb brushes nervously over your knuckles, and despite the situation, it soothes you. You’re about to jump in and try to salvage things when Joshua appears like a sweaty, tray-carrying angel of mercy.
“Hey, folks, sorry for the wait," he greets, glancing at your joined hands with Chan. His brain visibly blue-screens for half a second, eyebrows shooting up. "Hi Chan?"
"They're here to meet her boyfriend." Joshua doesn't seem to get it. Chan adds, "Which is me. The boyfriend."
He looks at you again, eyes wide with a thousand silent questions. For a beat, the easy-going server mask slips and he just stares, visibly trying to reconcile the information. Then, professional that he is, Joshua recovers with impressive speed.
"Right," he laughs. "The boyfriend. He's great, really. Can I get you started with some drinks? We’ve got fresh lemonade, Coke products, and the house special sweet tea."
Your mother orders an iced tea with lemon while your father orders water, no ice, in the tone of someone who thinks the ice is a contaminant. Joshua scribbles it down quickly, still shooting occasional bewildered glances between you and Chan.
“I’ll get those right out,” Joshua says, backing away. He casts you a single glance with wide eys and mouths what the fuck? before disappearing toward the drink station.
"Anyway," you announce. "He has to go back to the kitchen now. Thanks for stopping by."
You start to tug Chan away from the booth, desperate to get him out of the blast radius of your father’s death glare. Chan’s hand is still clasped in yours, sweaty and warm. He waves wildly over you at your parents as you shove him toward the door, ready to explain until you hear Mingyu's voice as soon as the door to the kitchen opens.
"LEE CHAN!" Mingyu’s roar explodes. Several heads in the dining room turn. “Where the hell did you disappear to? I’ve got three pizzas dying in the window and no one on pepperoni!"
Chan winces, shoulders hunching on instinct. He shoots you a look that’s equal parts panic and amusement. “Guess the boyfriend has to go earn his keep. You owe me ice cream after closing."
“I’ll tell you everything after work,” you promise in a rushed whisper, leaning close enough that only he can hear. “I swear."
Chan looks at you, his dark eyes unreadable. He nods as he walks toward the kitchen, mouth curving slightly. He shoulders his way through the door and you watch it swing shut behind him, heart thudding in time with the swing swing swing of the door until it comes to a stop. Your heart keeps pounding, and as you look over your shoulder to see Joshua delivering drinks to your parents' table, you're unsure it'll ever stop.
-
When Joshua finally turns the neon open sign off, you let out a relieved sigh. The diner finally dies down, the customers all gone and Mingyu's piano playlist in full swing as closing duties start in full. Soonyoung half-heartedly wipes down the tales that had been the last to go while Mari and Joshua murmur at the register, balancing the drawer and counting tips.
You're dragging a rag across the hostess stand for the third time, trying to scrub away the eternal stickiness, when Chan appears at your side. He bumps your shoulder lightly with yours, expression tired but eyebrows raised in interest. You've been dreading this all night, thinking about how to explain what you'd told your father for the last four hours of your shift.
"You owe me," he reminds you. "I like cookies and cream."
You sigh. "Yeah. Let's go."
The two of you migrate to the ice cream counter and Chan hops up, patting the cool metal surface beside him. You climb up next to him, legs dangling, the chill of the counter seeping through your pants, a relief from the diner's humidity. Chan grabs two small bowls and the scooper and leans around the glass case, plopping generous amounts of cookies and cream into a paper bowl before handing it to you.
You take it from him, muttering a thanks as you snatch plastic spoons and dig in. He hums contentedly, both of you sitting and eating in silence backtracked by the distant clatter of dishes and Soonyoung's occasional complaints about his back hurting.
Finally, you set your spoon down and turn toward him. Chan watches you already, brown eyes patient but curious, one leg swinging lazily.
"So," you start. "Last week I had lunch with my day that went totally sideways. He started pressuring me about my work here and about law school and about how I'm throwing my degree away - the usual, right?"
"Great dad."
You wince. "Yeah."
"Sorry, continue."
"During his spiel, he brought up Jeonghan like it was the magic word that would break me from my spell and was all you'll never appeal to him if you don't stop this."
Chan's spoon pauses halfway to his mouth. "As in like Yoon Jeonghan? His parents own like half the town."
"That's the one."
"Your family wants you to date him?"
You scoop up another bite of ice cream just to have something to do with your hands. "Since forever. If arranged marriage was an acceptable thing here, they would have done it. Both of our families have practically been trying to force us together my entire life."
"And you never dated?"
"No. Jeonghan likes to chase boys and girls and I have no interest in… that. He seems nice enough but I don't want to play housewife to someone who clearly doesn't want one."
"Fair. How do I factor in?"
You feel heat creep up the side of your neck as you glance at him. It feels so stupid now, especially under the weight of his gaze, but you press onward, determined to get it all out.
"I was so mad that I just… blurted out that I wasn't interested in Jeonghan because you and I were dating."
Chan slowly lowers his spoon, eyebrows climbing. “Me.”
“You,” you confirm, cheeks heating.
Chan stares at you for a long moment. A bit of his ice cream melts and drips onto the counter between you, spreading into a white and cookie puddle that neither of you moves to wipe away.
Somewhere in the background, you can hear Joshua running the industrial dishwater, the rhythmic clatter of the plates being sorted familiar. The smell of the bleach and fryer oil hangs in the air with the sweetness of the ice cream, a smell that used to revolt you but now you just find comforting because it means you're here and not at the firm.
"So," Chan says slowly, and you watch his throat work as he swallows. "You told your father that you're dating me. The guy who works at the pizza parlor slash ice cream place he hates because you work at it."
Your stomach twists. When he says it out loud like that, it sounds even more insane than it felt in the moment. You dig your spoon into your ice cream, focusing on the simple motion because looking at him feels impossible right now.
"Yeah," you say. "That's pretty much the situation."
"Jesus Christ."
Despite the situation, you notice Chan is smiling a little, just the corner of his mouth quirking up. You take it as a good sign, watching as he sets his spoon down.
"I was desperate," you admit. "You don't understand what it's like."
Chan's expression shifts, the teasing edge softening into something more serious. He leans forward slightly, and you catch the scent of kitchen smoke and laundry detergent clinging to his t-shirt.
"Tell me, then."
You sigh. "Every phone call is about the firm. Every dinner is about my future - his version of my future. What I should be doing, who I should be seeing, how I'm wasting my degree and my potential." You gesture around the empty diner. "Wasting my life on this."
Your voice breaks on the last word. You hate how small you sound. You press your palms flat against the cold counter, needing something solid, something real. The chill seeps through your skin, grounding you. Your fingers are still sticky from wiping down tables, and you can feel the residue of someone's spilled Coke under your left hand.
"Deciding that dating Yoon Jeonghan would be the solution to the problem was the last straw," you murmur.
"The rich guy," Chan says quietly.
"The connected rich guy whose family has been trying to set us up since we were twelve."
Chan lets out a low whistle, leaning back against the counter. The motion makes his shoulder brush against yours just enough that you feel the warmth of him through your thin work shirt. You don't move away, fighting the urge to lean into it. This is Chan - flirty, charming Chan who is a friend and currently at the root of a mess you're responsible for - not someone who you are actually dating.
The dishwasher shuts off in the back. In the sudden silence, you can hear the ice machine cycling, the hum of the refrigerator, the tick of the clock above the register. Outside, a car passes, headlights sweeping across the checkered floor and illuminating the dust motes floating in the air.
"Why me?" Chan asks suddenly, looking at you. "Out of everyone."
You stare at the floor. "You're the first person I thought of. And well. I trust you, I guess. You felt safe.”
He leans back, studying you with those dark eyes, something unreadable but intense on his face. "I'll be your fake boyfriend. That's what you need, right? Or are you going home and saying we broke up tonight."
The fluorescent lights catch the faint smear of pizza sauce on his collar and the flour still dusting his forearms. He looks tired from the rush, but there’s a spark of something flickering behind his eyes.
“I… yeah,” you say finally, voice quieter than you intend. “I need you to play along. At least for a little while. My mom’s already hooked on the idea, and my dad is probably plotting ways to ship me off to law school before I ‘ruin’ myself any further. If I tell them we broke up tonight, it’ll just give them more ammunition to drag me back into their world.”
The words taste bitter. Part of you feels like a coward for lying, like you should be able to stand up to them and tell them the truth, that you should draw another line in the sand and mean it. But the other part of you that's lived through years of their expectations and disappointments, knows that the truth won't set you free. It'll just give them leverage, and you're so tired of fucking leverage.
Chan nods slowly, his leg still swinging lazily off the edge of the counter. He scrapes the last of his ice cream from the bowl and sets it aside with a soft clack. “Alright. Fake boyfriend it is.”
Just like that. As if it's easy. As if you haven't just asked him to lie to your family, to pretend to be something he's not, to play a role in a drama he never auditioned for. The casual acceptance makes your throat tight, because you don't deserve it. You don't deserve him agreeing so easily when you've basically ambushed him with this insane request after a twelve-hour shift.
“That easy?”
He smirks. “For you? Yes.”
"Thank you, Chan." The words feel inadequate, too small for what you're asking. "Seriously. I owe you way more than ice cream for this."
You try to smile, but it feels shaky at the edges. Because this changes things between you, doesn't it? You can't just be coworkers who chat over the hostess stand anymore, can't just be two people who take breaks together in the alley. Now there's a performance to maintain, lines to blur, a fake relationship that's going to require real proximity, real touching, real moments that look convincing enough to fool your lawyer father.
And the terrifying part is that you're not sure how much of it will be fake. Not when it comes to Chan. Not when he's looking at you like this, tired and a little exasperated but still saying yes, still agreeing to be dragged into your chaos because you asked him to.
"Cookies and cream was a solid start," he teases, and the normalcy of it, the easy humor, makes something in your chest ache.
He hops down from the counter with a groan, and you watch the way he moves, loose-limbed and comfortable in his own skin in a way you've never quite managed. He offers you his hand, and you take it, letting him help you slide off beside him. Your fingers linger a second longer than necessary, sticky from melted ice cream and the long night. His palm is warm, calloused from kitchen work, and you're suddenly, acutely aware of every point of contact between you.
The two of you move back into the rhythm of closing duties, wiping down the last tables, flipping chairs, and killing the remaining lights. As Chan disappears into the back to help Mingyu with the final prep list, you glance toward the darkened windows and the quiet Main Street beyond.
This lie started as a weapon against your father. Now, with Chan willingly stepping into it, it feels like something else entirely, something stupid. Risky, probably. You shake the thought away. For tonight, at least, the fake boyfriend arrangement is set. Tomorrow, and all the days after, will have to figure themselves out.
-
The next day, your shift is different the moment you clock in. The brass bell jingles behind you as usual, but there's something else in the air. Joshua glances up from the drink station a beat too long, Soonyoung stops when he sees you and grins, elbowing Mari who stares. Even Mingyu gives you a strange, cursory glance when you walk into the back to clock in.
You feel their eyes on you as you tie your apron and slip behind the hostess stand, and it isn't until halfway through the shift when you realize it's because they think you're dating Chan. You nearly groan, realizing you've given them a particularly juicy piece of gossip in a very small place of work.
By the time the early lunch crowd starts trickling in, you’re certain every single coworker knows some version of the story. News travels fast in a place like this, especially when it involves Lee Chan.
You try to ignore it, focusing on seating families and refilling waters, but the heat in your cheeks refuses to fade. This is what you get for dragging Chan into your mess without thinking it through.
Your break comes and goes in the narrow alley out back, where you lean against the warm brick and stare at the sky, trying to steady the nervous flutter in your chest. When you push back through the kitchen door fifteen minutes later, wiping your hands on your apron, the lunch rush has picked up again.
This time though, you barely make it three steps toward the hostess stand when Chan appears out of nowhere, weaving through the tables with that effortless swagger. His dark hair is messier than usual from the kitchen heat, and there’s a streak of flour across one cheek. Before you can even say hello, he slides right into your space like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Hey, babe,” he says loud enough for half the dining room to hear, flashing that trademark magnetic grin. One arm loops casually around your waist, pulling you close for a brief second. The contact sends an unexpected spark up your spine. Then he leans in and presses a quick, warm kiss to your cheek.
Your brain absolutely short-circuits, warmth flushing up your neck, lashes fluttering as you glance at him. His eyes widen a fraction and dart to the side as he gives you a look that says pay attention and when you glance over his shoulder, you spot your mother, her hawkish gaze fixated on you.
"Looks like she's on a mission," he murmurs, breath fanning against your ear. "Shua told me she was here and I personally came out to tell her you were on break."
"Fuck. Thanks."
"I'm a great boyfriend."
Chan winks and gives you a quick squeeze, vanishing back through the swinging doors before you can react. You stand there frozen for a beat, heart hammering, the ghost of his lips still tingling on your cheek.
You glance across the diner and spot your mother immediately. She's seated alone in the corner booth, posture perfect in a tasteful blouse, pearls gleaming under the diner lights. She’s watching you with that familiar assessing gaze, clearly here for something.
When she spots you, she smiles and lifts one elegant hand and crooks her finger to beckon you. Suddenly, you're a child again, being called away from the playground when you got a little too dirty and too sweaty. The lunch rush still hums around you, families laughing over pizza slices, the bell chiming, kids screaming, but everything arrows to that single corner booth where your mother's gaze cuts right through you.
"Hi," you say haltingly, stopping at the booth. "What are you doing here today?"
"Sit."
Before you can protest that you’re on shift, Soonyoung materializes at your elbow like the gremlin he is. He’s been hovering nearby ever since Chan’s very public cheek kiss, no doubt dying for more gossip.
“I got the stand,” he says, flashing your mother his best smile. "It's the least I can do!"
You shoot him a warning look, but he’s already sauntering toward the hostess stand, whistling off-key. Traitor. Your mother grins as you sigh and slide into the booth, the vinyl seat sticking slightly to the back of your thighs. The laminated menu on the table still has faint syrup rings from the previous occupants and feels entirely out of place next to your mother's perfectly pressed blouse.
Your mother folds her hands neatly on the table and offers a warm, practiced smile. Unlike your father’s cold fury, hers is softer, almost gentle. But you know better. Her criticism might have a different delivery, but they're criticisms nonetheless.
“So,” she begins casually, as if you’re simply catching up over afternoon tea instead of sitting in a noisy pizza parlor in your work apron. “Lee Chan. He seems lively. He certainly made quite the impression last night with all that flour and charm. How did that happen?”
You resist the urge to rub your temples. The ghost of Chan’s kiss still burns faintly on your cheek, and you’re hyper-aware of the eyes on you with Joshua pretending to refill salt shakers nearby and Mari glancing over from the ice cream counter.
“He works here,” you say, keeping your voice even. “In the kitchen. We became friends first. He’s funny. Reliable when it counts. Makes people laugh even on bad days.”
The words feel strangely true even though the relationship isn’t. Chan is those things. That’s what makes this lie so dangerously easy. You think of his offer of the getaway car, the easy way he'd asked if you were okay. How he had offered to do this fake dating thing without you ever having to ask.
Your mother nods thoughtfully, her eyes scanning your face. “He does have a certain energy. Very different from the boys you grew up around. Jeonghan, for instance - such a poised man."
And there it is. The criticism, given gently like a second thought but there nonetheless. She says it far more nicely than your father ever would, but the undercurrent is the same: this is beneath you.
She leans in slightly, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. “Your father was quite upset after the garden. He worries, you know. We both do. This place is charming in its own way, but we want more for you. Stability. A future that matches your potential. Still… if this boy makes you happy, I’d like to understand him better.”
You almost laugh at how skillfully she layers the concern. Genuine interest on the surface, but every word reminds you of the gap between this world and the one she believes you belong in. You know she’s already forming opinions and trying to suss out if Chan is a phase or a problem. You wonder what she would say if she realized he was neither.
“He does make me happy,” you reply, committing to the lie. “He sees me as me, not as an extension of the firm or the family name. That’s rare.”
Your mother’s smile doesn’t waver, but her eyes sharpen just a fraction. “I’m glad to hear that. We’re having a small dinner party this weekend at the house. Saturday evening, seven o’clock. Nothing too formal, just a few close friends and family. You’ll bring Chan, of course.”
It’s not a question. Her tone makes that clear. You try not to wince. The idea of attending one of your family's dinner parties with Chan in your parents' pristine world makes your heart rate spike, the suddenness of it pinning you to the spot without the ability to come up with an excuse.
She wouldn't accept one anyway. Your mother isn't as loud as your father, but she's a lot harder to argue with. Where your father leads with emotion, your mother leads with careful logic, remembering every word you've ever said. It's what makes lying to her difficult, so instead of trying to come up with an excuse, you nod weakly.
Soonyoung waves at you from the hostess stand, signaling that a new group is waiting. Your mother notices and begins gathering her things with elegant efficiency.
"We'll see you on Sunday," she says, standing. "And make sure he wears something nice, please."
Another softly delivered barb. You don't stand, instead nodding your head. She leaves a generous tip on the table despite having ordered nothing and glides toward the door, the brass bell jingling brightly behind her. You remain seated for a moment longer, the weight of the invitation pressing down.
You finally stand, smoothing your apron, and head back to work, the checkered floor feeling a little less stable beneath your feet.
The rest of the lunch shift drags. The weight of the invitation makes you turn on autopilot, stepping around a little girl who drops a basket of fries to deliver menus to a table and taking over the blender station as Mari drowns under orders of milkshakes.
By the time the rush finally starts to thin around two-thirty, your nerves are frayed and your feet ache worse than usual. You catch Chan ducking out of the kitchen for a quick breather near the drink station, wiping sweat from his brow with the hem of his apron. His cheeks are still flushed from the ovens, and for a moment you're struck by how pretty he is that you just stare at him.
"What?" He asks, eyes rounding. "Don't tell me your dad is here now. Or siblings. Do you have siblings?"
"What? No."
Grabbing his wrist, you pull him toward the relative quiet of the back hallway near the walk-in freezer. He follows without resistance, and thankfully Mingyu is too distracted flirting with Mari for him to pay either of you any mind.
"So you don't have siblings," Chan clarifies, his grin teasing.
"I don't," you agree. "And you're going to need to remember that because my mom came to invite us to a dinner party this weekend, and before you try and protest, it wasn't optional. Trust me."
Chan’s easy grin falters for a second. "Oh."
"Yeah. Oh. If I try to get out of it, they'll escalate. Trust me."
Chan studies you for a long moment, that familiar crinkle appearing at the corners of his eyes even as the situation clearly dawns on him. He shifts his weight, leaning one shoulder against the wall beside you. His cologne cuts through the scent of pizza dough, a familiar scent that calms you despite the topic at hand.
“Alright,” he repeats, shrugging like agreeing to walk into the lion’s den of your family’s estate is no bigger deal than taking out the trash at closing. “We’ll go. Sunday, right? Seven?”
You nod, swallowing against the sudden tightness in your throat. “Yeah. It's not formal formal, but it still means suits and dresses."
Chan lets out a low whistle, running a hand through his hair. "Got it. Do I need to Google which fork is the fork for salad?"
You laugh, despite not feeling in a very laughing mood. "I can teach you. Do you want to maybe meet up tomorrow night? We can grab coffee or something low-key. Go over the basics who my family is, what to expect, stuff about me so it doesn’t look like we just met last week. Same for you, I can learn more about you and… saving cats. Etiquette crash course included.”
“Tomorrow night works."
"Cafe on Maple at seven?"
“Seven it is.” He straightens. “I’ll bring my A-game."
You swallow, the knot in your chest tightening. The fluorescent light overhead flickers once, casting brief shadows across his face. “Chan, if this is too much, seriously. Tell me now. I dragged you into this mess without thinking, and I can face them alone. Make up some excuse about us fighting or whatever. I don’t want you feeling obligated just because I panicked.”
He steps closer then, close enough that you catch the familiar scent that is just quintessentially him. His hand lifts, hesitating before brushing a stray hair from your cheek with surprising gentleness. The touch lingers a beat too long, sending warmth blooming under your skin.
“Nah,” he says, voice low and steady, a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “I offered you the getaway truck, remember? This is just me following through. Granted I thought we would be driving away and not pretending to be dating, but that's alright."
The air between you thickens, charged in a way it hadn’t been before. Not just friendly teasing or coworker banter, but something heavier. New. His gaze drops to your lips for a fraction of a second, then back up, dark and searching. Your breath catches, the narrow hallway suddenly too warm, too small. You’re acutely aware of how near he is, the way his chest rises and falls, the freckles dotting across his nose.
For a moment, neither of you moves. Then Chan clears his throat, stepping back with a crooked smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“See you tomorrow, baby,” he teases, slipping back into character for jest even though no one is around to hear him.
Chan winks once before heading back to the ovens, leaving you alone staring after him, and for the briefest second, you wonder what it would be like if your relationship weren't fake.
-
You arrive at the cafe on Maple exactly ten minutes before seven. It's tucked between the Xu family bookstore that specializes in used books and the Chwe family floral shop where Chan likes to hide from Mingyu on some of his breaks. Streaks of gold from the setting sun splash across the windows, reflected back brightly enough that you squint as you haul the door open, the bell above the door chiming.
It's warm inside, smelling permanently like toasted sugar and warm bread despite the fact that they've long since shifted to their limited dinner menu for the evening. Chan catches your attention as soon as you walk in, waving his hand from the table by the window that overlooks the street.
Despite knowing this is not a date, your heart flips anyway as you walk toward him. He looks like he's freshly showered, hair still a little damp and curling at the ends, and he's traded the messy work shirt for a soft grey hoodie and jeans that look cleaner than what you're used to on him. It's different in a good way, and you try not to stare too hard as you slide into the booth across from him.
"Thank god," he sighs. "I thought you were going to chicken out and run away from town."
"You're my getaway driver, remember?" You put your purse on the seat next to you. "Plus, my mom will find you. Trust me."
He laughs and the sound of it settles your nerves. Outside, a couple walks past with a small dog on a leash, the dog stopping every three steps to sniff the base of a streetlamp. You watch them for a moment longer than necessary, mostly so you don’t have to look at the way Chan’s eyes crinkle when he smiles because despite seeing him all day at work, this feels different, somehow.
A server you vaguely recognize from high school but can't place his name swings by and takes your orders, both of you just going for a burger and fries. When he's gone, Chan leans back in the booth, eyes falling on you.
"Alright," he grins. "Crash course time. Hit me with the important stuff like your favorite color, weird house rules, anything that won't get me kicked out."
You smirk a little, leaning forward to take small sips of your soda to soothe the way your stomach knots at the mention of the party. Suddenly this entire charade seems like the worst idea you've ever had.
Chan must sense your unease because he leans forward, his hand reaching halfway across the table like he's going to take your hand in his before he hesitates and places it palm down instead.
"It's going to be fine," he says more seriously. "It's an unconventional partnership we have here, but we're going to do fine."
Sighing, you node. "My favorite color is dark green like the trees at night."
"Nice. Mine is blue."
"A certain shade?"
He shrugs. "All kinds of blue." He picks at the table. "How did we start dating? Were you wooed by me saving cats from trees?"
"Yes. What's your favorite quality about me?"
"You frown when you're thinking extra hard and get this little crease right here-" he pauses and taps a finger between his brow, his lips curling upward a little. "It's very cute. You also scrunch your nose just so when you don't like something."
You blink in surprise at him and for a second, you forget how to respond. Heat climbs the back of your neck and you feel your own face do exactly what he just described, the tiny crease forming between your brows before you can stop it. You look down at the table, suddenly very interested in the condensation sliding down your soda glass, because if you meet his eyes right now you’re not sure what he’ll see.
Apparently Chan notices things. Your pulse kicks a little harder against your ribs. It shouldn’t mean anything because he's just playing the part and gathering information so the dinner party doesn't fall apart. That's all it is. But… the way he can name the exact way your nose scrunches makes something warm and unsteady settle in your chest and stomach.
You take another sip of soda just to give your hand something to do, hoping the cold will steady you a little. It doesn't, of course.
"That's observant," you manage eventually.
Chan’s grin softens at the edges, like he knows exactly what he just did and isn’t sorry about it. “I notice things.”
The server returns with two refills and a basket of chips at that exact moment, saving you from having to say anything. You both reach for them at the same time, fingers brushing, and you pull back a second too quickly. Chan doesn’t comment. He just slides the basket closer to the middle like it’s the most normal thing in the world and like the two of you aren't sitting here planning on how to execute fake dating for your parents.
“Okay, keep going,” he says, popping a chip into his mouth. “What do you hate? Food, sounds, people habits. Stuff I should already know if we’ve been together longer than a week.”
“I hate blue cheese. I can’t stand the sound of people chewing ice. And I get weirdly irritated when someone leaves cabinet doors half-open. Drives me crazy.”
“Cabinet doors. Got it. I hate olives. I fall asleep during movies if they’re longer than ninety minutes, and I will steal the last garlic knot every time if no one stops me.”
"Chan, you steal the first garlic knot."
"Well. I like garlic knots."
The burgers arrive a few minutes later, still hot, the cheese melted just enough to drip when you lift the top bun. You both dig in, the cafe quiet around you except for the low music and the occasional scrape of a chair. Outside the light keeps fading, the gold streaks turning softer. A moth bats against the window near Chan’s shoulder and he watches it for a second before looking back at you.
"Biggest fear?" he asks around a bite.
You hesitate. “I’m not saying it out loud in public.”
"What, why not?"
"It's stupid."
"Nah, I bet it's fine."
You swallow your burger, the heat returning to your neck as you mumble, "Lady bugs."
"Got it. I will protect you from the objectively terrifying and very dangerous lady bugs."
You laugh softly and something in your chest unwinds a little the same way it does at work with him. Chan just makes it easy, even during the worst shift of your life. The conversation keeps moving as you eat and you realize you already know plenty of things about him but now, you learn more. Favorite movies, favorite songs, the way he can't sleep without white noise or a little bit of light. You tell him you used to write terrible poetry and burned every notebook the week you left for college as a final act of teenage misery that you'd be forced into a career you never wanted.
Chan seems sad at that, but doesn't comment on it. He just nods along like he gets it, leaning his elbow onto the table, chin in his palm as he listens to you talk, basket empty and meal finished. His knee brushes yours under the table as you talk and you fumble. The contact is accidental at first, then less so as he urges you to keep going, his knee resting against yours as neither of you pull away.
"Well what about you?" You ask, eager to switch the attention from you and your pounding heart. "What about your family?"
That makes him smile as he switches to the topic of his mom and dad and siblings. You watch the way his mouth moves when he talks, the way he uses his hands, the small freckle just below his left eye you never noticed under the harsh kitchen lights at Sweetner. There’s a warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the food, and you swallow it down, trying not to focus on it.
Because this is supposed to be fake - it's a performance and a way to keep your parents at arm's length a little longer. You’re not supposed to notice how the sleeve of his hoodie has ridden up just enough to show the edge of a tattoo you didn’t know he had. You’re not supposed to wonder what it would feel like if the kiss on the cheek earlier had landed somewhere else. You’re not supposed to sit here sharing plates and childhood secrets in a quiet cafe on Maple Street and feel like the rest of the world has gone quiet.
You finish the last bite of your burger and set it down. Chan is mid-story about a disastrous delivery involving a flat tire and a box of melting ice cream when he catches the shift in your expression.
He stops, head tilting. “You good?”
"Yeah, of course. Just thinking."
"I hate thinking, honestly."
"Yeah," you snort. "We can tell."
He studies you a second longer, then reaches across the table and steals the last fry from your basket. "See? I always steal the last." You smile and he pops it in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully before his hands settle on the table again. “We’ll survive the dinner. Worst case I spill red wine on the left sofa and we make a dramatic exit. The truck's ready if we need it.”
You smile, small and real. “I’ll hold you to that.”
The server clears the empty plates and leaves the check without rushing you. Chan snatches it away before you can grab it, assuring you that he doesn't know what your paycheck at Sweetner is but he can certainly afford the bill tonight. It makes you smile and you let him have this small win, thankful that ht'es still sitting here and not running for the hills.
You both stand a few minutes later and head for the exit. Chan holds the door for you on the way out, the cool air rushing in as you step out onto a quiet sidewalk. You walk side by side toward the lot where you both parked, shoulders nearly touching, neither of you saying anything.
Chan bumps your shoulder with his as you both slow. "I feel extra prepared now. We'll be great, okay?"
You nod, swallowing thickly. "Yeah."
He grins again and takes a step toward his truck, jerking a thumb toward it. "Unless?"
"No," you laugh. "The only way out is through."
"True enough. Get home okay, yeah? Text me when you're there."
"Alright. Thanks again for this. I owe you."
He shrugs. "Saving cats, saving cute girls. All in a day's work for me."
Ignoring the tug to your heart, you wave, heading for your car. As you slide into the driver's seat and the headlights of Chan's truck flash by and he beeps, you can't help but wonder if the biggest threat isn't your parents, and perhaps it's the thing beating out of control in your chest.
-
The split lives of your closet stares out at you, the doors wide to reveal the two halves of you that are constantly at war. One one side of the closet are silk blouses in muted tones, tailored pants with perfect creases, and dresses that cost more than most people's mortgage. On the other side are your vintage band tees, denim jackets with frayed pockets, sundresses from thrift stores and your work uniforms.
You yearn for the soft cotton of flannel, but you reach for a cream-colored dress first, knowing it's the safe choice for tonight. You hold it up to your body, catching your reflection in the full-length mirror and that telltale scrunch in your nose appears. It looks fit for a deposition, not a party, but you're not willing to play anything less than safe tonight.
Before you turn, your eye catches a black slip dress hanging in the back, hidden behind a blazer you've never worn. You bought it months ago on a whim, in a small boutique. It's simple with thin straps and good silk, and though the hemline is a touch daring, it's the kind of dress your mother would claim she wished she could still wear, so you snatch it, tossing the cream dress onto the closet floor.
Exiting the closet, you look at the clock and your stomach flips. Late afternoon light pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the back gardens, turning everything gold and hazy, but you can't enjoy it. Not when you feel like you're going to suffocate and your parents will do everything in their power to remove all the air tonight.
By the time you slip the dress on and try to clasp your grandmother's necklace around your neck, your hands are shaking. The necklace is the only thing in the house that feels like it actually belongs to you, a memory of the single woman in your life who liked that you butted heads with your father and loathed the family your mother married into.
With nothing left to distract you from going downstairs, you slip out of your bedroom, heart pounding. The hall is quiet, but you can hear the party outside, muffled but growing louder as you move toward the stairs. Voices layered over voices, the distant clink of glasses, someone laughing. The sound makes your stomach clench as you descend down the staircase.
The grand staircase is grand - made from marble and wrought iron, the bannister cool to the touch under your palm as you balance yourself walking down the steps, a little unpracticed in the heels you've slung on despite years of these stupid parties.
Afternoon light streams through the tall arched windows that line the stairwell, each one offering a view of the carefully manicured gardens outside. Your heels click against the marble, each step feeling like the death toll of a bell. You can feel your heart hammering against your ribs and you keep your breathing shallow, afraid that if you breathe too deeply you might crack the very fragile shell of your exterior and let the real you spill out onto the foyer floor.
Halfway down, you pause and adjust the thin strip of your dress and press your sweating palms to the fabric of your dress. You grimace and rush the rest of the way down, needing a glass of wine or something to take the edge off, but the person standing at the bottom of the stairs makes you stop in your tracks.
Chan.
He turns toward you when he hears you, and the world narrows to just him for a moment. He's wearing a suit and you blink in surprise. It's the perfect suit for the event, charcoal grey and well-fitted, though it doesn't look custom. The jacket fits his shoulders perfectly, narrow at the waist in a way that makes you a little unsteady. Even the white shirt is crisp and pressed, open at the collar just enough to be edgy but still respectful, showing the line of his throat and collarbone.
His hair is different. Styled back, away from his face, with just enough product to look intentional without looking like he tried. It makes him look older and sharper in a good way, like someone who belongs here. It's a far cry from the kitchen staff at a pizza parlor with a beat up truck and who is late to most shifts and more like one of the luxury estate owners who buy and sell properties weekly.
"Hey," he says, smiling up at you. His eyes drag up and down your frame and you feel hot all over as he nods. "You look amazing."
"Hi." It comes out breathless, barely there. You clear your throat, descend the last few steps until you're standing right in front of him, close enough that you can smell his woody cologne without the usual hint of dough and pizza clinging to him. "You look… woah."
"I have my moments." He winks and offers his arm.
You take it, his arm solid under your hand, warm through the fabric of his jacket. You can feel the muscle there, the realness of him, and it grounds you and reminds you that underneath the suit and the hair gel, he's still Chan. Still the guy who showed up at the diner and played along with your desperate lie. Still the guy who noticed you scrunch your nose when you're thinking.
"Ready?" he murmurs, and you nod even though you're not.
Anxiety-ridden and nearly sick to your stomach, you lead him to the backyard, which has been transformed into a sea of white. White tents billow gently in the breeze, their fabric glowing in the golden light of the afternoon sun. Each tent is open-sided, revealing tables draped in linen the color of champagne, each one set with crystal glasses that catch the light and throw it back in small, prismatic bursts.
Your mother's landscaper has outdone himself, each bed of roses immaculately cut in shades of blush and cream and topiaries in perfect spirals spreading across the lawn. Flower arrangements explode from every surface, making the air sweet and thick, mixing in with the smell of fresh cut grass and the buttery smell of the catering tables.
People mill about in their summer best, and you can feel the wealth radiating off them as Chan helps you down the stairs. The women are in dresses in varying shades of cream and white for the summar, their pearls heavy around their throats and dangling in their ears. The men are in light suits and crisp shirts, pocket squares bright on their chest and glittering watches flashing in the sun on their wrists.
You recognize most of them as your parents’ friends, business associates, the families your mother plays tennis with on Thursdays and has lunch with on Fridays. The kind of people who know exactly how much to smile and when to laugh, who can make small talk about nothing for hours and make it look like a connection.
Chan's hand settles on the small of your back, warm through the silk, and you resist the urge to lean into it.
"Ready?" He murmurs.
"God no."
"Too bad. Let's go say hi to this nice lady who is staring at me."
Cursing under your breath, you guide Chan toward the woman in question, who happens to be the neighbor. She's dressed in a pale blue dress, her perfume too flowery and powdery for your nose. Her husband is in a cream linen suit that he looks to be sweating through but pretends not to be, and he grins as you lead Chan over.
"Chan, this is Mr. and Mrs. Jeon," you introduce, surprised at how steady your voice is. "They're our neighbors. Mrs. Jeon taught me to paint on Sundays growing up."
Mrs. Jeon grins. "Not well enough, I think!" She waves a hand and laughs before shaking Chan's hand. "I kid, I kid. Who is this spry thing?"
"This is Chan. My boyfriend."
"Boyfriend?" She gasps, looking at him with renewed interest. "I certainly thought you were dating the Yoon boy."
You cringe inside, but Chan takes it in stride, grin never falling. "You own the gallery on Birch, right? I attended the foundation event you put on last month downtown. My friend Minghao was a featured artist."
Mrs. Jeon actually pretends in front of you, looking just as shocked as you are. You can't help but stare at Chan as he dives in head first to the conversation, asking questions about the gallery, about the foundation's mission, nodding thoughtfully at her answers like she's the most fascinating person he's met all week. The husband jumps in with a comment about funding, and Chan pivots smoothly, asking something about grants that you barely register because you cannot stop staring at him.
Chan is good at this. You don't know why you doubted he would be. He's a people person and as charming as they come, which is why everyone at Sweetner complains that he is lost to the kitchen with Mingyu.
You hardly have to say anything at all, and when you finally extract yourselves, the neighbors are smiling at you like you've finally done something right, like all your bad art classes with Mrs. Jeon growing up are forgiven after a single interaction with Chan.
"I like him," she whispers to you as she waves goodbye. "Where'd you find him?"
"I got lucky," you say, and when you glance at Chan, he's already looking at you. "Very lucky."
Chan carries the two of you through the rest of the crowd in the same way. You watch him charm them, watch the way he makes them feel seen, and you realize that Chan isn't pretending. This isn't an act for him - he's just genuinely good with people and actually interested in them. He is unwaveringly kind, and though it's obvious that half these people should recognize him or know where he's from, they don't, because all they see is a well-mannered man on the arm of someone they're finally glad has figured it out.
Between conversations, you find yourself standing at the edge of the party with Chan, near the hedge maze where the noise is slightly muffled. The sun is lower now, casting long shadows across the lawn, turning everything amber and gold. You can see your parents across the garden, holding court near the main tent, and your mother's eyes find you across the distance.
"Fuck," you mutter.
"What?" Chan asks, alarmed.
"Sorry. Mom wants us over there. She's giving me the eyes."
Chan follows your gaze and straightens slightly, his hand finding the small of your back again. "Okay," he says quietly. "We've got this."
The walk across the lawn feels like miles. Your heels sink slightly into the grass with each step, making you feel unsteady and off balance. Chan keeps a hand on you the entire time, the only thing that is keeping you from turning tail and running.
Your parents are standing near one of the larger arrangements of peonies, drinks in hand, watching you with sharp eyes. Your mother gives you a genuine grin - not the tight-lipped one, which is a great start - and your father looks the same way he usually does.
"There you are," your mother says warmly, reaching out to touch your arm. "We were just saying how lovely everything looks. The weather couldn't be more perfect."
Your mother practically glows. "Oh, well, we can't take all the credit. The landscaper did most of the heavy lifting."
Your father extends his hand to Chan. "You clean up nice."
"I even showered," Chan jokes, though the sharpness in his tone for a moment makes you glance at him sidelong.
The conversation continues, and you stand there watching it unfold like you're outside your own body. Your mother asks about Chan's family and he answers with just enough detail to sound genuine without oversharing. Your father asks about his education, and Chan mentions college and the business degree he has, not hiding the student loan debts or the reason for working at Sweenter's. Your father nods approvingly as though it's somehow respectful for Chan to be up front about his debt and it makes you twitch.
Somehow, Chan fitting in doesn't make you feel better. You should be relieved. This is what you wanted - for them to like him, to approve, to stop looking at you like you're a problem that needs solving. But instead you feel like maybe you are the problem. Chan can seem to do this just fine and get along with these people just fine - so why can't you?
"Actually, Chan," your father says, his shifting tone making you glance at him in alarm. "If you're into business, there's someone here I can introduce you to. Might be a useful connection for you."
You go rigid but Chan gives you a squeeze and a wink. "That would be great."
"Excellent." Your father claps Chan on the shoulder like they're old friends. "Come on, I'll introduce you. Won't take long."
Chan leans briefly toward you, surprising you as he presses a kiss to your cheek before you realize it's an excuse to whisper, "I am fine. Please breathe. We're doing great."
You don't feel great, the fear of your father leading Chan away and the overwhelming warmth on your cheek where his lips had been a moment before leaving you standing next to your mother who immediately darts off to complain about a melting ice sculpture.
You watch them walk away together, your father's hand still on Chan's shoulder, steering him through the crowd. Chan looks back once, and you lift your hand in a small wave, making him grin. Your heart squeezes again before they disappear and you're standing alone.
Well, not alone for long.
"Well, look what we have here."
The voice makes you spin around to see Jeonghan as he leans against the tree behind you. Your heart plummets as he grins, sipping cool champagne from a glass as he drinks you in. He's wearing a cream linen suit that probably costs more than the entire diner, his dark hair styled back and permanent smirk twisting his mouth as he watches you.
"Jeonghan," you greet flatly.
He pushes off the tree and comes over, leaning in to air-kiss you briefly. He smells expensive, like something spicy and citrus and distinctly not Chan. He steps back from you and looks you up and down again, raising his brows.
"You look stressed," he notes.
"I'm fine."
"Mm." He takes a sip of his champagne, eyes glittering with amusement. "You know, I have to say, I'm impressed. When I heard you were bringing someone, I expected… not a cook from Sweetner, I guess."
You cross your arms. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Oh, don't be defensive. I mean it as a compliment." He gestures vaguely toward where Chan disappeared. "He's charming."
"Was there something you wanted, Jeonghan?"
"Just making conversation." He tilts his head, studying you with that sharp, assessing gaze that's always made you feel like a specimen under glass. "You've been quite the topic of discussion lately, you know. The diner job. The whole rebellion thing. It's all so dramatic."
"It's not. I'm just trying to do what I want."
"Right. Doing what you want. And what is that, exactly?"
"To not perform all the time."
"Then what on earth are you doing here doing exactly that?"
The words hit harder than they should. You look away, toward the fountain, anywhere but at his knowing smirk.
I'm just saying," Jeonghan continues. "Everyone's performing. You're performing right now. The whole 'I'm too good for this world' thing? That's a performance, no? At least the rest of us are honest about it. If you want out, then get out. I'm not being mean, that is my honest advice."
You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. He's not wrong, and you hate it. You are here performing and for what? A little more time earned from your parents off your back? A little more time in the sun before things get cloudy with them again? You've been doing this on-again-off-again dance with them for a while, and now, you've somehow convinced Chan to do it with you.
Jeonghan must see the look on your face because he sighs and finishes his champagne, putting the empty glass on the tray as a server passes by.
"Look," he says. "I'm just saying that if you want it, commit to it. I know it's scary, but if you're going to keep coming back here to this life, it's just as performative."
"I know."
"And for what it's worth, I do like Chan. He's funny."
"Thanks," you say, and it comes out bitter.
"Anytime." He straightens, smoothing down his jacket. "I should go mingle. Your mother will be devastated if I don't compliment her flower arrangements."
Jeonghan leaves you standing there and you watch him go, feeling oddly hollow as the party swirls around you. The sun is lower now, casting everything in late golden afternoon light. You scan the crowd for Chan but you can't see him, somewhere with your father still, probably being introduced to business associates and family friends, making impressions that will outlast this entire charade. The thought makes your chest tight.
"There you are."
Your father's voice comes from behind you, and you turn too quickly, nearly stumbling in your heels. He's without Chan and you start to panic.
"Where's-"
"I sent him to get us drinks," your father says. "I wanted to talk to you. Alone."
The way he says alone makes your skin prickle. You glance around, but no one is paying attention. Everyone is too busy enjoying themselves, too wrapped up in their own conversations and champagne bubbles and the perfect golden light.
"Oh."
He gestures toward the edge of the garden, away from the main cluster of guests, and you follow because what else can you do. Your heels sink slightly into the grass with each step, making you feel unsteady. He leads you past the fountain, past the rose trellises, to a spot near the hedge maze where the noise is muffled and the shadows are longer.
He stops and turns to face you, hands in his pockets. For a moment, he just looks at you, and the expression on his face is unreadable.
"He's nice," is all he says.
You swallow past a dry patch in your throat. "He is."
"Polite. Well-mannered. Clearly intelligent." Your father nods slowly, like he's ticking off boxes on a mental checklist. "I can see why you like him."
"I'm glad you approve."
"You mistake my praise of him for approval."
And there it is. You take a step back, ready to be done with the conversation but he holds up a hand. "Let me finish. "Chan seems like a genuinely good person. He's hardworking and respectful."
"He is. He came here tonight for me despite your obvious judgements of him. If you like him so much, then what's the problem?"
"The problem is you."
The word hangs in the air between you. You.
"You're throwing your life away," he continues, and his tone is so matter-of-fact it makes you stare at him dumbly. "The diner job. Refusing law school. This whole phase you're in - it is beneath you, and frankly, I don't understand what you're trying to prove."
"I'm not trying to prove anything," you say, but your voice sounds weak even to your own ears. "I'm just trying to figure out what I want."
"What you want? You're an adult, you don't have the luxury of figuring it out anymore. Life doesn't wait for you to decide you're ready."
"I know that-"
"Do you?" He steps closer, his tone tipping from firm to angry. "Because it doesn't look like it. It looks like you're playing at being independent while still living under our roof. Still taking our money when it suits you."
The accusation stings because it's partially true. You are still living at home, even if you spend most of your time avoiding them. You did come to this party because they told you to and you'd been too afraid to say no.
"I didn't want to come to this party," you say, and your voice cracks slightly. "Any time I try and tell you want I want, you decide for me-"
"Because I'm tired of making excuses for you." The words are quiet, but they cut deeper than anything he's said so far. "I'm tired of people asking me what you're doing with your life and having to pretend that working at a diner is some kind of noble pursuit. I'm tired of watching you waste everything we've given you and I'm not sure what we're supposed to do with you."
The words hit like a physical blow. I'm not sure what we're supposed to do with you. Like you're a problem. A puzzle with missing pieces. Something broken that needs fixing or discarding.
The problem is you. The fundamental, unfixable you.
The realization spreads through your body like ice water. It doesn't matter that Chan is perfect. It doesn't matter that he charmed your parents, that he said all the right things, that he looked the part and played the role flawlessly. Because the issue was never about who you brought home. It was never about what you were doing or where you were working or how you were spending your time. Bringing him here was never going to extend the inevitable because the inevitable problem is you.
It was always about who you are.
And you can't fix that. You can't charm your way out of being yourself, you can't dress it up or perform it away or make it palatable enough for your father to accept. Because the problem isn't what you're doing, it's that you fundamentally exist in a way that is an utter disappointment. That you're not ever going to be enough.
I'm not sure what we're supposed to do with you.
Like you're an object or a burden, just something they're stuck with and don't know how to handle. Not a daughter - not even a fucking person. Just a problem that won't go away no matter how hard they try.
Your throat is so tight you can barely breathe. Your eyes are burning, tears threatening to spill, and you dig your nails into your palms hard enough to hurt because you cannot cry here. Not in front of him when he's already made it clear that no choice you make, no path you walk - nothing you do will become tolerant to them because they are not tolerant of you.
"I need to use the restroom," you manage to say, and your voice sounds strangled, barely recognizable.
Your father nods, already turning away. "Don't be too long. People will notice."
Then he's gone, walking back toward the party. You stand frozen in the lengthening shadows of the hedge maze, the party’s laughter and clinking glasses muted as if underwater
You turn away from the tents and the roses and the perfectly dressed people who have never once wondered if they were enough, and you walk deeper into the maze. The path curves, the hedges rising higher, the noise of the gathering falling away until all you hear is the soft rustle of leaves and the distant thrum of your own pulse.
You find a low stone bench half-hidden by a spill of climbing roses. The air here is cooler, scented with earth and fading blooms. You sit. The black silk of your dress sticks to the backs of your thighs, and you press your shaking hands flat against the cool stone, trying to stop the trembling that started the second your father started speaking.
Without warning, the tears come. They spill hot and silent at first, then harder, your shoulder curling forward as if you can fold yourself small enough to disappear. You cry the way you never allow yourself to cry in front of anyone, ugly and open mouthed with the heels of your hands pressed to your eyes so that white flashes behind your eyelids.
Every accusation he has ever leveled at you stacks itself in front of you - the wasted degree, the greasy diner, the refusal of law school, the embarrassment of explaining you to people who matter. And beneath it all, the quiet, devastating truth he finally spoke aloud.
You are the problem.
Your grandmother’s necklace feels heavy against your collarbone. You clutch it, nails digging into your palms until the sting grounds you, but it's not enough. The sobs keep coming, quiet and broken, the kind that leave your face wet and your breath hitching in uneven gasps.
“Hey.”
You flinch and look up to see Chan. He's looking at you carefully. You scrub at your cheeks with the heels of your hands, but he stops you, crouching down in front of you and reaching for your hands to keep them away from your face. His fingers are warm and solid as his eyes search your face, dark and wide, the easy smirk nowhere to be found.
“What happened?” he asks.
You shake your head, too embarrassed to say anything.
He softens. "Please. Talk to me. This is a safe space, okay?"
For a moment, you hesitate. Then, you spill out in a rush - everything your father said, the way he listed Chan’s virtues only to turn them into further proof of your failure, the final verdict that the disease is you and there is no cure. You tell him about Jeonghan’s earlier words, about the years of performing, about how nothing you do will ever be enough because the problem was always the fact of your existence, the shape of your wanting, the stubborn refusal to become the daughter they designed.
“I’m so sorry,” you choke, voice cracking. “I never should have brought you here. I dragged you into this and made you smile at them and pretend and dress up like you had to be a doll for them and I'm so sorry. You’re too good and too kind and I used you like a shield and now you’re standing in their garden listening to me fall apart because I can’t even stand up to my own father without falling apart-"
“Stop.”
The delivery is soft, but you look up at him in surprise at his tone. Chan’s face has changed. The soft concern is gone, replaced by something sharp and burning. His jaw is tight, a muscle ticking along the side, and his hands tighten where they hold yours. You've seen him annoyed with Mingyu, exasperated with late customers, teasing and restless and endlessly patient, but you have never seen him angry like this - quiet and controlled, thunder in his gaze.
“Get up,” he says.
You stare.
He stands and offers his hand. When you hesitate, he takes yours anyway, fingers firm around yours, and pulls you to your feet. The tears are still wet on your cheeks, and he simply turns and walks, towing you with him out of the maze and back into the open lawn.
"Chan-"
"It's going to be okay."
The party is still in full swing with your parents standing near the main tent, your mother gesturing elegantly with her champagne flute, your father listening politely. Chan makes a beeline for them and whatever protest you have dies on your lips as you look at the rage in his face.
People notice and conversations quiet as you pass. You see the heads turning but all you can see is Chan's determination as he storms toward your parents and stops three feet away from them, catching their attention.
"What-"
He cuts your mother off, growling, "I’ve spent the last hour letting you size me up like I’m a horse at auction. I have smile, I have answered your questions, and I have listen to all of you talk all fucking night, and now I want you to listen to me."
Your father opens his mouth but Chan bullies through whatever it is he's about to say. "Your daughter is the most stubborn, brilliant, exhausting person I’ve ever met. She shows up every day to a job that makes her feet bleed and still manages to make the whole place feel lighter just by being in it. She notices when people are struggling and she doesn’t look away - she helps them, even if it doesn't benefit her social standing or give her a fucking tax cut. She fights for the version of her life that actually feels like hers, even when it costs her everything. And you look at all of that and decide the problem is her?”
Your mother’s hand rises to her pearls. Your father’s face has gone rigid.
“You don’t deserve her,” Chan continues. “Not her kindness. Not her stubbornness. Not the way she still, somehow, keeps trying to make room for people who treat her like shit. If the best you can manage as parents is o stand in your perfect garden and tell her you’re not sure what to do with her, then you can go fuck yourselves."
Silence crashes over the nearby guests. Someone drops a glass, the sound sharp. Your father’s face has turned a dangerous shade of red and your mother’s mouth is open, but no sound comes out.
Chan doesn't wait for a response. He turns, still holding your hand, and walks. You follow because you don't know what else to do, your pulse hammering and wild in your throat. The party around you doesn't move, everyone watching you go without speaking and without moving to stop you.
He leads you down the long driveway, past the manicured hedges and the silent fountain, out through the wrought-iron gates. The evening air is cooler beyond the estate walls, cooling your heated skin and sticky, tear-stained face. When you see the old truck, you feel a sense of relief. He only lets go of your hand to open the passenger door for you and let you climb in.
Chan walks around, slides behind the wheel, and starts the engine. For a long moment he simply sits, hands tight on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. The anger is still there, banked but not gone.
Then he exhales, long and slow, and looks at you. “You okay?”
Your voice is raw. “I don’t know. I- you caught me off guard."
He winces. "Sorry."
“Did you really mean all of that? What you said back there. About me.”
Chan looks at you for a long second, the streetlight painting a pale stripe across the sharp line of his jaw. Then he shifts fully in the seat so he’s facing you, both hands now cradling yours between them. His palms are warm and rough, and you feel a spark through your fingertips at the contact, heart racing.
"Of course I did," he snorts. “You’re wonderful and you deserve more credit than they give you. I think you are kind and hard working, and it has to be really hard to be told that wanting something different than a life promised to you makes you built wrong.”
Your throat constricts painfully. The words land heavier than you expect, cracking something open that you’d kept carefully sealed. Heat floods your face and you nod, trying not to cry again. “Thank you. I needed to hear that, even if you’re pretending.”
He snorts. “I am not pretending. I’m not that great of an actor.”
“You’ve been pretending to be my boyfriend for weeks.”
He looks at you and frowns, his brows pinching sharply. “I haven’t been pretending.”
The world seems to tilt for a second when you look at him, your pulse jumping."What?"
"What what?"
"What do you mean you haven’t been pretending?" Your voice comes out thinner than you intend. You search his face for the usual teasing glint, the easy deflection, but there’s none. Just that steady, slightly exasperated stare.
He stares. "I'm sorry, has my flirting the past few months not been working? Is it not obvious that I like you?"
For a second everything inside you goes quiet and bright at once and your stomach drops so hard it almost makes you fizzy. Every half-remembered moment rearranges itself in rapid, dizzying succession - the talks in the alley while on break, the stolen moments at the hostess stand, the offer for the getaway car. You had filed all of it away under this is just how he is. Under he does this with everyone. Under don’t be stupid. Now those explanations feel thin and suddenly, terribly insufficient.
"I thought you did that with everyone!"
"What?" He screeches. "I don't flirt with everyone! I very specifically flirt with you! Are you crazy? You couldn't pay me to be Mari's fake boyfriend? And I definitely don’t flirt with Soonyong-"
You don't let him finish. You lean across the center console and kiss him softly, pulse thudding in your neck. The kiss is hesitant at first, but he melts into it immediately, his hand sliding up to cup the side of your neck, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw, tilting your head so he can taste you better.
The center console digs into your hip but you ignore it, one of your hands finding the lapel of his suit jacket to curl into the fabric and tug him closer. He makes a low noise in his throat that vibrates against your mouth, making you dizzy in the heat of the truck.
“You don’t have to shrink for them," he mumbles, teeth pulling at your bottom lip. “I hated seeing you look small in that garden.” Another kiss, slower this time, lingering. “You’re not small. You’re brilliant even though you're also an idiot, apparently - not sure you actually went to Yale if you can’t identify flirting - but you are perfect, and brave, despite what your parents would have you think."
Your fingers move from his jacket to the open collar of his shirt, tracing the warm skin at the base of his throat. He shudders, his tongue swiping into your mouth, brushing against yours. The heat in your skin is nearly unbearable, the smell and taste of him not enough, the feeling of his hands on your face, your throat, your hair - it's not enough.
Chan breaks away just long enough to mutter, “Come here."
He pulls you over the console, helping you as you scramble awkwardly, dress hiking up your thighs. You straddle his lip in the driver's seat, the steering wheel pressing against your lower back while his hands settle on your hips before sliding higher, thumbs stroking the thin silk at your waist.
You learn forward and kiss him, taking your time. His mouth moves against yours slowly, and you thread your fingers through the strands of his hair and tug. He answers with a low, approving sound that you feel more than hear, and one of his hands drifts up your spine, palm warm through the silk, until it rests between your shoulder blades and pulls you flush against his chest.
Chan’s hands slide from your waist to the backs of your thighs, slow and deliberate, gathering the silk of your dress higher, baring your thighs. His palms are warm, calloused from kitchen work, and every slow stroke sends a low, electric shiver up your spine.
One hand stays on your hip, steadying you, while the other drifts between your legs, tracing the soft skin of your inner thigh until his fingertips find the edge of your underwear. He pauses there, waiting, eyes dark and locked on yours. When you nod, he grins and cups you over the soaked fabric of your underwear. He presses the heel of his palm against you in a slow, firm grind, and you let out a breathy sound, your kiss turning messy as you lose focus.
The pressure is perfect, your thighs squeezing around him as your fingers dig into his neck enough to make him hiss. He does it again, watching your face the entire time, then hooks two fingers under the edge of the fabric and eases it aside.
The first touch of skin on skin makes your breath catch. His fingertips glide through your wet folds, circling your clit with the lightest pressure. You feel the rough pads of his fingertips, every careful pass making you lightheaded, the air in the truck turning humid. He keeps the strokes slow, almost lazy, letting you leak into his palm.
“Fuck, look at you,” he breathes. “Already so messy for me."
He slides one finger inside you and your fingers tighten in the collar of his shirt as your pussy clenches down on his fingers. The stretch feels good, your breath coming out in punchy gasps as he works his finger in and out, slow and deep.
Your mouths tangle together, more teeth than tongue, and you suck in a sharp breath against his lips when he presses another finger in, stretching you further. He curls them just right, stroking that sensitive place that has you seeing stars while his thumb rubs your clit in small circles.
You rock against his hand without thinking, chasing the friction. Every stroke of his fingers pulls another soft, wet sound from between your legs and you hide your face in his neck, panting against him as you curse and chase the heat coiling low in your stomach.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your ear. “Ride my fingers. So pretty, baby."
Your thighs start to shake, and the coil in your stomach tightens as your cunt starts to clench down on him, your breath catching in small gasps as your orgasm starts to creep up on you. He kisses your ear, his breath hot against your skin, muttering how pretty you are until you're coming in his lap, shaking violently as he groans and works you through it.
Only when the last tremor fades does he ease his fingers free. He uses his free hand to pull you back by the neck so you can watch as he brings his fingers to his mouth, sticky with your release as he sucks them between his lips. His eyes never leave yours and you shiver, watching him hum around his fingers.
"The real sweetener is you," he mumbles after pulling his fingers free, pulling you in to crash your lips to his. You taste yourself on his lips, moaning as you rock your wet cunt against the zipper of his pants. "Come on, baby. Take my cock out and sit on it. Want it nice and slow."
With trembling hands, you reach between the two of you, pulling at his zipper. It takes you a few tries while he mouths at your neck, patient as ever. You reach into his pants and he groans as you stroke his cock, warm and firm, his hips twitching as his teeth scrape against your pulse point.
"Fuck, I didn't tease you," he moans. "Don't tease me."
"I like the sounds you make." He groans again and you grin. "Pretty."
"Baby, come on."
Biting your bottom lip, you sit up on your knee and he grips the base of his cock firmly so you can lower yourself over him. The blunt head presses against your entrance, hot and slick. You sink down carefully, feeling the stretch inch by inch, both of you groaning. Chan is thick, the breath catching in your chest as you lower down until you're fully seated on him, thighs pressed to him and so fucking full you can barely breathe.
“Jesus,” he groans, forehead against yours. “Look at how you take me. So tight. So fucking wet. Perfect.”
You stay still for a long moment, breathing through the fullness, feeling him throb inside you. Then you begin to move in slow, deliberate rolls of your hips. You lift until only the head remains inside, then sink back down in one long, controlled slide. The sensation is devastating, both of you moaning in tandem.
His hands settle on your waist, guiding without forcing, thumbs stroking the soft skin just above your hipbones. He meets each downward movement with a gentle upward roll of his hips, driving himself deeper at an unhurried pace.
“That’s it, baby,” he says, voice strained but still soft. “Fuck yourself on my cock just like that. Nice and deep."
His words make you shiver and you lean forward, chests pressed together, changing the angle so he grinds against that sensitive place inside you on every stroke. One of his hands slips between your bodies, fingers finding your swollen clit and rubbing in slow, firm circles. The dual sensation of his thick cock filling you and his firm fingers circling your clit makes the pleasure thicken again, heavier this time, rooted deep in your stomach.
"I'm gonna come," you whine, mouths clashing together. "Fuck, Chan. It feels so good."
"Good," he gasps, thrusting up a little. "Want you to feel good. You deserve to feel so good, baby. Come for me."
You nod, clenching around him suddenly. You moan his name against his mouth, hips stuttering, the wet heat of your release coating his cock and dripping down onto his thighs. You pull him right over the edge with you and he comes with a low, broken groan, hips pressing up as he empties himself inside you. He keeps moving through it, slow and shallow, fucking his cum deeper while the aftershocks ripple through both of you.
You stay draped over him for a long while, bodies still joined, the mess between your legs sticky and warm. You ignore it in favor of the feeling of Chan's hands stroking slow patterns up and down your back, fingers tracing the line of your spine through the rumpled silk. The windows are completely fogged now, and outside, a streetlamp casts a soft orange glow that barely reaches the interior of the truck.
You shift slightly, feeling him slip free with a quiet, wet sound, and settle sideways across his lap instead, head resting against his shoulder. His arms stay around you. One hand finds the back of your neck and simply holds there, thumb brushing your hairline.
“You know,” you murmur, voice still rough, “I’ve watched you flirt with every single one of those old ladies at the diner for weeks. The ones who leave you twenties just for smiling at them. You wink and they practically melt. How was I supposed to know it was only for me?"
Chan makes a low, exasperated sound that vibrates through his chest. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
You tip your head back just enough to look at him. His hair is a mess, the careful styling ruined by your fingers. There’s a faint smear of your lipstick near the corner of his mouth, and he looks thoroughly debauched. You like this version of him much more than the one who greeted you on the staircase and played nice with your parents.
“I’m serious,” you say, lips twitching. “Mrs. Callahan nearly climbed over the counter last Tuesday when you called her sweetheart."
He groans, tipping his head back against the headrest. “They tip me well, okay? Extremely well. Those twenties add up.” He glances at you sideways, a crooked, almost shy smile pulling at his mouth. “I’ve been saving them. Wanted enough to take you somewhere that isn’t the alley behind the diner or the ice cream counter after closing. Our cafe learning session doesn’t count."
You stare at him for a second, the residual heat of everything that just happened still humming under your skin, mixed now with something quieter and more dangerous.
“You’ve been saving for a date,” you repeat, quieter.
“Yeah.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Figured if I was going to keep pretending to be your boyfriend in front of half the town and your entire terrifying family, I might as well earn the right to do it for real. Properly. With, you know, flowers and stuff."
You laugh again, softer this time, and lean in to press a slow kiss to the underside of his jaw. He turns into it, catching your mouth for a brief, lingering moment before settling back.
"This isn't what I meant by a getaway truck by the way," he laughs, lacing his fingers with yours. "But god damn it felt good."
You smile. "Take me away then, I guess."
"You got it, baby."
-
Three weeks later the estate driveway is lined with cardboard boxes and half-empty laundry baskets. Chan’s truck sits with its tailgate down, the bed already half-full of the things that actually belong to you like all your favorite shirts and some of the nicer clothes you decided to keep.
Mingyu and Joshua work in easy tandem, hauling another load down the front steps. Mingyu has a lamp under one arm and a duffel bag over the opposite shoulder, muttering about how you somehow managed to accumulate more books than kitchenware while Joshua follows with two smaller boxes stacked in his arms, already complaining that his back will never forgive him.
Your father’s posture is rigid, arms crossed as he stands next to your mother in the doorway. You turn to face them with Chan a few steps behind you, close enough that you can feel the quiet solid presence of him without needing to look. He doesn’t interrupt. He simply waits.
"You were right about one thing," you tell them both. "Coming back here while trying to be me was never going to work. So I'm leaving - not because I’m throwing anything away, and not because I’m trying to prove a point. I’m leaving because I finally know what I want, and it isn’t here. I’ve spent years doing exactly what the two of you wanted, and I hated every minute of it. I told you that. You just never listened. I am not the problem - refusing to listen to what I wanted was the problem."
Silence stretches. Your mother’s gaze drops for a moment to the boxes already loaded in the truck and your father’s arms remain crossed, but something in his expression shifts from something angry to something maybe a little tired.
"Well," you say. "If you need me, you know where to find me, but unless it's with an apology, don't bother."
Chan steps up behind you, his hand on your waist. You give your parents a final once over, and for the first time in a long time, you're not afraid of them. You grin a little, letting Chan lead you down the stairs toward where Mingyu is sweating and leaning against the truck.
All of you climb into the car, and when Chan turns it on and drives away, you lean back into the seat, closing your eyes and breathing in deep.
"So, where is this getaway car going?" Chan jokes, turning off your street and heading into town.
You grin. "Sweetner. I hear they have a really cute new assistant manager starting today."
Chan grins. "I hear he likes to save cats. Also has a girlfriend who likes to make out in the walk-in freezer."
Mingyu and Joshua groan, but you grin, letting the afternoon sun warm you as Chan drives the getaway car just as promised.
the emotional turmoil jumping to smexy time had me shook (i totally see how it happened but i was not ready), and the parent conflict got me CRYING on the floor
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.
CHAPTER WC: 9,415
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.
WARNINGS: This 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, lots of reference to a terrible justice system, reader is a stripper and there is a brief scene of her dancing on Mingyu, lots of random body modifications but nothing super weird or in detail, Mingyu in general just has a lot of general dislike for the world, explicit language, um.... I think that's it for this chapter?
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 because we all know me. I do not currently have a schedule set for the second chapter, but I am going to try to write the remaining three in total and then post them on a quick schedule basis to shorten the wait between them.
A/N 2: No beta we die like Jedi during order 66
BANNER CREDIT: Thank you to @joshujin for the amazing, beautiful banner!
MAIN M. LIST | ASK | CYBERPUNK: RELOAD M. LIST | TESSELLATION TWO
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 Harlann Vos. 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 Harlann Vos 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 Harlann's neck where his Core is. Like the others, it's damaged, which means Harlann 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.
-
Mingyu stares at the six projected faces in front of him, the cyan of the holoscreen only broken up by the flicker as he switches from viewing all six of them at once to one at a time. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzes, glitching for a moment as it threatens to go out. It's been dying for three weeks now, humming like an insect trapped in a glass. No one has bothered to fix it, of course. The maintenance budget at the precinct is nonexistent, most of the funding funnelling into the new autonomous patrol units they send to patrol through the wealthy districts.
Down here in the bowels of the city, everything is falling apart. Water drips from a crack in the ceiling two desks over, landing in the metal track can with a constant metal drip that drives Mingyu nuts. The air smells like mildew and stale air undercut by the burnt coffee that tastes like battery acid every time he takes a sip. He drinks it out of a chipped mug anyway, needing the extra jolt of energy and unwilling to take any of the stimulants or quick fixes the young deputies prefer.
Mingyu's fingers drum on his mug to the rhythm of the dripping. He cannot unstick his thoughts from the six victims over six months, struggling to find the connection. He drags his finger across the holoscreen to pull up the first victim's file again, despite having read it a million times. The first victim is a male nobody, found in a cheap Skin rental unit in the lower districts, his body laid out with the same surgical precision and same butterfly effect audio playing on loop. The victim had no family, no friends, and the damaged Core had said unclaimed in evidence for two weeks unclaimed and uncared for before being incinerated per protocol.
Sighing, he swipes to the second victim, a female escort pulled from a job in the entertainment district. She'd been with a wealthy client a few hours prior, but the client had a clean alibi and had no problem letting them scan his Core for memories of the entire night. The escorts Core, like the first victim, had been damaged beyond recovery, just like the first, though the job had been done a little cleaner, a little better.
The third victim comes up as Mingyu stares. Mid-level corporate suit who worked in data analysis and had an entirely boring and normal life. No enemies, no debts, no reason for anyone to want him dead. His family had come to claim his Core two days after they'd been notified, and Mingyu was surprised to discover that in a world full of abnormal, the man had been even keel and plain with enough money to provide for himself and his family but not enough to do much else than that.
The fourth and fifth victims' only similarities were their involvement in the black market, though neither had crossed paths. The fourth had been a street vendor selling neural mods, but the fifth had been a retired surgeon who'd started performing illegal Core augmentations that had landed him with a fine and warning - not jail. Never jail.
And now Harlann Vos, the owner of an apartment complex. All of the victims had been from different parts of the city, the only thing linking them together was the ritual by which they had been left for him. Though Mingyu can't prove it, he feels like there's a joking edge to it now, like each death is meant to tease him and his inability to figure it out.
He leans back in his chair, the springs groaning under his weight. His eyes burn. He hasn't slept more than three hours in the past two days, and even that was broken up by the fragmented dreams of the butterfly effect audio bleeding into his fucking subconscious until he woke up gasping, the words echoing in his skull.
There's something he's missing. Mingyu knows he's on a timeline to figure it out now that Vos has been killed. Before, his superiors hadn't thought much of a serial killer stringing together some useless skins - people who didn't matter in the system. Though Harlann Vos doesn't matter, exactly, he's a step closer to the people up top that the city is obsessed with protecting, the people worth protecting.
Mingyu had learned a long time ago that people have become disposable. Bodies are just shells now, things you can rent or buy or discard when they stop serving you. Cores get pulled, transferred, reinstalled into something younger and prettier, and the person moves on. Humanity has been reduced to data, consciousness stripped down to the electrical impulses that can be copied, moved, and erased.
Death is so common to those at the top that it barely registers. But when real death happens - Core death - it turns heads, especially when it's a little too close to the gilded.
Mingyu's jaw tightens. His body aches, knees stiff, lower back throbbing from too many hours in this shitty chair, too many hours in the field in his original Skin. He feels every year of it, and though it makes him feel human, he can't help but be bothered how the wealthy don't age like this. They just buy new bodies by the dozen. Transfer over. Keep going. It's immortality for anyone who can afford it, cheating death over and over again.
Cracking his neck, Mingyu refocuses on the work at hand and pulls up the financial records again, cross-referencing bank accounts, transaction histories, anything that might link the victims. There's nothing, of course. Everyone has different banks and different spending patterns, different lives and different histories. The only thing they have in common is the way they died.
The butterfly effect is a principle in chaos theory…
Mingyu's phone buzzes on the desk. He picks it up to see Chan's name flash across the screen and he answers right away. "Lee, what have you got?"
"Core is ready," Chan says on the other side. "I've stabilized it enough for a read of the memory logs. You should come down."
"How long do we have?"
"Hard to say. It's pretty damaged. Could be an hour, could be less. If we're going to pull anything, it needs to be now."
"Heard. On my way."
Mingyu ends the call and stands. The holoscreen glows faintly in front of him, the six faces of the dead he can't seem to bring justice too staring back at him until he swipes again and they vanish. He grabs his jacket from the back of the chair and heads for the door, shrugging the leather over his shoulders.
The forensic lab is two floors down, a section of the station most detectives like to avoid. Mingyu takes the stairwell, refusing to get stuck in the elevator for a sixth time, leaping down the steps as he takes two at a time.
Bright, sterile light greets him as he pushes into the lab, making him squint. Banks of equipment link the walls, shelves full of neural readers, Core analysis stations, data extraction devices and a section for biopsy and medical analysis. The air smells faintly chemical, kind of like the inside of a machine. He prefers the smell of the burnt coffee and damp upstairs than whatever it is that permeates the forensic floor.
Chan is standing at the far end of the room, hunched over a workstation where a cylindrical containment unit glows with a faint, sickly cyan light. Vos's Core floats suspended in the translucent gel, its surface marred with dark fractures that spiderweb across the neural casing, damaged from the attack. Mingyu watches as the light flickers, pulsing in irregular intervals while Chan tinkers with it.
"Lee," Mingyu greets, crossing the room in a few long strides.
"We've got maybe thirty minutes before this thing goes dark," Chan says without looking up, his fingers tapping on a tablet next to him. A holographic interface appears over the desk, cyan numbers and date reflected in Chan's glasses. "Give me a sec."
"Can we reanimate him?" Mingyu asks, crossing his arms over his chest as Chan works.
The lab technician shakes his head. "No. The damage is too extensive. A system reboot would require full neural integration, and the Core can't support that kind of load. It would collapse the moment we tried to initialize consciousness."
He taps a section of the holographic display, pulling up a three-dimensional model of the Core's internal structure. Half of it is shaded black, dead zones where the neural pathways have been damaged beyond repair. Mingyu sighs, nodding. They're lucky they have anything at all - a damaged Core is better than no Core at all.
"We can access the memory storage," Chan says, tapping something. "It's fragmented and corrupted in places, but there's enough intact data that we can pull maybe a few minutes worth of his life from it. Maybe more if we're lucky."
"How much is a few minutes?"
"Hard to say until we're in. Could be five, could be ten. Depends on how much the Core was actively recording before it got damaged." Chan glances at Mingyu, his expression cautious. "This isn't like interrogating a living witness, Detective. We're pulling raw sensory data that will be from Vos's perception. It'll be disjointed - memory isn't linear."
Mingyu nods. "Do it."
Chan's fingers move across the interface, initiating the connection sequence. The containment unit hums, a low vibration that Mingyu feels in his chest, and the cyan light intensifies, brightening until it casts sharp shadows across the lab.
The holoscreen shifts and for a moment, there's nothing but static and a wash of grey noise that flickers and shifts. Then an image resolves, making both Mingyu and Chan lean forward as Chan tampers with the interface, sharpening the image.
A penthouse. Floor-to-cieling windows. Rain. The perspective shifts as Vos moves, walking across the floor of his apartment to his kitchen and grabs a bottle of whiskey and pours two fingers worth into a glass. Vos takes a swig and then walks back to the living room where Mingyu recognizes the space and the coffee table where Vos's body had been cracked open.
"This is from earlier in the evening," Chan says, his voice quiet. "Before the murder."
Mingyu doesn't respond. He's too focused on the screen, watching as Vos sits down on the couch, picks up a tablet and scrolls. Nothing else seems to happen, nothing that screams he's about to be murdered. Mingyu is about to complain when the perspective shifts again to show a new scene.
Marble floors reflect overhead lights. The sound of Vos's footsteps echo across his memory as he passes a doorman in a crisp uniform and a name tag that reads Martinez.
Rain hits the screen, rippling across the holo in temporary distortion as Vos gets into a car. The driver takes off and Minguy watches as the city blurs past in a mess of lights and umbrellas, the sensory feed blurring and glitching as it tries to accommodate for the sights and sounds and thoughts and feelings of Vos in that moment.
Suddenly the image blurs and shifts so that Vos is standing in front of a strip club. The entrance is unmarked except for a single neon sign that flickers in shades of magenta and violet, hearts climbing up the side as holograms of girls beckon him in. He passes through the door and strobing lights cut through the feed, blinding both Chan and Mingyu like they're seeing it in the flesh.
Heavy base pulses through the feed as Vos moves deeper into the club. A stage dominates the center of the space, and on it, multiple dancers move with practiced precision, their bodies catching the strobing lights in fragmented movements. Here, the feed breaks off into fractal images as the Core flashes - a leg extended, an arch of the back, a turn that sends hair flying.
Mingyu tries to catalogue the faces as he sees them - a woman with pink eyes, someone with a swirling tattoo, another with sharp eyes that seem to track the crowd even as her body ripples across the stage like water. It's your eyes that makes Mingyu pause, cutting him down to the bone, your gaze more present than that of the far-off look of the others.
But then you're gone as the perspective shifts and the image bleeds into Vos in the bathroom, drunk and leaning heavily against the urinal as he relieves himself. Chan makes a disgusted sound as the memory jumps again to a small ramen cart somewhere in an unknown district.
"This is jumping around," Chan says, his voice cutting through the feed. "The Core is pulling fragments non-sequentially. We're seeing his evening out of order."
Another jump. More faces. A man in a leather jacket, arguing with someone Mingyu can't see. A couple pressed against the wall, kissing. A group of young people clustered around a table, their faces illuminated by the glow of their handheld screens.
And then, for just a moment, another face that belongs to a woman standing near the back of the bar, watching the crowd.
Mingyu's breath catches. He knows that face.
"Wait," he says, his hand shooting up. "Stop. Go back."
Chan's fingers freeze over the interface. "What?"
"That woman. The one in the back." Mingyu leans closer to the holoscreen, his exhaustion momentarily burned away by a spike of adrenaline. "I've seen her before. In the club footage. She was on stage."
Chan rewinds the feed, pulling up the earlier memory from the strip club. The perspective shifts back to the moment on stage. A woman with pink eyes, one with a swirling tattoo, one with sharp eyes. Mingyu points.
"Her," he murmurs. "She's in two of his memories."
"Could be coincidence," Chan says, but his tone suggests he doesn't believe it. "She could work multiple venues. Dancers do that sometimes."
"Or she was following him," Mingyu says. The implications settle over the lab like a weight. "Or she was part of it."
The perspective lingers on you for a fraction of a second longer than the others, just long enough for Mingyu to register your face clearly, and then Vos turns away and you're gone, swallowed back into the crowd.
The memory jumps again. Vos is back in his car, then in the lobby of his building, then in the elevator ascending to his floor. The doorman from earlier is talking to someone Mingyu can't see. Security personnel stand near the entrance, their faces blank and professional. A woman in a business suit walks past, her heels clicking against the marble, her face turned toward her phone.
Then Vos is in his penthouse. The perspective shifts as Vos moves, walking across the floor of his apartment to his kitchen and grabs a bottle of whiskey and pours two fingers worth into a glass. Vos takes a swig and then walks back to the living room where Mingyu recognizes the space and the coffee table where Vos's body had been cracked open.
"We're back at the beginning," Chan notes."
In the memory, the doorbell chimes. Mingyu leans forward, his pulse quickening when he realizes this must be it - this has to be the moment the killer entered the apartment. The image flickers and static washes across the holoscreen, distorting the feed. When it clears, the perspective has put Vos back in the living room again as the sound of the doorbell loops.
"It's corrupting," Chan notes, hitting a few buttons on his tablet. "Fuck, it's going to fry."
"Push it anyway. We're right there."
Chan obeys but the containment unit's hum rises to a high-pitched whine as warnings flash across the screen about the Core overheating. The holoscreen sharpens but Mingyu lets out an angry sound when he sees the memory loop back to Vos walking into the apartment building again, ignoring Martinez at the door as he heads for the elevator. The feed glitches, harsh reds and blues blooming across the screen before Vos is back at the club again, with you leaning forward, your eyes piercing even in the corrupted feed.
"No, go back to the apartment!"
"I'm trying," Chan shoots back. "I told you, this thing is damaged and we've got way more out of it than expected."
Audio fragments layer over each other, the pounding bass of the club's music mixing with the ding of the elevator, and the doorman's greeting. It's a mess of sound, too much information compressed into too little time, the Core's final desperate attempt to dump everything before it dies.
"Come on," Chan mutters to himself, trying to sharpen the feed as the containment unit whines. "Fucking come on!"
The doorbell rings again and Vos walks toward the door as Mingyu leans closer, his heart beating in his throat. Vos reaches out with one hand toward the door and the holoscreen goes dark, the containment unit's light dying as the hum cuts off sharply. An acrid smell comes from the Core where it smokes, the electrical wiring fried, filling the air with a metallic, burnt smell.
"Dammit!" Mingyu swears, punching a fist down on the lab table. The containment unit rattles and Mingyu leans on his hands, head hanging between his shoulders as Chan tries to pry the dead, smoking Core out of the unit. "Fuck. Fuck."
"Well," Chan sighs. "At least I recorded it all."
Mingy lifts his head. "What?"
"The data. I recorded it while extracting." He raises his brows. "Do you think I'm an idiot? I put it on a backup file so at least what we have - even if it's fuck all - is on a drive. I can run some facial recognition on everyone who passed through the memory."
Mingyu straightens, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "How long?"
"Couple hours, maybe more. Go home, Detective. Get some rest. There's nothing more we can do for a few hours and you look like shit, man."
Mingyu wants to argue, wants to stay and watch the facial recognition run in real time, but he knows Chan is right. He's been awake for thirty-six hours straight, his body running on caffeine and adrenaline, and his mind is starting to blur at the edges. He nods once, sharp, and turns toward the door.
"I'll call you when I have something," Chan says.
Mingyu doesn't respond. He walks out of the lab, through the sterile white corridor, and back up the stairwell to his floor of the precinct. It's quieter upstairs now, most of the day shift gone with only a few officers still lingering at their desks as they pour themselves over paperwork and their own cases. Mingyu grabs his jacket from the back of his chair, hits the power button on his computer, and heads for the garage.
Fluorescent lights flicker above his head as he jogs down the concrete stairwell, footsteps loud and echoing. The air gets cold and damp as he descends, the rain seeping in through the shitty insulation and clinging to the walls. By the time he reaches the garage level, he feels the moisture in his shirt and hair, clinging to him like a heavy second skin.
The garage is mostly empty, making it easy to spot his bike near the back. It's sleek and shining in the reflection of the light fixture above it, black surface gleaming. It's the single most expensive thing that Mingyu owns and his most prized possession, hours of learning how to take care of it and fix it because tune ups are out of his pay range poured into the machine.
He swings a leg over it and removes the helmet from where it hangs on the handle bars, popping it over his head where a cyan heads up display appears across the face shield. He presses the start button and the bike roars to life under him, vibrating as he nudges the footstand and rolls forward, twisting the throttle until he's coasting through the garage.
Rain hits him as soon as he hits the street level, cold and rushing off his helmet in neon rivulets. The streets are slick as glass beneath him, reflecting the towers of the city on either side of the road, ripping as he gasses it and his bike tears through the street.
He cuts through the lower districts and side streets, avoiding the elevated highways where there's always traffic and road closures because some rich asshole has paid a heavy fee for an expedited drive somewhere. Down here, the world is just like Mingyu likes it, all cracked pavement and burnt out street lights, the flickering holographic advertisements advertising very illegal clinics that he ignores because so long as they're not murdering anyone, he doesn't have time to care.
Mingyu doesn't go straight home, too wired to do anything but pace the walls of his tiny apartment in silence. Instead, he cuts into a mixed commercial district a few blocks from his apartment, heading for a stretch of storefronts and vendors that stay open late.
Above, the rain has softened to a drizzle, misting the air as he kills the engine and walks the bike forward to the curb before setting it on the kickstand. He pops the helmet off and takes it with him this time, not stupid enough to leave it unguarded downtown like he might in the garage of a police precinct.
He walks past a pawn shop with bars on the windows, the display cluttered with outdated neutral interfaces, cracked holoscreen displays and retro computers. The shop is closed, but he can see the security bot inside, patrolling as it tips back and forth while driving over uneven flooring.
Next to the pawn shop is a laundromat he's intimately familiar with from the apartment he lived in just two blocks away. In his earlier days on the job, he'd sit here on Sundays and listen to the machines hum, thankful for the warmth in the winter from the exhaust vents while he poured over cases and bitch work given to him until he could earn his keep.
Mingyu keeps walking, passing a convenience store with flickering signs and people that move with hunched shoulders against the drizzle. No one pays him much mind, everyone too preoccupied with their own lives as they scuttle along like beetles.
The automatic door of the 24-hour market hisses when Mingyu ducks in. Bright lights make him squint as he walks the aisle filled with bright neon prices and advertisements calling to him, products ranging from everything to instant meals, cigarettes and cheap liquor to disposable razors and batteries. A clerk sits behind the counter, scrolling through a tablet, ignoring Mingyu entirely.
Mingyu doesn't mind. He picks up a pack of ramen, a bottle of cold coffee from the refrigerated section, a pack of cigarettes, and a pack of caffeine gum in cherry flavor that he likes to chew late at night on the job for an extra kick of energy. The clerk rings him up without comment and Mingyu pays with his phone before scooping his things and heading back outside into the drizzle.
Pausing, he tears open the new pack of cigarettes with his teeth, rolling the plastic and tossing it into the trash. Fishing one out, he sticks it between his lips and searches for a lighter for a few seconds before lighting it and taking a deep drag, feeling his lungs expand as they feel with acrid smoke.
Mingyu can't help but think about you in Vos's memory, the dancer with the sharp gaze who appeared twice. It isn't much, but it can't be a coincidence - coincidences don't exist in Mingyu's line of work. He knows the city is full of people moving through the same spaces and crossing paths without meaning, but seeing you multiple times in Vos's memory is something.
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.
Mingyu sucks in another drag and blows the smoke out in a sigh. As much as he hates for his killer to be right about anything, Mingyu feels instinctually that you are, that something about you has caused a ripple effect. He just needs to figure out how and why.
He finishes the cigarette and drops it, grinding it out under his heel while the smoke lingers in his lungs for a minute. Shuffling the bag in his arms, he heads back toward where he parked his bike, passing by a noddle stand on the corner with steam rising and the smell of frying garlic and chili oil cutting through the damp air. Mingyu considers stopping, but he's not hungry. He just needed to be somewhere that wasn't the station or his apartment.
Back at the bike, he opens the seat and dumps his belongings in the compartment before swinging back on and pulling his helmet on. The drive to his apartment is slow and winding, cutting through back alleys and misting rain until he's parking in the cracked-concrete garage and taking the stairs up to the fourth floor.
Mingyu shoulders into the apartment after unlocking the door, immediately toeing off his boots while he locks the door behind him. It's not much - just one room, a kitchenette, a bathroom with a shower that barely works and has no hot water, and one large window that overlooks the street, the view mostly obscured by the constant rain.
He sets the bag on the counter and pulls out the ramen before going through the motions, boiling water and tearing into the sauce packet with his teeth, mind far away from his little corner of the world while he thinks about you again, a thread among the chaos - a beat of a butterfly's wings, maybe.
-
Mingyu jolts awake in the dim glow of his apartment, his heart hammering against his ribs. The ringing that cuts through the haze is distorted and confusing until he realizes there's a small green hologram lighting up over his phone. He fumbles for it, hand knocking over his reading glasses, his pistol, and the tablet he'd been using to research the stupid butterfly effect again.
Chan's name displays as the phone continues ringing, lighting up the world as Mingyu fumbles to answer. "Hello?
"You sound like hell," Chan replies, the sound of a keyboard in the background. "Facial rec pulled a hit on that woman from Vos's memory. Cross-referenced with club surveillance feeds from the entertainment district, looks like she's a performer at the club Wings. High end joint."
Mingyu leans against his headboard, running a hand over his face. The single window in his unit lets in the never-ending neon glow from outside, casting dull patterns across his bedroom. He hears the rain tapping against the glass, a constant companion.
"Wings. Got it. Send me the address."
"On it. It's in the mid-tier entertainment strip near the old elevated line. I recommend caution. It's on the mid-tier strip but it leans high end - the entertainment there aren't standard rentals."
"Name?"
"Looks like the stage name might be Psyche."
Mingyu frowns as he gets out of bed and grabs a dirty pair of jeans off the floor to shove one leg in, jamming the phone between his face and his shoulder.
"Like the wife of Cupid?"
"Seems that way."
"Anything else?
"Clean on the surface. No priors, no traffic tickets. Nothing."
"Well his memory showed her twice. Can't be random."
Chan sighs. "I'm inclined to agree. Like I said, be careful. Security at these places crack skulls first and ask questions later. You don't have money for a new Skin."
"Heard. Talk later."
Mingyu finishes getting dressed, his heart hammering the entire time. This is the thread - the butterfly's wingbeat. He can feel it in his gut, something sharpening into something purposeful, an instinct that has led him on every hunt for a killer he's been on.
He moves quickly, pulling on a long-sleeved shirt that smells like sweat and cologne, pulling on boots with loose laces, and tucking his gun in the back of his pants before hiding it with the hem of his shirt. He tucks a badge in his pocket, and heads out of the room, knocking his shin against the corner of the bed and cursing loudly.
At the door, he grabs his helmet and heads out into the hall, nearly jogging as he takes the steps down to street level two at a time. Rain greets him outside, making his shirt cling to his frame as he straddles his bike. The engine roars to life, HUD on his helmet flickering alive with the address overlay. He twists the throttle and tears into the night, tires slicing through puddles.
The ride blurs into a streak of neon and the lower streets give way to the mid-level sprawl, where wealth brushes against grit. Autonomous cabs hum past, their passengers hidden behind tinted fields. Elevated tracks arc overhead, sparks occasionally flying from aging mag-rails. Mingyu leans into turns, the bike's vibration thrumming through his bones, chasing away the last dregs of fatigue.
By the time he pulls up to the curb outside Wings, the rain eases to a misty veil, but the air hangs heavy with the smell of gas and rusting metal, a permanent smell that never really seems to leave.
He parks the bike on a side street and heads toward the front door of the club, uncaring that he's a bit damp and messy. The club is impossible to miss, the facade bright with iridescent panels that shift colors under a massive holographic marque that reads: WELCOME TO WINGS, WHERE FANTASIES TAKE FLIGHT.
Security drones hover discreetly at the entrance, red scanner lights sweeping patrons as they stand in line. The line is mostly men who look better dressed than Mingyu, umbrellas in hand to keep the rain off their backs as a security guard stands at the door checking IDs and taking money.
Mingyu gets in line and ignores the way the others look at him, tucking his helmet under his arm. He's bouncing with energy now, craning his neck to look up at the holograms above, dancers in all manner of fantasy writhing and twisting in shades of fuchsia and red and lavender.
It takes about ten minutes to reach the door where a security guard with one augmented eye looks at him, his lens turning cyan as he scans Mingyu. He holds out his hand for an ID, which Mingyu hands over immediately.
"Cover is two hundred creds. If you want a private room, see the bar. Private rooms start at five hundred."
"Two hundred?" He asks, feeling himself stall out. "Fucking hell."
"Pay or get out."
Grumbling, Mingyu takes out his phone and transfers over the credits, swallowing thickly when he sees how close it brings him to the negatives. He's not sure this qualifies for reimbursement at the station, but he's going to file it anyway.
"Head in. Any trouble and you're out."
Mingyu steps by as the door hisses open. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of engineered pheromones being pumped in through the vents with the smell of liquor. Bass pumps through the room, vibrating through the floor and up his spine. The main floor sprawls under a vaulted ceiling alive with projected constellations that shift in real-time, stars turning as though the club is spinning in time with the world's real rotation.
Dancers move with unnatural grace, and it takes Mingyu a moment to realize that all of them have wings. He spots one with dragonfly wings that glitter as she spends, refracting light. Another has raven wings, inky black even as she twists around a pole under cyan light.
He hadn't expected the theme to be so literal, but he's glad that the wings are wearables and not uncanny body mods. He slinks through the room between patrons, noting the privacy feels that shimmer in the distance to hide the VIP booths from prying eyes. The private rooms are further back, a neon sign above a shadow hall with fly away above it.
Mingyu's eyes scan methodically, cutting through the sensory overload. He clocks exits, security nodes embedded in the walls, the faint hum of surveillance drones disguised as decorative moths fluttering near the ceiling. No sign of you yet, though, so he drifts toward the bar, ordering a cheap synth-whiskey to blend in, the glass cool against his callused fingers. The liquid burns familiarly as he sips, eyes never still.
Then he sees you and the world slows down a little.
You emerge from a side alcove onto one of the elevated platforms framed by gossamer curtains that part around you, moved by some sort of air effect. You're wearing delicate butterfly wings, spans of translucent fabric that looks like real membrane catching the light. You're dressed in minimal strips of iridescent material, accentuating each one of your curves while leaving the wings unobstructed.
Just like in Vos's memories, it's your eyes that make Mingyu freeze. It carries the same piercing quality as you dance, cutting through the room. It's not the same hazy allure of the other dancers, but something more focused like a predator among pretty things.
Butterfly wings. It makes him go cold, the butterfly effect audio recycling through his head over and over as he watches you dance, your wings fluttering. Despite being fake, they look real, catching the light as you shimmer, more beautiful than anything else he's ever seen.
Mingyu finishes his drink and sets it down harshly as he turns to the bar and hails down a bartender to ask for a private room. The bartender slides over a tablet and Mingyu scrolls until he finds your stage name - Psyche - and nearly vomits the whiskey back up when he sees the price.
"Eight hundred credits for thirty minutes?" He growls. He curses under his breath and charges it to his credit card, knowing he's never going to pay it off before it gains sixty percent interest. "Better be fucking worth it."
A room number flashes on the screen and he memorizes it before stalking off toward the hallway of private rooms, glancing at your platform as he does. You tilt your head, hand going briefly to your ear before turning to get off the platform. It's then that he realizes you have an ear piece in. He files that piece of information away.
The private room is small and blessedly clean, the seats plush with a low table in front of them. He throws himself down and shivers, the room unnaturally cold. He glances around but sees no clock or anything else in the room except a private bar which he knows will cost extra, so he doesn't dare, instead staring at the door until it opens.
Mingyu's heart starts to hammer as you slide into the room, sitting up straighter. It doesn't occur to him that up until this morning, he's never done this before. The realization makes him nervous, palms sweaty as you slink toward him, smiling and tilting your head.
"New face," you greet, sliding onto the seat next to him. You lean against the seat, facing him as you cross one leg over the other. "Pretty face."
Up close, the details on your face come into sharp focus: faint iridescence on your skin like starlight, the scent of jasmine and amber, pretty eyes that swallow him whole.
"Looking to forget the rain outside?" You ask him, voice sweet and soft. "I can fix that."
Mingyu leans back, forcing a lazy smirk that does not reach his eyes. He plays the part - client with creds to burn, interest piqued by the exotic. "Something like that."
A small smile tugs your lips. "What do you want tonight? Escape? Or just a pretty distraction?"
"Distraction sounds good. Start with a dance, yeah?"
If you sense his confidence is feigned, you don't show it. You stand, the wings spreading wide behind you, catching the low light and refracting it into soft gradients of color. The music shifts to something slower and heavier, the bass making Mingyu's skin itch. You move with practiced precision, hips swaying as you step closer, one hand trailing along the back of the couch.
Mingyu's breath catches. He reminds himself it's the job and that he's here for information, not this. But his body doesn't listen as he becomes hyper aware of you, his fingers twitching as he fights not to jump out of the booth and away from you. It's not that he's bad with women - he's not - but this is new to him, never having paid for a moment of attention this intimate and sensual.
You turn your back to him now, the wings folding slightly as you lower yourself onto his lap. The weight of you is real and solid, warm through the thin fabric of his clothes. You roll your hips slowly and Mingyu's hands grip the edge of the couch to keep from reaching for you or pushing you off - he's not entirely sure which.
Your hair brushes his jaw as you lean back, your head tilting to rest near his shoulder, and he feels the heat of your breath against his neck. He can't help but shiver, the smell of your jasmine and amber so overwhelming he feels his lashes flutter.
"You're tense," you murmur. "Relax."
He can't. His mind is racing, cataloging details like the way you move, the control in every gesture, the sharpness in your eyes when you glanced at him earlier. This isn't just a performance. There's something calculated about it, something that doesn't match the soft, breathy voice you're using now.
You turn again, straddling him now, your knees pressing into the couch on either side of his hips. Your hands rest on his shoulders, fingers light, and you lean in close enough that he can see the faint shimmer of makeup on your eyelids, the way your pupils dilate in the low light.
"Better?" you ask, smiling.
Mingyu swallows. "Yeah."
You laugh, soft and knowing, and shift your weight, grinding down just enough to make his pulse spike. The wings flutter behind you, a distraction, a spectacle, and he realizes that's the point. You're good at this and he doesn't know why but he hates that it works on him, even if it's your job to do this, to pull focus, to keep the client's attention where you want it.
He clears his throat, forcing himself to focus. "You're good at what you do."
"I know," you whisper, tilting your head so that your breath fans against his ear. "Don't you want to touch me?
"Actually, I uh - want to ask you something."
You pull away from him and though your smile doesn't falter, your eyes shift. "That's expensive."
"No," Mingyu protests quickly, grabbing you and pushing you back a little. You flinch when he touches you and he lets go immediately. "Sorry, I don't want to like - that."
"Okay. Then what do you want?"
"You know Harlann Vos?"
It's the wrong question to ask. Your entire body goes rigid and your eyes lock onto his as your delicate persona shatters immediately. What's left is sharp, cold, and predatory. Mingyu's pulse spikes as you get off of him and put space between you, your eyes icy.
"Who the fuck are you?" you ask. Your real voice is a little deeper than the breathy rasp you'd used moments ago. "And what the fuck do you want?"
Mingyu holds up his hands. "I just need to ask you a few questions-"
"Get the fuck out."
"Listen, I'm not here to cause trouble-"
You hit a button he didn't see near the door and the door opens immediately. Mingyu makes a sound of protest when he sees a security guard appear at the door, his eyes glancing between the two of you.
"Problem?" He asks.
"He needs to leave. Now."
Mingyu stands slowly, adrenaline cutting through the tension in his body. His pulse is still elevated from the dance, from the heat of your body on his lap. He pulls the badge from his pocket and the security guard stiffens further. So do you, taking a step away from him again.
"You need a warrant, buddy."
"Detective Kim. Homicide. I'm investigating a murder, and I need to ask her some questions."
"I don't give a fuck who you are," you seethe. "Get out."
He sighs. "Can we just-"
"Get a warrant," you snarl, barring your teeth at him like something feral.
Mingyu realizes you're afraid of him. Not like someone caught in a lie or someone caught with their hand on the gun, but like someone who is cowering, like he might strike. He thinks it's odd, watching as you shake, eyes wide and trembling.
He could push. He could insist, make this official, drag you down to the station for questioning. But something in him softens, and he pockets the badge, raising his hands. "I'll leave. No trouble."
The security guard steps aside and Mingyu walks toward the door as he looks at you one last time. Your wings are still spread wide, trembling slightly, and your eyes are locked on him. There's fear there, yes, but something else too. Recognition. Guilt. Something. Before he can decide what, the security guard steps between you and cuts off Mngyu's line of sight, ushering him into the hallway.
With a loud shout that's lost to the pound of music, you slam the door. Mingyu sighs, staring at the door for a few minutes before he turns and walks back through the club, the music vibrating through the walls as he winds past the stages and the strobing lights. His mind is stuck on you, of course. The terror. The gaze. The butterfly wings.
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.
He pushes through the front door and into the rain, the cold hitting him sharply. Mingyu shivers but stands outside the door, letting the rain cut through him, washing away the smell of jasmine and amber, clearing his mind a little.
You know something. Mingyu doesn't know what, but he's sure of it. You're the butterfly at the root of it all, and now he just needs to know the cause of the effect.
it's been years since you worked for the ministry of welfare. since you were partnered with hansol as a rookie inspector in the criminal investigation unit. since the two of you were assigned to a case so devastating it cost hansol his freedom and sent you into hiding. it's been years, but there's no time limit on vengeance—and there's nothing you wouldn't do to protect hansol.
▸️ pairing: enforcer!hansol x hacker!f. reader
▸️ genre: cyberpunk, dystopian, psycho-pass au; (lite) enemies, coworkers to lovers; action, angst, smut
▸️ rating: explicit. minors do not interact with this or any of my work.
▸️ warnings: many references to psycho-pass (which you don't need to have seen to understand but would definitely help), including: a dystopian government, an AI hivemind security system, mentions of crime; swearing, cigarettes, alcohol use; vernon is kind of a jerk; time jumps that are labelled. pls let me know if i missed anything.
▸️ smut warnings: none for this chapter.
▸️ wordcount: 5.1k
▸️ listen to: bring me the horizon - kingslayer (feat. babymetal)
▸️ credits: this was written for the cyberpunk: reloaded collab, hosted by my loves at @studiosvt. tysm for letting me participate! please make sure to check out the rest of the fics as they're posted. big thanks to @imnotshua and @sailorsoons for spitballing ideas with me way back in the day for the original iteration of this story. this chapter was not edited or beta'd, so any mistakes are my own.
▸️ author's note: i wanted to have this done in its entirety by the posting deadline but, as always, working in broadcasting/advertising during world cup was to my detriment. i am actively working on this, though, so i will hopefully have part two posted soon. i hope you enjoy this nonetheless!
[input_TIME >>: the now // input_DATE >>: october 2117.]
Rain pounds the pavement, distorting the view of the city.
Deep puddles reflect blinding neon signs back at you. You cover your eyes at the worst of it, blocking the characters from view. What are typically rigid, geometric lines are now jagged and fragmented; names of businesses disjointed and severed. It all has you feeling out of sorts, off-kilter even though you’re firmly planted on solid ground.
You used to recognize these streets. You used to be able to make a map out of them, all the crooked alleyways and dead-ends forming a knotted ball of yarn in your head. Now, nothing is as it used to be. None of the names feel familiar. The metallic, cartoonish jingles meant to lure you in like a siren song don’t, either, and you try to discern if you’re hearing them for the first time or if, like so much of this city, you forced yourself to forget. You take another step. All the old haunts you used to frequent are either boarded up or long gone. Either sequestered behind rotting caution tape that’s frayed and worn at the edges or nothing but exposed steel and concrete and a memory where a building used to stand.
God, this is fucking with you. Have you finally lost it? Done yourself in for good? You’re certain it used to be here, right where you’re standing. You know it was. Out of everything, you recognize the shape of the crack in the sidewalk—the one that’s shaped like a bolt of lightning. You remember how you used to joke that it was going to strike Hansol, rewire his brain like electroshock therapy, and you can see it so vividly: the way his lip curled as he sneered and said in return that was the only way he’d ever be able to tolerate you as his partner. How he used to turn his head to hide his eyes from view and the way the neon lights of the city swarmed in on him, filling in the contours of his cheeks and the slit in his brow. Another step and you remember the street vendor that used to set up there—the tent the two of you used to sit beneath in the liminal hours of the night to get out of the rain. The way you came to associate the pitter-patter against the cheap plastic with the bitter beer Hansol used to drink.
Even now, the sound of rain reminds you of him. Of stale beer and neon lights and memories you so desperately want to cling to that dissipate like smoke every time you try to reach for them.
As you stand in the graveyard of your old life, it’s clear the world has moved on without you.
Without him.
But you have to be sure.
You need to know there’s some semblance of truth to what you’ve been hearing. If you’re going to go down this path again—if you’re going to stalk these once-familiar streets with your eyes constantly trained over your shoulder, you need to be absolutely certain the incessant whispers have substance. Even now, there’s still an unshakeable weakness in you when it comes to Hansol, and you need to know what you’re walking into, because he makes you vulnerable. And if there’s a puppetmaster—if all of this is just meant to lure you out of the shadows—there you’ll be, dangling hopelessly from wood and string, only moving when you’re made to.
Nothing more than a marionette. A thrall for someone else’s whims.
You sigh and press the palms of your hands into your eyes. This liminal space is giving you vertigo—this world you recognize but don’t, long for but don’t, want to return to but can’t. Unable to tell the difference between remembrance and hallucination. What’d this place used to sound like? Had you sunk into the ambient noise like a warm bath, letting the conversations of strangers pull you just beneath the surface? Had you wrapped yourself in the muted sounds of their laughter? Their anger? Standing here now—the streets empty and devoid of life, nothing but ghosts to keep you company—you don’t remember. Maybe you can’t, or don’t want to. You want to scream until your throat is raw. Want to drop to your knees on the concrete and let the polluted rain seep into your clothes as you ask no one and nothing, What’s the point in any of this?
But you’re terrified the abyss will answer.
You’re terrified someone will tell you the point is Hansol, because nothing else could drag you back into this life. Nothing else could bloody you so badly and still draw you back in. Nothing else could conjure a fear so primal it left you—leaves you—paralyzed and still have you crawling over glass if it meant getting vengeance on every last person who harmed him. If it meant getting it right this time.
A chill runs up your spine.
You already know who will be standing behind you when you turn around. Hansol has always been a viper, preferring the safety of the fringes until it came time to strike. It’s what made him so effective, that you could feel his presence like a syrupy, tangible thing—that you knew there were eyes on you, that you could sense an apex predator camouflaged amongst the shadows, but you couldn’t see him. Not until it was too late. Not until fangs were sinking into flesh.
That’s what you expect now, for Hansol to charge and tear you apart, and you brace yourself. But nothing happens. There’s no movement. No sound except rain on concrete. You turn slowly, your movements stunted by the anticipation of something that never came, and you’d miss him if you didn’t know where to look. Didn’t know all his favorite hiding places.
And that’s what you do, immediately casting your eyes to the darkest corner of this desolate street, finding his silhouette exactly where you expected it to be. Hunched over to obscure his height, hood pulled over his head to hide his eyes. A lone sliver of moonlight slices through the darkness, and casts him in a silver glow, making him look otherworldly. It’s all that keeps him from being entirely disguised by the umbra.
Still, it feels hard to believe after so long—after time and circumstance formed such an insurmountable chasm.
You watch one another wordlessly, and as the minutes tick by you catch yourself counting his breaths. They’re all that tells you there’s a human being standing there rather than one of the many faceless phantoms taking up residence in this part of the city. That he’s real and not some illusion your brain has cooked up in order to cope with the crippling loneliness that accompanies your forced solitude.
There’s the flick of a lighter, a cherry red ember, and a plume of smoke before Hansol speaks. “Didn’t think you’d actually come.”
Why wouldn’t I, when you asked me to? you want to say, but it feels too intimate for a deserted street that reeks of garbage and stale piss. “I could say the same for you,” is what you settle on. “Suffice it to say I was pretty fuckin’ shocked to hear from you.”
He takes another drag of his cigarette. Exhales another plume of smoke. “Yeah, well.” Tosses the butt to the pavement and stomps it out.
That’s all he has to say about that.
[input_TIME >>: the before // input_DATE >>: may 2112.]
You fidget in your seat, silently cursing the bureau’s uniform requirements.
Two weeks out from graduation and you haven’t heard a thing your instructor has said. The bottom-most button of your blazer refuses to sit right, intent on digging into your skin, and you’ve been fucking with it all morning, hissing through your teeth at every stab of discomfort. If you would’ve known you’d have to dress like a middle-aged department store clerk, you would’ve applied to a different department.
That prompts a snort of hushed laughter.
As if you hadn’t been recruited. As if this bureau with the horrible uniforms hadn’t taken one look at your transcripts and handed you your dream job on a silver platter, effectively offering you everything you’d been working towards your entire life. As if it wasn’t a childhood dream that squeezed into a blazer and pencil skirt every morning for the last six months just to spend nine hours a day sitting ramrod straight in an uncomfortable metal chair. As if it wasn’t optimism and the constellation of stars in your eyes that pored over pages upon pages of notes each night, committing them to memory as you washed away ink smears and ignored the ache in your dominant hand.
Just two more weeks, you reassure yourself. Two more weeks and you’ll finally be done with your instructional training. Two more weeks and it’ll finally be real: a real job, a real title, real responsibilities. Two more weeks and you can finally put your education to good use. You can finally start cleaning up the streets.
Start making a real difference.
It’s this thought, more than anything else, that gets you through each day—more than finally earning a salary; more than finally being able to subsist on something more substantial than freeze-fried noodles and whatever’s on sale at the GS25. You’ll tolerate fourteen more days of this cursed uniform if it gets you one step closer to your place in the Ministry, the role waiting for you within it, and finally being able to realize your life’s purpose.
And it arrives in the blink of an eye. One second you’re metaphorically chained to your desk at the training institute; the next, you’re sitting opposite one of the Ministry’s middlemen as he monotonously explains the minutiae of your employment from his side of a glossy walnut desk. You try to listen but it feels like staring at the sun. All you’ve ever wanted is finally within reach, yet you can’t bring yourself to reach out and grab it. You sigh. Wipe your sweat-slick palms on the same pencil skirt you’d been cursing weeks ago, hoping desperately that whatever you’re feeling isn’t showing on your face. That he can’t smell it like a bloodhound.
There’s no one better equipped for this position. No one who wants it nearly as badly.
Some of your classmates had called you a brown-noser. Doesn’t matter now, you think, your broad smile coming easily as this man—someone important; someone who actually matters—uses more flattering words to describe you. Impressive. Hard-working. Ambitious and intelligent. One of the most promising recruits the Ministry of Welfare has had in decades.
He continues shuffling through your paperwork, tongue darting out to wet his fingertips. “Tell me again where you graduated from.”
You clear your throat. “Ewha Higher Education, sir.”
He hums an acknowledgement. “Ah! Yes, yes, here it is. Ewha Higher Education… double-majored in psychology and social welfare… perfect grades… awarded the highest honors... Yes, yes, very impressive, indeed.” There’s a spot of dark sauce on the corner of his mouth you hadn’t noticed earlier. “Inspector Choi could surely use someone of your caliber.”
You know that name. You wrack your brain, trying to remember how, and then—
Another blink of an eye as your field of vision is reduced to the size of a pinhead. Suddenly, your breath hitches, stuck in your throat as you feel your blood turn to ice. Please no, you want to beg, anywhere but there. But there’s no point. Before you can protest, the man pulls a giant rubber stamp from a drawer, officially branding your file.
MINISTRY OF WELFARE, CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION UNIT
The ink is so red it could pass for blood.
[input_TIME >>: the before // input_DATE >>: november 2112.]
“Again.”
You clench your jaw. Try not to spare any concern for the sound your bones make when you roll your neck to the side. You’re thankful that your back is to Hansol so he can’t see the irritated look on your face. Not that he’s paying attention to you, anyway—he’s taken up residence in the corner, slumped in a metal chair as he makes shapes out of the water stains on the ceiling. He’s silent, making absolutely no sound until it comes time to either criticize you or obnoxiously smack his gum.
So yes, you’re irritated. You’ve been at this for hours. Your arms are sore, you’re hungry, and the stench of mildew is bringing on a migraine. But it isn’t like Hansol’s criticisms don’t have merit. Inspector Choi won’t clear you for field work until you get better. Until you can prove you won’t be a liability.
Until your partner feels confident in your ability to save his life and do your job.
“Again.”
Hansol is not feeling very confident, needless to say.
You raise your arms. Press your tongue into the fat of your cheek. Squint one eye as you center the target. The silhouette stares back at you, riddled with bullet holes, numbers demarcating body parts. You aim your pistol at the bright red X on its chest, trying to imagine a reality in which you have to do this. In which the silhouette was real, living and breathing right in front of you—the difference between kill or be killed. Would you take a life to save your own? To save Hansol’s? It made you sick at first, the thought of it. You used to lie in bed and swear there was blood on your hands, viscous and sticky, but every time you’d stumble to the bathroom and flick on the dingy fluorescent light there was nothing there.
Made you wonder if you were turning into a monster.
But you can do this. You have to. The tattered silhouette is not the difference between life or death, not right now, but it is the only thing standing between you and a dream. A duty. You exhale slowly, trying to steady your erratic heartbeat, and place your finger on the trigger. Before this job, there was a foolish naïveté in the way you thought there was a particular weight to this decision, but not now. No, now you think there’s a foolish metaphor in how little it takes to fire a gun. Just the slightest hint of pressure and you can shoot for whatever reason you choose: to paralyze and stun, to contain—and to kill, of course, if necessary.
If the System deems it so.
Nonsense has clearly made its way into your head. You’re safe. The System keeps you safe, as does the Ministry. The same one you work for. The reason you’re stuck down here in this basement shooting at numbers until it’s instinctual, training to keep others safe. Listening to Hansol chew his gum like a cow. Rummaging through the rubble of everything he says, discarding all his snide remarks as you search for feedback you can actually use.
Another exhale. You widen your stance and plant your feet. Focus on that red X. Adjust your aim by nanometers. Finger firmly on the trigger, just a little bit of pressure, you can do this, you can do this, you can, you will—
Pop!
You startle, letting out a sound of frustration more akin to a wild animal. Hansol pays you no mind, just plucks the remnants of the popped bubble from his face and stuffs the wad of gum back into his mouth, no doubt gearing up for a repeat performance. It’s got to feel more like chewing on rubber by now, but you wouldn’t put it past him to saw off his own foot if it’d annoy you.
Sighing, you lower the pistol and put the safety back on, turning slowly as you dig deep, trying to gather whatever professionalism is left in you. “Hansol.”
Pop! That one was bigger than his—
“Headshot.”
You blink. “Excuse me?”
“Head. Shot,” he repeats, tone belying his belief that you’re nothing more than a stupid child. He sits up straight, finally making eye contact with you. Nods in the silhouette’s direction. “You see those circles above his head? Big and red?” You ignore his taunting. “C’mon, they’ve got a big X on ‘em and everything. Not even you could miss that.”
Proverbial fingers stuck in your proverbial ears, you turn back around. The silhouette stares wordlessly. It doesn’t beg for its life as you remove the safety just as quickly as you’d put it back on. Doesn’t start bargaining, desperate and incoherent, as you raise your arm and squint through one eye. Doesn’t do anything at all as you pull the trigger and blow a perfect hole right between its eyes.
Now that you think about it, though, it does start to look a lot like Hansol.
[input_TIME >>: the before // input_DATE >>: february 2115.]
Inspector Choi says he’ll handle the paperwork and bids the two of you goodnight.
Snow falls steadily. It’s rare these days—too warm, not the right kind of precipitation—so you’ll covet it, even though it covers the streets and sidewalks in an unsightly and inconvenient layer of brown-grey slush. As always, Hansol isn’t quite so romantic. He scoffs, hands immediately going to his coat pockets in search of his cigarettes. When he pulls them back out, his knuckles are red from the cold, hands trembling slightly when he tries to use his lighter.
“Give it here.”
With a roll of his eyes, Hansol hands the lighter over and moves in closer, cupping his hands around the tip of the cigarette to block it from the wind. You flick the wheel, a low flame sparking after a few well-practiced tries. Hansol erases more of the space between you. Steps in closer and lights his cigarette, sucking the first pull of it deep into his lungs, a small explosion of cherry red embers. He’s close enough for you to smell the smoke that lingers in the wool fibers of his coat. It’s not a smell you ever thought you’d find comforting, but it’s the one you associate with him the most.
“You heading home?” Each word is reluctant, as if they’re being pried out of his mouth by force. He exhales another drag of his cigarette. Doesn’t move entirely out of your space, but turns his head just enough so that the smoke doesn’t blow directly into your face.
Snowflakes land and immediately melt on his eyelashes.
One of the Sybil drones approaches, whirring as it wheels by you on the sidewalk. Every few meters it slows to a stop, moving side to side as it completes its scans, leaving behind perfectly parallel tracks in the slush. The crowd parts biblically as it continues down its pre-programmed path. Every face you can make out wears a look of trepidation; of anxiety and unease. It’s always the first thing you notice. People don’t look at you and see a savior. Don’t see a protector or a guardian or even a role model. People look at you and see someone responsible for defending and upholding the status quo.
The turning of the tides has been slow, but certainly not subtle.
You can feel Hansol’s eyes on you, his gaze heavy and pointed. “Hey,” he says, dragging you out of your head, “I asked you a question.”
The snowfall is heavier now, the flakes larger and less watered-down. You know the entire city will be covered and iced over soon. You know the government will tell everyone to go home and stay there, that there will be a losing battle mounted against it using plows and shovels; that the public transit systems will stop running and, even though you don’t live far, it’ll be a headache to get home if you don’t get going.
But you stay rooted in place, unable to bring yourself to care.
A half-turn with a shit-eating grin. “No,” you finally answer, feeling a thrill jolt through you as Hansol raises an eyebrow in question, “I’m taking you out for a drink.”
Surprise stuns him into silence, leaving him unable to protest. You take advantage, grabbing onto the lapel of his coat as you drag him down the sidewalk towards the pojangmacha the two of you frequent: the one that never seems to close; the one that has slowly come to belong to you and Hansol.
“Absolutely fuckin’ not,” he grumbles, using all the strength he possesses to pull himself in the opposite direction but he slips, no traction to be found in the snow. He swears. Starts bitching about how fucking cold it is, it’s getting late, he lives all the way across the city and the fucking trains never run in the snow so how the fuck’s he gonna get home, he’s gonna be fucking stranded here and it’s gonna be your fucking fault.
Perpetually open, the amber lights of the pocha spill onto the sidewalk, contrasting against the harsh neon of the city. The heater is cranked to full-blast; you can hear the gears clanking as it works overtime and you find yourself desperate for the warmth. Pulling back one of the flaps, you snark, “I don’t live that far, so if worst comes to worst you can crash on my couch.” Hansol scoffs, making no attempt to hide the fact that this would not be his contingency plan if there were any other options available.
You move aside and gesture for him to go in.
Soonyoung greets you immediately from his spot at an empty table. He waves you over and relinquishes his seat to Hansol—who’s clearly still sour about this entire ordeal—before disappearing to fetch menus neither of you need. “Come on, it’s your birthday,” you argue, dropping into the seat opposite your sulking partner. “Can you please find it in yourself to stop being miserable for one hour and enjoy one of those shitty beers you always drink?”
The corners of his mouth turn up minutely, blink and you’ll miss it, before he schools his expression back into familiar annoyance. “They’re not shitty.”
You roll your eyes. Soonyoung reappears with sweat dotting his hairline, cheeks ruddy from the heat. A complimentary bowl of tteokbokki is placed between the two of you: seemingly a preemptive apology for the unprompted report of the weather forecast that he launches into. You roll your lips. It’s extremely detailed—you might even dare to call it impressive—but what little patience Hansol had is fading fast. So you politely interject, cutting him off to order, “Two shitty beers, please,” which obviously makes no sense to him. Nevertheless, he nods and disappears once more, two cans of beer cracked open and poured into frosted mugs that make your fingers ache, and when you take a sip of what he sets in front of you, it’s just as metallic and awful as you hoped it’d be.
Your lips pucker from the taste and Hansol laughs, not bothering to tamp down his smile this time.
[input_TIME >>: the before // input_DATE >>: august 2115.]
Discontent is swelling.
What used to exist in the undercurrent has morphed into something palpable, the cells of it multiplying as rapidly as a tumor. What was once communicated through knowing glances shared in the safety of silence is now being spoken into existence. Lone protestors on street corners have become grand-scale demonstrations; the handmade signs, once shoddily painted and nailed into a plank of wood, are now replicated and distributed en masse, printed on paper so glossy it’s nearly blinding. What was once a gentle rain is now thunderous. What once thrived only in the shadows of the underbelly has made its way above ground.
Tension permeates every inch of the city, sparing no one. Your branch of the Ministry feels it heavier than the rest. After all, the system they’re protesting was given life here, born from computers and tangles of wires as thick as jungle vines—the system that was once heralded as the guiding light into a new age of governmental omnipresence. What was once revered as a beacon of safety is now regarded with deep distrust, as yet another oppressor with its fingers crossed behind its back, chains ready and waiting for anyone needing to be contained.
Once that skepticism had taken hold, there was no vanquishing it. No going back. Now it has you by the throat, squeezing increasingly tighter, watching with indifference as you struggle to breathe. As the crowds of protestors jeer at you, spittle flying as they hurl their curses and accusations, call you names. It watches with indifference as Inspector Choi locks himself in his office day after day, lights off, speaking to no one, bankrupt of guidance. As Hansol spends his time pacing between his desk and the large window that overlooks the city, a severe crease between his brows as he stares down at the raucous mob, his fragile, fraying nerves unraveling entirely as he chainsmokes with trembling hands, resolving to throw himself off the rooftop before admitting his worry. It watches with indifference as you step into the elevator and descend into the labyrinthine depths of the building; as you navigate the funhouse maze and pass the biometric scans.
Watches with indifference as the automatic door whirrs shut behind you, sealing you in Wonwoo’s domain. This place has always made you uneasy: the neon green lighting that falls over your skin, making you feel like you’re being bathed in acid; the nonstop humming of the servers; the humid, stale air that the fans try—and fail—to circulate. You don’t know how he works down here. How he copes with the unyielding darkness and the liminal passage of time.
Regardless, this is Wonwoo’s empire, its walls built out of CCTV monitors that oversee every inch of this city, scanning and listening and anticipating. Wires dangle from the ceiling. On every computer screen, endless lines of code rapidly scroll by, jumbled and nonsensical, only having to make sense to one person. And there he sits in the center of the room, his figure illuminated by a silvery-blue aura, fuzzy around the edges as if he’s slowly being absorbed by the technology he spends all his time with. There’s an energy drink in his hand and a pile of empty cans at his feet. Every so often he moves—to alter a line of code, to change the view of the CCTVs, to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose—but otherwise he’s entirely still, a ghost on autopilot, and it only adds to the restlessness you feel here.
“How haven’t you gone blind yet?” you half-joke.
Wonwoo snorts a laugh, spinning his chair 90° to greet you. No one else bothers to come down here. “Here to get away from the hellscape outside?”
“Somewhat,” you admit, stepping in closer. Unsurprisingly, Wonwoo’s got cameras trained on every crowd. The one that has assembled right outside the Ministry’s doors is displayed on its own screen. “Got anything we can use?”
He hums and presses a button. The Ministry protestors now up the entire wall of monitors in front of you. “Not really.” He scratches at the back of his neck. “They aren’t protesting anything new. No new faces, either.”
“They’re relentless,” you mutter. “What’s Sybil saying?”
Wonwoo presses another button and the screen splits in half. The camera trained on the protestors remains on the left. On the right, however, is a familiar array of identifiers, colors, and numbers. “Psycho-Pass levels continue to be heightened, as you’d expect, and all Crime Coefficients have remained within normal range. So far, nothing has even remotely approached clouded status.”
You sigh, forced to live another day in this in-between, unable to do your job. Protesting the government isn’t strictly forbidden, per se. It’s certainly frowned upon, but so long as nothing gets flagged by the Sybil System, it remains begrudgingly legal. It’s not your responsibility to arrest petty demonstrators, anyway—that’s the role of another department entirely, so it’s not the crowds themselves that have you so anxious.
It’s the novelty of it all.
The country (and its capital city, especially) has a long history of protesting, but never before have citizens been able to keep their numbers—stress levels or their overall mental wellbeing—within range. Protesting is directly at odds with neutrality, so it seems to be a foregone conclusion that those levels will inevitably surpass the established ranges dictated by the government. Sybil is almost always flagged. Someone almost always ends up institutionalized, locked away to prevent the spread of dissent.
That’s not happening this time, though.
The numbers remain acceptable, ultimately unactionable despite teetering on the knife’s edge of concern, liable to tip over in either direction. Discord continues to circulate. Animosity and distrust continue to fester, burning every bridge the government attempts to build. A plague continues to take over the city. It’ll reach pandemic status soon, and that’s your fear: that by the time everyone else notices, takes it seriously, it’ll be too late.
It’s too late now, you think, eyes scanning over the monitors. You read all of the signs. Listen to all of the synchronized chants. Try not to let the odious words and malice in their voices send you spiraling deeper. You try to trick yourself into believing this will turn out like the others: a brief period of unrest that barely registers as a blip in the country’s history in the end. A government crackdown that widens the chasm but brings an end to the chaos. A bandage stuck uselessly over a bleeding, gaping wound.
You want to believe this. You have to believe this, because there is no fathomable alternative.
Lost in thought, you miss it but Wonwoo doesn’t: a line of code that doesn’t look right. Doesn’t fit with the rest. He types something into the screen and isolates it, and this time you don’t miss it when all the color drains from his face. When you ask what’s going on and he tries to stutter his way through an explanation. When, in fragments, you make out the system didn’t catch it… don’t know how long… should’ve caught it… I don’t know who or what…
You swallow your panic and ask, “Can you fix it?”
Wonwoo doesn’t bother as he answers, “I don—I don't think so? I don't—”
PAIRING: F.Reader x ot13
PACK MEMBER FOCUS: Junhui and Joshua
PACK MEETING: Joshua has never helped you through your heat before. Thankfully, Junhui is a pro.
REQUESTED BY: @joshujinREQUEST: jun teaches joshua how to take care of reader during a heat bc he's a nervy beta. jun probably also calms joshua down with some super gay kisses idk tho. if any of this doesn't align with how you're planning on characterizing them tho then just do whatever ily!!!
GENRE: Fluff, smut
AU: Omegaverse
WC: 4448
RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It may contain explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
PACK WARNINGS: This has no plot. The plot is sex. Some hormone talk, reader is needy, some mild dom/sub dynamics via junhui being an alpha, joshua a beta, and reader an omega, threesome, nipple play, lots of kissing, lots of senses and feelings and shit, unprotected sex, oral (f. receiving) vaginal fingering, lots of spit and slick, some mild biting, scenting, boys kissing because we love polyamory in my house, pet names, lots of praise, praise kinks implied, heat dynamics, nervous joshua... um i think thats it
SMUT NOTICE: This chapter is centered around smut and shout be skipped if you don’t like reading smut - it makes little sense to read without.
A/N: Actually shot out to @haologram for helping me narrow down what chapter to fill next. We are not sorry Trixiana Grande. You will live <3
A/N 2: As usual this is not beta read this because I’m impatient and just wanna post these as I finish writing them.
HOUSE RULES M. LIST | MAIN M. LIST | ASK
YOUR HEAT BURNS THROUGH YOU LIKE A LIVING THING, TURNING YOUR INSIDES INTO LIVING HELL. Your skin feels too tight, pulling at the edges and cleaning to the sheets beneath you, the sticky surface of your body covered in a thin sheen of perpetual sweat. The only source of relief is Junhui's callused hand moving down your side, his light touch grounding. You shiver as his fingers graze your ribs, your stomach, your thighs, each point of contact only ramping up the furnace under your skin.
You whimper, unable to stop the sound from crawling up the back of your throat. You squeeze your thighs together, the ache so intense that you feel like the room is spinning - or maybe it is, you can't be sure, though it doesn't seem entirely likely.
"I know," Junhui coos, squeezing your thigh a little. "I've got you, baby."
Junhui’s face is close to yours - close enough that you can count each one of his dark, silky eye lashes. He’s pretty like this, his blonde hair falling across his forehead, slightly damp from the shower he’d taken with you earlier that morning. Your eyes trace the careful curve of his lips, landing on your favorite mole just above his pink upper lip.
Junhui's scent wraps around you then, purposeful and warm to steady your pounding heart and elevated anxiety. He smells like cedar and the black tea he likes to drink in the morning, your brain fracturing a little through the haze of your heat at the familiarity of it.
The bed dips slightly and you glance toward the new weight, suddenly aware of Joshua. He sits with his legs folded beneath him, his dark eyes wide as saucers, bottom lip tucked between his teeth as his gaze darts between you and Junhui. He’s pretty even when he’s nervous, the softness of his face easing you with the sharpness of Junhui. His fingers twist in the sheets like he's unsure what to do with his hands, dark hair a little disheveled from running his hands through it too many times.
Junhui notices it too. Of course he does - he's an alpha. Though he's not the head alpha of this pack, there is very little that Junhui doesn't notice, and right now he's reaching for Joshua gently, an encouraging smile on his face.
"Shua," he murmurs. "Come here."
The beta only hesitates for a moment. You watch him with heavy eyes as he slides closer, the mattress shifting. It jostles you a little and you whine, but Junhui tuts at you gently, his other hand reaching to help Joshua settle near you. You immediately lean toward him, sliding your head across the bed to press it near his knee.
"She needs you," Junhui tells him. His hand restarts tracing patterns on your thigh and you nod, agreeing with him. You do need Joshua - desperately. "I'll show you, yeah?"
"I don't want to hurt her."
"You won't," Junhui assures him. "Like this."
Junhui slides his hand from your leg back up your body until he's cupping the back of your neck, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin of your scent gland. You shudder, feeling your heart flutter as your eyes go unfocused for a second. For a moment, all you can sense is Junhui's thumb against you, not quite scenting you but enough contact to make you press your forehead to Joshua's knee, panting.
"Touch her like this on the other side," Junhui murmurs. "She likes a thumb on her scent gland. You don't have to press. Just put some light pressure."
Joshua follows Junhui's lead, reading a hand to cup the back of your neck and tilt your head up. You look up at him, the light coming in from the window blinding you for a second until his face swims into focus. Joshua is pretty, the slope of his nose perfect and his full lips curling into a smile as his thumb swipes back and forth against your scent gland, making you trill.
It feels good, cedar and juniper twisting together as they settle on either side of you, the weight of them on the mattress making you sink further, their knees brushing your sides. You turn toward Joshua, seeking the calm balance of his cool palm and juniper scent while Junhui's warm cedar presses in.
"You're so warm," Joshua whispers.
"Heat," you croak. "Very hot."
Junhui chuckles. "Everything will be more intense for her right now." His fingers leave your neck to card through your hair, his nails scratching bluntly against your scalp. You melt into it with a soft sound and Joshua smiles down at you. "See? She reacts well. She'll tell you what she needs."
"Touch me," you beg, looking at Joshua through your lashes. "Please."
Joshua complies, his hand sliding down your arm slowly. The slow drag of his fingers over your skin feels like heaven, your eyes rolling back as you lose yourself to the touch. You feel yourself melt into the bed, his touch growing more confident until he's lacing his fingers with yours. You immediately give them a squeeze and he squeezes back, and when you glance at him again, you see the way he's softened a little, happy to be close to you.
"Kiss her," Junhui hums. "She likes that."
Joshua glances down at you and you nod eagerly, sliding up the bed a little to give him room. Hand still wrapped in yours, he leans down to brush his lips against yours. They're soft and questioning at first, barely more than a brush of lips until you make a desperate sound against him and surge forward, kissing him properly.
He complies, deepening the kiss as he lets go of your hand to cradle your head, angling your face toward him. His tongue presses the seam of your lips and you open up for him immediately, the warmth of his mouth and tongue inviting. He tastes like honey and something else sweet and addicting, your own hands coming up to pull him closer.
Kissing Joshua is different from kissing Junhui. Despite Junhui's steady and calm nature, he can be demanding, his kisses severe and consuming. This isn't that. This a languid press of mouths, the soft sweeping of Joshua's tongue along the ridge of your teeth, the bumping of his nose into yours until he's pulling away to catch his breath.
"Perfect," Junhui says quietly. "See how much she needs you?"
Joshua nods, resting his forehead against yours. His pupils are blown wide, nearly swallowing the warm brown of his irises. His lips are pretty and pink, a little swollen from kissing you and you smile, leaning forward to steal another kiss, nipping his bottom lip gently. He laughs into your mouth, letting you steal as much of him as you want, your hunger insatiable.
When you pull back again, his eyes are still closed, his breathing heavier. "Tell me what to do, baby. What do you want?"
The words get stuck in your throat. Cedar and juniper clash in your thoughts, your body locked in the heat so fully that Joshua's words turn to a tangled mess when you try to process them, a frustrated sound working its way up your throat.
"Touch her," Junhui answers for you, sensing the frustration. "Sometimes she struggles to communicate. Just go with the flow and don't worry about being wrong. Your instincts know what to do."
Nodding, Joshua slides his hand from your face down your neck, his fingers lingering over the rapid flutter of your pulse before he drags them to your collarbone, lightly tracing the indents of Soonyoung's teeth from the night before. You arch into his touch, chasing it - craving it - and he makes a small sound of surprise, like he can't believe you need him this much.
"Good." Junhui's hand settles on your waist, keeping you anchored to the bed. "See how she responds? Keep doing."
Joshua listens to the alpha, his touch growing bolder. He leans down and kisses you again, deeper and hungrier and you let it consume you. His hand traces the curves of your body, his fingers curling slightly to drag the blunt edge of his nails down your hips. You moan into his mouth and he moans back, the sound of his despair echoed so acutely that it makes your thoughts turn cottony and thick, sticking together as you shiver.
"Please," you beg, your voice wrecked. "Please."
"Easy, baby," Junhui soothes, bending down to kiss your temple. His own hand slides down to your thigh where he grips you and opens you up, cool air hitting your soaked cunt. "Shua's going to take care of you. Aren't you Shua?"
"Yes," Joshua says, and his voice has dropped, gone rough around the edges in a way you've never heard before.
He kisses down your jaw and your throat, his lips soft, tongue darting out to taste you. You squirm but Junhui keeps you pinned, his hand on your hip and tight as Joshua's mouth finds the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. He runs the flat of his tongue across the delicate skin there and you cry out as Junhui chuckles. You feel Joshua grin against your skin as he lingers there, sucking at your neck gently, the sensation shooting right through you and turning the pit of your stomach molten.
"Perfect," Junhui murmurs. He lifts the hand off your hip to press Joshua's shoulder. "Lower."
Joshua works his way down your body with his lips, tongue and teeth, each press of his mouth both a burn and balm. His mouth is hot against your sternum, your ribs, the soft skin of your stomach, each kiss like a brand. He's careful as he shifts down the bed and you feel your stomach flip when Junhui pries your legs wider while Joshua slides to his knees at the edge of the bed.
Junhui follows him down, moving to kneel behind Joshua. He wraps himself around Joshua's back, chest pressed close enough that he can hook his chin over Joshua's shoulder so he can murmur directly into the beta's ear. You can see the way Joshua relaxes slightly into Junhui's presence, leaning back into the alpha, turning to press his forehead against Junhui's neck briefly as he breathes him in.
"Start slow," Junhui murmurs, lips dragging against the shell of Joshua's ear. You stare at them between your legs, watching as Junhui's eyes drag up to yours, pupils blown and hungry. He reaches around Joshua, caging him in as he places his hands on your knees, spreading you wider. "She's sensitive, so anything you do will feel overwhelming. I recommend soft licks."
Nodding, Joshua leans forward, his breath ghosting across your inner thigh as he settles close. Your thighs twitch but his grip is firm, keeping you open for Joshua's hungry gaze.
You forget how to breathe, watching as your heart flutters like a humming bird trapped in a cage. Joshua follows Junhui's instructions exactly, dragging his tongue slowly and deliberately through your sticky folds. The sensation punches right through you, your back arching off the bed as a broken sound escapes you, voice cracking. Junhui's hands tighten on our knees, keeping you in place as Joshua's tongue circles your swollen clit.
"Take your time." Junhui nips Joshua's ear playfully and the beta moans, the sound vibrating through you. You twist your hips, the sensation overwhelming. "Hmm. She liked that."
Joshua nods, humming again. Your lashes flutter, heading pushing back into the mattress as his tongue works in long, slow strokes, occasionally using the tip of his tongue to circle your clit with just enough pressure to make you gasp before he dips back down to tease your aching hole. It makes the heat in your blood sing, his mouth soft and warm and wet and fuck.
"Suck gently," Junhui recommends. "That makes her lose it."
"Yeah?" Joshua asks, panting as he pulls away and looks up at you. His eyes are completely blown, lips glossy with your slick. He looks debauched, so different from the polished beta who likes to make you scones on Sundays. "Let me try."
Joshua's lips close around your clit and he sucks gently. The sensation is so intense you nearly sob, your hands coming up to hide your face as your entire body goes tight. He smiles against you, laughing a little as he fastens his mouth to your pussy, sucking in gentle tugs that make your entire bed spin on its axis while Junhui's thumbs stroke small circles on the inside of your knees.
"You're doing so good," Junhui whispers. "I bet she feels so good."
Joshua pulls back just enough to look up at you, his eyes dark and hazy, his lips and chin glistening. The sight of him on his knees with Junhui wrapped around him makes something in your chest crack open, your heart stopping and starting all over again as Joshua smirks and dives back in, confident and hungry.
"Tastes so fucking good," he mumbles, nose bumping your clit. "Could do this all the time."
"Let me taste," Junhui says and leans over Joshua's shoulder.
Joshua turns to face Junhui, letting the alpha steal a wet kiss that's all tongue. You stare, watching as Joshua submits easily to Junhui as the alpha sucks the taste of you right off Joshua's tongue. When they pull apart, Joshua is a little breathless as Junhui grins and glances at you, tongue swiping across the bottom of his lip.
"Delicious."
Junhui pushes Joshua's head forward then and the beta follows right back to your pussy, his tongue finding a rhythm that is slow and devastating, swapping back and forth between broad strokes and focused attention on your clit as he traces patterns that make you writhe.
You feel Joshua's hand slide up your thigh, guided by Junhui's grip on his wrist as he tentatively presses a finger into your wet heat. You gasp, feeling the stretch combined with the flutter of his tongue stealing the breath from your lungs. He curls his finger exactly as Junhui instructs, pressing against your front wall so that you see stars, cursing up at the ceiling as he drags you toward an orgasm.
His tongue works your clit in steady, rhythmic circles while his finger moves inside you, and the dual sensation builds and builds until you're lost in it, suspended in the feeling of an orgasm that waits and waits and waits until it finally breaks and rushes in.
You come hard, your pleasure suddenly having no start or end but a looping, endless twitching of thighs and clenching walls. You grit your teeth, unable to breathe for a few seconds until you finally gasp for air, body loosening slightly. Joshua's mouth is still on you but it's soft now, his tongue soothing and avoiding your clit, finger pressed deep as he sucks at you messily, making little sounds of enjoyment as he does.
"She's so fucking pretty when she comes," Junhui groans. "Fuck."
Joshua pulls back slowly, his lips and chin glistening, eyes dark and hazy as he looks up at you. His lips curl upward, pupils dilated as he presses slick-wet kisses to the sides of your thighs, leaving shiny marks as he goes. Junhui's hands leave your knees, your legs trembling a little as you let them fall open, your muscles turning to jelly.
Junhui reaches for Joshua. "Come here."
Joshua rises on shaky knees and Junhu catches him before he loses his balance, cupping the back of his neck to pull him to his feet and into a kiss. It's slow and deep, and you watch with your heart beating and fingers twisting into the sheets as Junhui gets a taste of you from Joshua's lips before pulling back. He wipes his thumb across Joshua's bottom lip and pops it into his mouth, humming.
"Tastes good." Junhui looks at you and his gaze darkens. "She needs more of you, Shua."
Joshua nods. "I want to give more."
"Slow," Junhui says, dropping his hands to the hem of Joshua's shirt to pull it over his head. The beta shivers and nods, a little dazed as Junhui's nibble fingers pull at the strings on Joshua's sweatpants next. "Slow and deep. She likes hard and fast the first day of heat - that's what Soonyoung took care of last night. Today we just need her to feel it."
Joshua nods, kicking off his sweatpants to crawl onto the bed, shuffling on his knees. You mouth waters at the sight of him, all tan and smooth from summer days spent at the pool, broad at the shoulder and perfectly tapered in the waist. His cock is heavy, the tip swollen with need as he makes a sound in the back of his throat when you reach for him.
He lets you grab his hands, pulling him down for a kiss that tastes like you. You don't mind, sliding your hands through his sweaty hair, nails dragging down the nape of his neck as he hums, pleased. The smell of him calms you down, pheromones soothing and making you sigh into the kiss, melting back into a state of calm as he settles between your legs.
Junhui shifts on the bed then, momentarily distracting you as you break away from Joshua's kiss. Junhui is kneeling on the bed, blonde hair disheveled in the low light. He's stripped down to his sweats, the hard planes of his stomach twitching as he crawls over, his dark eyes fixated on you. His shoulders are just as broad as the beta between your legs, but there's a predatory grace to the way that Junhui moves that makes him sharper.
Joshua makes room for him, sitting up on his knees as he pries you open further at the knees, your thighs stretching in protest. Cool air hits your cunt and you whine, but Joshua shuts you up as he rubs the fat head of his cock against your slick entrance, pressing just enough to stretch you but not enough to slide past. You let out a pathetic noise and he grins until Junhui growls.
"Don't tease her," the alpha warns.
Joshua goes pink in the cheeks, nodding. "Sorry."
Junhui huffs, bending down to cup your face and turn you toward him for a soft kiss. You preen under his affection, leaning toward him to kiss him back eagerly. He laughs, the sound buzzing through your lips and making your head spin as his tongue slides against yours just as Joshua grips your hips and presses his cock into your heat.
It's slow, but it steals your breath away anyway. You gasp against Junhui's mouth, breaking the kiss to glance at where Joshua is focused on sliding home, head ducked down to watch his cock disappear inside of you, his shoulders slick with sweat.
"Fuck," you hiss and Junhui smiles, placing wet kisses against your temple, teeth scraping lightly. "Feels so fucking good."
"Mhmm," Junhui agrees. His lips move to your jaw, sucking the skin there lightly before he licks down to your throat, tongue dancing around your scent gland. You go blank for a minute, vision whiting out until Joshua is pressed in to the hilt. "You're doing so good, baby. So perfect for Shua."
Joshua trembles slightly, tension thrumming through him as he fights to control himself. Where an alpha might start slamming into you, Joshua waits, the stretch and pressure of him pressing against your walls so good that you clench around him on instinct, making him let out a broken laugh.
"So tight, baby," he gasps. "So good."
Junhui hums in agreement, his kisses trailing to your collarbones. "Move now. Long, deep strokes."
Joshua listens, withdrawing slowly so that the drag of him against your walls makes you cry out. He pushes in just as deliberately, snapping his hips so the stroke is deep. It punches the breath from your lungs and you grab onto Junhui, who doesn't mind, letting you dig your nails into his arms and hands as he lavishes attention to the swells of your chest.
The rhythm Joshua sets is torturous, each stroke deep and measured that forces you to feel every inch of him, hitting that spot inside of you that has you mumbling his name, head falling to the side while your legs lock around his hip, keeping him going.
Junhui's hands on your body makes the pleasure spike, his palms sliding up your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts before cupping them gently, thumbs flicking over your nipples. You arch into his touch, moaning brokenly, overwhelmed by the feeling of both of them, their skin warm and scents tangled.
Long gone is the ache in your stomach, replaced only by swelling heat and pressure. Long gone is the too-tight skin and the feverish need to be touched, replaced by Junhui's hands and his warm mouth closing around a nipple, sucking and flicking with his tongue until you're nearly sobbing, hands tangling in his damp hair.
"So pretty," he mumbles against your chest. "Look at you taking Joshua so well. Does it feel good, baby? Does he fill you up the way you need/"
"Yes," you whine. "Yes, yes, yes, yes."
Joshua's pace stays steady and unhurried, each thrust making you tighten around him. You can feel how wet you are, slick dripping down the curve of your ass as he picks up his pace a little, feeling the way your orgasm is building, knowing you need to reach it. He grinds into you at the end of each stroke, hitting it just right that your vision starts to blur.
Junhui kisses up your chest, along your throat, finding your mouth again. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world, tongue sliding against yours in a lazy rhythm that mirrors Joshua's strokes. Being between them is overwhelming - Junhui's mouth on yours, his hands on your skin, Joshua buried deep inside you, his hands gripping your waist.
"Shua." Joshua looks up, his hair sticking to his forehead as Junhui leans toward him. "Come here."
Joshua leans forward, still moving inside you, and Junhui catches him in a kiss. You watch through hazy eyes as they kiss above you, Junhui's hand cupping Joshua's jaw, guiding him. The sight of it makes you clench around Joshua and he moans into Junhui's mouth, making the alpha grin.
"She likes to watch," Junhui pants against Joshua's mouth. "Likes knowing how everyone belongs to one another." Junhui's hand slides down Joshua's chest to his hips where he squeezes. "Angle up. She needs it right here."
Joshua adjusts, his hands sliding under your thighs to lift them higher, and when he pushes in again the angle is devastating. He hits that spot inside you dead-on and you nearly scream, your whole body arching up off the bed.
"Dead on," Junhui says with a grin. He leans down again, his mouth finding your ear. "Feel that, baby? Feel how deep he is? He's going to take such good care of you. Going to fuck you slow and perfect until you come so hard."
"You're so wet," Joshua groans, his voice strained. "Fuck I don't know how to last."
"That's the heat," Junhui murmurs against your throat. "You can pick up pace. She's close. She's so good for you, yeah? Pretty little omega."
"Fuck yeah."
The praise makes you whimper, makes fresh slickness coat Joshua's cock in response, their approval making your body sing. Junhui kisses you again, deep and consuming, and you lose yourself in it until you feel Junhui's hands slide down between where Joshua fucks you, his fingers finding your clit. His touch is light, but combined with Joshua's relentless pace, it's enough to tilt you over.
Your orgasm hits you hard and you come with a strangled noise, body jerking upward as Junhui holds you down. Your hand clutch at Junhui's shoulders, nails digging into his skin and sliding down his arms. He doesn't mind, letting out a pleased sound as he and Joshua work you through your orgasm in tandem.
Joshua groans above you, his rhythm faltering as you clench around him. "Oh fuck- I can't-"
"Come for her," Junhui says softly, and it's permission and command all at once.
Joshua's hips stutter forward one more time, burying himself as deep as he can go, and then he's coming with a broken moan. You feel the pulse of him inside you, the warmth flooding your core, and it draws another aftershock from your own orgasm. His whole body trembles, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and the sounds he makes send you soaring, your omega preening at the way your beta loses control for you.
The three of you collapse together in a tangle of limbs and sweat-slick skin, Joshua slumping forward and catching himself on his forearms to avoid crushing you, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His breath comes in hot, ragged pants against your throat as Junhui shifts beside you, one arm sliding you to the side so Joshua can pull out and collapse next to you.
Joshua stays glued to your side, his legs tangled with yours as your joint fluids drip down your thigh. You ignore it, knowing Junhui will deal with it later like he's supposed to. For now, Junhui flops down next to you so you're pinned between them, and reaches over to run his hand down the back of Joshua's neck.
You turn your head to nuzzle into Junhui's chest, breathing him in, while Joshua presses soft kisses to your shoulder. Your heat has quieted to a low simmer, temporarily sated, and in its absence you feel the bone-deep exhaustion and the overwhelming desire to sleep right here between the two of them.
"You did good," Junhui tells Joshua, voice rough.
You feel Joshua's smile against your shoulder. "She's incredible. Both of you."
Turning to face him, you reach up to thread your fingers through his hair, tugging him down for a slow, sweet kiss. When you pull back, Junhui is watching you both with dark, intent eyes. Something shifts in the air - a change in the sharpness to his scent and face that makes your pulse quicken.
Junhui leans in, his hand sliding into your hair to angle your face toward him, and when he kisses you, it's deep and possessive, his tongue claiming as he pulls away with a sharp bite to your lower lip that makes you whimper.
A RELATIONSHIP with two street racers is not an easy feat, especially when they break a promise that they made to you. With high egos and risky driving, they seem to forget the most important thing about the person they drive for — their birthday.
PAIRING: street racer! vernon x race engineer!fem! reader x street racer! minghao
GENRE: Established Poly Relationship, Fluff, Angst, Romance
AU: Underground Street Racer AU
TOTAL WC: 13.6K
FIC WARNINGS: boys being stupid because of ego, mentions of alcohol, mentions of food and eating, lots of swearing, mentions of reckless driving, mentions of platonic kisses (forehead/temple kisses), car accidents, injuries caused by car accidents, one character is in a coma for a few lines but he comes to, self-blame, mentions of anxiety, MDNI, soft dom!minghao, switch!vernon, fingering, boy's kissing, dirty talk, oral (f.receiving), cumming, slight overstimulation, playing with breast/sucking on them (do let me know if i've missed anything)
PLAYLIST: for the reason we drive ~ love hao & non
LIV'S NOTES...omg hello!! another fic in like a week?? who is she! LOL
anyways, hi everyone! i'm back with another fic and it's not other than the two in my bias line, v8! this subunit is a little poetic for me, not only because they are my biases but because v8 also dropped on my birthday (everyone around me has heard me freak out about this at least 100 times) so it only felt right to post something for you guys (and for myself) to celebrate this unit coming out and absolutely crushing it!
biggest thank you to my cheerleaders @jakedustry and @orbitondgtl who both have beta-read parts of this fic, made sure that i took breaks while writing this fic as well as sprinted with me to make sure that this fic was finished! also a big thank you to @hopecutie for being a silent cheerleader on the side <3 i love you all and to all the rest who sprinted with me during this race (lol), i love you all! <3
to my v8: i love you both so much, this fic is a love letter to you both and to also slightly feed my delusions lol but the album is amazing and i love seeing you both do something that you love so much <3
without further ado, i hope you enjoy street racers v8!
MAIN MASTERLIST | NAVI
STUPIDITY KNOWS NO BOUNDS
You swear your boyfriends are stupid. You've always known that when boys get together, their intellect goes down by quite a bit but witnessing it in action… is a whole other story.
Minghao and Hansol came as a pair. It was rare to find one without the other and in the underground racing world, they were known as the deadliest and fastest duo there ever was. Sure, they were different in many ways — their unique styles in fashion being one of them — but if there was one thing that the both of them loved and shared, it was the thrill of the game. Hence, it wasn't that surprising when rumours started spreading that they also shared something — or someone — else.
Minghao's been on the tense side recently, having made a few minor mistakes in an underground race that he partook in a few days ago. To anyone else, it would've been fine but you know your boyfriend and Minghao is a perfectionist, through and through. He still won the race but you knew that those mistakes were tugging at the back of his mind every time he spaced out when he was home. Hence, he needed an outlet, which so happened to be you.
He mentioned this to you before during one of your solo dates, but your presence has a way of making everything calm. You just have a way to make everything feel easy and his mind that normally races with a hundred and one things, just quietens when he's in your comfort.
However, Minghao wasn't the only one feeling off this week.
Hansol is normally really easygoing. In the time that you've spent dating the two of them, you realized that nothing really phases him and he always thinks with his head, not his heart. However, you know that he's been having trouble with his cars and he's had a few shitty days of bad races on the other side of town. Hence, he needed your comfort just as bad as Minghao did.
This lead to the two of them almost fighting for your time. Normally, you thrive a little on it, loving the effect that you have on them but as the tension kept building over time, you knew that it would eventually overflow if they didn't talk about it.
And overflow it did.
It was a small glare here and there, the atmosphere being a little tense in the room if you weren't there but then it started to get a little more intense when they started to talk to each other with clipped tones over a tiny mistake or two.
You were worried but you knew that they won't get physical with each other because no matter how angry or upset they were with the other, they both were aware and rational enough to know that violence was never the answer.
Racing on the other hand… was a free game.
Which leads you to this moment where you are sat next to your childhood best friend, Joshua who also owns part of the underground street racing scene.
"This is so stupid." You mutter under your breath. Joshua gives you a side glance before smirking as he leans back in his chair.
"The racing or the fight?"
"Both." You scoff, rolling your eyes as you cross your arms, your eyes fixed on the monitor that has a multi-camera view for you to see the route plus a tracker on both cars to see who finishes first.
Joshua fixes you with a familiar intrigued and mischievous look. "And here I was, under the impression that they agreed to not race on the same track after what happened two years ago."
You grimace, remembering the reason for that decision. It involved you as well but it was more of a rational decision than an emotional one, a just in case if you will. It was a particularly bad and memorable race for the both of them. You remember waiting in the stands, your anxiety through the roof as the cars revved their engines to start. There were six racers that day, your boyfriends occupying two out of six of the slots. It had started raining while they were waiting for the race to start and although that normally makes the race more interesting as winning is more dependent on the driver than the car, you had a bad feeling in your gut.
Minghao and Hansol had assured you that they would be fine, the two of them giving you a kiss before sliding into their respective cars but, you still felt uneasy. You watched with Joshua from the main room (being both their race engineers) as they sped away, the ache in your chest getting more tense as they went sped down the narrow and wet roads.
It was during the second lap where you noticed something wrong with Hansol's car, causing your heart to drop further in your stomach as you radioed it in. Due to the rain though, the connection was particularly bad which meant that Hansol had trouble hearing you and by the time he connected what you were trying to tell him, it was too late.
His brakes stopped working and his car skidded straight into one of the barriers that was setup, knocking him unconscious. As if it couldn't be worse, you weren't able to convey the information to Minghao, causing the man to crash into the other side of the barrier a few meters away, just to avoid crashing into Hansol.
You felt your heart break as you immediately collapsed into Joshua's arms when you witnessed the crash from the screen in-front of you as you broke into a fit of sobs. Minghao made it out with a minor concussion and a few scratches, having already been prepared for the worst of it but Hansol on the other hand, was unconscious for a day in the hospital.
You refused to leave his side, no matter how much Joshua and Minghao tried to convince you, as you blamed yourself for this happening. If you had just pushed a little harder, convinced them a little harder about the bad feeling in your chest, maybe this wouldn't have happened.
Thankfully, you woke up the next morning with Hansol's arms wrapped around you, accompanied by his soft snores in his hospital bed. You cried tears of relief that woke him up, blinking blurrily at you before he gently comforted you, assuring you that it wasn't your fault.
When Minghao came in a few minutes later, having gone to get the three of you breakfast and saw you in that state, it only took a shared glance between your boyfriends for them to come to the consensus that the they weren't allowed to participate in the same race anymore. One of them always being by your side just in case the worst happened.
However, you guessed that rule went out the window the second they started yelling at each other in a quick fit of anger after you stepped out to do some grocery shopping for the two of them, only settling it when one of them suggested to race.
"I guess men's intellect and common sense really take a toll when they're together." You deadpan, letting out a frustrated sigh.
Joshua feigns hurt. "Hey!" He pouts. "You can't stereotype all men like that."
"I can when you and Jeonghan display the same exact energy when you guys are together."
"Aww and here I was thinking that I was your favourite, sweetheart." You resist the urge to roll your eyes as you glance behind you, seeing Jeonghan walking into the control room, dressed comfortably in a plain white tee with a bomber jacket, jeans and a beanie.
"I'm pretty sure Hao and Non will physically beat you up for even suggesting that, Hannie."
The older man sends you a smirk. "They don't have to know, sweetheart."
"You're dreaming if you think you're her first choice after us, Hyung." Minghao says, his voice crackling as it came through the control room speakers. "I also advise that you tone down on the 'sweetheart' calling, she's known as 'Rookie' and only 'Rookie' to you."
Jeonghan's mouth twitches as clicks his tongue. "Point noted, geez. Don't need to put your claws out." He teases, his hands raising in mock surrender even though Minghao couldn't see him. "Such possessiveness."
You roll your eyes before dishing out the headsets for both the men beside you to connect them to their respective drivers. When they had agreed to do this race, you immediately opted out of being a race engineer for either of them because you didn't want to get in between whatever this was (even though you were already in between it). Hence, you called your two older confidants to give the callouts and to make sure your boyfriends were safe, no matter who won the race. All the radios were connected to one singular channel but you think that each of them having their own space would also be good because that might help to resolve whatever was going on.
Or at least you hope it would.
You grab your own headset, placing it over your head before switching everyone to the general channel with the click of a few buttons on the control panel.
"Test, test. Can everyone hear me?" You ask, slightly adjusting your headset mic.
"Loud and clear, Baobei." Minghao's voice says first making you smile.
"Yep." Hansol clicks his tongue as you hear a little bit of shuffling. "Crystal clear, Angel."
You smile fondly to yourself before you purse your lips and look at the track.
"You know you both don't need to do this." You whisper into the microphone, gnawing at your bottom lip as you try one last time to convince them out of this. "We can talk it out here right now and then go home."
You feel Jeonghan and Joshua exchange a few glances behind your back but you try to ignore them and focus on what your boyfriends are going to say.
"We're already here, Baobei." Minghao says, trying to keep his voice light and airy so that you don't worry. "You also dragged Jeonghan and Shua Hyung here to help us so we might as well make the most of it."
"He's right, Angel." Hansol's voice cuts through and even though you can't see him, you know that he's nodding his head. "We promise we will be safe, we just need to settle this and this is the best way to do it."
Minghao lets out a hum in agreement, making you sigh as you pinch the bridge of your nose. You want to yell at them or tell them off because you can think of a hundred other ways to deal with this without either of them getting upset by the end of the night or in any injuries but, they're too far gone to listen.
"Okay." You steel your emotions, the tone of your voice going neutral. "Ground rules." You say, adjusting the mic once more as you spare a glance at Jeonghan and Joshua. "I want a clean race, you two. You two can shit talk each other as much as you want but if there is any sign of cheating, the two of you are sharing the couch till I say so."
The protest of your sentence is immediate. "What?!" They both exclaim.
"Baobei, you can't be serious." You roll your eyes.
"I am serious, Xu." You chastise, hating everything about this race. "If any harm comes to either of you that is inflicted by the other, I will be pissed."
The line goes quiet at that the tone in your voice indicating to your boyfriends that you are indeed not joking. "Moving on." You say, clearing your throat as you grimace, looking at the route that they chose.
V8.
You don't know whether it's ironic or poetic.
The race starts off with an uphill zigzag path, followed by a ton of different eight round bends that really test a street racer's skill and ends with what everyone calls the leap of faith which is a downhill slope that is so steep, it feels like you're taking a leap of faith.
You describe the course to your boyfriends — even though they probably know it by heart — before setting the race rules. "As you both are aware, there are ramps around as well as shortcuts but use them safely and at your own risk. Shua and I went through just now to remove debris because no one has used this course in months…" You click your tongue. "so, take everything with a pinch of salt and be careful."
"Jeonghan and Joshua are here to assist you guys with route guidance and route guidance only. They are not allowed to tell you how close the other is because that's F1 and we don't run motor sports here."
That gets a soft chuckle out of the four men with you as your lips twitch, a ghost of a smile wanting to form.
"Any sign of a Jump, will be considered a false start and the other person will be automatically considered the winner. Lastly, and because I need this fact to be drilled into both your heads, any sign of foul play, I'm calling the race off and both of you are sleeping on the couch. Understood?"
The line is silent for a little bit, making you slightly annoyed as you clear your throat. "Understood?" You ask again, your tone reflecting seriousness.
"Yes." The two of them reluctantly murmur out.
You lean back in your seat with your arms crossed. "Good." You say. "I'll start the countdown."
You click at a few of the buttons on the dashboard as you peer at the time.
11:39pm.
You let out a slow exhale, hoping that this race will end before twelve before you flick the starting switch for the countdown lights.
Red light illuminate the track as you peer at the two cameras beside you that show both your boyfriends in their respective cars.
"I love you both." You whisper out. "Please be safe."
The two of them simultaneously eye the camera that's in their cars as they give you a smile.
"We'll be safe, Angel." Minghao nods, echoing Hansol's sentiment.
"Regardless of the outcome of this race," Minghao starts, leaning in closer to the camera. "We both love you and each other very much, Baobei."
You should feel a little more reassured after Minghao says it and Hansol nods, but you can't help that same uneasy feeling in your gut and chest that something was just about to go wrong. However, you know that both of them are far too deep into this to stop now.
You close your eyes to steel yourself as you let out a slow exhale before you nod at the two older men beside you before you flick the second switch that officially starts the race.
A steady beep rings out through the speakers before the lights change to yellow as Minghao and Hansol rev their engines, which seem to charge your body as well, the antipation of the race leaving your body on edge. "Ready. Get set…"
Your adrenaline rushes and your heart pounds in your ear before the light switches to green and the resounding beep rings through the speakers.
"GO!"
The effect is immediate as your boyfriends speed down the zigzag paths, making you hold your heart race as you watch them from the monitor in-front of you. You silently tune Joshua and Jeonghan out as they advise your boyfriends, having been amateur street racers long before them and just watch the cameras as you will your heart to slow down.
They will be fine. You internally tell yourself as you gnaw on your bottom lip. Right?
You lean back into your seat as you close your eyes, letting the engines roar in your ear as you sigh.
It either ends really well or really badly.
THE EGO FUCK UP
Two laps in and everything is smooth so far. You wince every time one of them makes a risky drift or takes the shortcut that you aren't sure is cleared or not. You had to have lost around a decade of your life just sitting here and watching your boyfriends eagerly battle it out in cars.
"Your drift there was a little risky, wasn't it, Hansol?" Minghao's voice rings out in the joint channel as he smoothly overtakes the younger man. You spare at a glance at his monitor, grimacing as you see Hansol's jaw clenching as he lets out a dark chuckle.
"Just learning from your drift a round ago, hyung." Hansol says coolly. "I need to learn from my seniors, don't I?"
Minghao's face doesn't change but his knuckles turn white at Hansol's words, making you sigh as you click the button that deafens them from the three of you.
"It's going well so far." Joshua gently says, giving you a smile.
You scoff, shaking your head. "If you call the name-calling and insults that rile them up even more and make them reckless, 'going well'." You sarcastically quip, raising your hands to make quotation marks. "Then, yeah! It's going great!"
The two older men share a look as you sink further into your chair, the build-up of anxiety getting a little too much for you.
"Rookie." Jeonghan gently calls, giving you a comforting squeeze on your arm. "Did you try telling them how you feel about all this? I mean, you basically have a free card that you can pull in a few minutes."
You glance at the clock.
11:55pm.
You sigh, shaking your head. "I don't even know if they remember." You admit quietly. "They've been talking about this stupid competition for the last week and whenever they spend time with me, it's to rant about the other one and I'm genuinely so sick of it."
You watch Jeonghan and Joshua share a look before the younger of the two scoots his chair over to tug you into him, letting you rest on his chest. You lean into your childhood friend who is like a brother to you. "What if they actually forgot, Shua?" You ask quietly, your voice cracking slightly.
You feel Joshua sigh underneath you. "I'm sure they didn't, darling." He assures quietly as he presses a kiss to your temple. "They love and adore you too much."
"You can say that again." Jeonghan says with a playful scoff. "Do you not remember your big birthday bash two years ago where they rented out the whole go-kart place with arcade machines?"
You bite back a fond smile as you recall that, you offhandedly mentioned once that you were a big fan of surprises during one of your movie nights with them. You didn't notice it then but they had shared a glance when they heard about it and just started surprising you with things whenever they could.
A bouquet of your favourite flowers here and there. Sometimes they saw a book that you have on your 'to be read' and immediately bought it for next day delivery. They also loved to buy you little trinkets that reminded them of you to put in your display shelf (which is running out of space) in your gaming room.
The biggest surprise was the one that Jeonghan had mentioned where you confided in them that you wanted to try an arcade and go-kart place because you never had the chance to when you were younger. Being the overachiever boyfriends they were, they got you a two-in-one with all your friends.
The two older men beside you were right, there is no way that they don't remember. They hadn't mentioned any plans yet but that was normal if they were planning on surprising you again this year.
You peer upwards at Joshua offering him a soft smile before you do the same with Jeonghan. "Thanks guys." You softly say. "I needed that."
Jeonghan gives you a genuine smile as he ruffles your hair. "We always got you, Rookie. Don't you ever forget it."
Your smile grows wider at his words before something catches your attention from the corner of your eye.
You immediately sit up and stare outside the control room windows to see that it had started pouring. The uneasiness in your gut flares as you gnaw at your lips, looking as the rain hit the control room windows. You dial back into the call with Minghao and Hansol.
Your head spins as you go back into race mode, moving both boys back to the their respective calls with the older ones. "Check tire and car condition with both." You command, making the two older men nod before unmuting their headsets to talk to their respective drivers.
You monitor the route as the rain continues to pelt down heavily. You tune out the men beside you as you switch between the cameras that are left on their respective route. Your eyes flit around the screen as you flick through each camera scene. You let your eyes linger for a few moments to see if there's anything out of the ordinary before repeating the process with the next one.
All is good till you reach camera eighty-four that is right at the last infinity bend. You were about to pass it over when you notice one of the trees swaying a little too much to the side. Your eyes narrow, your finger twitching as it hovers over the microphone button to pull all of them into the collective call.
The tree stops swaying making you breath a sigh of relief before moving your hand from the button. However, your heart stops when you notice something rolling from the corner of your eye. Your eyes immediately flick to it to see a boulder rolling down the nearby mountain. Your blood runs cold as you watch it knock into the nearest tree, breaking it and causing it to tumble down onto the path that both Hansol and Minghao are racing through.
Your adrenaline surges as you press the button, bringing everyone into the general call. The call immediately fills with overlapping conversations from both groups. You vaguely hear them talking about different strategies but you couldn't care less, more worried about the blockage in the road.
"Boys!" You interrupt, immediately halting all the conversations. "I need you both to slow down right now."
There's a brief period of silence before they both immediately start protesting. Minghao is currently just slightly ahead of Hansol, trying his best to not block him.
"Rookie." Minghao calls, his voice serious. "What is it?"
"There's a blockade on the road so I need the two of you to pull out now." Your boyfriends go quiet as soon as you say that, their focus still on the road but you watch as they contemplate your words, as if they are trying to find a workaround to what you are saying.
Your eyes flicker between both the screens as your patience starts to wear thin, your anxiety shooting through the roof. "Hello?!" You ask, your tone one of panic. "Did you guys not hear what I just said? There's a blockade in the middle of the road that the two of you are going to crash into—"
"How big is the blockade, Rookie?"
You freeze upon hearing Hansol's question cut through your panic.
"I beg your fucking pardon?" You blurt out, unable to stop yourself as you feel your blood start to boil.
"The blockade, baobei." Minghao affirms but this time with the loving nickname, as if it could placate you from the annoyance you're starting to feel. "How big is it?"
"You guys can't be fucking serious." You answer, your fists slowly clenching on the desk as you feel your anger rising with each word they were saying to you. "Turn back, right now. I'm being serious."
You watch the gears turn in your boyfriends heads before Hansol speaks. "Hyung." He calls, completely ignoring your earlier sentence which makes your heart drop. "How far till blockade and how big is it?"
Joshua looks between you and Hansol's face on the camera footage in-front of you before his eyes flicker towards the route map where time to impact is stated.
Five Minutes.
"Shua." You warn, your tone wavering as you stare at him with a pleading gaze, hoping that he will back up your decision.
"Hyung." Hansol tries again as he takes the lead from Minghao who lets out a groan of frustration, his palm smacking the steering wheel as he watches Hansol pull ahead by quite a bit.
"Hyung." Minghao tries this time. "Time to impact so I know if I can overtake?"
Jeonghan hesitates, watching your head whip to him as he contemplates whether he should tell your boyfriend.
"Hannie." You warn before turning back to your boyfriends.
"Xu Minghao. Chwe Hansol." You warn as you stare at the time until impact on your screen. "If the two of you do not turn your cars around, there will be consequences."
Three Minutes.
"Rookie, we're in too deep to stop here." Minghao sternly says as he changes gear and tries to overtake Hansol.
Your heart lurches as you see how close the cars come to knocking each other. The rain pelts down harder and the road narrows as they round the last bend, meaning they were only a couple of kilometers away from the giant tree that's blocking them.
"Hyung." Hansol presses harder, his grip on the steering wheel tight as he tries to fight of Minghao's advance. "Time to fucking impact!"
Joshua stares at you, almost stunned that the two hopelessly in love men were not listening to you. Your boyfriends in the car start to overlap their yelling, demanding that their race engineers tell them the time from impact so that they can plan accordingly while you sit there, your face pale as your palms begin to sweat.
You're speechless as you watch them still fight it out despite all your words, your heart racing as you watch them get closer and closer to the thing that will be the death of both of them.
One Minute.
"Fuck it." You hear Minghao whisper before he reaches over to turn off the camera in his car. You watch from the monitor as he speeds ahead, causing Hansol to immediately break, to slow his car down before he hits the other male.
"Hyung." Hansol yells. "The fuck are you doing?"
"Winning." Minghao says smoothly as you hear him shift his gears before seeing the car speed up on the monitor.
"Mother—" With that, Hansol also turns off his camera meaning that the three of you are blind to the egotistical drivers that are down there on the track.
"What the fuck are you two doing?!" You exclaim, standing up now as you slam your hands on the desk, a last ditch effort to get the two of them to turn around. "Please." You plead into the microphone, your eyes getting slightly watery as you watch them get closer and closer to the tree.
"Fifty seconds." Joshua whispers as you fumble with the dashboard in-front of you, flicking through the different cameras there till you found one that showed you exactly where they were on the track.
When you find it, you hit a few more buttons to trigger the path following on the device as you watch the cameras change in-front of you to follow your boyfriend's cars.
They ignore you, still swapping positions with each other as you feel like throwing up, the anxiety in your chest getting too much as you watch them get closer and closer to the tree.
"Guys." You sob out, nearly begging at this point. "Please turn around."
"Thirty seconds." Jeonghan says softly, making you slam your fist against the desk as you watch the distance between them and the tree. You wonder why they're doing this, why they are silent and it hits you like a ton of bricks.
You heart races. They're wearing you down, wanting you to crack and tell them the impact timing because they know you care too much about them. You feel your heart crack as you watch them go down the road.
"Fifteen seconds." Joshua says, his voice in a slight panic as he stares at you.
You angrily wipe your tears away. "Fuck it." You mutter before putting your microphone closer to your mouth. "Ten seconds, blockage is the same size as the fucking truck we saw yesterday."
You sniffle, pushing down a sob. "Good fucking luck." Is the last thing you venomously whisper before you tap out, not wanting to see your boyfriends risk their life for some fucked up competition.
You rip the headset off and slam it down onto the control room dashboard making the two men beside you jump. Without wasting another second, you pick up your things before picking up and walk out the door. Joshua recovers first and is quick to follow, ripping off his own headset to chase after you as you try not to angrily break down.
You don't make it very far as Joshua catches up to you with his significantly longer legs. He pulls you into him with ease as you try to wrestle out of his grip, needing to get away for your own sanity. You're fighting a losing battle as he tugs you firmly into his chest and wraps his arms around your center to keep you from leaving.
When it becomes clear that you aren't able to break out from his grasps, you break down into it instead. Joshua's hand runs through your hair, soothing you as you sob into his chest, feeling all the tiredness and overwhelm that you've been struggling to keep at bay for the last week or so.
"I hate them." You whisper into his chest. "Why are they so fucking stupid."
Joshua sighs as he presses a kiss to the top of your head as he moves his hand to slowly run up and down your back. "Ego, darling." Is what he answers after a couple of seconds. The two of you don't say anything else after that, Joshua letting you focus on regulating your breathing so that you stop crying.
Stupid fucking ego.
The two of you stand like that for a while, Joshua letting you take as much time as you need as your breathing starts to even out. You both hear a scuffle of footsteps, making you lift your head from Joshua's chest to see Jeonghan with his hands in his pocket.
"Are they okay?" You whisper out, unable to help how much you care about your idiotic boyfriends. Jeonghan gives you a weak smile before nodding.
"They both reversed and took a shortcut a couple of metres back." He shoots you a sympathetic look. "The race did end in a tie though."
Your heart drops.
A fucking tie.
All that for a fucking tie.
You close your eyes, a heavy sigh already building in your throat. This couldn't be worse.
The loud sounds of engines revving and drifting makes the three of you turn to the entrance of the outdoor carpark. The lights make you wince as you squint to see your boyfriends arriving. They don't bother to park and just turn off their engines before getting out of the car.
You expect them to walk straight to you first but Minghao instead slams his car door shut hard and walks over to Hansol, cornering him to the side of his car.
"What the fuck was that there at the end, Chwe?!"
Joshua and you blink at the sight as Jeonghan grimaces, remembering how they almost ran each other off the road at the end there.
"Driving, Xu." Hansol replies, his tone dry and pointed as he shows no sign of remorse. "But I could ask you the same for what you pulled at infinity turn forty-eight."
Minghao's jaw clenches. "Watch your tone, Chwe." He venomously seethes, jabbing a finger into the latter's chest. "You forget that I'm the older one here."
"I don't fucking care." Hansol bites back, grabbing Minghao's hand tightly. "Your recklessness nearly ran both of us off the fucking road."
"You did the same fucking thing towards the end there, Hansol."
"Well, like I said, I'm learning from my senior."
Minghao scoffs before leveling Hansol with a glare. "Well, let's fucking go again then." Minghao says as the younger one folds his arms. "If you are that good of a driver and you learned everything from me, you should be able to beat me without the fucking helpline of the tree right?"
"Oh that's easy." Hansol says, a smirk on his face from riling up the older man. "At the end, you wish you had the fucking helpline of the tree as you did today."
You see Minghao fume as Hansol gets up in his space. He shoves Hansol backwards and opens his mouth, ready to tear him a new one.
"Both of you, shut the fuck up!"
The two men immediately freeze, hearing you yell at them before turning to face you, their faces a little pale.
You, on the other hand, are fuming.
"Are you two even listening to the words coming out of your fucking mouths?" You ask, your eyes stinging with hot tears. "You both tried to kill each other out there!" You angrily brush at your eyes as Joshua gives your shoulder a squeeze, trying to ground you.
"Breathe, darling." Joshua whispers into your ear as you glare at the two boys you love so much.
"I told you both that this was a fucking stupid idea and you two wouldn't even listen to me! Your girlfriend that's been with you both for the last three years." You shake your head, your words getting softer and softer as you stare at them, slightly defeated. "You both didn't need to settle this on the stupid track. The three of us talking it out would've solved everything but no."
You glance between the two of them. "The two of you needed to show the other that you were better and broke the promise that you made to me two years ago. Is proving your worth to each other that important?"
Hansol and Minghao share a look before Minghao steps closer to you cautiously.
"Baobei." He softly calls out as he reaches for you. "We didn't mean for this to happen."
Hansol nods, also trying to get closer. "We're sorry that we got angry at each other and for the race. I swear when we do it again tomorrow—"
You bitterly laugh as Joshua's hand tenses on your shoulder, sensing the oncoming rage. "Tomorrow?" You ask softly.
"Yeah, when we actually can find a winner."
Joshua internally sighs as his grip on your shoulder tightens, hoping that it will help to ground you so that you don't unleash fury on the two men in-front of you. His hope however, goes down the drain when you break out of his hold.
"What the fuck is wrong with you two?" You lash out, the tears flowing freely down your face from how angry you are. The two men are stunned again as they stare at you before you toss your hands in exasperation. "I'm fucking done." You say as a laugh with absolutely zero humour escapes you.
"If the two of you race again tomorrow." You fix them with a hard stare as your heart breaks with the next words that come out of your mouth. "I'm done with you two."
Before either of them could even process what you meant or stop you, you turn on your heel and walk off. It takes one look from your childhood best friend to understand what you need as he gives you a small nod before taking your hand into his and walking off with you to his car. Joshua tosses your boyfriends a look of disbelief before shaking his head at them.
Hansol and Minghao just watch as you get into Joshua's car and leave, speechless and unsure what they did wrong. They fix each other with a look as Jeonghan stands there, looking at the two of them in utter disbelief.
"What just happened?" Are the first words out of Hansol's mouth as he stares at Jeonghan, hoping he knows the answer. Minghao, on the other hand, runs through every possible scenario in his head.
Jeonghan lets out a scoff at the clueless expression on both their faces. "You two are really stupid, you know." He deadpans out, making the two look at him a little more exasperatedly.'
He sighs, realizing that he needs to spell it out for them. "Both of you need to put your fucking egos to the side for second and look at what just walked away from you." He points towards where you and Joshua were. "That girl has been so patient with the two of you for God knows how many weeks, listening to the two of you argue while trying to be the middle ground for you both. She's been dividing her time, without any regard for herself and her well-being and she even let you both proceed with this stupid race despite her begging you not to do it."
Jeonghan shakes his head. "You guys claim that she's the best thing to have ever walked into your lives but because of this stupid fucking race, the two of you forgot the one thing that you promised to continue doing despite however much you were angry at each other." He pins them with a hard gaze. "Both of you broke your promise of remembering important dates."
Hearing that, Hansol immediately pulls out his phone before looking at the date for today.
12:48am on the 29th of June.
Hansol feels his heart shatter as he lets out a wrecked gasp, the date finally clicking in his head. "Hyung." He calls out to his counterpart who looks at him as Hansol shows him the screen. Minghao's face pales as it clicks into his head, his heart dropping into his stomach as his mind races.
Jeonghan watches the two of them go through mixed emotions and the five stages of grief before sighing.
"You two better find a way to fix this." He softly says. "If not, you're going to lose the most important person in your lives."
You can't remember the last time you've felt this empty. After Joshua took you to his place last night, he immediately sprinted to his closet to pull out your favourite hoodie of his and a pair of sweatpants that you left the last time the two of you had a sleepover. He ran a bath for you before he ushered you to it, wanting you to relax as much as possible.
When you had enough of the bath, you walked out of the bathroom to see that Joshua had ordered all your favourites. Stir fried mala sits on the table alongside your favourite bubble tea order as he gives you a smile.
You had given him a look of surprise, knowing how he felt about such an unhealthy combo. He just gave you a simple shrug and responded with a soft, "Figured we could use it today."
Those words alone were enough to cause your eyes to water as your older brother figure immediately plated you a plate with all your favourite ingredients. He passed you the bowl before putting on 'How to Train Your Dragon'. The intro of the movie plays as you leaned against his sofa, staring at the bowl of mala with a frown.
"Do you think I was too harsh on them?" You ask which makes Joshua stop eating, his food halfway to his mouth. He fixes you with a soft look before shaking his head as he places his chopsticks back onto his bowl.
He makes you look at him. "Darling." He softly says. "They were being absolute idiots. You had every right to act the way that you did because they hurt you with their actions. If you didn't stand up for yourself back there, they would've continued acting like that and you were doing what was right for yourself." He fixes you with a look.
"If you didn't do that, I would've probably done it for you anyways."
A soft watery laugh escapes you, which makes a small grin tug on Joshua's face. His hand goes to ruffle your hair in a very elder brother way before he gestures to the food in your hands. "Eat." He softly says. "And watch the movie, we're missing the best part."
You give Joshua a small smile before you nod and scoop up a spoonful of mala to eat. You turn your attention to the movie but you can't help the feeling of emptiness in your chest as you do. You love your boyfriends, you really do but they really hurt you and you couldn't help but feel less important to them. However, you couldn't bare the thought of having to actually break up with them. You loved them, you were sure of that. They filled your life with so much joy that you can't imagine dating or loving someone, the way that you love them.
Yet, on the night where they were supposed to treat you like a queen, ringing in your birthday, you spent it on your best friend's floor with a broken heart.
You sigh as you shake your head, your recollection ending as you stare at the ceiling in the guestroom of Joshua's house. You contemplate just staying in Joshua's house the whole day but you immediately push that thought aside because it's your birthday, you should do something you want to do instead of rotting in your best friend's house.
Luckily, Joshua shares the same sentiment as you.
"That's an amazing idea, darling." He says as he packs a tea to go for you as you're finishing up the special birthday breakfast that he had prepared for you.
Bacon and pancakes with a side of orange juice.
You had smiled when you first saw it, it was a childhood favourite of yours and it definitely brightened up your day just a little more.
Joshua walks over to you, placing the thermos on the table. "You did say you wanted to finish up the car before August so that you could show it to your parents when you go back and see them."
You swallow your last bit of food before nodding, a small smile on your face.
"It's a good distraction for sure." You say quietly as Joshua gives you a sympathetic smile. He glances at your phone that had been laid flat on the dining table.
He raises an eyebrow at it, "They haven't tried contacting you at all?"
You spare a glance at it, the pit in your stomach deep as you shrug. "I don't know." You answer honestly. "Put it on do not disturb as soon as I came here last night." You shake your head. "I don't wanna hear any of their half-excuses at the moment."
Joshua gives you another sympathetic look before reaching over and squeezing your hand. "Well," His tongue darts out to wet his tongue. "Happy Birthday, Sweetheart."
You give your older brother figure a small smile before he leans and gives you a kiss on the top of your head. "I should get going." You say softly, standing up. "Before the calvary arrives because they think they've given me enough space."
Joshua lets out a soft chuckle at your use of words as you give him a quirky smile. You slide your phone into your back pocket as you sling your bag over your shoulders. Joshua stands up with you as he holds your thermos of tea.
"Let's get going then." He says, giving you a smile as he opens the front-door for you.
FIRST MEETINGS
Joshua drops you off at your workshop before he presses a kiss to the top of your head and speeds off with the promise of seeing you after he finishes the errands he needs to run. You bid him goodbye before digging through your bag for the keycard to your garage.
A beep is heard before you push the door open and breathe in the smell that you've grown up with your whole life, your body immediately relaxing at the familiar comfort.
While Minghao and Hansol seek the thrill of the drive, you prefer to know the ins and outs of the machine. You had always been in love with cars, your dad being one of the main engineers for street racers back in the day. You always hung around and helped him grab his tools, your eyes wide with awe as he always manages to find whatever was wrong with the car.
Hence, he trained you for it, letting you take care of the workshop every other day so that you get some hands-on experience. Funnily enough, that wasn't where you met Minghao and Hansol.
It was one of the slower nights in the workshop. You spun on one of the chairs in the garage as you tossed a wrench up and down, your boredom reaching a new high. You almost fell out of your chair when your phone rang, piercing the silence.
"Shua?" You asked, a little confused as to why your best friend was calling you.
"Hey, you busy?" Joshua asked as his background noise booms in the background.
You winced a little at the loud sounds. "No, but where the hell are you? Why is it so noisy?"
Joshua ignored you, telling you that he was going to send you an address and to be there as soon as you could before he hung up the phone. You stared at your phone, bewildered as you wonder what the hell was going on.
You sighed before you made your way to lock up. If there was one annoying thing that your best friend knew how to do, it was to entice you enough that you'd drop everything to see whatever he was doing.
You get out of the car and stared at the underground racetrack with a confused expression on your face. What the hell was your best friend doing here. You walked through the different areas, taking in all the details of the place while keeping a keen eye out for your best friend.
"Darling!" Your ears perked up as you turn to the source of the greeting. You smiled to yourself as you saw Joshua jog to your side before he pulled you into a tight hug. "You made it!"
You scoffed. "You knew that I would come, Shua." You flicked his forehead. "Don't act all surprised now."
Your best friend let out a yelp from the pain before a pout appeared on his lips as he rubbed the spot you just flicked. "You hate me." He whined out, making you scoff.
"If I did, I wouldn't have locked up the shop early for you, dummy."
A ghost of a smile appeared on Joshua's face as soon as you said that statement as he feigned sentiment. You rolled your eyes before you grabbed his hand. "C'mon, show me whatever you want to show me." You muttered, which made Joshua let out a breath of a chuckle before he dragged you away from the current area.
"Why are you at a street racer course anyway?" You asked, raising an eyebrow at your best friend.
"Well, I own this establishment." Your jaw dropped open as you stopped walking, jerking Joshua back a little. He glanced at you, a confused expression on his face which meets your shocked one.
"You own an underground street racing establishment?" You asked, repeating the words slowly as if you had hoped that the words become more believable if you did.
Joshua chuckled at your expression and nodded. "Yep." He said, popping his 'p'. Without another word, he dragged you off towards God knows where as if everything was now suddenly clear.
You rolled your eyes at your best friend as you give up, letting him drag you wherever because you would have an easier time getting answers when Joshua was not so tunnel-visioned on where he wanted to go.
He dragged you through multiple crowds before the two of you appeared in-front of the VIP section. The security guard gave him a once over and a nod before letting the two of you into the closed off section.
"Shua!" A voice boomed over the music, making the two of you whip around to see a man with a leather jacket and jeans on, with a beer in hand. "Was wondering where you hurried off to."
The man glanced at you before a smirk appeared on his lips. "Well, well, well." He whistled out. "Looks like you brought a new friend."
Your best friend let out a scoff before he tugged you closer to him. "Out of your league, Jeonghan."
The man, Jeonghan, feigned a flabbergasted gasp as he placed his hand on his chest. "Ouch, Shuji." He muttered, a fake pout on his face. "Way to hurt a guy, why don't you."
Your best friend rolled his eyes before he said your name to the man in-front of you. "This is Jeonghan."
Jeonghan's expression did a full 360 as he gave you a smirk and a small salute with a wink. "Pleasure to meet you, sweetheart." His eyes twinkled with mischief. "I wonder why Shuji has been hiding you all this time."
"Probably because she's uncomfortable with you calling her sweetheart, Hyung." Your ears perked at the new voice that caused goosebumps to appear on your skin. You turned to see lanky, tall man, who was leaning against a nearby wall with blonde hair and a pair of sunglasses on the top of his head. He donned a white sleeveless shirt that effectively showed off his tattoos that dotted his arms and a pair of dark brown cargo pants with some timberlands.
He eyed you, making your pulse jump at the intensity of his gaze, feeling slightly warm under it. He was definitely one of the most attractive men that you've ever seen. Jeonghan scoffed, shaking his head as a ghost of a smile lingers on his lips.
"Minghao." He greeted, raising an eyebrow. "Where's your counterpart?"
Minghao doesn't answer at first, his gaze unwavered from your figure which makes you fidget slightly, a little exposed under his gaze. He noticed, his lips pulled up into a small smirk before he looked at Joshua and Jeonghan, acknowledging them for the first time since he had arrived.
"Hansol went to grab the two of us a drink." He answered easily before he pushed off the wall and made his way over to you.
"Are the two of you not racing today?" Joshua asked with a raise of his eyebrow. Minghao nods at that.
"We are. Hansol's just grabbing us some sparkling water before we have to head for the drive."
He stopped walking as he reached your side, his gaze calculated as he stared at you.
"Minghao." He said after a beat, reaching out his hand for you to grab. You blinked, a little stunned by how forward the handsome man was being before you took his hand into yours as softly replied with your name.
Minghao's lips quirked a little when he noticed your cheeks heat up as he tested how well your name rolled off his tongue. The air felt a little charged and dangerous as he held your gaze, your heartbeat in your ears before he pulled his hand back when someone held out a drink for him.
Everyone's gaze fell on the newcomer who made your breath hitch. There stood a man with the most gorgeous face and mullet that you've ever seen. He was dressed comfortably in a sleeveless ripped hoodie with ripped skinny jeans and a pair of gloves on.
"Ah, there he is." Jeonghan said, his gaze twinkled with mischief as he looked between you and the boys. "Hansol, meet Shuji's best friend."
Hansol's eyes pierced through your soul as he gave you a once over, just like Minghao had done before he held out his hand for you to shake.
"Pleasure to meet you." You felt hot under their gaze as you muttered the same, shaking the man's hand.
Jeonghan clapped his hands. "Right, not to be the weird party pooper here." He said cheekily, causing your cheeks to heat up more as he gave you a wink. "But I think our racers need to get to their starting positions and we should probably head up to the main control booth.
Jeonghan hooked an arm around Joshua's shoulders before he dragged him a little, making Joshua lose his grip on you. The older man gave the three of you a look before he dragged your best friend with him, despite his protests.
"Come find us when you're done, sweetheart." Jeonghan threw back to you with a shit-eating grin on his face. You silently cursed the man that you just met as you felt the heat of the two good-looking men's gaze on you.
You turned to them, a timid smile on your face as you shifted uncomfortably.
"Is this your first time at an underground race?" Hansol asked, noticing the minor fidgeting you were doing. You let out a nervous breath of a laugh as you nodded.
"Is it that obvious?" You wondered aloud as you eyed the two of them. A faint smirk appeared on Hansol's face as he nodded.
"Just a little, you look a little out of place." Your heart stuttered at that as you frowned.
"Like I don't belong?" You asked.
"Like you're a little too innocent for the likes of this." Minghao answered before he took a sip of his drink. The low rumble of his words made your stomach flutter as you willed for the heat on your cheeks to disappear.
"Is that a bad thing?" You asked, your voice soft as you peered upwards at the two of them.
The two shared a glance as you watched a common understanding pass through the two of them before they turned back to you as Minghao shook his head.
"Not at all, Baobei." He said, leaning in closer. The nickname made your heart stutter as Hansol leaned in as well.
"Just means we got a thing or two that we can teach you, Angel." The double meaning of his words and the low rumble of his voice made your stomach do flip flops as they stared intensely at you, making your knees feel weak.
A sound was heard from the speakers before you could even reply, which effectively broke the spell and hold that the two of them had on you. They glanced at the speaker.
"Well," Minghao drawled out. "That's our cue."
Hansol nodded as the two of them took a step back from you. "Will you cheer us on?" Hansol asked making you blink at them as they stared at you in anticipation.
"Probably." You answered. "I mean the two of you are the only drivers I know." You blurted out before even having the chance to stop yourself.
Minghao's smirk grew as he gave Hansol a look.
"Good." He said before he reached out and gave your hair a small ruffle. "Let's keep it that way."
You swear your heart skipped a beat or two after he said that as Hansol fixed you with a smirk. "See you after the race, Angel." He sealed off his sentence with a wink. "Can't wait to get to know you better."
With that, they left you standing there, a little dumbfounded as they prepared for their race. You stayed glued to the spot for a few minutes before you shook yourself out of it and composed yourself as your thoughts raced.
You had no idea what you had just gotten yourself into but as you recalled their faces through your mind, you bit back a grin.
What was the worst that could happen?
KISS AND MAKE UP
You don't know how many hours you've spent working under the hood of your dream car but when you pull yourself out from under it and actually check your phone after wiping your hands on the washcloth, it's already 5pm.
You sigh before you let your eyes drift lower to stare at your lockscreen. It's a picture of the three of you during one of the first few underground races after the three of you made it official. You feel your emotions get stuck in your throat as you see the big smile on your face as Minghao and Hansol just stared at you, a soft and fond smile on both their faces as they looked at you instead of the camera.
You feel your heart clench as you contemplate checking your notifications. You sigh before you turn off your 'do not disturb' and let the notifications roll upwards.
62 Missed Calls from Hansolie <3
48 Missed Calls from Hao <3
22 Unread Messages from Hansolie <3
24 Unread Messages from Hao <3
296 Unread Messages from 'The Reason We Drive'
2 Unread Messages from Hannie
1 Missed Call from Shua
1 Unread Message from Shua
You sigh, placing your phone back face down onto the desk as you smack your face lightly. "Get it together." You mutter to yourself. The amount of time you spent here really did help to clear your head but with all the muck and grease over yourself, you really need a shower before you even think about answering any of those messages.
You huff before pushing yourself off of the desk and tidy up your workspace before going to the washroom to take a shower, the dirt and grime making your skin crawl. You step out of the shower in a pair of ripped jeans, a fitting top with a windbreaker and sigh, feeling a lot more refreshed.
You walk back to your workshop, using the towel to dry off the remaining bits of water in your hair when you freeze, noticing the door to your garage open. You frown, recalling that you had shut the door behind you because you remember hearing the magnetic lock click in place after you did.
You slowly creep to the workshop as you hear some shuffling inside as well as some soft voices. You peak your head through the door before your heart stutters. Out of all the people you were expecting to see, Hansol and Minghao leaning against your workshop table, talking more than they had in the last few weeks, wasn't one of them.
"What the hell." Are the first words to leave your mouth, which alerts the two men who whip around to see you standing there, looking super confused.
The two man immediately scramble to stand up as they give you a nervous look, fidgeting every few seconds. You eye them skeptically as you slowly walk into the workshop, the towel still in your hands as you glance between them.
"How did you get in here?" You ask, a small frown on your face as you scrunch your eyebrows. "Better question, how the hell do you guys even know about this space?"
The two share a glance as you cross your arms.
"We might've dropped by Shua Hyung's house." Minghao admits, scratching the back of his neck. You raise an eyebrow at that, urging them to continue.
"We might've begged him to tell us where you were and when he wasn't looking, stole the keycard for your workshop." Hansol finishes.
Your eyes narrow. "How did you even know that keycard was for here?"
Hansol lifts up the keycard and stuck onto the card was a label which had your name and garage behind it in a cursive font. You roll your eyes. Of course your meticulous best friend had labeled the keycard so that he wouldn't forget what it was for.
The workshop has always been a sacred place for you, you never really told anyone about this place since your father had given it to you and it was a place for you to come to when you needed some sort of escape.
Joshua was the only one who knew about it because he had dropped by many times when the two of you were younger and after your dad had given it to you, it felt right to give him a keycard for access at all times.
"Well," You huff, unable to escape the inevitable conversation anymore. "You guys found me. I'm fine and you guys can go now." You try to step around them to retrieve your things when Hansol reaches out, gently grabbing your hand.
You've always been a little weak to either of their touch so it's no surprise when he's able to easily pull you back to stand in-front of them. You internally curse yourself for being a little easy but you still refuse to meet their eyes.
"Baobei." Minghao softly calls, ducking his head a little to try to meet your eyes. You stubbornly look away, making the older man sigh. "Can you look at us, please?" He softly begs, his tone sounding a little exhausted, almost as if he didn't sleep well.
You refuse, gnawing on your bottom lip which makes them change their strategy.
"Angel." Hansol starts, fidgeting with his hands. "We're sorry."
You stare at the floor as he continues. "We were stupid and let our egos get the better of us because we were frustrated at ourselves. We didn't mean to take it out on each other and more importantly…" You feel Hansol grab your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "We didn't mean to take it out on you."
You purse your lips, still refusing to answer as you feel Minghao approach you before he wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his chest as his head sits on your shoulder.
"We're also sorry for breaking our promise to you, to keep you happy and to always remember the special days. Even though we didn't mean to forget, it's no excuse because you mean the world to us and we're sorry that we didn't listen to you."
You feel Minghao brush a kiss to the side of your neck, causing a shiver to run down your spine. "Please forgive us."
You internally sigh before composing yourself as you pull out of their grasps to fully look at them. "It really hurt when the two of you wouldn't listen to me." You softly say as you fidget with the zipper of your windbreaker. "It felt like nothing I said mattered to you guys and I was just a personal comfort thing for both of you. It was like I didn't actually matter in this equation between the two of you when we're supposed to be in a relationship together."
You feel your eyes start to prick with tears as you sniffle. "It felt like I was just walking on eggshells in my— our own apartment, the one place that I am meant to feel the safest and I… I grew tired of it." You glance between the two of them as you watch their faces crack, the guilt in their eyes evident. "I was only there when you needed someone to rant to or someone to affirm what you guys were angry about. Neither of you asked me about my day or even cared enough to see if I had eaten. Even when I was tired, I still felt like I needed to cater to you two because I love you both so much and seeing you both fight really broke my heart."
You see their hands twitch, especially Hansol's, who wanted nothing more to reach out for you, to comfort you, but they were waiting for you to finish, not wanting to interrupt you.
"I don't really care that the two of you forgot my birthday." You admit softly, taking a step closer to the two of them. "I just didn't want you to get hurt because I love you both with everything I am and I can't imagine my life without the two of you."
As soon as you finish your sentence, Hansol is up from the desk and he all but tugs you into his warm embrace, his breathing a little shaky as his whole body wrecks with emotions.
"Angel." He softly breathes out into your ear, his voice shaky and soft, as if he was scared that you were going to disappear if he spoke any louder. "We're so sorry. We didn't mean to make you feel like you needed to take on the weight of the world. It was stupid of us and we were only thinking of ourselves and we know that it's no excuse but we want to make it up to you, please."
You bit the inside of your cheek, to will the tears that dot your waterline to not flow over as you breathe in Hansol's comforting woody scent before you smell a hint of an earthy light scent as Minghao wraps his arms around you as well, placing a soft kiss to your temple.
"He's right, Baobei. You have every right to be angry with us and you should care that we forgot your birthday. It's the one day where we're meant to celebrate you. Not that we shouldn't celebrate you everyday anyway, but it's the one day where the universe blessed us with you by bringing you into this world. We can't imagine not having you in our life and we're sorry that we let our ego get the better of us. We shouldn't have fought over who is more worth your time but be grateful that you choose to spend your time with us and love us despite how flawed we both are."
You peer upwards at the older man who gives a soft kiss to your forehead. "We love you." Minghao says, his voie barely above a whisper as he pulls back from you and gets on his knees, making your eyes widen as Hansol does the same.
"Please forgive us."
You glance between the two of them on their knees for you as a bewildered giggle escapes you as you smile at them, wiping away the tears in your eyes.
"You're both idiots." You say as you reach for both of them to tug them up. "Please get off the floor."
A ghost of a smile of relief lingers on Minghao's lips as he shakes his head. "We can't." He says, tugging you closer to the two of them, which makes a surprise giggle escape from your lips. "You need to forgive us first, Baobei." He says, bringing your hand to his lips as he brushes a kiss onto them.
Hansol nods, as he places his hand on the back of your thigh, making you squirm a little as he looks up at you. "Please say you forgive us, Angel."
You glance downwards at them as you realize the position that the three of you are in. Heat pools on the underside of your belly as you see the way that they catch on too, their eyes darkening beneath you.
You swallow before feigning a ponder, trying to keep your heart from racing. "Well…" You drawl out as you look between the two of them. "Maybe the two of you should show me how sorry you are." You softly say, letting your eyes pierce into theirs as you watch their pupils dilate slightly. "Then maybe, I'll forgive you."
There's silence for a little bit as they share a glance before they turn back to you with a smirk on both their faces.
"With pleasure, Baby."
Those are the last words that fall from Hansol's mouth before your boyfriends move. Minghao stands and pulls you into a searing kiss that elicits a gasp from your lips, making him groan as he slides his tongue into your mouth. Hansol, on the other hand, moves his hand upwards and under your shirt before he pushes himself up slightly on his knees to be able to kiss all around your stomach.
You feel yourself getting wetter at their touch as they continue to overstimulate you with their touch, each making your knees weaker and weaker. You let out a whiny moan as Hansol starts to tease your nipples, pushing your bra upwards for easier access. Minghao bites lightly on your bottom lip, making your mind blank as he continues to kiss you as if you are providing him with the oxygen to breathe.
Minghao pulls away, pressing two chaste kisses on your lips as the two of you catch your breath before your boyfriends move you towards where your car is. Hansol rips the canvas off of the car and lets out a low whistle as he catches the make and model of it.
"Damn, Angel." He looks at you, his eyes filled with lust as he gives you a smirk. "A baby blue 2004 Mazda RX-8?" You blink at him, slowly registering his question as you nod, your brain still foggy.
Minghao sends his partner-in-crime a smirk as he pulls you toward the car to lay you on the hood of it. He hovers above you as he eyes you up and down and devilishly smirks at how wreckced you already look.
"What a perfect car," He hums as he unbuttons your pants and pulls it down along with your underwear in one swift motion, making you gasp as the cold air hits your wet pussy. "To fuck you on."
Before you even have a chance to register his words, his mouth is on you, eating you out like a starved man. You gasp as your back arches and your eyes bulge. Hansol is next to you in a matter of milliseconds, his hands tight on your waist which effectively stops your squirming.
"Shhh." Hansol coos as he spots a few tears leaving your eyes. "Be a good girl and let Hyung eat you out like you deserve." Those words make your mind blank more as Minghao captures your clit into his mouth and sucks as it, groaning a little which sends a wave of pleasure through you as the vibrations roll through your body.
Your eyes roll as Hansol takes the opportunity to lift your shirt and bra up fully and over your head, his one hand still steady on your waist before he dips his head and wraps his mouth around your right breast.
You let out a loud moan as Hansol massages your breast while sucking and nipping at your right one. Minghao takes that chance to dip his tongue into your hole, fucking you with his tongue that makes you lose all sense of your sanity.
"Fuck." Minghao drawls out as he glances upwards to see Hansol switching and continuing his ministrations on your other breast. "You taste so heavenly, Baobei."
You whimper at his praise as he dips a finger into your folds, making you let out a gasp as he gathers your wetness onto them.
"Want a taste, Hansol?" Hansol is quick to pull away and take Minghao's fingers into his mouth, sucking erotically as he eyes you, making your jaw drop open as that gesture causes you to clench around nothing.
Minghao notices and smirks as his pupils dilate more. "Think you need a better taste, Non." Minghao all but whispers as he pulls his fingers out of Hansol's mouth with a soft 'pop'. "Want it?"
Hansol nods, making Minghao smirk as he pulls Hansol in for a kiss, licking into his mouth to let the younger man taste the remnants of you on his lips. You, however, are not forgotten as Minghao sinks two fingers into you without warning, making your eyes roll backward as he fingers you, hard and fast.
Your boyfriends pull away from each other, panting as Minghao gestures his head towards you. "Go on." Minghao goads, his voice low. "Eat her out while I finger her, Hansol."
That's all the command that Hansol needs before his mouth is on you, making you let out a loud broken moan, your legs shaking as their touch brings you closer and closer to the edge. Minghao, who notices that you are pursing your lips, a tell that you are almost close, immediately angles his fingers until they hit your g-spot inside of you.
The first time he hits it, you nearly cum on the spot from the shock of it, your body wretching upwards and making Minghao's angle change.
He looks at you with a slightly disappointed look as he shakes his head before his other hand moves to pin you to the car. "Be good, Baobei." He says sternly as he fixes you with a pout. "We can't make it up to you if you thrash around like that, so be still and let us give you what a birthday girl deserves."
Before you could even sob out a reply, Minghao captures your lips into a searing kiss as he re-angles his fingers to hit the same spot, harder now. You whine into his mouth as he licks and nips at your lips as Hansol sucks on your clit hard.
You feel yourself getting closer to the edge, your right hand gripping and pulling at Minghao's hair which indicates that to him. He pulls away from your lips before leaning down to your ear.
"Be a good girl and cum for us, Baobei." He whispers, his voice rumbly and low.
That command is all it takes as you let out another whiny moan before the coil in your stomach snaps and you cum all over Hansol's mouth. Hansol doesn't complain. In fact, he does the opposite and groans into your pussy as he begins to lap up at your elixir, not wanting to waste a single drop.
You feel like you've just seen the stars as Minghao coos sweet words at you and gives you soft pecks as his fingers still move inside of you, chasing the high of your release. You lets out a whine, your body shuddering as you feel the start of the overstimulation, making your hand fly to Minghao's arm.
He glances at it and nods before he nudges Hansol, lightly with his foot. Hansol immediately pulls away from your pussy, the lower half of his face shiny with your slick, making your cheeks heat up as he gives you a slightly dazed smile.
You whimper as Minghao's fingers slide out of you, still sensitive from cumming. He brings his fingers to his mouth and leaks them clean while staring straight into your eyes making the butterflies in your stomach flutter as he groans.
You glance around for Hansol who is back at your desk, digging around your table for a little bit before he finds what he is looking for. He returns with some wipes and a bottle of water from his bag as helps you to sit up. He opens the bottle in one quick twist before placing a straw into it.
"Slowly." He gently mutters as he watches you drink the water. "Don't want you to choke."
Your heart warms at his concerns as he opens the wipes and hands one to Minghao. You watch, with the bottle in hand, as your boyfriends wipe you clean, making sure to be extra careful around your private parts as they don't want to overstimulate you. Minghao helps to pull up your underwear and pants as Hansol helps you adjust your bra and your shirt, brushing it downwards so that it doesn't wrinkle.
Hansol presses a chaste kiss onto your lips as he helps you to fix your hair, causing you to give him a small, lovesick grin which he returns before he plants a kiss onto your nose, making you giggle.
Minghao smoothens out your ripped jeans before rising and planting a kiss onto your forehead. "Do you forgive us, Baobei?" He wonders softly, looking at you at eye level as you give him a soft grin before nodding.
"I do." You say, giving him a quick peck on his lips. A cute smile appears on his face which makes your heart race as Hansol takes the bottle of water from your hand and shifts the straw for himself to drink.
"Good." Hansol hums after he gulps the water down. "Would be pretty awkward for the two of us to go to your birthday dinner without you."
Your heart flutters at his words as you glance between the two, a smile of excitement appearing on your lips. "Really?"
The two of them look a little offended by your question as they crouch down to meet your gaze a little better as you still sit on your dream car.
"Angel." Hansol starts, grabbing your hand into his. "We were serious about making it up to you. We will never ever forget your birthday again for the rest of our lives and if we do, you have full permission to leave us."
That pulls a soft giggle out of your lips, making Hansol crack a small smile as Minghao continues. "We love you, Baobei. We were in the wrong and we also re-promise that the two of us will not be on the same track ever again. Just because we always want one of you to be here with us because baby, you might not need us, but we both sure as hell need you."
You feel your chest ache at their words as you squeeze both their hands. "Silly boys." You mutter glancing between the two of them. "I sure as hell need you both too. So don't ever say something silly like that ever again."
Your boyfriends flash you smiles before you stand up, tugging them up with you.
"So…" You eye the two of them eagerly. "Where are we going?"
Your boyfriends sneakily glanced at each other before giving you a knowing smile.
"You'll see."
FOREVER AND ALWAYS
"I love you both so much." You sigh out, glancing at your boyfriends who are lying on either side of you on the grassy hill that they took you too. "This is absolutely perfect."
Minghao gives you a grin as he pushes himself up, leaning on his elbow. "Well, we know that you didn't want a big birthday bash this year so we decided that it should just be the three of us. Plus," He darts his tongue out to wet his lips. "Hansol and I had a lot of apologizing to do."
"And I forgive you both." You mutter. "You both planned an amazing birthday for me."
It's true, they had.
After they helped you to pack up the rest of your garage, you guys dropped by Joshua's house to give him back his key, which led to a twenty minute sigh-lecture fest from your childhood best friend before you physically had to push your boyfriends out of the door so that he doesn't rip them a new one for stealing from him.
You promised the two that they would get keycards from you in the coming days because you trusted them and it was honestly something that you should've given them a year or two ago.
Hansol was particularly interested in that because he wanted to help you out with fixing the car and learning from you. "It will probably help me to be a safer and better driver." He hums out in the car. "Not many racers have the knack for knowing what's going on in the organs of the car."
Minghao had scoffed at Hansol's word choices but was excited to see you in action, all the same.
They drove you to one of the nearby taco truck that is your go-to and ordered a few before they drove you to 'Lover's Hill'. A stargazing spot that had been on their mind for ages.
The three of you ate happily as they asked you to talk about the car before you guys started to stargazing at the beautiful night sky.
"It's our pleasure, Baobei." Minghao softly says as he leans in to press a kiss to your temple. "You are the reason we do this, y'know?"
You tilt your head to the side. "To do what?"
"Drive." Hansol answers, making you peer at him as he too, leans on his elbows. "You're the reason we drive."
You swear you're going to break down into a second fit of sobs if they continue to say things like this to you. "I love you both, so much."
Hansol and Minghao grin at you. "We love you more, Angel."
"Forever and always, Baobei."
You smile up at them before giving a thought crosses your mind, making you give them a small smirk. "Y'know…" You drawl out, pushing yourself up and leaning on your palm as you glance between the both of them. "This hill is called 'Lover's Hill for a reason…"
Your boyfriends share a glance before turning back to you, small smirks on both their faces.
"Oh, really?" Minghao asks softly, leaning in closer. You nod, your breathing hitching slighly at how close they're getting.
"Maybe you should enlighten us, Angel." Hansol says, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip.
You look between the two men in-front of you and smile to yourself at how much love the three of you have for each other and looking at them, you honestly see forever.
🔞 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 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.
logged onto twitter and that was a bad idea anyway who wanna explain to me why we’re not considering jihan x reader that’s actually cheol’s gf but he’s in the cuck chair
🔞 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: 20.6K / 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, kinda toxic junhui in pt2 but bruh he's the devil so
SMUT (IN PT. 2): 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: mad bc this is DONE and tumblr just doesn't want to let me post bc it exceeds the 1000 block limit. and i'm way too lazy to ctrl+shift every fucking paragraph in this. so. two parts it is. you can see when the next part will be published in the second A/N at the end. anyway, this was supposed to be ready by jun's birthday but work decided to ruin my life. belated happy bubonic boy day. this is based off a dream i had on june 14, 2025; i know bc i wrote it in my notes app the morning after LOL. this is needlessly long and reads like a sitcom with a lot of filler episodes but idc i love devil hui bwahahaha. enjoy love ya bye.
DAY ONE
"AND THIS WILL BE YOUR LIVING QUARTERS. DO YOU HAVE ANY QUESTIONS?"
You stare up at the man, baffled. The stranger who was waiting for you in your living room when you drunkenly stumbled home could not look any less bothered if he tried. He had been seated in the secondhand armchair you bought off Facebook Marketplace, and he looked way too expensive to have his ass touching something you kept telling yourself had no business being resold to you. He was dressed head to toe in black—all impressively the same exact shade of black, a feat you had yet to master—looking like he had stepped right off a runway and into your dingy apartment, which was probably the only reason you hadn't immediately screamed.
His eyes flicked over to you lazily as your door slammed shut behind you and you tripped over your heels, catching yourself on the corner of your kitchen island before realizing you weren't alone. He had one leg crossed over the other and one hand shoved into your last bag of ghost pepper chips as he stared at you like you were intruding on his space. Then, he withdrew his hand, shoved his pepper dusted fingers into his mouth, sucked briefly, wiped his fingers onto your armchair, then snapped. Your bag of chips promptly disappeared and he stood up. It wasn't even his presence or the chips disappearing without an explanation. It was his height that startled you back to your senses.
You weren't short by any means, but the man towered over you anyway, and you came to the sobering realization that being trapped in a space with a man that size would lead to very horrible things. Well, you were correct. Because before you could even finish inhaling to let out the loudest scream you were capable of, he was in front of you, huge hand clamping over your mouth and squeezing your cheeks together. What you were sure was a Guinness World Record-worthy scream became a pathetic squeak.
The sound, infuriatingly, made the man smirk, your eyes coming down to the small mole right above his lip. He raised a single eyebrow at you before stating your full government name. "That you?"
Your wide eyes must have answered the question for you because he didn't wait for verbal confirmation.
"Lovely." And then somehow, you were here. Wherever the fuck here is. Maybe you blacked out on the way. Maybe you're too drunk to remember how you got here. Either way, here is where you are now.
"Do I have any questions?" you shriek, stomping a foot. Your heel clacks against the pretentious black marble flooring, and you have half a mind to kick them off and throw both at the man's head. "You not only kidnapped me, but you kidnapped me while in my clubbing clothes, bro."
You look down at yourself, disheveled from a night out trying desperately to be sober enough to wrangle other, drunker friends to stay together. Your dress is no longer hugging you in places it was at the beginning of the night, your knees are scraped from where you ate shit trying to chase a friend down the street, and you're sure your hair is trying its best to become a suitable bird's nest.
"Jasmine threw up on me tonight," you inform him, mouth twisting in disgust at the small darkened spot on the edge of your dress where the birthday girl had missed the toilet by a mere inch. "You couldn't have let me change first?"
You startle when he snaps and you feel silk against your skin. You look down to find yourself in a black pajama set, perfectly fitted to you, the bottoms falling just shy of the floor and the sleeves just long enough to make sweater paws if you want them but short enough that they aren't a hindrance.
"Ew," you mutter. "I didn't even shower."
"Luckily for you, you have an en suite," he points out, nodding at the door across the massive bedroom.
"I don't have toiletries."
"You'll find it appropriately stocked."
"But what about my skincare?"
"Again. Appropriately stocked."
"You don't even know my skin concerns."
"Oily on the chin and T-zone, dry everywhere else. Terrible hormonal acne during your period or when you're stressed," he recites like he studied this information. Your mouth pops open in either awe or humiliation—you're not even sure. "You struggle with water intake throughout the day so you'll find a litany of moisturizing products in there. Also, maybe you should start using retinoids." His eyes go to your forehead. "You crinkle your eyebrows a lot. You'll get fine lines soon."
You gasp, slapping a hand over your forehead. "You asshole."
"I'm the asshole giving you all the skincare you could possibly ever want."
"You're the asshole kidnapping me!" you scream the last two words, finally losing your patience.
You thought your best bet would be finding a way to escape wherever you are once the man left you alone, but the mere mention of fine lines kicks you into fight or flight. You swing your tiny shoulder purse at his stomach as hard as you can, satisfied when you hear a soft oof from his lips. You shove past him, your new bunny slippers slowing you down considerably as you stumble down the pristine hallway. You only get to the corner before you slam into what feels like a wall, eating shit for the second time tonight.
"Ugh," you grunt as your ass meets the floor and you're laid out flat on your back. "Ow." You groan, hand coming to your ass while the other attempts to prop you up. You open your eyes to find the stranger crouching down in front of you, amused at your weak attempt at freedom. You glower at him as you massage your butt. "I hate you."
"And you're only going to hate me more," he mutters. The words give you pause. "You have free reign in my home." He stands now, tucking his large hands into the pockets of his slacks. "You can try to run but you'll find you can't. So you might as well get comfortable, and when you've finally come to terms with your circumstances… we'll talk."
Without another word, he disappears right before your very eyes.
DAY FOUR
For three days, you tried everything you could to escape.
You found your phone in your purse and tried calling your friends. They answered and you could talk, but as soon as you tried to tell them you'd been kidnapped, your mouth would suddenly be incapable of moving—like your lips had been glued shut. Terrifyingly enough, on your third call, you walked to the vanity in your room and found your mouth just gone any time you tried to say anything that had to do with the stranger and his house of horrors.
The most horrific thing being that it has no windows or exits. Every single door you've found and tried in this laughably huge house has led to a bedroom, a study, a library, a home theater, a gym, or a space that made no sense to you—one with nothing but racks and racks of clothes and shoes from what looked like every, single period of time in history, ever. Another stuffed to the brim with huge stacks of papers that reached the ceiling. Another with A/C blasting hard, presumably to keep the furniture completely crafted from ice inside rock solid.
The house made no sense, but in that way, it made perfect sense that it belonged to the weirdo that kidnapped you. Now, it's day four, you know the house like the back of your hand, and all your phone calls are spent pretending like you're fine while Stella tells you about her piece of shit boyfriend and begs you not to tell Marisol so she won't hate him any more than she already does. Please. If you're going to tell Marisol anything, it's going to be about your piece of shit kidnapper.
But beyond calling for help and finding an escape, you find that you're fresh out of ideas to find your way out. And sensing that, the stranger appears at your bedroom door first thing when you wake up, a small smirk on those pink lips as he leans against the doorframe, long, lean and dressed in a different variation of the same, black outfit. This time, with a winter coat that comes down to his ankles dramatically.
"Good morning. Kind of."
You scoff, pulling your eye mask back down over your eyes. "It's the middle of summer, you psycho."
"Had some business in Australia."
You freeze for a moment before shoving up one side of your eye mask and peeking at him. "Australia."
He nods. "Yup. Heard of it? Odd place with huge spiders and opposite seasons. Quite cold there right now." He pushes himself off the frame and walks to the foot of your massive California king-sized bed, where he sheds his coat and carelessly throws it on the bench.
You'll give it to him. You've been living like a queen while here. You hate to admit that if he had simply asked nicely, you probably would love to live here with him despite knowing nothing about him—you're not known for your logical or sound thinking. You simply survive the day, and surviving here would be nice. But the sheer audacity of forcing you to be here without your consent drives you to unprecedented levels of stubbornness. Levels of stubbornness that convince you it would be much better living in your tiny, sad apartment in your seedy neighborhood than here, in this mansion, with products that have your skin glowing like it never has before.
When you don't respond to his rhetorical question, he asks something more serious. "Are you ready to have a proper conversation now?"
You blow a raspberry and laugh, making a show of pulling your mask back down and snuggling deeper into your 1,000-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.
"Perfect, I am too," he says sarcastically, the duvet ripped off you violently within the same breath. You shriek at the sudden cold. The psycho keeps his house freezing at all times, which means when you're not looking for the emergency exit, you're either always buried under several blankets or in the sauna down the hall. You hear the snap of his fingers and your eye mask disappears.
You gasp. "What is wrong with you?"
"Everything here is mine," he reminds you. "Or have you gotten so comfortable, you've forgotten you've been kidnapped?" He snorts at the word like it's a ridiculous thought even though that's literally what he did. He seats himself on the edge of your bed, crossing his legs and holding his hand out. As soon as he does, your bag of ghost pepper chips materialize in it.
"Hey!" you lean over to grab them, unperturbed by the way things just appear and disappear at his whim. He quickly holds them out of your reach, his expression bored as your face stops just shy of his. You glare at him. "Those are mine."
Though his expression doesn't change, his dark eyes suddenly flash a bright, angry red, and you struggle to refrain from flinching.
"Hm," he hums, smirking as you slowly lean away and he brings the bag back down to his lap. He smugly throws a chip into his mouth, crunching slowly before swallowing. Your eyes come down to the insane Adam's apple of his bobbing at the motion. You purse your lips and look back up. "It doesn't surprise me that those heinous parents of yours never taught you how to share."
The words pull all the fight and anger out of you immediately. Your shoulders deflate and you look at him with wide eyes. "My… what? You knew my parents?"
The man nods once. "Unfortunately. Really vile duo, weren't they?"
It's an understatement. Your parents should've never had a child to begin with, but your mother thought doing so would keep your father interested—a fact she never failed to remind you of. She never wanted you, never wanted to be a mother, never wanted someone to raise. All she ever wanted was to keep your father's attention, and you did, for a few years at least. Then, you turned four, and his fascination with being a parent waned, and the two of them deemed you old enough to fend for yourself while they carried on with their lives like they never even had you. You were left at home for hours at a time, teaching yourself to make cheese sandwiches with the microwave, and self-soothing with the TV when it would get dark and you were scared to be alone.
When they were home, you were a pseudo-maid, cleaning up after your mother and bringing your father beer after beer as he demanded them. You knew the brands and how to use a bottle opener before you even knew how to read. Sometimes, you caught yourself enjoying the time they were away more than when they were back, but then the sun would set, and you wouldn't be scared anymore or crying yourself to sleep, and you'd decide it was better than having to be alone.
It wasn't until they hadn't returned for almost a week, leaving you near-starved and dehydrated, that you finally went to the neighbor for help. You were in the foster system the next day, and you never saw your parents ever again. You've been without them far longer than you were ever with them, and still, their fingerprints are all over your life: your stunted education, your desperate need to be around your friends, your avoidance of an empty apartment, apparently this guy. Really, his house of horrors was a reminder of how much you despised being left to your own devices. Maybe that's why you were constantly on the phone even if it meant you couldn't ask for help.
"Um… how?" you ask, dumbfounded.
"They called to me one night," the stranger confides in you between bites of your own chips. Even as he talks with a full mouth, he manages to look just as regal. "Begged for a better life—all the money they could dream of in a land far from where they were, away from everything and everyone they've ever known."
It doesn't take a genius to figure out that he's talking about you.
"They didn't have anything to offer in exchange," he tells you, not bothering to explain why they would be asking him for anything at all. "They wanted to sell their souls, but what the fuck am I supposed to do with something so… ugly…?"
The word comes out of his mouth with a sneer, and you nod like you understand. You kind of do. Everything about the man is very pretty, down to his nail beds and his shined shoes. What would he need from two deadbeats like your parents?
Wait. Their souls?
"So they offered me something more pure," he says, the bag of chips disappearing once more. He plunges his thumb into his mouth to suck the ghost pepper dust off, and you find yourself a little entranced as it pops back out and he does the same with his index finger. You sigh as you turn toward your nightstand and pluck a tissue from the box and hand it to him. He frowns. "Uh, thanks."
"And what was that?" you ask as he wipes his saliva off on the tissue instead of whatever furniture is available to him (in this case, your 1,000-thread-count sheets).
"Their daughter."
You were expecting it. You hadn't been sure what to make of all this; half of you was convinced you were still blackout drunk, passed out somewhere in a bathroom stall while Jasmine puked her guts out. Maybe you were having a very elaborate dream. Or nightmare. But hearing him speak now, you believe it. You wouldn't put those two idiots above summoning some kind of demon to get them out of their gambling debts and make them rich—allow them a life among the elite. And you wouldn't put it past them to trade you for it.
You were expecting it. But still, it feels like another knife through your heart when he confirms it.
"I'm not a fucking monster, though," he says, snorting. You raise an eyebrow at him.
"But… I'm here…"
He nods. "I told them they can't just sell their child to the Devil. So—"
"The Devil?!"
"—I settled on servitude. I would just enslave them at the end of their contract for the rest of eternity."
You balk at him—the Devil. The Devil likes black oxfords and ghost pepper chips.
"But then…" he sighs, inconvenienced. "They died."
"They're dead," you repeat, the words coming out more like a statement than the question you meant for them to be. You find that you don't feel anything about that. You never even got a chance to love your parents. It doesn't feel like you've lost anything. You were always alone; still, the confirmation that you truly are now is odd.
"Mhm," he confirms, the tissue disappearing into thin air as he leans back on his hands. "Can you believe I made those two rich beyond their wildest dreams and they somehow still got into trouble with loan sharks?" His head lolls to the side to look at you. "Unlike you, they were actually kidnapped." He shrugs before adding an important detail. "And murdered."
"Oh," you breathe.
"Yes. Oh. But I still needed to collect payment. And unfortunately…"
He lets you connect the dots on your own. "I'm their only next of kin."
"Precisely," he nods once. "You've inherited their debt."
"So… you're… enslaving me?"
He looks at you with disgust. "What? No. I said I'm not a fucking monster."
"But you kidnapped me."
"I did not."
"You did."
"Let's not get into the semantics of it all," he says, waving a hand dismissively as his eyebrow twitches with irritation. "I am not enslaving you. I am here to offer you a contract."
"A contract."
"A contract." A piece of paper—sheer and made up of glittery red particles—materializes between the two of you, hundreds of lines of red print appearing one by one before you as he speaks. "You may serve your parents' sentence—"
"Enslavement."
He rolls his eyes. "Fine. Yes, enslavement—though I am giving you a choice!"
"Wow, what a gentleman."
"Or," he raises his voice slightly to get you back on track, "you can make your own contract." He nods at the piece of paper. You frown.
"But I didn't ask you for anything."
"Yes, but it will release you from your parents' debt."
"By putting me into my own pile of shit?"
He smirks. "Oh c'mon. I think I deserve more credit than that. Have I not been an incredibly generous host to you thus far?" He spreads one, long arm out to gesture to your bedroom—more like a large apartment in the corner of his mansion.
"A generous host during my stay in your prison?" you ask, snorting. "Sure." His face falls into a flat expression that you ignore as you lean forward to read the beginnings of your contract.
INFERNAL SUCCESSION OF DEBT
Contract ID 666-4
This Agreement is entered into between:
THE DEVIL, King of the Infernal Realms, Lord of Temptation, Prince of Darkness, Keeper of Eternal Contracts, Hereinafter referred to as "Employer," "His Infernal Majesty," or "Boss";
and
Y/N L/N, Sole Living Descendant and Responsible Party, Hereinafter referred to as "Employee".
PREAMBLE
WHEREAS, Employee's parents entered into a legally binding contract with Employer in exchange for wealth, prosperity, favorable stock performance, and several luxury vehicles;
WHEREAS, said parents were obligated to surrender themselves for eternal servitude upon collection;
WHEREAS, said parents have inconveniently perished before collection could be completed;
WHEREAS, Hell's Collections Department has determined Employee to be the sole inheritor of all outstanding debts, obligations, curses, liens, penalties, and miscellaneous infernal paperwork;
THEREFORE, Employer has graciously offered Employee the following alternatives:
OPTION A: In fulfillment of the obligations incurred by Employee's deceased parents, Employee shall enter the service of the Infernal Realm for all eternity.
Duties shall include, but are not limited to:
Processing approximately 4.8 million forms per day
Responding to customer complaints from damned souls
Sharpening ceremonial pitchforks
Serving as a chew toy for baby hellhounds during training exercises
Untangling chains in the Pit of Eternal Knots
Operating the Soul Intake Window during holiday rushes
Rewriting contracts damaged by hellfire
Cleaning the Room of Despair every third Tuesday
Escorting lost souls to the appropriate department
Conducting annual inventories of screams
Working closely with Minghao from Accounting
Employee acknowledges that eternity is a super long time and that the above list is not-at-all exhaustive.
OPTION B: Accept employment under Employer for the duration of Employee's natural mortal lifespan, after which Employee shall receive a permanent position with benefits.
You look back up at the Devil. He watches you with an unreadable expression.
"What's the catch?"
"You'd have to read all 666 pages of your contract to find it."
You narrow your eyes at him. "You don't think I'll do it." He neither confirms or denies. "I will. I will read all 666 pages."
"Fine by me," he says, shrugging one shoulder and standing. "But after you read them and decide on either option A or B, you'll have another contract to sign for terms of your servitude or your employment. I'm sure you can guess how many pages each are."
You feel the ambition leave your soul. You roll your eyes and shake your head. "Sit your ass down."
He smirks and follows directions.
"I assume they went to Hell, no?" He nods. "Why can't you just go find their souls and make them serve their sentence?"
"Debt must be collected before death and the souls are admitted into Hell and sorted into the proper circles of punishment, where they'll be doing something very different for all of eternity." He shakes his head regretfully. "Your parents are currently being fried in vats of oil over and over again. If they had survived until debt collection, they would've remained human for eternity, serving me even as their increasingly brittle bones repeatedly broke under the weight of their chores."
He smiles wistfully at what could have been, and you wince. "Um. Okay... well, what would my duties be for option B?"
The Devil nods to the space next to the contract, where an employment agreement appears, lines appearing one after the other just like the original contract. You groan.
"What the fuck is wrong with you? Why is Hell a corporation?"
His eyebrows rise. "What else would Hell be?"
You pause, ruminating on the thought. "Okay, good point."
You sigh and skim the employment agreement.
POSITION
Employee shall serve as: Executive Assistant to His Infernal Majesty
Responsibilities include, but are not limited to:
Maintaining Employer's schedule
Screening calls
Organizing contracts
Overseeing scheduled plagues, wars, famines, etc.
Managing infernal correspondence
Other duties as assigned
Employee shall reside in Employer's primary estate for the duration of employment. Position will require 30% travel.
COMPENSATION
During mortal employment, Employee shall receive:
Free housing
Free meals
Free skincare
Access to infernal healthcare
Unlimited coffee
Following Employee's natural death, Employee shall receive:
Permanent demon status
Comfortable accommodations
Full retirement benefits
Choice of station
WORKPLACE CONDUCT
Employer shall not:
Steal Employee's soul
Curse Employee without written notice
Sell Employee to rival supernatural entities (or anyone else)
Employee shall not:
Summon competitors
Sign contracts on Employer's behalf
Open portals without supervision
Feed eldritch horrors after midnight
TERMINATION
This Agreement may only be terminated by:
Employee's natural death
The collapse of reality
Mutual agreement
A successful legal challenge upheld by three (3) cosmic authorities and at least one (1) archangel
INHERITED DEBT RESOLUTION
Upon execution of this Agreement:
Employee shall be considered to have satisfied all obligations inherited from their parents
Employee's parents shall remain classified as "Paid In Full"
The rest of your mortal life is a long time. You know very well that by agreeing to this, you're literally signing a deal with the Devil. It's sad and pathetic to acknowledge, but if this new life is anything like the last three days have been, it's already a huge upgrade from how you were living prior to your home invasion.
You lean away from the contracts and take a deep breath before nodding once. You can make it an even bigger upgrade.
"I want an unlimited budget for interior decorating of my living quarters," you start. His eyebrows rise to meet his hairline.
"You're negotiating with the Devil?" he asks, clarifying that he understands your intentions.
"Sure am," you confirm before shooting off your demands one after the other. "I want my apartment kept and paid for as a place to unwind when needed, and I want unlimited visiting rights to Earth. I want all my bills paid for and the newest Samsung any time I want to upgrade my phone. I want backstage passes to any K-Pop group of my choice at any concert I want. I want an expense account and a black credit card to match."
"We—"
"And I don't care if you don't use credit cards in Hell. I want a black credit card. And I want it to be metal and heavy. The fancy one."
He clamps his mouth back shut and nods for you to keep going.
"I want full autonomy over my soul while mortal and after death," you emphasize. "My employment does not mean you own me."
"How many times do you want me to remind you I am not a monster?"
"You're the literal Devil."
"Yes, exactly!" he agrees. "Not a monster!"
You scoff, unsure of how to even respond to that. "You don't own me!" you repeat.
"Yes! Of course! I do not own you! Obviously!" he says, appeasing you. "Go on."
"I also want protection from… whoever your enemies are."
He raises an eyebrow at you. "My enemies?"
You shrug. "Like… God or whatever."
He grins—a genuinely amused one. It's heart-shaped and wide and it's not befitting for the Devil. He looks like someone you could cuddle, not someone who could eat your soul for dinner after finishing your ghost pepper chips. "You, humans, have a very ill-conceived idea of Heaven and Hell. God is not my enemy. She is my colleague."
The smile that envelopes your face is uncontrollable. "She?! God is a woman?! I fucking knew it!"
"Of course she is," the Devil scoffs. "Why would a man be kept in charge of Heaven? That's absurd."
"Hm. Agreed," you say, a little suspicious of having something you both agree upon. "Okay, so no enemies…"
"None," he says, yawning. "Unless you consider damned souls enemies."
"Well, I want protection from anything that can hurt me."
He looks at you like you're dumb. "You'll be living with the Devil. You will be at my side at almost all times of the day. I am the protection."
"What if you hurt me?" you point out.
He rolls his eyes. "It would be counterproductive to hurt my own employee. If you haven't yet wandered into my contracts room, go find it later and you'll see how badly I need an assistant."
You try not to choke on your own spit as you think about the weird room stuffed full of paper. Does he expect you to do something with that…?
"Anything else?" he asks. "You've been so frugal with your demands. Are you sure you don't want to be a billionaire? The ruler of the free world?"
You ignore his sarcasm and shrug. "Is that possible?" He glares at you. "Okay, then no. I don't want those things. But I do have one more demand."
"Oh, goodie," he sighs. "What?"
"On the point of employment until death…"
The Devil laughs, the sound mocking. "That one is not negotiable, darling. It's either eternal servitude or employment until your mortal death—which is what you would be doing anyway if it weren't for your scumbag parents. One is definitely better than the other."
You glare at him. "I'm not going to play Devil's maid until I'm 100 and you're laughing at me as my bones are turning to dust."
"Per your employee agreement, you will have access to infernal healthcare, a perk that would not have been offered to your parents," he points out. "It might surprise you to know it's much more generous than whatever the hell you humans are offering these days. I assure you, your bones will never turn to dust."
"I want to remain as I am," you inform him, not taking no for an answer. "I will work for you until death, but I will remain as I am. No growing pains, no aches, completely healthy in the body and mind I'm in now until I die."
He fixes you with a hard stare for several moments, but you're determined to get your way. You don't avert your gaze and you don't give in. He sighs deeply through his nose. "Fine. Accepted."
The employment agreement changes before your very eyes, reflecting your negotiations, and you're pleased to see every point you argued written onto the paper in glittery red.
"Oh! And I refuse to call you Your Infernal Majesty."
He shrugs. "Okay."
"Okay…"
"What?"
"What do I call you?"
"Oh. Jun. You can call me Jun."
"Okay. I guess you have yourself an assistant, Jun."
He smirks, raising an open hand to you. You take a breath before you slip your hand into his, his slender fingers closing around you and shaking. On the final shake, he squeezes and you feel a just barely tolerable heat bind the two of you together for several seconds. Bursts of bright red lines glow around your joined hands, frantically circling them before they escape to the pieces of paper between you. Jun releases you just as you realize the lines have become both of your signatures on the contracts.
"It's done," he says, eyes flashing red again. "You, Y/N, have just signed a deal with the Devil."
And because you're not one to let a man intimidate you—Devil or not—you smile right back, lean in, and remind him in a theatrical whisper, "You're as stuck in here with me as I am with you."
When the arrogance painted all over his face falters the tiniest bit, you wink and throw yourself off your bed, finally ready to start your day at a bright and early 2 p.m.
"Don't you go regretting this now, Junnie!"
DAY TEN
Hell is exactly what you expected it to be after seeing Jun's contracts: a corporate abyss. It's an open floor plan with unassigned desks, harsh overhead lighting, and a water cooler where a demon is stationed, their only task to make awkward small talk with the parched, tortured soul that comes up to it hoping for a cup. The demons, of course, have the time of their lives, scheduling meetings that could have been emails, demanding overtime of salaried souls, asking for things that were already given to them several days ago and promptly lost upon receipt.
You don't fully understand it. Before you were taken away from Earth, you were working as a full-time bartender. In fact, the only reason you and your friends hadn't gotten kicked out that night for being belligerently drunk was because you were being belligerently drunk at the club you worked at. Before that, your only foray into corporate life was as a customer service representative answering phones and talking to angry people who had nothing but free time to scream at you. You lasted exactly one week, and that's all you need to at least appreciate why it's the model for Hell.
And for the last few days, you've been following Jun around it, soaking in all the information you need. For example, Jun is in "the office" during most "daylight" hours (Hell doesn't have windows so how are you supposed to know when daylight is?), and usually brings his work back to the home you now share. Unclear if he sleeps at all.
He doesn't spend time around the damned souls—not that they even realize who he is as he walks by. He pays them no mind, letting his demon subordinates take care of tormenting them. Instead, his time in the office is spent attending meetings with high-ranking demons, archangels, and occasionally, God herself. If he's not in the office or at home, he'll be traveling. Unclear what he'll do on his trips, but you assume it's something akin to what he did for your parents. He assures you each trip will only be a few hours and that he'll call if that changes. You assure him you don't care.
Today is the first time you won't be shadowing him. Jun unceremoniously dropped you off at the mail room without so much as a goodbye, muttering something about picking you up at the end of the day. You didn't have time to point out that you have no idea when that is. And hours later, it seems that it still isn't the end of the day.
"So… who are you…?"
You look up from the mountain of envelopes you've been tasked with going through. Apparently, the Devil receives a lot of mail, and apparently, Jun is above simply throwing all of them into an incinerator. It turns out when people can't get a hold of God, they turn to the next best thing. And the next best thing insists that you read every last letter and decide whether it's worth responding to.
The demon talking to you entered the room just a minute or so ago. He's a man who looks to be about your age, though you're under no delusions that he actually is. For all you know, he's millions of years old. His spiky blonde hair is currently pointed to your right as he tilts his head at you curiously. "Actually, what are you…?"
You squint at him. "I'm human…" you gesture down at your lack of black leather, dressed like the pink Care Bear threw up on you as a quiet form of protest against the dreadfully drab aesthetic Hell insists on. "Obviously."
He nods. "Right… but… you're not dead."
"No," you say, using more force than needed to slice through the next envelope with the letter opener you were given—a knife with a handle shaped like a devil's tail. A tail you noticed Jun does not have.
The demon winces and you're glad for it. Just because Jun is convinced you're safe doesn't mean you are; the more of them who believe you'll shank them with a letter opener for breathing funny, the better.
"I am not dead."
"What's your—"
"I'm working," you cut him off icily, making a show of stabbing the letter opener into the wooden table and straightening the paper in front of your face. The man next to him snorts but says nothing, simply grabbing the mail he came in for and leaving.
"So you work in the mail room? Do we hire humans to do that now?"
You roll your eyes behind the piece of paper. You don't answer.
"Do you know whose mail you're going through…? Because it's His—"
"Jun's," you sigh, slamming the piece of paper down and shoving it toward your throw pile. "I am reading Jun's mail." You fold your hands in front of you on the table and lean forward to give him all the attention he obviously wants. The demon's eyes widen, leaning back the tiniest bit.
"Y-you can't just… say his name like that," he whispers to you, eyes sliding back and forth. The mail room is full of demons, and it isn't until he looks around that you realize all of them have frozen in place. You frown as you follow his gaze.
"Jun?" you repeat loudly, resisting the urge to smirk when more of them gasp.
"Stop!"
"Why?" you ask, snickering as you reach for the next envelope and rip it open without the help of the letter opener. Dear Satan, you read. "Is it like Voldemort here? Scared to say your own boss's name?"
"Pfft, no one here is scared to say 'Voldemort,'" he says, rolling his own eyes. "Rowling will be here as soon as God decides it's time for her to retire from Twitter. And life."
You hum in approval. "Good to hear."
"It's just wise to be a little more respectful when referring to His Infernal Majesty."
You smile. "Yeah, I'm not calling him that."
"Your funeral."
"Or yours," you say, pointedly looking at the letter opener stabbed into the surface right now. You look back at him and his eyes are on the tool too. "Think Jun would be happy about you distracting his personal assistant from very important work?"
The demon balks at you, but you return your attention to the letter. Dear Satan. "You're his assistant?" You hum in confirmation. "Oh wow. That's… wow. Um, I'm Soonyoung."
"I didn't ask."
"Are you sure you aren't a demon?"
You look up at him without putting your letter down. "I'm sure, Soonyoung." Your eyes flick back down to the letter. Dear Satan, you read for the third time.
"Well, you would make a really good one," he tells you. Your fingers crinkle the letter, twitching in as they try to keep from completely crumpling it in frustration. "Is that why His Infernal Majesty hired you? How did you two meet?"
"Soonyoung." It seems like the entire room freezes and the demon's eyes widen at something behind you. You look over your shoulder to find Jun standing in the doorway, his arms crossed and his brows pulled down. The other demons not named Soonyoung immediately flee the room. "Are you bothering Y/N?"
You huff. "Sure. You can give him my name."
Your boss smirks but ignores you. "Leave her alone. If I hear my name one more time, I'll make you work a shift in Accounting." You raise your eyebrows. No wonder they're so afraid to say his name. It literally summons him.
Soonyoung pushes himself off where he'd been leaning on the table across from you, immediately leaving the room and bowing to your boss and muttering apologies as he goes. You snort, turning back around and reading your letter in full for the first time.
Dear Satan,
If you're real, prove it.
You nod, taking a piece of paper out to write your response. Just as you finish, you hear Jun's voice—much closer this time—and you startle.
"Interesting."
"Holy shit," you breathe, leaning back to look at him reading over your shoulder. "I thought you left."
He reaches past you, allowing you to get a whiff of his cologne. Something that smells woodsy and spicy. He takes your pile of letters and responses and reads them aloud.
"'Dear Satan, if you're real, prove it,'" he reads. His eyes go to the piece of paper with your response. "'No.'"
He stares at you but reveals no indication of whether or not he approves. He puts the two pieces of paper down on the table next to you and moves on.
"'Dear Devil, did the dinosaurs go to Heaven or Hell?' 'They went to Heaven. What kind of fucking question is this?'" Papers down.
You think the twitch of his lips is a smile threatening to break through. He succeeds in hiding it if it is, and he just keeps going.
Dear Satan, should I text my ex?
I am the #1 advocate of free will. But know that if you do, I will haunt you for the rest of your mortal life and you will never find love. Ever.
Dear Satan, if you help me pass my AP Chem test, I will owe you my life. P.S. For my records, does this count as a legally binding contract?
No, it does not. Go study and never write here ever again.
Dear Satan, does my cat work for you? I love her, but sometimes, she does things that make me wonder. I don't think she sleeps. She just watches me. All the time. I also feel like she can maybe talk and is hiding it. Is she secretly a demon?
Jun pauses, eyes sliding to you, though you're unsure why. You hold his stare, but he just redirects his attention back to your response.
Probably. What's her name?
He seems to decide that's enough, calmly putting the pile of papers down with the others. "Hm." You don't know what it means and he doesn't clarify. Instead, he asks, "Hungry?"
You gasp, your work immediately forgotten. "Yes! Does Hell have sushi?"
"No. We only have the blood and organs of sinners here." You crinkle your nose but he doesn't say that he's joking, and it makes your stomach turn. "But Earth does. And I believe you negotiated unlimited visitation rights." You nod. You did. You absolutely did. "Come on. My treat for a good first day spent on your own."
"It's your treat no matter what," you mutter, standing up and leading the way out of the mail room, trusting your responses will be sent out by someone who isn't busy stuffing their face with sushi. "I literally have free food written into my employment agreement."
"You can never just let me have the last word, can you?"
"Nope. Get used to it."
DAY SIXTEEN
Your adrenaline spikes when the phone on your desk, right outside Jun's corner office (the only place with windows and a killer view of racists burning alive at all hours of the day), rings. You squeak with excitement as you answer it.
This should be nerve-wracking for you; your one week in customer service scarred you enough that the sheer sound of phones ringing sent anxiety crawling up your spine. But here, answering the phone meant all kinds of fun possibilities.
It could be a teenager calling via Ouija Board. It could be someone summoning Jun to sell their soul. It could be a demon needing help as a priest exorcises them from a possession. It could be God.
"You've reached Jun's desk. How may I help you?"
"Wrong." Your joy flatlines at your boss's voice. "I told you, you can't use my name when answering the phone."
"I'm not calling you whatever silly title everyone else here insists on calling you," you grumble.
"That's fine. I don't give a shit. Just don't use my name," he says. "I already hear everyone on Earth muttering about Satan. We don't need to add my Hell-given name to the mix."
You sigh. "Fine. What do you need? I've already taken care of your mail and schedule for the rest of the week, I have your requested reports from Accounting, and the Hellhounds have been caught. They're eating their midday snacks now."
"What snacks? You know that cannibals upset their stomachs. If they throw up, you will be cleaning it up."
"First of all, no. I won't." You've already seen the messes the Hellhounds are capable of, and you'd rather Jun eat your soul than have to clean up after one. "Second of all, I know. I gave them some family annihilators."
"Perfect. Thanks. Tell Soonyoung if he loses them one more time, he'll be fed to them next."
"Got it," you say, taking mental note to threaten the demon next time he comes around to annoy you. "So why are you calling? Did you forget whose debt you're collecting today? It's—"
"I know," he cuts you off. "Just checking to see how it's going since this is your first full day without me in Hell."
You frown at nothing in particular. "The Devil does check-in calls…? Oddly considerate."
You can practically hear Jun's glare through the phone. "No. The Devil is making sure you haven't completely run his empire into the ground."
"I am but a measly human," you sigh dramatically. "If I have the power to run a supernatural empire that predates time itself into the ground, it's probably a really bad empire."
"Hm." He clearly refuses to tell you that you have a good point. "I also called to let you know I'll be late tonight so you don't have to worry about working after you leave the office. I'll see you at breakfast."
You told him you didn't care if his trips made him late or if he even wanted to go out and do his own thing after; you aren't his mother or his wife, and you can probably discern this information from his calendar without him calling. But now that it's actually happening, you realize you care a tiny bit. Mostly because in the last two weeks, the two of you have gotten into a routine of sorts.
You woke up, usually from your duvet being ripped off and your eye mask being sent into whatever other dimension Jun sent things to, and you'd sit down for breakfast, going through everything your boss was doing for the day. Jun didn't need to eat, but he joined you anyway, occasionally having a bowl of cereal since you made it clear you never want to see him eating the blood and organs of sinners in the house. Then, he'd take the both of you to work, where you would do whatever it is the day demanded of you, before heading home and having dinner. If he had a trip that day, he still made it home in time to sit with you, eating whatever it is you made in the generously stocked kitchen.
You'd kind of forgotten to be afraid of being alone because you never were anymore. Jun was always there, and if he wasn't, you were either busy working or asleep. The thought of coming back to the house without him, having to eat dinner by yourself, and not having anyone to talk to gets your heart racing faster than usual.
"Hello?"
"Okay," you say, nodding even though he can't see you. Maybe if you force your body to agree to it, your mind will follow suit. "Have fun collecting those souls."
"Thanks," he says slowly.
"Is that all?"
"Yeah, I guess."
"Okay then. Bye."
You don't wait for him to respond, hanging up and immediately standing to make your way back to the house while the clock tells you it's still daytime. Maybe if you fall asleep earlier than usual, you'll bypass the terror you already feel creeping in.
DAY TWENTY-THREE
"Junnie!" you call without turning over your shoulder.
You have to keep working on securing catering for the 1,700 demons who will be gathering for an "Innovation & Disruption: Bringing Medieval-Style Torture to the Modern Age" seminar in a few days. You don't even know how to get blood and organs catered. And never mind having to arrange accommodations for the demons that insist on bringing their eldritch horrors with them.
You hear your boss's usual grunt of acknowledgment. "Time to get going to that cult summoning if you want to make it on time!" You glance at the CCTV feed in the corner of your screen. "They're almost done drawing the pentagram!"
He groans but you hear the unmistakable sound of his chair rolling away from his desk and creaking as he stands anyway. A few moments later, he's standing next to you. You pause your catering research to look up at him.
"I don't assume the demons would want to have Subway or something at this seminar?" you ask.
"No." Jun's mouth curves into a small smile. "No, they probably do not want Subway."
"Shame." You shrug and turn back to your computer. "Well, have fun with the nut jobs! Remember, Risk & Assessment flagged the cult leader for us; his possession score is very high, so if you find him insufferable—and I'm sure that with your patience, you will—feel free to ring me and I'll send you a demon to torment him a bit."
"Noted," he says, chuckling a little. "And just so you know, I'll probably be late again."
You deflate a little. It's been a week since the last time Jun came home late from work, and you're still working out the stress knots it put into your shoulders.
"Oh." You try to think of what you'll do to stave off the panic this time since sleeping early didn't do it for you. When you realize your boss is standing there, scrutinizing you and waiting for a proper response, you say a pathetic "sounds good."
"Hm. I was actually thinking you may be more help coming with me tonight than staying here," he says suddenly. "Or at home."
You straighten up and try not to look too eager at the invitation. "Wait. I can come to the summoning?"
"Sure. Why not?"
"Is that allowed?"
He stares at you blankly. "I'm the King of Hell."
You roll your eyes, your heart rate slowing down as your anxieties subside. "A simple 'yes' would have sufficed."
The second you and Jun make landfall in the middle of the cult's pentagram, there are fanatic screams and people in ridiculous cloaks falling to their knees and sobbing. You don't try to hide the revulsion on your face, flinching away when a follower crawls to you on their hands and knees, wailing and reaching for you. You inadvertently curl into your boss's side. You mutter a quiet apology when you realize you're touching him, but he ignores it, stepping between you and the enthusiastic follower.
"Hands to yourself," Jun hisses at the person, who immediately backs away.
The space becomes significantly warmer at that, and it only dawns on you now why your home is kept so cold. It never occurred to you that of course the Devil will run hot, and you feel that heat radiating from him now with nothing to quell it. The cult members must feel it too because aside from the overenthusiastic one, they give the two of you a wide berth.
Once you acclimate to the audience, you notice you're suddenly in a cloak reminiscent of the grim reaper's.
"What the hell is this?" you ask, lifting an arm and looking at the way the cloth drapes off of it.
"Summoning uniform."
"Then why don't you have one?" you ask, raising an eyebrow at Jun's all-black get-up: a crisp button-down, slim-fit slacks, and a jacket with shoulders adorned with a smattering of crystals, making it look like he's wearing the sky itself.
"I'm the Devil." Which seems to be his answer for everything. Your next complaint is drowned out by the deep and bizarre bellowing of a man on a tiny stage that quakes under his weight.
"Welcome, Our Unholiness!" You assume the man shouting is the cult leader. He wears a goat head that looks so realistic, you sorely hope it's just a mask and that the man is not wearing an animal corpse right now.
"Wrong!" you immediately call, making Jun frown at you as you step back around him, tripping a little when your foot catches on your cloak. "Fuck, ow." You yank at it violently before standing straight and addressing the man. "Accepted titles include King of Hell, King of the Infernal Realms, Lord of Temptation, Prince of Darkness, His Infernal Majesty, or The Big Bad Lord of Doom and Gloom."
"No, nope. Not that last one." You smile at him when he narrows his eyes at you. If you get the cloak, he gets the silly title.
"O-oh. Uh. Everyone, let's welcome… His Maj—"
"Infernal Majesty."
"His Infernal Majesty!" he shouts.
The crowd around you erupts into cheers, and you take the moment to look around. Your boss has been summoned to what looks like a remote compound in the middle of the desert with small concrete buildings scattered around you. The people around you look starved, dehydrated, and unclean. No wonder the Devil has been summoned; this is not a cult leader that leads very well.
"Enough," Jun says, his voice barely rising over the cheers but reverberating through the crowd anyway. It falls silent laughably fast, forcing you to stifle a giggle. "Why have you summoned me?"
"Satan, we—may I call you Satan…?" the goat head tilts toward you like he's asking you for permission. You nod and he turns back to your boss. "Satan, we have summoned you here today in the hopes that you will lend your devoted children a hand."
"I am nothing if not a provider," Jun says in a bored voice. You tilt your head and shrug before nodding as you ponder that statement. You suppose it's true. You have been living a very luxurious life since you moved to Hell.
"Oh, thank you, Satan," he sighs in relief, bowing his head and stumbling a little when the weight of the goat head makes him wobble. "We request a great boon of you."
"A boon," you echo in a whisper, mostly to yourself.
"Our tithes are declining."
"Tithes." Words you will have to Google upon returning home.
Jun's eyes flick down to you briefly before he responds. "Get on with it."
The abruptness throws the leader off, causing him to stutter. You buy him more time by stating, "As you can imagine, Ju—Satan! Satan is incredibly busy. Many summonings to tend to. Many plagues to schedule. Many damned souls to devour whole. Many—"
"He gets it," Jun cuts in.
"Right, of course!" the leader agrees. "Apologies! We would like to request monetary support."
"In exchange for?" the Devil asks, an eyebrow cocked at the man.
"For…?"
Jun glances at you and you nod, frowning when you realize for the first time that you are no longer holding your tablet. You gasp, patting your entire body before you find the needlessly deep inner pocket of your cloak. So deep, your tablet basically rests at your ankle.
"This is deeply humiliating," you mutter at your boss as you bend over to scoop it out. "Who was this made for—Shaquille O'Neal?"
"No," Jun answers, more amused than you've ever heard him. "It's mine."
You pause in your bend, cranking your neck to look at him upside down. "This is your grim reaper cloak?"
He nods, clearly suppressing a laugh. You roll your eyes, shaking your head as you continue digging your device out of the infinite pocket. You straighten back up when it's finally in your grip.
You quickly tap through for the handbook you haven't needed until now.
"Where deals with the Devil are concerned," you read aloud, projecting your voice so everyone can hear clearly, "the Devil accepts servitude of his chosen length, negotiable; a percentage of all future profits no less than 20 percent, negotiable; your luck for an amount of time of his choice, negotiable; the feeling you get when a song gives you chills, non-negotiable; your first-born child to be collected upon their 30th birthday, non—hey!"
You frown at that point and turn to your boss, your back to the cult leader. "What?"
"What the hell do you need a first-born child for?" you hiss in a whisper only he can hear because above all else, you are still very professional. "Your assistant position is already filled. You already have a first-born child that you have collected!"
Your boss's mouth curves into an arrogant smirk that you want to rip off his mouth. "First-born children are a hot commodity in Hell."
"Oh, are they?" you laugh humorlessly. "So where are they?"
"Where are they?"
"Yeah! Where are they?" you ask, unsure what you'll even do when you find out. Now that you've been in your position long enough to really appreciate its perks, the thought of being kicked to the curb fills you with a fight instinct so strong, you could choke on it. "Hiding them in the attic? Basement? In a closet I haven't found yet? Or did you build them a separate house? You have multiple offices? Multiple assistants?"
"Um, can we get back to the—"
"One minute!" you shout without turning back to the cult leader.
"Are you jealous?" Jun asks, his voice equal parts confusion and cocky. When your only answer to that is a glare, he exhales a breathy laugh and shakes his head. "The document you're reading from was last updated decades ago, darling. I assure you I have no other assistants and am not looking for any more—at least not until your contract with me is over."
"I want that added as an amendment to my agreement," you say through gritted teeth, noting to yourself to reach out to Demon Resources when you get back.
"Unnecessary, but we'll—"
"The Devil will not be accepting a first-born child!" you announce, three times as loud as you were before as you spin back around, kicking when your cloak tangles around your legs. "Keep your useless children to yourselves!"
"No children, got it," the cult leader nods. "Well… you see, we were not prepared for a proper offering tonight, as we assumed that as children of the Dark Lord—"
"Lord of Temptation or Prince of Darkness," you correct him, shaking your head.
"Er, yes. As children of the Prince of Darkness… we assumed we would just… um, receive? A gift? As loyal followers?"
Both you and Jun remain still, falling quiet at the assumption—you because you're unsure if your boss wants you to correct him, Jun because you assume he's debating whether he should kill someone or laugh. The leader laughs a little nervously, swaying back and forth and wringing his hands. It's a hilariously silly picture with his goat head still on.
"Correct this idiot before I summon a Hellhound," Jun mutters to you, turning away from the leader and taking a seat. A comically large throne appears under his ass at the perfect moment. He props his head in his hand in immense disinterest.
"You summoned the Devil," you point out the obvious. "If you were looking for handouts based on loyalty, you probably should have thrown your allegiance behind God—which by the way, did you know she's a woman?"
"Oh. Uh, that's… yeah, that makes sense."
"Right? We thought so too," you say, nodding and glancing at Jun briefly over your shoulder. He nods once, blinking slowly in the way he only does when he's finally starting to tire and needs to rest. You turn back to the leader. "If you would like Satan's financial support, he will need more than the promise that you'll continue to live in the desert, starving and unbathed. He will need something he can actually use." You point at his mask. "By the way, the goat head does nothing. He does not like that."
Jun speaks behind you, confirming. "I do not. I hate it."
The leader immediately rips the head off, chucking it away from him with so much force, it bounces several times and disappears into the darkness not lit by the torches that surround the pentagram. He's younger than you assumed he'd be, and he's sweaty and red from staying in the goat head.
"What will you be offering the Devil tonight?" you ask. "Would you like more examples of gifts he will accept?"
"Um, no, I think… I think we can offer, uh, servitude?" his followers groan, but he doesn't change his answer.
"Wonderful," you nod, making note of it in your tablet. One of Jun's famous contracts materializes in front of the sweaty man, the glow of it painting him even redder. "The Devil will award you with just enough money to keep this Burning Man-inspired cult thriving as long as at least one member present here tonight is alive. In exchange, His Infernal Majesty will collect their souls for eternal servitude at the end of their natural-born lives."
There's an uproar of protests as you finish reading the terms.
"Well, wait, hold on! You said this was negotiable."
"Indeed."
"Okay, so let's negotiate!" You watch him expectantly, waiting for said negotiation. "Right, um, yeah. So. Uh. If servitude is eternal… maybe our financial support should also be of unlimited nature?"
"'Maybe'?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.
"It should! It should!" he corrects himself. "Limitless money forever, regardless of whether or not the members here tonight are still alive, in exchange for our eternal servitude upon the end of life."
You watch as Jun's signature starts to scribble on the contract, signaling his acceptance of the agreement. You frown and shake your head. "Denied!"
Jun makes a sound of surprise as his signature stops mid-air.
"Limitless money forever, independent of tonight's members, in exchange for your current and future members' eternal servitude upon end of life—regardless of length of cult membership."
The silence that follows is tense, the cult leader chewing his lower lip as he thinks it through and his followers clearly ruminating on what limitless money can do for them.
"The Big Bad Lord is due for another engagement shortly," you inform him, earning you an annoyed grunt from your boss. "Please make your mind up quickly."
"Deal," he answers, nodding confidently. "Deal!"
You smile as you watch Jun sign on his dotted line. Your boss suddenly appears before the leader, outside the pentagram meant to keep you both contained and the summoners safe from you—obviously a myth. Once summoned, Jun is free to do as he pleases wherever he pleases. Everyone gasps at his reappearance, the leader flinching violently. Your boss extends his hand just as he did to you a month ago. When the man shakes it, the same red lines bind the agreement, and the cult leader's name and signature appear on the contract.
"Enjoy your boon, Lee Seokmin," Jun says, voice low and dangerous. "Don't go dying too soon. I'll be back to collect."
The Devil doesn't waste any more time on the cult, whisking the two of you away and back to your shared home.
"That was fun!" you exclaim, clapping your hands and giggling. "Much more fun than staying at home alone."
Jun snorts but keeps his face carefully blank as he goes to the pantry and grabs a bag of ghost pepper chips. "Yeah?"
"Definitely. Thanks for inviting me."
"I was right."
"Hm?"
"You were a lot more helpful going with me than staying back here," he clarifies, opening the bag and chomping on the snack, which he now keeps an unlimited stock of for both of you. "I should've known you'd be good at negotiating." He throws you a look of fake contempt. You smirk. "I think you should come with me to all my summonings."
You shrug, trying not to reveal how relieved you are about late nights alone not having to be a worry for you anymore. "Sure. I will make myself available."
"So generous…" Jun comments, mouth slanting in amusement. "I'm going to turn in. You good?"
You frown. "Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"
He watches you for a moment more before shaking his head. "No reason." He looks down at your cloak and nods. "Keep it for the next summoning. Night." He turns and lazily stalks off toward his suite on the other side of the house from yours.
DAY TWENTY-SEVEN
You're getting the hang of Jun in a way you never really understood any of your previous bosses. Before, your managers were people who just told you what to do and gave you minuscule raises once in a while, but being the Devil's assistant demanded knowing him on a level more intimate than you were expecting.
Because why do you know that eating too much human food will have him in the bathroom for ungodly amounts of time? It turned out that your restriction of blood in the house was actually ruining his digestive track. You're not totally uncaring, though; you now allow the Devil his blood consumption—strictly from opaque bottles. Organs, on the other hand, will never be negotiable.
You know that his favorite thing to listen to to relax after a long, stressful day is the tortured screams of damned souls drowning in the river of boiling blood. He likes falling asleep to the screams of damned souls being quartered. If he needs to hunker down and really concentrate on work, the screams of the racists burning alive right outside his window are his preferred background noise, which is probably why his office is where it is.
Jun actually hates having to negotiate. It took that first trip and a handful more to realize that he's fairly quick to accept the first offer he's given unless it's a particularly nasty human being. Since you've started accompanying him, though, you've been getting him a lot more promised benefits than before. So far, you're most proud of convincing a human to sign over her whimsy once 10 years passes. You think it will really brighten up the place once Hell receives it.
There are a lot of devilish stereotypes you've also debunked during your time with him. He has no horns or tail or wings that he's hiding. Everything you see seems to be all of it. His skin has never been red or any other color aside from the golden tan it is now. The Devil does not have an advocate, as he finds people who relentlessly challenge ideas simply for the sake of it exhausting (though, as the ruler of Hell, he does have the privilege of everyone being too scared to challenge anything he thinks or says anyway). He doesn't rely on the worship of anybody on Earth, and he doesn't care to lure pure souls to Hell; he only makes deals with the people he knows belong with him. That inspired an hours-long conversation in which you demanded he assure you your deal was the exception and you do not belong here in Hell with him.
Why? Don't you feel like you belong here? he asked, smirking. You fit right in, darling.
That might be true, but I don't belong here, right? Like, I'm not an evil person. I would've gone to Heaven if not for my terrible parents. Right?
Will you leave me alone if I agree?
JUN.
One thing you're learning now is that your boss tends to be perceived very differently by his demon subordinates. Where you see a particular and sometimes bratty individual, others see a man they need to appease lest they get their heads cut off. Where you see a softie who cuddles with his pets upon returning home, others see a king with an army of Hellhounds starving for the chance to tear them to pieces. Where you see someone who has become your own personal barista in the mornings, others see someone they're too afraid to ask even the smallest of favors from.
Exhibit A: Soonyoung.
Who is currently hissing at you to come meet him around the corner, away from your desk and away from your boss's door. You look over your shoulder quickly to find Jun deep in reviewing the piles of contracts you left for him this morning. You roll your eyes as you stand, dragging your feet lazily as you shuffle over to where Soonyoung is practically crouching to keep from being seen.
"What is it, Soonyoung?" you sigh. He waves for you to bend down and you ignore him, not bothering to crouch to match his height. "You have one minute. The purgatory's auditorium was double booked for the new hire orientation and the monthly angel-demon networking mixer, and I have to find a solution that will not only please Jun but God. I'm this close to suggesting we go to Earth and book a Chili's."
The demon doesn't even pretend to listen to your mini rant, practically speaking over your last few words. "Do you think you can ask His Infernal Majesty if I can have the next full moon off?"
You cock an eyebrow at him. "Why would I do that?"
He looks around nervously. "Um. Because you're pure of heart and soul? And you like me?"
"First of all, only one of those two statements is true," you inform him, enjoying the way he frowns as he tries to figure out which it is, "and second of all, I meant why would I need to do that?" He stares blankly at you. "Ask him yourself."
He scoffs. "Are you crazy?"
"Yes. Next question."
The answer clearly catches him off-guard, and he stammers over several syllables before standing straight and shaking his head. "I can't ask him myself."
"Why not?"
He opens and closes his mouth several times but offers you no valid reasons. He shrugs pathetically before finally admitting. "Because he scares me!"
You look at him incredulously. "Jun… scares you."
"Don't say his name!" he shriek-whispers, frantically grabbing your wrist and pulling you even further down the hall and away from your desk. He stops just outside the copy room, where a damned soul is slapping the broken copy machine. "Of course he scares me."
"The man who needs to be reminded to eat lunch and take his vitamins despite being older than the world itself scares you."
"Yes."
"The guy who gets ghost pepper chip dust all over his fingers and wipes them on whatever surface is closest to him scares you."
Soonyoung doesn't seem to find an issue with that the way you do but he still nods. "Yes."
"The dude—"
"Yes!" he nearly shouts. "Yes! No amount of ridiculous things you say right now are going to convince me to not be scared of him! I am scared of him!"
The soul at the copy machine finally gets fed up and walks out of the copy room, screaming and nearly falling over, their papers flying every direction, when Soonyoung instinctively bares his teeth and growls. They run the rest of the way back to their desk, abandoning the papers they dropped.
You bend down to start collecting them and snort when you find meaningless doodles done by one of the executives whose office is on this floor.
"You see a very different, non-scary version of him, okay?" Soonyoung continues like he didn't just scare the shit out of someone himself. "You're not scared because you don't have to see him when Hell is down on damned souls for the quarter, or when I breathe wrong around him."
You raise your eyebrows. "And this is my problem, why…?"
"It's not a problem," he says, grinning mischievously. He squats down to help you pick up the papers. "It's an advantage! You're his favorite employee! If you ask him if I can have the day off, he'll say yes!"
You pause, looking up at him and laughing. "Me. His favorite employee. After one month."
"Yeah, don't rub it in, new kid," the demon grunts, rolling his eyes. "Some of us have been kissing his ass for centuries, and you walk in and suddenly own the place. But worry not. I'm choosing to view this as a beautiful opportunity, rather than something to be jealous of."
"Sure," you follow, nodding as you continue to gather the drawings that never saw the copy machine. "You still haven't given me a good reason why you can't do it, though. Your fear is not a good reason."
He groans. "Yes it is!"
"It isn't."
"Okay, I mean. On top of that, he'll just say no."
"Why do you think that?"
He stares at you blankly. When he realizes it's a sincere question, he licks his lips and sighs. "Dude. It's been a month. You haven't had a single day off and you haven't noticed?"
You frown as you pick up the last piece of paper. You stand and think about it. "Oh my god…"
"I thought about asking God a few centuries ago too," he says, misunderstanding you. He stands and takes the pile of papers from you. "Didn't work out. Turns out they have no say in each other's teams, and His Infernal Majesty doesn't like it when demons go over his head."
"Naturally," you mutter. "Not what I meant, though. I just didn't realize I'd been working so much."
"Yeah, yeah, time flies when you're having fun," he says, waving a hand. "Anyway, I really need the day off to go to Earth."
"And do what?"
His face lights up now. "I was summoned by a hot witch the other day, and I want to pay her a visit during the full moon."
"Ooooh, a date!" You lean in, actually interested in where the conversation is going now. "What are you going to do?"
"I don't know about a date," he says bashfully, cheeks turning pink. "I just want to see—"
"Soonyoung. How many times do you want me to threaten your life for distracting my assistant?"
The demon squeals, all the papers the two of you picked up exploding into confetti as they rain down around you again. You sigh, staring as they fall to the ground, deciding immediately you will not be gathering them a second time. You look to your left to find Jun suddenly standing next to you, hands in his pockets as he stares daggers at the demon. You narrow your eyes at your boss and think, yes. Yes, you would probably be scared to be on the receiving end of that look.
But you're not so you aren't. You smile.
"Hi Junnie," you greet him. His eyes flick down to you and he shoots you a flat expression at your usage of the juvenile nickname in front of his demon. "Soonyoung has a favor to ask you."
The man in question shoots you a panicked and betrayed look before grinning nervously at his boss, who turns his attention to him now. He continues giving him that stupid grin for several seconds, failing to say anything until Jun raises one eyebrow.
"Well?"
"Oh! I, um. I was wondering if—if I could have, uh—"
"Spit it out."
"If I—um, couldhavethenextfullmoonoff." He swallows nothing. "Please."
You roll your eyes at the anxiety-riddled request.
"Absolutely not," Jun says immediately, inspiring a small, stunned gasp from you. You don't think you've ever heard him deny someone of something. But then again, you've never heard anyone ask anything of him. "You know how busy full moons are."
"No, yeah, for sure, I'm so sorry," he rambles, bowing his head a few times before giggling nervously and waving a hand. "That was so silly. Yeah. Dumb of me. I was actually just kidding. Got you! So silly. Ha…"
"Oh, come on!" you whine on behalf of Soonyoung, who looks at you with wide eyes and shakes his head quickly, silently begging you to shut up. Jun looks down at you, turning to face you completely. "That's so mean! He asked nicely!" You pause, shrugging. "Nicely enough. Why can't he have the day off?"
"Because it's the full moon."
"Okay…" you elongate the word. "And there will be many more full moons. This is just one, and you have thousands of demons. When was the last time Soonyoung had a day off?"
Jun suddenly averts his eyes, clearing his throat uncomfortably. You turn to Soonyoung, who refuses to answer. You frown at your boss.
"He's… he's never had a day off…?" you ask, making it clear how appalled you are at the idea. Your lip curls up in disgust and you look him up and down judgmentally. "What kind of boss are you?"
You gawk at him as his cheeks begin to turn red.
"You don't give your employees days off? Ever? How old are you, Soonyoung? Like a million years old?"
"Okay, relax," he mutters.
"A million years, and no days off? That's really horrible, Junnie. You should be embarrassed. I am very disappoi—"
"Soonyoung, go ahead and take the full moon off ," Jun practically barks at him, taking your arm in his grip at the same time. "Enjoy your day off, and stop talking to my fucking assistant or I'll have you as a midday snack."
The last thing you see before Jun turns you around and guides you back down the hall and away from Soonyoung is the huge, grateful, and excited smile on his face. You giggle, the sound cut off by a startled squeak when you hear the demon bellow at a damned soul.
"What the hell are you looking at?! Pick these papers up and make me a thousand copies!"
When your boss releases you back at your desk, you sit down, already back to figuring out the purgatory auditorium issue. It takes a few seconds for you to realize Jun isn't going anywhere, though. You pause, looking up at him and tilting your head.
"What is it?" you ask.
"I am a great boss."
"Uh," you exhale in a laugh. "Yeah. I know."
"Do you? Because you—"
"Oh, Junnie," you sigh, rolling your eyes as you return your attention to your computer. "Soonyoung just deserves a day off." You're not sure that statement is true, but you'll be damned if anything stops you from getting the first date gossip you're guaranteed now. "I know you're a good boss."
"Hm."
"Hm," you mimic him, smiling a little. When you look back at him, his eyes are narrowed like he's not sure you're telling the truth. "I wouldn't be willingly working seven days a week if you weren't a good boss, okay?"
"Okay."
"Okay."
"Alright."
"Mhm."
"I'm just gonna—" he points at his desk, not bothering to finish his sentence as he disappears back into his office.
DAY THIRTY
You know something is wrong when you wake up on your own naturally, something you haven't done since you accepted the position with Jun. You frown from under your eye mask, hand coming up to rip it off your face. You slowly sit up, finding every single blanket and the duvet still atop you, and your eyes find the clock on the wall, finding that it's almost a full hour after your usual wake-up time.
"My alarm didn't go off," you mutter.
Jun is your alarm. Jun didn't go off. You shove the blankets off you, shivering a little as you slip off the bed and tuck your feet into your bunny slippers. You shuffle out of your bedroom, poking your head into the hall to find it barren and silent.
"Jun?" you call quietly, knowing he'll hear it regardless. He doesn't answer. You walk further out into the hall, going to the kitchen to find it empty. The coffee machine wasn't touched either, even though it's always on and ready in the morning.
Your anxiety spikes as you start to wonder if he left in the middle of the night without letting you know. You scramble back to your room for your tablet, pulling his calendar up and staring at it in confusion when you find nothing different than when you left it last night.
Meeting with Archangel Joshua
Marketing Team pitch
Block for contracts
Block for collection
Monthly Satan/God touchbase (leave 30m for travel to Purgatory)
Hellhound training check-in
Block for contracts
1:1 with Chief Torment Officer
His meeting with Joshua would've started five minutes ago, so maybe he was just running late and needed to go without you? When has he ever run late? You're not even sure he slept. He's had meetings much earlier than that and he never failed to wake you up and sit down for breakfast. You decide the only way you'll find out is if you head to the office and see if he's there. You're one leg into your pants when your phone starts ringing.
"Thanks for calling Hell. You've reached the Devil's office. How can I help you?" you half-grunt with your phone tucked between your ear and shoulder as you pull your pants on.
"Do you have any idea how busy archangels are?"
"Joshua!" you gasp, immediately forgetting your pants and leaving them unbuttoned as you take your phone into your hand. "Is Jun with you?"
"Funny," he says in a way that suggests he doesn't find that funny at all. You get the feeling you won't find what he says next humorous either. "I was about to ask you the same thing. He hasn't shown for our meeting, and while he's the most vexing person I've ever met, he's also never been late. I can only really wait ten more minutes before I have to go appear as a hallucination to some humans and ask them to build a home for the less fortunate."
You groan, free hand applying pressure to your temple and eyes squeezing shut. "You know what, just… go do that. I'm sorry about this. I accidentally double-booked him. Totally my fault. I'll work with your admin to reschedule. Sorry again." You figure you'll take the fall to keep Jun away from scrutiny until you can find out where the fuck he is.
"'Kay. Don't let it happen again," he sighs dramatically.
"Okay, relax, you glorified gnat with feathers," you scoff, continuing to get dressed. "I said sorry. Y'know what? Don't call me for these things in the future! Have Seungkwan do it next time. I don't want to be subjected to your whiny, little rants."
Joshua makes a noise of disbelief before laughing. "Wow, you're the perfect assistant for Satan. For the record, I was totally kidding. I got to sit here and do nothing but doom scroll, so I don't mind. But I will have my assistant call next time. Sorry for bothering you."
"Good. Don't let it happen again." You don't allow him a response, hanging up and gathering your things as you hurry to leave for the office.
But as you exit your room, you hear your name, called so softly, you would have missed it if you hadn't paused to make sure your tablet was on you. You freeze, frowning in the direction of the sound.
"Jun?" you call, mindlessly setting your bag down in the kitchen as you walk toward your boss's suite. You find his door at the end of the hall, a deep, dark blood red, open just a crack. You knock lightly, and when you don't hear anything, you poke your head through.
And there he is, your missing boss, still cocooned in his bed, his favorite Hellcat and Hellhound sleeping at his feet, the former passed out atop the latter.
"Junnie?" you call again. He groans this time.
"Y/N…" he murmurs, not moving an inch or opening his eyes.
You tiptoe into the room, making a kissy face at Key when the hound's tail starts wagging at the sight of you. The movement makes Lock slide off the dog, meowing helplessly as she does. You get to Jun's bedside and wince when you realize how sick he looks.
The Devil is pale, sweating with a sickly sheen, and looking so weak, it's the first time you've thought he could believably pass as human. You reach out to press the back of your hand to his forehead, but he swats it away.
"Hey!"
"Don't," he whispers, voice hoarse with fatigue. "Fever. I'll burn your skin off."
"Oh," you mutter, immediately taking your hand back. "You're sick. I didn't know the Devil could get sick."
"Demon Flu," he says, eyes fluttering open just enough to peek at you. "Soonyoung sneezed in my face the other day."
"Oh!" you blink at him in surprise. "Ew! Good to know! I will make a note to send him to the Hellhounds to serve as a chew toy for the day."
"Week."
"Got it," you say, nodding. You fidget a little, looking down at your boss with pity. He looks so helpless and sad and cute. You fight the urge to run your fingers through his damp hair. "What do you need? What can I do for you?"
"Nothing. I'll be down until 3:33 a.m. tomorrow," he informs you.
"Specific."
"Just… do… assistant things," he says pathetically, fingers twitching when he tries to wave his hand dismissively.
You can do that. Your first order of business is getting him a tall glass of water and force-feeding it to him until he has rivulets of water very distractingly dribbling down his chin, neck, and between his pecs, where it disappears under the covers.
Then, you get him a cold compress, screeching in surprise when the towel crackles and steams upon contact with his forehead. When that warms up within a minute, you try getting him an actual ice block, chipped straight off the furniture of his weird ice room. You take his moan of relief as a good thing and quickly get to work butchering the ice room until you have an endless supply of blocks for Jun's sizzling forehead.
When you're done with that, you make him the hot pot you made yourself one night and noticed he had several helpings of, spoon feeding it to him despite his several protests. After two slurps, though, there isn't much of a fight, with Jun relaxing back into his pillows and happily allowing you to feed him as he lets his eyes close. You pause, wondering if he fell asleep, but he immediately whines for his next spoonful.
"You're a baby when you're sick."
"I could die."
"You literally couldn't."
He slurps his latest spoonful of broth. "Feels like it."
"Mmm," you hum, smiling at how endearing he is when he doesn't have the energy to put up his big, bad act.
"Y'know…" he rasps, "when I said do assistant things, I meant at work."
"My work is making your life easier, no?" you counter, letting go of the spoon to pick up the chopsticks and pluck meat out of the broth for Jun to eat. He practically purrs when his mouth closes around the chopsticks, and you struggle not to watch his Adam's apple as he swallows. "So I am doing assistant things at work."
Jun opens his eyes, able to open them wider than he was when you first found him. "Just work, hm?"
You set the chopsticks down and pick up the spoon to chase his bite down with broth, but his fingers circle around your wrist, stopping before the spoon can touch his lips. His grip is hot but it doesn't hurt—not how you imagine his face would. "You're full?"
"Why are you feeding me?"
You raise your eyebrows at him. "Because you're sick and need to eat…?"
Jun's eyes narrow infinitesimally, but he releases your wrist, allowing you to feed him more broth.
"Not used to being cared for, are you?" you observe, chuckling. "Big, bad Devil has never been spoonfed?" Your boss rolls his eyes but doesn't entertain you by acknowledging your question.
After a few more bites, his long, slender fingers gently push the bowl away, and he shakes his head, muttering a quiet thank you as you set the food aside on his nightstand. You stand, pulling his blankets up even higher when you see him shiver.
"You don't have to do all this," he sighs as you shove your fingers under his back and legs, tucking his blankets in along his entire body until he looks like an oversized, swaddled baby. "It's not in your employment agreement. Go work."
"I will," you say, rolling your eyes at his stubbornness. "And you realize I can help you without being contractually obligated to, right?" you ask, laughing and collecting all the dishes you need to bring back to the kitchen. "You don't need to have me sign my soul away to get me to care, Junnie. I know I don't need to do any of this. Consider it a friend-slash-roommate helping you."
You finish cleaning up and don't allow him the chance to retort or protest, immediately turning away and calling Lock and Key to follow you out of the room.
"Come on, kiddies," you coo as his pets exit. "Your daddy needs to rest." You glance back up at Jun, who stares at you hard with a deep frown on his face. "Call if you need anything. I'll stay nearby and check on you in an hour!"
DAY THIRTY-SIX
Jun has been weird around you for the last week. It's like that dumb flu of his altered his brain chemistry and made him cold and detached.
There was no more going into your room to wake you up; now he has a shrill alarm clock appear to scream in your ear like a demented banshee, disappearing every time you try to smack wherever its snooze button is. He no longer sits for breakfast with you; now, he tells you he needs to be at the office ahead of you and will simply meet you there. Thankfully, he allows you to continue accompanying him to his summonings, but with how weird he's acting, you wonder if it would be better to just face your fears and be alone.
You attempted to talk to him throughout the week, trying not to take it personally when all you got were one-worded responses or grunts or blank stares.
Three days in, you started slacking a little to force him to say more than one word to you. You scheduled meetings so he'd show up ten minutes late. You sent a Hell-wide email promising everyone a four-day work week if quotas were met. You even threatened to release the lower-level sinners from their torture chambers to cause trouble for the archangels. All that got you was a severe glare, and a notice from Demon Resources that one more mistake would get you on a performance improvement plan, which you were informed would involve giving the Hellhounds baths alongside the damned souls in charge of that.
It's clear that Jun is in a mood—probably the aftereffects of the mysterious Demon Flu you can't catch. You've resigned yourself to riding it out, accepting that even the Devil is prone to tantrums and mood swings.
The phone on your desk rings, and you heave a tired sigh before answering.
"Hi. You've reached the desk of The Supreme Lord of Sulkiness," you greet loudly, ignoring the series of choked coughs that erupt from your boss's office behind you. "How may I help you?"
"Oh, uh…" the voice pauses like they're checking something. "This is His Infernal Majesty's desk, correct?"
"Yep, that's what I just saaaaid," you sing-song. "Now how can I help you?"
"This is the front desk. We have an archangel on the line that insists on speaking with His Infernal Majesty."
You roll your eyes. "Who is it?"
"Archangel Brayden…?"
The idiot is the biggest pain in your ass. You're not even sure why he constantly asks after Jun when Joshua is the archangel appointed with all relations having to do with Hell. It's probably a weird power play in Heaven that you're not privy to, but you've been dodging him for days now.
"Tell him he's not available."
"He is threatening to visit for the third time this week."
"Jesus Christ," you mutter.
"You want me to transfer him to Christ?"
You frown deeply at that. "What? We can transfer him to—wait, what?"
"You said—"
"Never mind, just—ugh," you groan in frustration, resting your elbows on the desk and cradling your head in your free hand. "Put him through."
"Will do." The line cuts to the agonized screams of damned souls as you wait for her to transfer him to you.
"Hello?" his dumb voice drifts through the receiver.
"Hi. You've reached the desk of—"
"Who am I speaking to?"
You clamp your mouth shut, rolling your lips between your teeth to keep from immediately snapping at him. When you're sure you won't, you state your name.
He still manages to say it wrong, but you don't bother correcting him. "I need a meeting with Satan."
"And why is that?"
He laughs arrogantly. "That's between me and him."
"Well, he's busy."
"I haven't even given you my availability."
"Don't need yours. I have his, and he's busy." You tack on "for the rest of time" for good measure.
There's a loaded silence long enough that you wonder if you've effectively driven him into hanging up. Of course, that would be too easy. "You really don't want to mouth off with me."
"Excuse me?" You huff a laugh of disbelief. You swear some of these angels are bigger assholes than the demons crawling around here.
"You heard me," he seethes. You feel your self-control dissolving by the second. "Now you can either transfer me to your boss like a good, little demon slave—"
"I am literally none of those four things."
"—or," he near-shouts over you, "you can put me in his books. This is a very important meeting, and I'd hate for you to have your soul ripped apart for failing to schedule it."
"Listen here," you hiss, "you repulsive, pretentious, foul excuse for an—"
"Brayden."
You freeze as Jun's voice cuts into the call. You turn toward his office to find him leaning against his desk, arms crossed over his chest and legs crossed at the ankles. His eyes slide over to you and he lazily lifts a hand and beckons you over with two fingers. You quickly hang the phone up and stand, entering Jun's office in time to catch the archangel bumbling nonsensically on speakerphone.
He nods at the seats in front of him and you take one, slowly lowering yourself as he speaks.
"I don't believe we've met," Jun says, interrupting his stuttering.
"Um, no, we haven't! I just wanted to schedule a coffee chat to introduce myself!" You glare at the phone. A coffee chat is his very important meeting?
"What a fucking tool," you murmur.
"A coffee chat," the Devil repeats.
"Yes. I figured Hell is a huge place. Maybe you need two archangels to serve as point. I'd love to put my name in the ring—"
"And you thought threatening my assistant was the best way to do it?" Jun asks, face blank as he stares at you.
"Oh, no," he says, laughing like it's a joke, "No, no, definitely not. I was not threatening her."
"Hm."
You've grown accustomed to Jun's many variations of hm. There's his thoughtful hm. The hm when he's trying not to smile or laugh. His angry hm. The that-is-the-dumbest-thing-I've-ever-fucking-heard hm. A hm reserved especially for when Soonyoung annoys him. This one isn't one you're familiar with.
"What was it you were saying about her soul being torn apart?" Saying the words again makes Jun's eyes turn a deep red. His hands turn into fists, making the veins running up his forearm pop.
"I was joking!" Brayden insists. "I was totally joking. She and I joke like that! We—"
"Lie to me one more time and I'll have God cast you out of Heaven so fast, you won't know how you ended up in my Hellhound's digestive system."
The line falls silent, and your body does interesting things in reaction to the words—the most obvious one being the odd ache between your legs. You fidget a little, finger slipping into your collar and pulling a little as you begin to feel warm.
"How long have you been an archangel, Brayden?"
"Uh, well, heh," he laughs nervously. "So, I'm not quite an archangel yet. I'm—"
Jun cuts him off with a sharp, terrifying laugh. "And now you never will be," he informs him. "I'm sure both Archangel Joshua and God will agree that you aren't fit for that role."
He squeaks in protest. "I—"
"Wow, how productive!" Jun says with feigned glee. "Look at us, we had a great chat and we didn't even need to waste time breathing each other's air or ruining the joys of drinking caffeine."
"Uh, I, um, sir—"
"Have any other demands you'd like to make?"
"No," he answers immediately. "No, I… I don't. I'm sorry. I—"
"Perfect," he says. "Now if you'll apologize to my assistant, we can get on with our lives. And make it good, Brayden. I don't like to repeat orders."
"I'm so sorry," Brayden grovels, sounding like he's on the verge of tears, if not fully crying already. He sniffles and his voice cracks on his next words. "I don't know why I was acting like such an asshole and bothering all of you when I had no business going over Archangel Joshua's head like that. I'm sorry, Satan."
Jun narrows his eyes. "I don't want your apologies."
"I'm sorry, Y/N."
"Hm," he accepts it. "Then I think our business is done. And Brayden?"
"Yes?" his voice trembles.
"If I hear that you called anyone here in Hell again, let alone my assistant," he starts, eyes flashing a bright and violent scarlet now, "I will personally come up there, pluck you right out of the fucking sky, and take my sweet, sweet time flaying you with a dull butter knife—wings and all—before I tear your soul apart, piece by agonizing piece myself."
There's a loud sniffle followed by a whimper on the line, but the ache inside you is so strong now, you can't even enjoy the sound.
"And if you think my friendships with your superiors will stop me, you are so sorely mistaken." His pause is pregnant with tension, his eyes boring into you as he lands his final threat. "I have absolutely no problem with starting a war over you."
The words send a chill down your spine, and you cross your legs tightly to keep from twitching at the sensation. You grip the arms of your chair and avert your eyes from your boss, trying to understand what the fuck is happening to your body right now. You quietly blow a breath out through your mouth when the sensation doesn't let up.
As expected, the angel doesn't have a proper response to that.
"Good talk, Brayden," Jun says sardonically. "Don't let me hear your voice ever again."
He reaches over and presses a button on his phone, ending the call. He looks back to you, his eyes finally fading back to that deep, comforting brown. He sighs, seeming suddenly and significantly less sure of himself than he was on the phone.
"Um," he clears his throat, coughing a little as he grips the edge of his desk with both hands. He looks down at his lap and inhales deeply. His breath is spicy with the smell of your chips on his exhale, blowing strands of your hair away from your face. "Sorry."
"Why?" you laugh in disbelief. The sound must unwind something in him because his posture relaxes and he looks back up at you. "That was amazing!"
He snorts, shaking his head at himself. "Yeah, well. It's going to result in a lot of discussions with God and Joshua, so… please find something on their calendars."
"Got it, boss," you say, standing to return to your own desk.
Before you get far, though, Jun calls your name, the syllables sounding weird from him—much softer and gentler than you've ever heard him be. It almost triggers your fight or flight for some reason.
"Yeah?" you ask slowly, eyes flitting about the room nervously.
"You don't have to stay on calls like that for my sake," he tells you, crossing his arms again, this time like he's almost trying to protect himself from you. "I know you took the blame for me missing all my meetings while sick, and I know you try to deal with all kinds of bullshit because you don't want people to think the Devil hired someone without a backbone."
The words strike a chord with you that you didn't realize even existed. Did you do that? If you think about it, you can see why your boss would think so. Day in and day out, no matter how much attitude you gave to whoever you were talking to, you still stayed and dealt with the problem so that the others would find you reliable—so that they wouldn't have to bring it to Jun.
You also took the blame for the missed meetings because Jun's health wasn't anyone's business, not until he made it clear it was okay to share with others, anyway. No one needed to know he missed a few meetings without notice.
"So… don't do that," Jun says, sighing. "Assholes—whether in Heaven or Hell—they're always going to try and give you a hard time because they're too scared to say it to my face. And I know without a doubt that you can handle it, but… you're not my shield, okay?"
"Okay."
"I know you were about to rip that prick a new asshole," he continues, making you smile, "but I want you to feel like you can do that from the jump if you need to. Next time, just tell him to fuck off. Or hang up. Or bring me in. Whatever. If anyone has an issue with the way you work, they can talk to me. Just… don't sit there and take it."
You nod slowly. "Alright, I won't… thanks."
"Mhm."
"Hey, Junnie," you say suddenly, taking advantage of his sudden willingness to talk to you now. He hums again, nodding for you to go on, his eyes skimming every surface of your face. It isn't until this moment that you realize he hasn't properly looked at you in a week. "Um. Are we good?"
He frowns. "What do you mean?"
"You've just been…" you trail off, shrugging. "I don't know, a little cold lately?" You hate how pathetic and whiny it makes you sound. "And if it's because I did something wrong, well, I would just like to remind you that our agreement can only be terminated by my death, the collapse of reality, or mutual agreement."
The corner of his mouth twitches upward, but his expression stays serious and he keeps taking his time watching you. So much time, you start to wring your hands nervously. Finally, when he seems to be finished with studying every last millimeter of your face, he shakes his head.
"You haven't done anything wrong," he assures you, sounding tired. "I was just feeling weird. I'm okay, though. We're okay. You don't have to worry about termination. You've made it clear I'm stuck with you."
You grin, nodding. "Good. Because I have grown very accustomed to my unlimited interior design budget and my 1,000-thread-count sheets."
He snorts, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure you have. Now go schedule me a coffee chat with God and Joshua for tomorrow, please. Move things around if you must. I'm sure Brayden has gone crying about it to Mommy by now."
You laugh. "Will do."
You leave his office feeling lighter than you have all week.
DAY THIRTY-SEVEN
Jun: where tf r u
Me: have a dr appt!!!
Jun: what why r u ok
Jun: i'll come over
Me: no it's ok it's just a check-up
Jun: liar we don't do check-ups in hell
Me: yeah well i am human and i need a check-up
Jun: u sure ur ok?
Me: yes! i'll be in the office soon.
Jun: fine… if a few hellhounds find u just send them back
Me: bruh
Me: did you give the dogs my scent to find me???
Jun: u never wake up before me let alone leave the house before me
Me: you could have just called
Jun: k wtvr noted
Me: 23 HELLHOUNDS IS NOT A FEW JUNNIE WTF
Jun: SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP JUST SEND THEM BACK
"His Infernal Majesty seems to be very… protective over you," the doctor observes, still clearly annoyed with having 23 fire-breathing Hellhounds at her door.
You wave a hand and laugh uncomfortably. "Oh, he's just a very concerned and, uh, considerate person."
The doctor just stares. "The Devil. Considerate. Right."
"Um. So anyway," you clear your throat, desperate to change the subject. "Do you have experience with humans?"
"No, but I will do everything I can to ensure you leave healthy." Her voice is stern and uncompromising, and you suddenly feel like you're in a principal's office rather than a doctor's. She sits down on a rolling stool, scoots closer to the table you're perched on, and mutters, "Wouldn't want more Hellhounds plowing my door down, ready to melt my face off because the Devil's charge was unhappy."
You shift on the table a bit uncomfortably but smile. It's clear that she will not be forgetting about the 23 Hellhounds sent to her office just because a human wasn't in bed when the Devil woke up anytime soon. Not while you're still in her office, at least.
Jun wouldn't do anything to her anyway. You'd probably just go to a doctor on Earth next time if Hell's medical services weren't sufficient.
"So what brings you in today?" she sighs, crossing her legs and folding her hands over her knees.
"Right, so I experienced something weird yesterday," you start. "I had a stressful workplace issue and my body reacted very unexpectedly, and I now require medical attention."
The doctor frowns, rolling closer to you on her stool. "Okay, if you're comfortable, can you describe the stressful event and how your body reacted?"
"Well, an angel was harassing the front desk so they had him talk to me, and then he started saying all this foul shit—"
"Brayden."
Your eyebrows shoot up. "Yes! How did you know?"
"He's called every department of this Devil-forsaken hellscape," she says, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. "How is a demon doctor supposed to get an archangel a meeting with the Devil?"
You scoff. "Well, he's not an archangel, and it was just a coffee chat."
The doctor snorts, and as you watch her terse personality start to melt, you deem it safe to dive into the full story. By the end of it, she's clapping and giggling, a massive difference from when she was forced to face 23 Hellhounds.
"Wow, that's very attractive of His Infernal Majesty."
You frown. "What?"
She raises an eyebrow at you. "You don't think so?"
"Uh…" You're stumped.
It's not that you've never found anyone attractive… actually, it absolutely is that you've never found anyone attractive.
You tried dating but stopped years ago when you recognized that you were doing it because you felt an obligation to. All your friends were dating or in long-term committed relationships—or at the very least, sleeping around. Dating apps seemed like something you were supposed to do. You quickly shut that idea down. Romance wasn't a hole you've felt in your life so it's not one you lingered on or thought about often. Sure, you knew when people were beautiful or handsome or hot or cute—you know without a doubt that Jun is all of the above. But attraction is harder. You're not sure you've ever felt it.
"You've never felt attraction." Your eyes widen at the demon physician.
"Can you read minds?"
She snorts. "No. I can read your face." She narrows her eyes at you and nods. "And I think I know what happened to you."
"But I haven't given you my symptoms."
"Let me guess," she says, crossing her arms and scooting her stool back so she can lean against the counter behind her. "Elevated heart rate, flushing, perspiration… maybe some pain in the abdominal area or… lower."
You stare at her. "Are you sure you can't read my mind?"
She smirks. "I'm sure, human." She sighs. "You're going to be perfectly fine. Though I do recommend you explore options for therapy."
You startle. "What? Why?"
"Because what you felt was arousal," she reveals, "and I'm guessing you might need someone to process those thoughts about your boss with and it will not be me."
You choke on nothing, triggering a coughing attack that lasts embarrassingly long. When you finally stop, your chest is heaving and the doctor is staring at you blankly.
"Are you done?"
"Coughing? Yes. With you? Absolutely not," you inform her, ignoring the way she sighs like this is an inconvenience. "What do you mean arousal?"
"I mean, you found His Infernal Majesty's defense of you attractive and your body responded accordingly. Very strongly—much more strongly than anyone else probably would—but accordingly."
Your face turns Hellfire hot, and you wish the dogs had barbecued you while they were here.
"You have nothing to worry about as far as your health is concerned. These feelings are very natural." She thinks for a moment before adding: "For humans. Demons are better at discretion."
"But… he was just being nice… why would that be attractive?"
She shrugs. "The bar is in Hell, literally."
"Oh god…" you murmur. Is this what happened to your friends when they insisted that a man paying half the bill after ordering several cocktails to their one water was modern day romance?
"I will say…" she starts, looking a little hesitant as she does.
"You can say it," you encourage her. "I won't tell anyone. HIPAA, right?"
"One, that's an American thing, and two, that's meant to protect the patient's privacy, not the other way around."
"Whatever," you sigh. "You get it."
"Between us girls," she says, even though you two aren't even of the same species. It makes you smile. "I understand why your body would react the way it did. It is quite nice to feel protected and safe."
"Protected and safe," you echo quietly.
"Mhm. Has anyone ever made you feel that?"
The answer comes to you fast. No. No one has ever made you feel protected or safe. That has been your own responsibility since you were four. Still, it takes you a moment to answer because you realize that although that would've been the answer a few months ago, it's more complicated now.
Now, the answer is: no. No one has ever made you feel that way. Not until Jun.
"Can I have a referral to that therapist?"
She smiles. "I'll give you a list of recs, but this isn't that putrid Hell hole you call Earth; you don't need a referral to seek healthcare."
"Right."
When you get into the office and Jun apologizes for the Hellhounds and asks if everything was fine at the doctor's (and if he needs to throw anyone into a vat of boiling oil), you feel your symptoms again. And you know Hell's doctor is right.
DAY FORTY-TWO
Hell is closed tomorrow, and it's all thanks to you. You hope that you'll be included in some sort of history book for this. Every demon you've come across has made it clear that you deserve to be anyway. Because after the debacle with Soonyoung's day off and a single complaint you made to Jun about how Hell doesn't have enough paid holidays, the underworld now has Demon Appreciation Day (DAD!), an unprecedented day off for all of Hell's employees as a thank you for their hard work terrorizing humans.
Unfortunately, it also means the damned souls get a break from torment, but Jeonghan, Chief Torment and Innovation Officer, has assured Jun he's already on it, figuring out ways to automate torture for one day so that the worst human beings in history do not get a break ever again.
"What are you going to do for DAD?" Soonyoung asks the current watercooler demon on shift as soon as she's done small talking a damned soul to tears.
"I'm going to abstain from speaking to anyone." You smile at the answer as you get your own cup of water.
"Oh," Soonyoung chirps, nodding slowly. She glares at him and he immediately walks away, beckoning you to hurry. "We don't want to mess with Jeongyeon when her social battery is dead." You wave bye to her and she winks at you. You know very well her social battery is always dead around Soonyoung no matter what. "Anyway, what are you, our amazing Queen of DAD, going to do on your day off?"
"Queen is a little excessive," you say, not very keen on taking a title that would encroach on any of Jun's millions, even as a joke. "Maybe mayor."
Soonyoung clearly doesn't like the suggested edit, scoffing. "No. Queen is fitting."
You roll your eyes. "Sure."
"What? It is! You're the reason we have our first mandated day off ever!" the demon reminds you. His mouth twists into a mischievous smirk now. "Plus, with all the rumors going 'round, 'queen' is perfect for our king."
You stop in your tracks. "What?"
He giggles so obnoxiously, you slap his arm more out of reflex than anything else. He gasps, rubbing the spot dramatically. "What?! I'm just the messenger! Everyone is talking about it."
"About what?"
"About how His Infernal Majesty must be in love with you if he's willing to create an entire day off just for you."
The words make your stomach jump into your throat. Ever since your appointment, you've been paying extra attention to your feelings, and you're convinced you actually have no idea what anything feels like. Have you ever properly known what you were feeling? What is a feeling anyway?
When Jun ripped the blankets off you in the morning, did you feel annoyed, furious, or helpless?
When Jun wordlessly handed you your coffee, did you feel grateful, enamored, or nothing at all because you were still half asleep?
When he wrapped his long ass fingers around your wrist to travel to Earth for summonings, did you feel giddy, excited, or grateful that you wouldn't be alone at home?
When Soonyoung says that there are rumors that Jun is in love with you, do you feel confused, anxious, or endlessly irritated with the demon?
Since you haven't had a chance to see a therapist, you pick the last one.
You scoff. "It isn't for me, you idiot. I just floated the idea by him."
"And any idea you float by him becomes a fully fleshed out thing by the end of the day."
"Okay, so he's a good and receptive boss."
His eyebrows rise at that. "He's the Devil."
Touché. "It's ridiculous."
"That he loves you to the point of invention? No, I d—"
You shove him into the wall, effectively making him spill his water all over himself. "Hey! You can't just go hitting people f—"
"Actually, I can!" you correct him, walking away. "Jun explicitly gave me permission to do whatever the fuck I want! So take it up with him!"
What a ridiculous rumor from an even more ridiculous demon.
Of all the much cooler rumors that could've been made, that one is the one they settled on? If you knew that's the news that would be spreading, you would've started your own rumors about yourself. Like you're actually God's super cool daughter and this is just a nepotism internship before you become the heiress of Heaven. Or that Hell is just a simulation being run by a crazy scientist named Jun and your arrival marks the imminent end of the experiment—an antichrist of sorts. Kind of poetic.
But the Devil being in love with his assistant? Both impossible and cliche and scary to think about because you don't think you'd be able to pick up on it even if it were possible.
When you return home, you're debating telling Jun about this rumor just to watch him stutter and squirm and turn red (and maybe make plans to disembowel a demon or two), but that's all forgotten when you find your boss back early from a meeting with God he took in purgatory. And endearingly enough, he's sprawled across the couch with both Lock and Key on his stomach and leg respectively, all three of them fast asleep.
You grin, taking several photos before you pocket your phone and watch his chest rise and fall, slowly coming to the realization that Jun needed this break too. You've never seen the man nap, and up until the day he got sick, you were still convinced he never even slept at all. If he's taking a nap, you know it's because he badly needs it. You're determined to leave him be, but you hear your name just as you're about to leave the living room.
"Hey," you greet him, smiling at how confused and sleepy he looks as he lifts his head and stares at his pets. "Sorry, did I wake you?"
He shakes his head, letting it plop back onto the couch when it's clear Lock and Key have no intention of moving. "No, I've been napping long enough," he says, his voice deep and gravely with sleep. You shift your weight from foot to foot as he continues speaking, settling for squeezing your thighs together when your sudden discomfort isn't alleviated. Oh god. Is this arousal again? "God cancelled last minute." He yawns, mouth opening comically wide. "Something about a miracle gone wrong."
"Ah," you nod, walking over to the three of them and taking the empty sectional by his head while you try to get yours to shut up. "What are your plans for this rare afternoon off then?" you ask. "And for DAD?"
Jun tilts his head up to look at you. "Stop calling it that," he deadpans.
"No," you say simply. "It's my holiday and I will call it what I want."
You expect him to point out it isn't your holiday; after all, you aren't even a demon. You're just the catalyst behind something that was a long time coming. But the argument doesn't come. Instead, your boss sighs and straightens his head again, staring at the ceiling.
"Fair enough, I suppose."
You raise your eyebrows, smiling. You're about to point out he basically just agreed that it's your holiday when you hear Soonyoung's stupid voice in the back of your mind. He created a holiday for you. Is that not a man who loves you?
You shudder, shaking a little like that will exorcise the demon from your subconscious.
"You okay?" Jun asks, looking back up at you.
"Huh? Yeah." You struggle to wipe the frown off your face before looking down at the Devil. "Want dinner?"
"Hot pot?"
"I've made hot pot several times this month," you groan. "Are you not tired of it?"
He looks at you like you're crazy. "No?" He sits up abruptly without removing Lock from his stomach first, and the cat releases an ear-piercing yowl before jumping off him. Key follows suit as Jun pulls his legs away and plants his feet on the floor. "You humans tire of things so fast. It's why you're all so vulnerable to temptation."
"Pfft. Me? Prone to temptation?" You pause and think of all the material things you've forced Jun to buy you under the guise of it being absolutely necessary for your productivity as his assistant. You shrug. "Okay, yeah. That is true."
Jun smirks and shakes his head. "Come on. Let's eat."
You nod, following him as he gets up ahead of you and walks into the kitchen. You slow at the door when you find him leaning his back against the fridge, his arms crossed and his lips pursed. He's blushing slightly, and he looks like he almost regrets doing this.
"Happy DAD, I guess."
The kitchen is decorated in every possible shade of pink you've ever seen—balloons, streamers, tinsel, confetti, a sign that says Demon Human Appreciation Day! And in the middle of the kitchen island is a cake, and just looking at it, you know it's not like the blood-based desserts that the demons around here like to indulge in.
"I never had a meeting with God," Jun mutters. "I just had you put that in for me. I was actually meeting Joshua to get this. It's angel cake. Actual angel cake. They use stardust sugar, moon milk, morning dew, and cloudberries. Figured you'd prefer this over devil's cake… actual devil's cake."
You stare at it, decorated beautifully with piped frosting and fresh berries. It's a pale pink—so pale, it looks white compared to the other shades that litter the space—and its frosting just barely glitters under the light. The top reads, Best Human Ever.
"Of course, the angels chose the message. To be clear, I would never call you the best."
You're finally snapped out of your daze at the words, which prompt you to roll your eyes. "Yes because you would use something much better. Like Most Perfect Human Ever, right, Junnie?"
His blush deepens and he glares at the wall across from him. "No."
You look around, stunned by the display of appreciation, especially for someone who was technically just fulfilling her part of the contract. You've never even gotten a birthday party thrown for you, and the happiness you're filled with threatens to strangle you. You swallow the knot forming in your throat, thinking that maybe DAD is your favorite holiday.
"Can I hug you?"
"Absolutely not."
"Oh come on!" you whine, already walking to him with open arms. "You can't do something so kind and cute and wonderful and not accept a hug!"
He backs away from you, hands splayed in front of him to keep you away. "The Devil doesn't do hugs."
"The Devil probably also doesn't have a history of showing his assistant appreciation," you point out. "Or securing her an angel cake she's going to eat in one sitting!"
Jun pauses, frowning. "One sitting?! It's meant to serve 10 people!"
"Give me a hug!" you shriek, jumping at him.
He, of course, disappears. You stumble into the space he was just standing in and gasp in mock offense at being evaded. You spin around, pouting, and find him right behind you, glaring. You sigh.
"Okay, if you're really not consenting to a hug, I will not force you into one. But if you're just being an emotionally constipated weirdo, I would ask that you suppress that for DAD and allow just one—" You hold up one finger for emphasis. "—hug. Please."
Jun's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows nothing, his eyes zoning out on something above your head. He shakes his head and sighs. "Fine. One hug, bu—oof."
You don't wait for him to finish his sentence, hugging him so tightly, you immediately start sweating from the heat radiating through his clothes. But you don't care, tightening your arms around his waist and pressing your cheek as far into his chest as it will go. You're on the verge of tears and your boss doesn't need to see it.
When he realizes you fully intend on making your hug last more than a millisecond, a single hand comes up to rest on your shoulder, thumb hesitantly sweeping back and forth in a comforting caress.
For the first time in several days, you don't bother to check in with your feelings and you decide maybe it's time to stop. Because this just feels nice, and if it feels nice, then that's all you want to know. Everything else is noise that threatens to pop this bubble of safety you're in—Jun's arms. You decide then that the nuances of your happiness are none of your business as long as you are happy. Happy. Something you're starting to think you've never fully been now that you've truly experienced it here, in Hell.
"Thank you, Junnie," you mumble against his chest. You know it's easy to tell you've been brought to tears from the way your watery voice trembles, but thankfully, the Devil doesn't point it out. "You don't know how much this means to me."
He sighs, squeezing your shoulder. "I think I do." After a moment, he adds: "Thanks for everything you do for Hell… and for me. You are very…" He clears his throat uncomfortably, "… appreciated here."
You smile, sighing as you finally pull away from him, wiping at your eyes discreetly as you do. "Thank you. Now let me make you hot pot and let's eat this cake."
You turn away fast to hide your glassy eyes, missing the way Jun rests a palm to his chest where you had just been pressed against him.
JOIN MY PERMANENT TAG LIST • next part »
A/N: again, this is already done and tumblr just kept me from keeping this a one shot bc of its 1000 block limit bc it HATES ME! i've queued the next part to release this wed 7/1 so pls stay tuned! :)
🔞 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: 20.6K / 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, kinda toxic junhui in pt2 but bruh he's the devil so
SMUT (IN PT. 2): 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: mad bc this is DONE and tumblr just doesn't want to let me post bc it exceeds the 1000 block limit. and i'm way too lazy to ctrl+shift every fucking paragraph in this. so. two parts it is. you can see when the next part will be published in the second A/N at the end. anyway, this was supposed to be ready by jun's birthday but work decided to ruin my life. belated happy bubonic boy day. this is based off a dream i had on june 14, 2025; i know bc i wrote it in my notes app the morning after LOL. this is needlessly long and reads like a sitcom with a lot of filler episodes but idc i love devil hui bwahahaha. enjoy love ya bye.
DAY ONE
"AND THIS WILL BE YOUR LIVING QUARTERS. DO YOU HAVE ANY QUESTIONS?"
You stare up at the man, baffled. The stranger who was waiting for you in your living room when you drunkenly stumbled home could not look any less bothered if he tried. He had been seated in the secondhand armchair you bought off Facebook Marketplace, and he looked way too expensive to have his ass touching something you kept telling yourself had no business being resold to you. He was dressed head to toe in black—all impressively the same exact shade of black, a feat you had yet to master—looking like he had stepped right off a runway and into your dingy apartment, which was probably the only reason you hadn't immediately screamed.
His eyes flicked over to you lazily as your door slammed shut behind you and you tripped over your heels, catching yourself on the corner of your kitchen island before realizing you weren't alone. He had one leg crossed over the other and one hand shoved into your last bag of ghost pepper chips as he stared at you like you were intruding on his space. Then, he withdrew his hand, shoved his pepper dusted fingers into his mouth, sucked briefly, wiped his fingers onto your armchair, then snapped. Your bag of chips promptly disappeared and he stood up. It wasn't even his presence or the chips disappearing without an explanation. It was his height that startled you back to your senses.
You weren't short by any means, but the man towered over you anyway, and you came to the sobering realization that being trapped in a space with a man that size would lead to very horrible things. Well, you were correct. Because before you could even finish inhaling to let out the loudest scream you were capable of, he was in front of you, huge hand clamping over your mouth and squeezing your cheeks together. What you were sure was a Guinness World Record-worthy scream became a pathetic squeak.
The sound, infuriatingly, made the man smirk, your eyes coming down to the small mole right above his lip. He raised a single eyebrow at you before stating your full government name. "That you?"
Your wide eyes must have answered the question for you because he didn't wait for verbal confirmation.
"Lovely." And then somehow, you were here. Wherever the fuck here is. Maybe you blacked out on the way. Maybe you're too drunk to remember how you got here. Either way, here is where you are now.
"Do I have any questions?" you shriek, stomping a foot. Your heel clacks against the pretentious black marble flooring, and you have half a mind to kick them off and throw both at the man's head. "You not only kidnapped me, but you kidnapped me while in my clubbing clothes, bro."
You look down at yourself, disheveled from a night out trying desperately to be sober enough to wrangle other, drunker friends to stay together. Your dress is no longer hugging you in places it was at the beginning of the night, your knees are scraped from where you ate shit trying to chase a friend down the street, and you're sure your hair is trying its best to become a suitable bird's nest.
"Jasmine threw up on me tonight," you inform him, mouth twisting in disgust at the small darkened spot on the edge of your dress where the birthday girl had missed the toilet by a mere inch. "You couldn't have let me change first?"
You startle when he snaps and you feel silk against your skin. You look down to find yourself in a black pajama set, perfectly fitted to you, the bottoms falling just shy of the floor and the sleeves just long enough to make sweater paws if you want them but short enough that they aren't a hindrance.
"Ew," you mutter. "I didn't even shower."
"Luckily for you, you have an en suite," he points out, nodding at the door across the massive bedroom.
"I don't have toiletries."
"You'll find it appropriately stocked."
"But what about my skincare?"
"Again. Appropriately stocked."
"You don't even know my skin concerns."
"Oily on the chin and T-zone, dry everywhere else. Terrible hormonal acne during your period or when you're stressed," he recites like he studied this information. Your mouth pops open in either awe or humiliation—you're not even sure. "You struggle with water intake throughout the day so you'll find a litany of moisturizing products in there. Also, maybe you should start using retinoids." His eyes go to your forehead. "You crinkle your eyebrows a lot. You'll get fine lines soon."
You gasp, slapping a hand over your forehead. "You asshole."
"I'm the asshole giving you all the skincare you could possibly ever want."
"You're the asshole kidnapping me!" you scream the last two words, finally losing your patience.
You thought your best bet would be finding a way to escape wherever you are once the man left you alone, but the mere mention of fine lines kicks you into fight or flight. You swing your tiny shoulder purse at his stomach as hard as you can, satisfied when you hear a soft oof from his lips. You shove past him, your new bunny slippers slowing you down considerably as you stumble down the pristine hallway. You only get to the corner before you slam into what feels like a wall, eating shit for the second time tonight.
"Ugh," you grunt as your ass meets the floor and you're laid out flat on your back. "Ow." You groan, hand coming to your ass while the other attempts to prop you up. You open your eyes to find the stranger crouching down in front of you, amused at your weak attempt at freedom. You glower at him as you massage your butt. "I hate you."
"And you're only going to hate me more," he mutters. The words give you pause. "You have free reign in my home." He stands now, tucking his large hands into the pockets of his slacks. "You can try to run but you'll find you can't. So you might as well get comfortable, and when you've finally come to terms with your circumstances… we'll talk."
Without another word, he disappears right before your very eyes.
DAY FOUR
For three days, you tried everything you could to escape.
You found your phone in your purse and tried calling your friends. They answered and you could talk, but as soon as you tried to tell them you'd been kidnapped, your mouth would suddenly be incapable of moving—like your lips had been glued shut. Terrifyingly enough, on your third call, you walked to the vanity in your room and found your mouth just gone any time you tried to say anything that had to do with the stranger and his house of horrors.
The most horrific thing being that it has no windows or exits. Every single door you've found and tried in this laughably huge house has led to a bedroom, a study, a library, a home theater, a gym, or a space that made no sense to you—one with nothing but racks and racks of clothes and shoes from what looked like every, single period of time in history, ever. Another stuffed to the brim with huge stacks of papers that reached the ceiling. Another with A/C blasting hard, presumably to keep the furniture completely crafted from ice inside rock solid.
The house made no sense, but in that way, it made perfect sense that it belonged to the weirdo that kidnapped you. Now, it's day four, you know the house like the back of your hand, and all your phone calls are spent pretending like you're fine while Stella tells you about her piece of shit boyfriend and begs you not to tell Marisol so she won't hate him any more than she already does. Please. If you're going to tell Marisol anything, it's going to be about your piece of shit kidnapper.
But beyond calling for help and finding an escape, you find that you're fresh out of ideas to find your way out. And sensing that, the stranger appears at your bedroom door first thing when you wake up, a small smirk on those pink lips as he leans against the doorframe, long, lean and dressed in a different variation of the same, black outfit. This time, with a winter coat that comes down to his ankles dramatically.
"Good morning. Kind of."
You scoff, pulling your eye mask back down over your eyes. "It's the middle of summer, you psycho."
"Had some business in Australia."
You freeze for a moment before shoving up one side of your eye mask and peeking at him. "Australia."
He nods. "Yup. Heard of it? Odd place with huge spiders and opposite seasons. Quite cold there right now." He pushes himself off the frame and walks to the foot of your massive California king-sized bed, where he sheds his coat and carelessly throws it on the bench.
You'll give it to him. You've been living like a queen while here. You hate to admit that if he had simply asked nicely, you probably would love to live here with him despite knowing nothing about him—you're not known for your logical or sound thinking. You simply survive the day, and surviving here would be nice. But the sheer audacity of forcing you to be here without your consent drives you to unprecedented levels of stubbornness. Levels of stubbornness that convince you it would be much better living in your tiny, sad apartment in your seedy neighborhood than here, in this mansion, with products that have your skin glowing like it never has before.
When you don't respond to his rhetorical question, he asks something more serious. "Are you ready to have a proper conversation now?"
You blow a raspberry and laugh, making a show of pulling your mask back down and snuggling deeper into your 1,000-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.
"Perfect, I am too," he says sarcastically, the duvet ripped off you violently within the same breath. You shriek at the sudden cold. The psycho keeps his house freezing at all times, which means when you're not looking for the emergency exit, you're either always buried under several blankets or in the sauna down the hall. You hear the snap of his fingers and your eye mask disappears.
You gasp. "What is wrong with you?"
"Everything here is mine," he reminds you. "Or have you gotten so comfortable, you've forgotten you've been kidnapped?" He snorts at the word like it's a ridiculous thought even though that's literally what he did. He seats himself on the edge of your bed, crossing his legs and holding his hand out. As soon as he does, your bag of ghost pepper chips materialize in it.
"Hey!" you lean over to grab them, unperturbed by the way things just appear and disappear at his whim. He quickly holds them out of your reach, his expression bored as your face stops just shy of his. You glare at him. "Those are mine."
Though his expression doesn't change, his dark eyes suddenly flash a bright, angry red, and you struggle to refrain from flinching.
"Hm," he hums, smirking as you slowly lean away and he brings the bag back down to his lap. He smugly throws a chip into his mouth, crunching slowly before swallowing. Your eyes come down to the insane Adam's apple of his bobbing at the motion. You purse your lips and look back up. "It doesn't surprise me that those heinous parents of yours never taught you how to share."
The words pull all the fight and anger out of you immediately. Your shoulders deflate and you look at him with wide eyes. "My… what? You knew my parents?"
The man nods once. "Unfortunately. Really vile duo, weren't they?"
It's an understatement. Your parents should've never had a child to begin with, but your mother thought doing so would keep your father interested—a fact she never failed to remind you of. She never wanted you, never wanted to be a mother, never wanted someone to raise. All she ever wanted was to keep your father's attention, and you did, for a few years at least. Then, you turned four, and his fascination with being a parent waned, and the two of them deemed you old enough to fend for yourself while they carried on with their lives like they never even had you. You were left at home for hours at a time, teaching yourself to make cheese sandwiches with the microwave, and self-soothing with the TV when it would get dark and you were scared to be alone.
When they were home, you were a pseudo-maid, cleaning up after your mother and bringing your father beer after beer as he demanded them. You knew the brands and how to use a bottle opener before you even knew how to read. Sometimes, you caught yourself enjoying the time they were away more than when they were back, but then the sun would set, and you wouldn't be scared anymore or crying yourself to sleep, and you'd decide it was better than having to be alone.
It wasn't until they hadn't returned for almost a week, leaving you near-starved and dehydrated, that you finally went to the neighbor for help. You were in the foster system the next day, and you never saw your parents ever again. You've been without them far longer than you were ever with them, and still, their fingerprints are all over your life: your stunted education, your desperate need to be around your friends, your avoidance of an empty apartment, apparently this guy. Really, his house of horrors was a reminder of how much you despised being left to your own devices. Maybe that's why you were constantly on the phone even if it meant you couldn't ask for help.
"Um… how?" you ask, dumbfounded.
"They called to me one night," the stranger confides in you between bites of your own chips. Even as he talks with a full mouth, he manages to look just as regal. "Begged for a better life—all the money they could dream of in a land far from where they were, away from everything and everyone they've ever known."
It doesn't take a genius to figure out that he's talking about you.
"They didn't have anything to offer in exchange," he tells you, not bothering to explain why they would be asking him for anything at all. "They wanted to sell their souls, but what the fuck am I supposed to do with something so… ugly…?"
The word comes out of his mouth with a sneer, and you nod like you understand. You kind of do. Everything about the man is very pretty, down to his nail beds and his shined shoes. What would he need from two deadbeats like your parents?
Wait. Their souls?
"So they offered me something more pure," he says, the bag of chips disappearing once more. He plunges his thumb into his mouth to suck the ghost pepper dust off, and you find yourself a little entranced as it pops back out and he does the same with his index finger. You sigh as you turn toward your nightstand and pluck a tissue from the box and hand it to him. He frowns. "Uh, thanks."
"And what was that?" you ask as he wipes his saliva off on the tissue instead of whatever furniture is available to him (in this case, your 1,000-thread-count sheets).
"Their daughter."
You were expecting it. You hadn't been sure what to make of all this; half of you was convinced you were still blackout drunk, passed out somewhere in a bathroom stall while Jasmine puked her guts out. Maybe you were having a very elaborate dream. Or nightmare. But hearing him speak now, you believe it. You wouldn't put those two idiots above summoning some kind of demon to get them out of their gambling debts and make them rich—allow them a life among the elite. And you wouldn't put it past them to trade you for it.
You were expecting it. But still, it feels like another knife through your heart when he confirms it.
"I'm not a fucking monster, though," he says, snorting. You raise an eyebrow at him.
"But… I'm here…"
He nods. "I told them they can't just sell their child to the Devil. So—"
"The Devil?!"
"—I settled on servitude. I would just enslave them at the end of their contract for the rest of eternity."
You balk at him—the Devil. The Devil likes black oxfords and ghost pepper chips.
"But then…" he sighs, inconvenienced. "They died."
"They're dead," you repeat, the words coming out more like a statement than the question you meant for them to be. You find that you don't feel anything about that. You never even got a chance to love your parents. It doesn't feel like you've lost anything. You were always alone; still, the confirmation that you truly are now is odd.
"Mhm," he confirms, the tissue disappearing into thin air as he leans back on his hands. "Can you believe I made those two rich beyond their wildest dreams and they somehow still got into trouble with loan sharks?" His head lolls to the side to look at you. "Unlike you, they were actually kidnapped." He shrugs before adding an important detail. "And murdered."
"Oh," you breathe.
"Yes. Oh. But I still needed to collect payment. And unfortunately…"
He lets you connect the dots on your own. "I'm their only next of kin."
"Precisely," he nods once. "You've inherited their debt."
"So… you're… enslaving me?"
He looks at you with disgust. "What? No. I said I'm not a fucking monster."
"But you kidnapped me."
"I did not."
"You did."
"Let's not get into the semantics of it all," he says, waving a hand dismissively as his eyebrow twitches with irritation. "I am not enslaving you. I am here to offer you a contract."
"A contract."
"A contract." A piece of paper—sheer and made up of glittery red particles—materializes between the two of you, hundreds of lines of red print appearing one by one before you as he speaks. "You may serve your parents' sentence—"
"Enslavement."
He rolls his eyes. "Fine. Yes, enslavement—though I am giving you a choice!"
"Wow, what a gentleman."
"Or," he raises his voice slightly to get you back on track, "you can make your own contract." He nods at the piece of paper. You frown.
"But I didn't ask you for anything."
"Yes, but it will release you from your parents' debt."
"By putting me into my own pile of shit?"
He smirks. "Oh c'mon. I think I deserve more credit than that. Have I not been an incredibly generous host to you thus far?" He spreads one, long arm out to gesture to your bedroom—more like a large apartment in the corner of his mansion.
"A generous host during my stay in your prison?" you ask, snorting. "Sure." His face falls into a flat expression that you ignore as you lean forward to read the beginnings of your contract.
INFERNAL SUCCESSION OF DEBT
Contract ID 666-4
This Agreement is entered into between:
THE DEVIL, King of the Infernal Realms, Lord of Temptation, Prince of Darkness, Keeper of Eternal Contracts, Hereinafter referred to as "Employer," "His Infernal Majesty," or "Boss";
and
Y/N L/N, Sole Living Descendant and Responsible Party, Hereinafter referred to as "Employee".
PREAMBLE
WHEREAS, Employee's parents entered into a legally binding contract with Employer in exchange for wealth, prosperity, favorable stock performance, and several luxury vehicles;
WHEREAS, said parents were obligated to surrender themselves for eternal servitude upon collection;
WHEREAS, said parents have inconveniently perished before collection could be completed;
WHEREAS, Hell's Collections Department has determined Employee to be the sole inheritor of all outstanding debts, obligations, curses, liens, penalties, and miscellaneous infernal paperwork;
THEREFORE, Employer has graciously offered Employee the following alternatives:
OPTION A: In fulfillment of the obligations incurred by Employee's deceased parents, Employee shall enter the service of the Infernal Realm for all eternity.
Duties shall include, but are not limited to:
Processing approximately 4.8 million forms per day
Responding to customer complaints from damned souls
Sharpening ceremonial pitchforks
Serving as a chew toy for baby hellhounds during training exercises
Untangling chains in the Pit of Eternal Knots
Operating the Soul Intake Window during holiday rushes
Rewriting contracts damaged by hellfire
Cleaning the Room of Despair every third Tuesday
Escorting lost souls to the appropriate department
Conducting annual inventories of screams
Working closely with Minghao from Accounting
Employee acknowledges that eternity is a super long time and that the above list is not-at-all exhaustive.
OPTION B: Accept employment under Employer for the duration of Employee's natural mortal lifespan, after which Employee shall receive a permanent position with benefits.
You look back up at the Devil. He watches you with an unreadable expression.
"What's the catch?"
"You'd have to read all 666 pages of your contract to find it."
You narrow your eyes at him. "You don't think I'll do it." He neither confirms or denies. "I will. I will read all 666 pages."
"Fine by me," he says, shrugging one shoulder and standing. "But after you read them and decide on either option A or B, you'll have another contract to sign for terms of your servitude or your employment. I'm sure you can guess how many pages each are."
You feel the ambition leave your soul. You roll your eyes and shake your head. "Sit your ass down."
He smirks and follows directions.
"I assume they went to Hell, no?" He nods. "Why can't you just go find their souls and make them serve their sentence?"
"Debt must be collected before death and the souls are admitted into Hell and sorted into the proper circles of punishment, where they'll be doing something very different for all of eternity." He shakes his head regretfully. "Your parents are currently being fried in vats of oil over and over again. If they had survived until debt collection, they would've remained human for eternity, serving me even as their increasingly brittle bones repeatedly broke under the weight of their chores."
He smiles wistfully at what could have been, and you wince. "Um. Okay... well, what would my duties be for option B?"
The Devil nods to the space next to the contract, where an employment agreement appears, lines appearing one after the other just like the original contract. You groan.
"What the fuck is wrong with you? Why is Hell a corporation?"
His eyebrows rise. "What else would Hell be?"
You pause, ruminating on the thought. "Okay, good point."
You sigh and skim the employment agreement.
POSITION
Employee shall serve as: Executive Assistant to His Infernal Majesty
Responsibilities include, but are not limited to:
Maintaining Employer's schedule
Screening calls
Organizing contracts
Overseeing scheduled plagues, wars, famines, etc.
Managing infernal correspondence
Other duties as assigned
Employee shall reside in Employer's primary estate for the duration of employment. Position will require 30% travel.
COMPENSATION
During mortal employment, Employee shall receive:
Free housing
Free meals
Free skincare
Access to infernal healthcare
Unlimited coffee
Following Employee's natural death, Employee shall receive:
Permanent demon status
Comfortable accommodations
Full retirement benefits
Choice of station
WORKPLACE CONDUCT
Employer shall not:
Steal Employee's soul
Curse Employee without written notice
Sell Employee to rival supernatural entities (or anyone else)
Employee shall not:
Summon competitors
Sign contracts on Employer's behalf
Open portals without supervision
Feed eldritch horrors after midnight
TERMINATION
This Agreement may only be terminated by:
Employee's natural death
The collapse of reality
Mutual agreement
A successful legal challenge upheld by three (3) cosmic authorities and at least one (1) archangel
INHERITED DEBT RESOLUTION
Upon execution of this Agreement:
Employee shall be considered to have satisfied all obligations inherited from their parents
Employee's parents shall remain classified as "Paid In Full"
The rest of your mortal life is a long time. You know very well that by agreeing to this, you're literally signing a deal with the Devil. It's sad and pathetic to acknowledge, but if this new life is anything like the last three days have been, it's already a huge upgrade from how you were living prior to your home invasion.
You lean away from the contracts and take a deep breath before nodding once. You can make it an even bigger upgrade.
"I want an unlimited budget for interior decorating of my living quarters," you start. His eyebrows rise to meet his hairline.
"You're negotiating with the Devil?" he asks, clarifying that he understands your intentions.
"Sure am," you confirm before shooting off your demands one after the other. "I want my apartment kept and paid for as a place to unwind when needed, and I want unlimited visiting rights to Earth. I want all my bills paid for and the newest Samsung any time I want to upgrade my phone. I want backstage passes to any K-Pop group of my choice at any concert I want. I want an expense account and a black credit card to match."
"We—"
"And I don't care if you don't use credit cards in Hell. I want a black credit card. And I want it to be metal and heavy. The fancy one."
He clamps his mouth back shut and nods for you to keep going.
"I want full autonomy over my soul while mortal and after death," you emphasize. "My employment does not mean you own me."
"How many times do you want me to remind you I am not a monster?"
"You're the literal Devil."
"Yes, exactly!" he agrees. "Not a monster!"
You scoff, unsure of how to even respond to that. "You don't own me!" you repeat.
"Yes! Of course! I do not own you! Obviously!" he says, appeasing you. "Go on."
"I also want protection from… whoever your enemies are."
He raises an eyebrow at you. "My enemies?"
You shrug. "Like… God or whatever."
He grins—a genuinely amused one. It's heart-shaped and wide and it's not befitting for the Devil. He looks like someone you could cuddle, not someone who could eat your soul for dinner after finishing your ghost pepper chips. "You, humans, have a very ill-conceived idea of Heaven and Hell. God is not my enemy. She is my colleague."
The smile that envelopes your face is uncontrollable. "She?! God is a woman?! I fucking knew it!"
"Of course she is," the Devil scoffs. "Why would a man be kept in charge of Heaven? That's absurd."
"Hm. Agreed," you say, a little suspicious of having something you both agree upon. "Okay, so no enemies…"
"None," he says, yawning. "Unless you consider damned souls enemies."
"Well, I want protection from anything that can hurt me."
He looks at you like you're dumb. "You'll be living with the Devil. You will be at my side at almost all times of the day. I am the protection."
"What if you hurt me?" you point out.
He rolls his eyes. "It would be counterproductive to hurt my own employee. If you haven't yet wandered into my contracts room, go find it later and you'll see how badly I need an assistant."
You try not to choke on your own spit as you think about the weird room stuffed full of paper. Does he expect you to do something with that…?
"Anything else?" he asks. "You've been so frugal with your demands. Are you sure you don't want to be a billionaire? The ruler of the free world?"
You ignore his sarcasm and shrug. "Is that possible?" He glares at you. "Okay, then no. I don't want those things. But I do have one more demand."
"Oh, goodie," he sighs. "What?"
"On the point of employment until death…"
The Devil laughs, the sound mocking. "That one is not negotiable, darling. It's either eternal servitude or employment until your mortal death—which is what you would be doing anyway if it weren't for your scumbag parents. One is definitely better than the other."
You glare at him. "I'm not going to play Devil's maid until I'm 100 and you're laughing at me as my bones are turning to dust."
"Per your employee agreement, you will have access to infernal healthcare, a perk that would not have been offered to your parents," he points out. "It might surprise you to know it's much more generous than whatever the hell you humans are offering these days. I assure you, your bones will never turn to dust."
"I want to remain as I am," you inform him, not taking no for an answer. "I will work for you until death, but I will remain as I am. No growing pains, no aches, completely healthy in the body and mind I'm in now until I die."
He fixes you with a hard stare for several moments, but you're determined to get your way. You don't avert your gaze and you don't give in. He sighs deeply through his nose. "Fine. Accepted."
The employment agreement changes before your very eyes, reflecting your negotiations, and you're pleased to see every point you argued written onto the paper in glittery red.
"Oh! And I refuse to call you Your Infernal Majesty."
He shrugs. "Okay."
"Okay…"
"What?"
"What do I call you?"
"Oh. Jun. You can call me Jun."
"Okay. I guess you have yourself an assistant, Jun."
He smirks, raising an open hand to you. You take a breath before you slip your hand into his, his slender fingers closing around you and shaking. On the final shake, he squeezes and you feel a just barely tolerable heat bind the two of you together for several seconds. Bursts of bright red lines glow around your joined hands, frantically circling them before they escape to the pieces of paper between you. Jun releases you just as you realize the lines have become both of your signatures on the contracts.
"It's done," he says, eyes flashing red again. "You, Y/N, have just signed a deal with the Devil."
And because you're not one to let a man intimidate you—Devil or not—you smile right back, lean in, and remind him in a theatrical whisper, "You're as stuck in here with me as I am with you."
When the arrogance painted all over his face falters the tiniest bit, you wink and throw yourself off your bed, finally ready to start your day at a bright and early 2 p.m.
"Don't you go regretting this now, Junnie!"
DAY TEN
Hell is exactly what you expected it to be after seeing Jun's contracts: a corporate abyss. It's an open floor plan with unassigned desks, harsh overhead lighting, and a water cooler where a demon is stationed, their only task to make awkward small talk with the parched, tortured soul that comes up to it hoping for a cup. The demons, of course, have the time of their lives, scheduling meetings that could have been emails, demanding overtime of salaried souls, asking for things that were already given to them several days ago and promptly lost upon receipt.
You don't fully understand it. Before you were taken away from Earth, you were working as a full-time bartender. In fact, the only reason you and your friends hadn't gotten kicked out that night for being belligerently drunk was because you were being belligerently drunk at the club you worked at. Before that, your only foray into corporate life was as a customer service representative answering phones and talking to angry people who had nothing but free time to scream at you. You lasted exactly one week, and that's all you need to at least appreciate why it's the model for Hell.
And for the last few days, you've been following Jun around it, soaking in all the information you need. For example, Jun is in "the office" during most "daylight" hours (Hell doesn't have windows so how are you supposed to know when daylight is?), and usually brings his work back to the home you now share. Unclear if he sleeps at all.
He doesn't spend time around the damned souls—not that they even realize who he is as he walks by. He pays them no mind, letting his demon subordinates take care of tormenting them. Instead, his time in the office is spent attending meetings with high-ranking demons, archangels, and occasionally, God herself. If he's not in the office or at home, he'll be traveling. Unclear what he'll do on his trips, but you assume it's something akin to what he did for your parents. He assures you each trip will only be a few hours and that he'll call if that changes. You assure him you don't care.
Today is the first time you won't be shadowing him. Jun unceremoniously dropped you off at the mail room without so much as a goodbye, muttering something about picking you up at the end of the day. You didn't have time to point out that you have no idea when that is. And hours later, it seems that it still isn't the end of the day.
"So… who are you…?"
You look up from the mountain of envelopes you've been tasked with going through. Apparently, the Devil receives a lot of mail, and apparently, Jun is above simply throwing all of them into an incinerator. It turns out when people can't get a hold of God, they turn to the next best thing. And the next best thing insists that you read every last letter and decide whether it's worth responding to.
The demon talking to you entered the room just a minute or so ago. He's a man who looks to be about your age, though you're under no delusions that he actually is. For all you know, he's millions of years old. His spiky blonde hair is currently pointed to your right as he tilts his head at you curiously. "Actually, what are you…?"
You squint at him. "I'm human…" you gesture down at your lack of black leather, dressed like the pink Care Bear threw up on you as a quiet form of protest against the dreadfully drab aesthetic Hell insists on. "Obviously."
He nods. "Right… but… you're not dead."
"No," you say, using more force than needed to slice through the next envelope with the letter opener you were given—a knife with a handle shaped like a devil's tail. A tail you noticed Jun does not have.
The demon winces and you're glad for it. Just because Jun is convinced you're safe doesn't mean you are; the more of them who believe you'll shank them with a letter opener for breathing funny, the better.
"I am not dead."
"What's your—"
"I'm working," you cut him off icily, making a show of stabbing the letter opener into the wooden table and straightening the paper in front of your face. The man next to him snorts but says nothing, simply grabbing the mail he came in for and leaving.
"So you work in the mail room? Do we hire humans to do that now?"
You roll your eyes behind the piece of paper. You don't answer.
"Do you know whose mail you're going through…? Because it's His—"
"Jun's," you sigh, slamming the piece of paper down and shoving it toward your throw pile. "I am reading Jun's mail." You fold your hands in front of you on the table and lean forward to give him all the attention he obviously wants. The demon's eyes widen, leaning back the tiniest bit.
"Y-you can't just… say his name like that," he whispers to you, eyes sliding back and forth. The mail room is full of demons, and it isn't until he looks around that you realize all of them have frozen in place. You frown as you follow his gaze.
"Jun?" you repeat loudly, resisting the urge to smirk when more of them gasp.
"Stop!"
"Why?" you ask, snickering as you reach for the next envelope and rip it open without the help of the letter opener. Dear Satan, you read. "Is it like Voldemort here? Scared to say your own boss's name?"
"Pfft, no one here is scared to say 'Voldemort,'" he says, rolling his own eyes. "Rowling will be here as soon as God decides it's time for her to retire from Twitter. And life."
You hum in approval. "Good to hear."
"It's just wise to be a little more respectful when referring to His Infernal Majesty."
You smile. "Yeah, I'm not calling him that."
"Your funeral."
"Or yours," you say, pointedly looking at the letter opener stabbed into the surface right now. You look back at him and his eyes are on the tool too. "Think Jun would be happy about you distracting his personal assistant from very important work?"
The demon balks at you, but you return your attention to the letter. Dear Satan. "You're his assistant?" You hum in confirmation. "Oh wow. That's… wow. Um, I'm Soonyoung."
"I didn't ask."
"Are you sure you aren't a demon?"
You look up at him without putting your letter down. "I'm sure, Soonyoung." Your eyes flick back down to the letter. Dear Satan, you read for the third time.
"Well, you would make a really good one," he tells you. Your fingers crinkle the letter, twitching in as they try to keep from completely crumpling it in frustration. "Is that why His Infernal Majesty hired you? How did you two meet?"
"Soonyoung." It seems like the entire room freezes and the demon's eyes widen at something behind you. You look over your shoulder to find Jun standing in the doorway, his arms crossed and his brows pulled down. The other demons not named Soonyoung immediately flee the room. "Are you bothering Y/N?"
You huff. "Sure. You can give him my name."
Your boss smirks but ignores you. "Leave her alone. If I hear my name one more time, I'll make you work a shift in Accounting." You raise your eyebrows. No wonder they're so afraid to say his name. It literally summons him.
Soonyoung pushes himself off where he'd been leaning on the table across from you, immediately leaving the room and bowing to your boss and muttering apologies as he goes. You snort, turning back around and reading your letter in full for the first time.
Dear Satan,
If you're real, prove it.
You nod, taking a piece of paper out to write your response. Just as you finish, you hear Jun's voice—much closer this time—and you startle.
"Interesting."
"Holy shit," you breathe, leaning back to look at him reading over your shoulder. "I thought you left."
He reaches past you, allowing you to get a whiff of his cologne. Something that smells woodsy and spicy. He takes your pile of letters and responses and reads them aloud.
"'Dear Satan, if you're real, prove it,'" he reads. His eyes go to the piece of paper with your response. "'No.'"
He stares at you but reveals no indication of whether or not he approves. He puts the two pieces of paper down on the table next to you and moves on.
"'Dear Devil, did the dinosaurs go to Heaven or Hell?' 'They went to Heaven. What kind of fucking question is this?'" Papers down.
You think the twitch of his lips is a smile threatening to break through. He succeeds in hiding it if it is, and he just keeps going.
Dear Satan, should I text my ex?
I am the #1 advocate of free will. But know that if you do, I will haunt you for the rest of your mortal life and you will never find love. Ever.
Dear Satan, if you help me pass my AP Chem test, I will owe you my life. P.S. For my records, does this count as a legally binding contract?
No, it does not. Go study and never write here ever again.
Dear Satan, does my cat work for you? I love her, but sometimes, she does things that make me wonder. I don't think she sleeps. She just watches me. All the time. I also feel like she can maybe talk and is hiding it. Is she secretly a demon?
Jun pauses, eyes sliding to you, though you're unsure why. You hold his stare, but he just redirects his attention back to your response.
Probably. What's her name?
He seems to decide that's enough, calmly putting the pile of papers down with the others. "Hm." You don't know what it means and he doesn't clarify. Instead, he asks, "Hungry?"
You gasp, your work immediately forgotten. "Yes! Does Hell have sushi?"
"No. We only have the blood and organs of sinners here." You crinkle your nose but he doesn't say that he's joking, and it makes your stomach turn. "But Earth does. And I believe you negotiated unlimited visitation rights." You nod. You did. You absolutely did. "Come on. My treat for a good first day spent on your own."
"It's your treat no matter what," you mutter, standing up and leading the way out of the mail room, trusting your responses will be sent out by someone who isn't busy stuffing their face with sushi. "I literally have free food written into my employment agreement."
"You can never just let me have the last word, can you?"
"Nope. Get used to it."
DAY SIXTEEN
Your adrenaline spikes when the phone on your desk, right outside Jun's corner office (the only place with windows and a killer view of racists burning alive at all hours of the day), rings. You squeak with excitement as you answer it.
This should be nerve-wracking for you; your one week in customer service scarred you enough that the sheer sound of phones ringing sent anxiety crawling up your spine. But here, answering the phone meant all kinds of fun possibilities.
It could be a teenager calling via Ouija Board. It could be someone summoning Jun to sell their soul. It could be a demon needing help as a priest exorcises them from a possession. It could be God.
"You've reached Jun's desk. How may I help you?"
"Wrong." Your joy flatlines at your boss's voice. "I told you, you can't use my name when answering the phone."
"I'm not calling you whatever silly title everyone else here insists on calling you," you grumble.
"That's fine. I don't give a shit. Just don't use my name," he says. "I already hear everyone on Earth muttering about Satan. We don't need to add my Hell-given name to the mix."
You sigh. "Fine. What do you need? I've already taken care of your mail and schedule for the rest of the week, I have your requested reports from Accounting, and the Hellhounds have been caught. They're eating their midday snacks now."
"What snacks? You know that cannibals upset their stomachs. If they throw up, you will be cleaning it up."
"First of all, no. I won't." You've already seen the messes the Hellhounds are capable of, and you'd rather Jun eat your soul than have to clean up after one. "Second of all, I know. I gave them some family annihilators."
"Perfect. Thanks. Tell Soonyoung if he loses them one more time, he'll be fed to them next."
"Got it," you say, taking mental note to threaten the demon next time he comes around to annoy you. "So why are you calling? Did you forget whose debt you're collecting today? It's—"
"I know," he cuts you off. "Just checking to see how it's going since this is your first full day without me in Hell."
You frown at nothing in particular. "The Devil does check-in calls…? Oddly considerate."
You can practically hear Jun's glare through the phone. "No. The Devil is making sure you haven't completely run his empire into the ground."
"I am but a measly human," you sigh dramatically. "If I have the power to run a supernatural empire that predates time itself into the ground, it's probably a really bad empire."
"Hm." He clearly refuses to tell you that you have a good point. "I also called to let you know I'll be late tonight so you don't have to worry about working after you leave the office. I'll see you at breakfast."
You told him you didn't care if his trips made him late or if he even wanted to go out and do his own thing after; you aren't his mother or his wife, and you can probably discern this information from his calendar without him calling. But now that it's actually happening, you realize you care a tiny bit. Mostly because in the last two weeks, the two of you have gotten into a routine of sorts.
You woke up, usually from your duvet being ripped off and your eye mask being sent into whatever other dimension Jun sent things to, and you'd sit down for breakfast, going through everything your boss was doing for the day. Jun didn't need to eat, but he joined you anyway, occasionally having a bowl of cereal since you made it clear you never want to see him eating the blood and organs of sinners in the house. Then, he'd take the both of you to work, where you would do whatever it is the day demanded of you, before heading home and having dinner. If he had a trip that day, he still made it home in time to sit with you, eating whatever it is you made in the generously stocked kitchen.
You'd kind of forgotten to be afraid of being alone because you never were anymore. Jun was always there, and if he wasn't, you were either busy working or asleep. The thought of coming back to the house without him, having to eat dinner by yourself, and not having anyone to talk to gets your heart racing faster than usual.
"Hello?"
"Okay," you say, nodding even though he can't see you. Maybe if you force your body to agree to it, your mind will follow suit. "Have fun collecting those souls."
"Thanks," he says slowly.
"Is that all?"
"Yeah, I guess."
"Okay then. Bye."
You don't wait for him to respond, hanging up and immediately standing to make your way back to the house while the clock tells you it's still daytime. Maybe if you fall asleep earlier than usual, you'll bypass the terror you already feel creeping in.
DAY TWENTY-THREE
"Junnie!" you call without turning over your shoulder.
You have to keep working on securing catering for the 1,700 demons who will be gathering for an "Innovation & Disruption: Bringing Medieval-Style Torture to the Modern Age" seminar in a few days. You don't even know how to get blood and organs catered. And never mind having to arrange accommodations for the demons that insist on bringing their eldritch horrors with them.
You hear your boss's usual grunt of acknowledgment. "Time to get going to that cult summoning if you want to make it on time!" You glance at the CCTV feed in the corner of your screen. "They're almost done drawing the pentagram!"
He groans but you hear the unmistakable sound of his chair rolling away from his desk and creaking as he stands anyway. A few moments later, he's standing next to you. You pause your catering research to look up at him.
"I don't assume the demons would want to have Subway or something at this seminar?" you ask.
"No." Jun's mouth curves into a small smile. "No, they probably do not want Subway."
"Shame." You shrug and turn back to your computer. "Well, have fun with the nut jobs! Remember, Risk & Assessment flagged the cult leader for us; his possession score is very high, so if you find him insufferable—and I'm sure that with your patience, you will—feel free to ring me and I'll send you a demon to torment him a bit."
"Noted," he says, chuckling a little. "And just so you know, I'll probably be late again."
You deflate a little. It's been a week since the last time Jun came home late from work, and you're still working out the stress knots it put into your shoulders.
"Oh." You try to think of what you'll do to stave off the panic this time since sleeping early didn't do it for you. When you realize your boss is standing there, scrutinizing you and waiting for a proper response, you say a pathetic "sounds good."
"Hm. I was actually thinking you may be more help coming with me tonight than staying here," he says suddenly. "Or at home."
You straighten up and try not to look too eager at the invitation. "Wait. I can come to the summoning?"
"Sure. Why not?"
"Is that allowed?"
He stares at you blankly. "I'm the King of Hell."
You roll your eyes, your heart rate slowing down as your anxieties subside. "A simple 'yes' would have sufficed."
The second you and Jun make landfall in the middle of the cult's pentagram, there are fanatic screams and people in ridiculous cloaks falling to their knees and sobbing. You don't try to hide the revulsion on your face, flinching away when a follower crawls to you on their hands and knees, wailing and reaching for you. You inadvertently curl into your boss's side. You mutter a quiet apology when you realize you're touching him, but he ignores it, stepping between you and the enthusiastic follower.
"Hands to yourself," Jun hisses at the person, who immediately backs away.
The space becomes significantly warmer at that, and it only dawns on you now why your home is kept so cold. It never occurred to you that of course the Devil will run hot, and you feel that heat radiating from him now with nothing to quell it. The cult members must feel it too because aside from the overenthusiastic one, they give the two of you a wide berth.
Once you acclimate to the audience, you notice you're suddenly in a cloak reminiscent of the grim reaper's.
"What the hell is this?" you ask, lifting an arm and looking at the way the cloth drapes off of it.
"Summoning uniform."
"Then why don't you have one?" you ask, raising an eyebrow at Jun's all-black get-up: a crisp button-down, slim-fit slacks, and a jacket with shoulders adorned with a smattering of crystals, making it look like he's wearing the sky itself.
"I'm the Devil." Which seems to be his answer for everything. Your next complaint is drowned out by the deep and bizarre bellowing of a man on a tiny stage that quakes under his weight.
"Welcome, Our Unholiness!" You assume the man shouting is the cult leader. He wears a goat head that looks so realistic, you sorely hope it's just a mask and that the man is not wearing an animal corpse right now.
"Wrong!" you immediately call, making Jun frown at you as you step back around him, tripping a little when your foot catches on your cloak. "Fuck, ow." You yank at it violently before standing straight and addressing the man. "Accepted titles include King of Hell, King of the Infernal Realms, Lord of Temptation, Prince of Darkness, His Infernal Majesty, or The Big Bad Lord of Doom and Gloom."
"No, nope. Not that last one." You smile at him when he narrows his eyes at you. If you get the cloak, he gets the silly title.
"O-oh. Uh. Everyone, let's welcome… His Maj—"
"Infernal Majesty."
"His Infernal Majesty!" he shouts.
The crowd around you erupts into cheers, and you take the moment to look around. Your boss has been summoned to what looks like a remote compound in the middle of the desert with small concrete buildings scattered around you. The people around you look starved, dehydrated, and unclean. No wonder the Devil has been summoned; this is not a cult leader that leads very well.
"Enough," Jun says, his voice barely rising over the cheers but reverberating through the crowd anyway. It falls silent laughably fast, forcing you to stifle a giggle. "Why have you summoned me?"
"Satan, we—may I call you Satan…?" the goat head tilts toward you like he's asking you for permission. You nod and he turns back to your boss. "Satan, we have summoned you here today in the hopes that you will lend your devoted children a hand."
"I am nothing if not a provider," Jun says in a bored voice. You tilt your head and shrug before nodding as you ponder that statement. You suppose it's true. You have been living a very luxurious life since you moved to Hell.
"Oh, thank you, Satan," he sighs in relief, bowing his head and stumbling a little when the weight of the goat head makes him wobble. "We request a great boon of you."
"A boon," you echo in a whisper, mostly to yourself.
"Our tithes are declining."
"Tithes." Words you will have to Google upon returning home.
Jun's eyes flick down to you briefly before he responds. "Get on with it."
The abruptness throws the leader off, causing him to stutter. You buy him more time by stating, "As you can imagine, Ju—Satan! Satan is incredibly busy. Many summonings to tend to. Many plagues to schedule. Many damned souls to devour whole. Many—"
"He gets it," Jun cuts in.
"Right, of course!" the leader agrees. "Apologies! We would like to request monetary support."
"In exchange for?" the Devil asks, an eyebrow cocked at the man.
"For…?"
Jun glances at you and you nod, frowning when you realize for the first time that you are no longer holding your tablet. You gasp, patting your entire body before you find the needlessly deep inner pocket of your cloak. So deep, your tablet basically rests at your ankle.
"This is deeply humiliating," you mutter at your boss as you bend over to scoop it out. "Who was this made for—Shaquille O'Neal?"
"No," Jun answers, more amused than you've ever heard him. "It's mine."
You pause in your bend, cranking your neck to look at him upside down. "This is your grim reaper cloak?"
He nods, clearly suppressing a laugh. You roll your eyes, shaking your head as you continue digging your device out of the infinite pocket. You straighten back up when it's finally in your grip.
You quickly tap through for the handbook you haven't needed until now.
"Where deals with the Devil are concerned," you read aloud, projecting your voice so everyone can hear clearly, "the Devil accepts servitude of his chosen length, negotiable; a percentage of all future profits no less than 20 percent, negotiable; your luck for an amount of time of his choice, negotiable; the feeling you get when a song gives you chills, non-negotiable; your first-born child to be collected upon their 30th birthday, non—hey!"
You frown at that point and turn to your boss, your back to the cult leader. "What?"
"What the hell do you need a first-born child for?" you hiss in a whisper only he can hear because above all else, you are still very professional. "Your assistant position is already filled. You already have a first-born child that you have collected!"
Your boss's mouth curves into an arrogant smirk that you want to rip off his mouth. "First-born children are a hot commodity in Hell."
"Oh, are they?" you laugh humorlessly. "So where are they?"
"Where are they?"
"Yeah! Where are they?" you ask, unsure what you'll even do when you find out. Now that you've been in your position long enough to really appreciate its perks, the thought of being kicked to the curb fills you with a fight instinct so strong, you could choke on it. "Hiding them in the attic? Basement? In a closet I haven't found yet? Or did you build them a separate house? You have multiple offices? Multiple assistants?"
"Um, can we get back to the—"
"One minute!" you shout without turning back to the cult leader.
"Are you jealous?" Jun asks, his voice equal parts confusion and cocky. When your only answer to that is a glare, he exhales a breathy laugh and shakes his head. "The document you're reading from was last updated decades ago, darling. I assure you I have no other assistants and am not looking for any more—at least not until your contract with me is over."
"I want that added as an amendment to my agreement," you say through gritted teeth, noting to yourself to reach out to Demon Resources when you get back.
"Unnecessary, but we'll—"
"The Devil will not be accepting a first-born child!" you announce, three times as loud as you were before as you spin back around, kicking when your cloak tangles around your legs. "Keep your useless children to yourselves!"
"No children, got it," the cult leader nods. "Well… you see, we were not prepared for a proper offering tonight, as we assumed that as children of the Dark Lord—"
"Lord of Temptation or Prince of Darkness," you correct him, shaking your head.
"Er, yes. As children of the Prince of Darkness… we assumed we would just… um, receive? A gift? As loyal followers?"
Both you and Jun remain still, falling quiet at the assumption—you because you're unsure if your boss wants you to correct him, Jun because you assume he's debating whether he should kill someone or laugh. The leader laughs a little nervously, swaying back and forth and wringing his hands. It's a hilariously silly picture with his goat head still on.
"Correct this idiot before I summon a Hellhound," Jun mutters to you, turning away from the leader and taking a seat. A comically large throne appears under his ass at the perfect moment. He props his head in his hand in immense disinterest.
"You summoned the Devil," you point out the obvious. "If you were looking for handouts based on loyalty, you probably should have thrown your allegiance behind God—which by the way, did you know she's a woman?"
"Oh. Uh, that's… yeah, that makes sense."
"Right? We thought so too," you say, nodding and glancing at Jun briefly over your shoulder. He nods once, blinking slowly in the way he only does when he's finally starting to tire and needs to rest. You turn back to the leader. "If you would like Satan's financial support, he will need more than the promise that you'll continue to live in the desert, starving and unbathed. He will need something he can actually use." You point at his mask. "By the way, the goat head does nothing. He does not like that."
Jun speaks behind you, confirming. "I do not. I hate it."
The leader immediately rips the head off, chucking it away from him with so much force, it bounces several times and disappears into the darkness not lit by the torches that surround the pentagram. He's younger than you assumed he'd be, and he's sweaty and red from staying in the goat head.
"What will you be offering the Devil tonight?" you ask. "Would you like more examples of gifts he will accept?"
"Um, no, I think… I think we can offer, uh, servitude?" his followers groan, but he doesn't change his answer.
"Wonderful," you nod, making note of it in your tablet. One of Jun's famous contracts materializes in front of the sweaty man, the glow of it painting him even redder. "The Devil will award you with just enough money to keep this Burning Man-inspired cult thriving as long as at least one member present here tonight is alive. In exchange, His Infernal Majesty will collect their souls for eternal servitude at the end of their natural-born lives."
There's an uproar of protests as you finish reading the terms.
"Well, wait, hold on! You said this was negotiable."
"Indeed."
"Okay, so let's negotiate!" You watch him expectantly, waiting for said negotiation. "Right, um, yeah. So. Uh. If servitude is eternal… maybe our financial support should also be of unlimited nature?"
"'Maybe'?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.
"It should! It should!" he corrects himself. "Limitless money forever, regardless of whether or not the members here tonight are still alive, in exchange for our eternal servitude upon the end of life."
You watch as Jun's signature starts to scribble on the contract, signaling his acceptance of the agreement. You frown and shake your head. "Denied!"
Jun makes a sound of surprise as his signature stops mid-air.
"Limitless money forever, independent of tonight's members, in exchange for your current and future members' eternal servitude upon end of life—regardless of length of cult membership."
The silence that follows is tense, the cult leader chewing his lower lip as he thinks it through and his followers clearly ruminating on what limitless money can do for them.
"The Big Bad Lord is due for another engagement shortly," you inform him, earning you an annoyed grunt from your boss. "Please make your mind up quickly."
"Deal," he answers, nodding confidently. "Deal!"
You smile as you watch Jun sign on his dotted line. Your boss suddenly appears before the leader, outside the pentagram meant to keep you both contained and the summoners safe from you—obviously a myth. Once summoned, Jun is free to do as he pleases wherever he pleases. Everyone gasps at his reappearance, the leader flinching violently. Your boss extends his hand just as he did to you a month ago. When the man shakes it, the same red lines bind the agreement, and the cult leader's name and signature appear on the contract.
"Enjoy your boon, Lee Seokmin," Jun says, voice low and dangerous. "Don't go dying too soon. I'll be back to collect."
The Devil doesn't waste any more time on the cult, whisking the two of you away and back to your shared home.
"That was fun!" you exclaim, clapping your hands and giggling. "Much more fun than staying at home alone."
Jun snorts but keeps his face carefully blank as he goes to the pantry and grabs a bag of ghost pepper chips. "Yeah?"
"Definitely. Thanks for inviting me."
"I was right."
"Hm?"
"You were a lot more helpful going with me than staying back here," he clarifies, opening the bag and chomping on the snack, which he now keeps an unlimited stock of for both of you. "I should've known you'd be good at negotiating." He throws you a look of fake contempt. You smirk. "I think you should come with me to all my summonings."
You shrug, trying not to reveal how relieved you are about late nights alone not having to be a worry for you anymore. "Sure. I will make myself available."
"So generous…" Jun comments, mouth slanting in amusement. "I'm going to turn in. You good?"
You frown. "Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"
He watches you for a moment more before shaking his head. "No reason." He looks down at your cloak and nods. "Keep it for the next summoning. Night." He turns and lazily stalks off toward his suite on the other side of the house from yours.
DAY TWENTY-SEVEN
You're getting the hang of Jun in a way you never really understood any of your previous bosses. Before, your managers were people who just told you what to do and gave you minuscule raises once in a while, but being the Devil's assistant demanded knowing him on a level more intimate than you were expecting.
Because why do you know that eating too much human food will have him in the bathroom for ungodly amounts of time? It turned out that your restriction of blood in the house was actually ruining his digestive track. You're not totally uncaring, though; you now allow the Devil his blood consumption—strictly from opaque bottles. Organs, on the other hand, will never be negotiable.
You know that his favorite thing to listen to to relax after a long, stressful day is the tortured screams of damned souls drowning in the river of boiling blood. He likes falling asleep to the screams of damned souls being quartered. If he needs to hunker down and really concentrate on work, the screams of the racists burning alive right outside his window are his preferred background noise, which is probably why his office is where it is.
Jun actually hates having to negotiate. It took that first trip and a handful more to realize that he's fairly quick to accept the first offer he's given unless it's a particularly nasty human being. Since you've started accompanying him, though, you've been getting him a lot more promised benefits than before. So far, you're most proud of convincing a human to sign over her whimsy once 10 years passes. You think it will really brighten up the place once Hell receives it.
There are a lot of devilish stereotypes you've also debunked during your time with him. He has no horns or tail or wings that he's hiding. Everything you see seems to be all of it. His skin has never been red or any other color aside from the golden tan it is now. The Devil does not have an advocate, as he finds people who relentlessly challenge ideas simply for the sake of it exhausting (though, as the ruler of Hell, he does have the privilege of everyone being too scared to challenge anything he thinks or says anyway). He doesn't rely on the worship of anybody on Earth, and he doesn't care to lure pure souls to Hell; he only makes deals with the people he knows belong with him. That inspired an hours-long conversation in which you demanded he assure you your deal was the exception and you do not belong here in Hell with him.
Why? Don't you feel like you belong here? he asked, smirking. You fit right in, darling.
That might be true, but I don't belong here, right? Like, I'm not an evil person. I would've gone to Heaven if not for my terrible parents. Right?
Will you leave me alone if I agree?
JUN.
One thing you're learning now is that your boss tends to be perceived very differently by his demon subordinates. Where you see a particular and sometimes bratty individual, others see a man they need to appease lest they get their heads cut off. Where you see a softie who cuddles with his pets upon returning home, others see a king with an army of Hellhounds starving for the chance to tear them to pieces. Where you see someone who has become your own personal barista in the mornings, others see someone they're too afraid to ask even the smallest of favors from.
Exhibit A: Soonyoung.
Who is currently hissing at you to come meet him around the corner, away from your desk and away from your boss's door. You look over your shoulder quickly to find Jun deep in reviewing the piles of contracts you left for him this morning. You roll your eyes as you stand, dragging your feet lazily as you shuffle over to where Soonyoung is practically crouching to keep from being seen.
"What is it, Soonyoung?" you sigh. He waves for you to bend down and you ignore him, not bothering to crouch to match his height. "You have one minute. The purgatory's auditorium was double booked for the new hire orientation and the monthly angel-demon networking mixer, and I have to find a solution that will not only please Jun but God. I'm this close to suggesting we go to Earth and book a Chili's."
The demon doesn't even pretend to listen to your mini rant, practically speaking over your last few words. "Do you think you can ask His Infernal Majesty if I can have the next full moon off?"
You cock an eyebrow at him. "Why would I do that?"
He looks around nervously. "Um. Because you're pure of heart and soul? And you like me?"
"First of all, only one of those two statements is true," you inform him, enjoying the way he frowns as he tries to figure out which it is, "and second of all, I meant why would I need to do that?" He stares blankly at you. "Ask him yourself."
He scoffs. "Are you crazy?"
"Yes. Next question."
The answer clearly catches him off-guard, and he stammers over several syllables before standing straight and shaking his head. "I can't ask him myself."
"Why not?"
He opens and closes his mouth several times but offers you no valid reasons. He shrugs pathetically before finally admitting. "Because he scares me!"
You look at him incredulously. "Jun… scares you."
"Don't say his name!" he shriek-whispers, frantically grabbing your wrist and pulling you even further down the hall and away from your desk. He stops just outside the copy room, where a damned soul is slapping the broken copy machine. "Of course he scares me."
"The man who needs to be reminded to eat lunch and take his vitamins despite being older than the world itself scares you."
"Yes."
"The guy who gets ghost pepper chip dust all over his fingers and wipes them on whatever surface is closest to him scares you."
Soonyoung doesn't seem to find an issue with that the way you do but he still nods. "Yes."
"The dude—"
"Yes!" he nearly shouts. "Yes! No amount of ridiculous things you say right now are going to convince me to not be scared of him! I am scared of him!"
The soul at the copy machine finally gets fed up and walks out of the copy room, screaming and nearly falling over, their papers flying every direction, when Soonyoung instinctively bares his teeth and growls. They run the rest of the way back to their desk, abandoning the papers they dropped.
You bend down to start collecting them and snort when you find meaningless doodles done by one of the executives whose office is on this floor.
"You see a very different, non-scary version of him, okay?" Soonyoung continues like he didn't just scare the shit out of someone himself. "You're not scared because you don't have to see him when Hell is down on damned souls for the quarter, or when I breathe wrong around him."
You raise your eyebrows. "And this is my problem, why…?"
"It's not a problem," he says, grinning mischievously. He squats down to help you pick up the papers. "It's an advantage! You're his favorite employee! If you ask him if I can have the day off, he'll say yes!"
You pause, looking up at him and laughing. "Me. His favorite employee. After one month."
"Yeah, don't rub it in, new kid," the demon grunts, rolling his eyes. "Some of us have been kissing his ass for centuries, and you walk in and suddenly own the place. But worry not. I'm choosing to view this as a beautiful opportunity, rather than something to be jealous of."
"Sure," you follow, nodding as you continue to gather the drawings that never saw the copy machine. "You still haven't given me a good reason why you can't do it, though. Your fear is not a good reason."
He groans. "Yes it is!"
"It isn't."
"Okay, I mean. On top of that, he'll just say no."
"Why do you think that?"
He stares at you blankly. When he realizes it's a sincere question, he licks his lips and sighs. "Dude. It's been a month. You haven't had a single day off and you haven't noticed?"
You frown as you pick up the last piece of paper. You stand and think about it. "Oh my god…"
"I thought about asking God a few centuries ago too," he says, misunderstanding you. He stands and takes the pile of papers from you. "Didn't work out. Turns out they have no say in each other's teams, and His Infernal Majesty doesn't like it when demons go over his head."
"Naturally," you mutter. "Not what I meant, though. I just didn't realize I'd been working so much."
"Yeah, yeah, time flies when you're having fun," he says, waving a hand. "Anyway, I really need the day off to go to Earth."
"And do what?"
His face lights up now. "I was summoned by a hot witch the other day, and I want to pay her a visit during the full moon."
"Ooooh, a date!" You lean in, actually interested in where the conversation is going now. "What are you going to do?"
"I don't know about a date," he says bashfully, cheeks turning pink. "I just want to see—"
"Soonyoung. How many times do you want me to threaten your life for distracting my assistant?"
The demon squeals, all the papers the two of you picked up exploding into confetti as they rain down around you again. You sigh, staring as they fall to the ground, deciding immediately you will not be gathering them a second time. You look to your left to find Jun suddenly standing next to you, hands in his pockets as he stares daggers at the demon. You narrow your eyes at your boss and think, yes. Yes, you would probably be scared to be on the receiving end of that look.
But you're not so you aren't. You smile.
"Hi Junnie," you greet him. His eyes flick down to you and he shoots you a flat expression at your usage of the juvenile nickname in front of his demon. "Soonyoung has a favor to ask you."
The man in question shoots you a panicked and betrayed look before grinning nervously at his boss, who turns his attention to him now. He continues giving him that stupid grin for several seconds, failing to say anything until Jun raises one eyebrow.
"Well?"
"Oh! I, um. I was wondering if—if I could have, uh—"
"Spit it out."
"If I—um, couldhavethenextfullmoonoff." He swallows nothing. "Please."
You roll your eyes at the anxiety-riddled request.
"Absolutely not," Jun says immediately, inspiring a small, stunned gasp from you. You don't think you've ever heard him deny someone of something. But then again, you've never heard anyone ask anything of him. "You know how busy full moons are."
"No, yeah, for sure, I'm so sorry," he rambles, bowing his head a few times before giggling nervously and waving a hand. "That was so silly. Yeah. Dumb of me. I was actually just kidding. Got you! So silly. Ha…"
"Oh, come on!" you whine on behalf of Soonyoung, who looks at you with wide eyes and shakes his head quickly, silently begging you to shut up. Jun looks down at you, turning to face you completely. "That's so mean! He asked nicely!" You pause, shrugging. "Nicely enough. Why can't he have the day off?"
"Because it's the full moon."
"Okay…" you elongate the word. "And there will be many more full moons. This is just one, and you have thousands of demons. When was the last time Soonyoung had a day off?"
Jun suddenly averts his eyes, clearing his throat uncomfortably. You turn to Soonyoung, who refuses to answer. You frown at your boss.
"He's… he's never had a day off…?" you ask, making it clear how appalled you are at the idea. Your lip curls up in disgust and you look him up and down judgmentally. "What kind of boss are you?"
You gawk at him as his cheeks begin to turn red.
"You don't give your employees days off? Ever? How old are you, Soonyoung? Like a million years old?"
"Okay, relax," he mutters.
"A million years, and no days off? That's really horrible, Junnie. You should be embarrassed. I am very disappoi—"
"Soonyoung, go ahead and take the full moon off ," Jun practically barks at him, taking your arm in his grip at the same time. "Enjoy your day off, and stop talking to my fucking assistant or I'll have you as a midday snack."
The last thing you see before Jun turns you around and guides you back down the hall and away from Soonyoung is the huge, grateful, and excited smile on his face. You giggle, the sound cut off by a startled squeak when you hear the demon bellow at a damned soul.
"What the hell are you looking at?! Pick these papers up and make me a thousand copies!"
When your boss releases you back at your desk, you sit down, already back to figuring out the purgatory auditorium issue. It takes a few seconds for you to realize Jun isn't going anywhere, though. You pause, looking up at him and tilting your head.
"What is it?" you ask.
"I am a great boss."
"Uh," you exhale in a laugh. "Yeah. I know."
"Do you? Because you—"
"Oh, Junnie," you sigh, rolling your eyes as you return your attention to your computer. "Soonyoung just deserves a day off." You're not sure that statement is true, but you'll be damned if anything stops you from getting the first date gossip you're guaranteed now. "I know you're a good boss."
"Hm."
"Hm," you mimic him, smiling a little. When you look back at him, his eyes are narrowed like he's not sure you're telling the truth. "I wouldn't be willingly working seven days a week if you weren't a good boss, okay?"
"Okay."
"Okay."
"Alright."
"Mhm."
"I'm just gonna—" he points at his desk, not bothering to finish his sentence as he disappears back into his office.
DAY THIRTY
You know something is wrong when you wake up on your own naturally, something you haven't done since you accepted the position with Jun. You frown from under your eye mask, hand coming up to rip it off your face. You slowly sit up, finding every single blanket and the duvet still atop you, and your eyes find the clock on the wall, finding that it's almost a full hour after your usual wake-up time.
"My alarm didn't go off," you mutter.
Jun is your alarm. Jun didn't go off. You shove the blankets off you, shivering a little as you slip off the bed and tuck your feet into your bunny slippers. You shuffle out of your bedroom, poking your head into the hall to find it barren and silent.
"Jun?" you call quietly, knowing he'll hear it regardless. He doesn't answer. You walk further out into the hall, going to the kitchen to find it empty. The coffee machine wasn't touched either, even though it's always on and ready in the morning.
Your anxiety spikes as you start to wonder if he left in the middle of the night without letting you know. You scramble back to your room for your tablet, pulling his calendar up and staring at it in confusion when you find nothing different than when you left it last night.
Meeting with Archangel Joshua
Marketing Team pitch
Block for contracts
Block for collection
Monthly Satan/God touchbase (leave 30m for travel to Purgatory)
Hellhound training check-in
Block for contracts
1:1 with Chief Torment Officer
His meeting with Joshua would've started five minutes ago, so maybe he was just running late and needed to go without you? When has he ever run late? You're not even sure he slept. He's had meetings much earlier than that and he never failed to wake you up and sit down for breakfast. You decide the only way you'll find out is if you head to the office and see if he's there. You're one leg into your pants when your phone starts ringing.
"Thanks for calling Hell. You've reached the Devil's office. How can I help you?" you half-grunt with your phone tucked between your ear and shoulder as you pull your pants on.
"Do you have any idea how busy archangels are?"
"Joshua!" you gasp, immediately forgetting your pants and leaving them unbuttoned as you take your phone into your hand. "Is Jun with you?"
"Funny," he says in a way that suggests he doesn't find that funny at all. You get the feeling you won't find what he says next humorous either. "I was about to ask you the same thing. He hasn't shown for our meeting, and while he's the most vexing person I've ever met, he's also never been late. I can only really wait ten more minutes before I have to go appear as a hallucination to some humans and ask them to build a home for the less fortunate."
You groan, free hand applying pressure to your temple and eyes squeezing shut. "You know what, just… go do that. I'm sorry about this. I accidentally double-booked him. Totally my fault. I'll work with your admin to reschedule. Sorry again." You figure you'll take the fall to keep Jun away from scrutiny until you can find out where the fuck he is.
"'Kay. Don't let it happen again," he sighs dramatically.
"Okay, relax, you glorified gnat with feathers," you scoff, continuing to get dressed. "I said sorry. Y'know what? Don't call me for these things in the future! Have Seungkwan do it next time. I don't want to be subjected to your whiny, little rants."
Joshua makes a noise of disbelief before laughing. "Wow, you're the perfect assistant for Satan. For the record, I was totally kidding. I got to sit here and do nothing but doom scroll, so I don't mind. But I will have my assistant call next time. Sorry for bothering you."
"Good. Don't let it happen again." You don't allow him a response, hanging up and gathering your things as you hurry to leave for the office.
But as you exit your room, you hear your name, called so softly, you would have missed it if you hadn't paused to make sure your tablet was on you. You freeze, frowning in the direction of the sound.
"Jun?" you call, mindlessly setting your bag down in the kitchen as you walk toward your boss's suite. You find his door at the end of the hall, a deep, dark blood red, open just a crack. You knock lightly, and when you don't hear anything, you poke your head through.
And there he is, your missing boss, still cocooned in his bed, his favorite Hellcat and Hellhound sleeping at his feet, the former passed out atop the latter.
"Junnie?" you call again. He groans this time.
"Y/N…" he murmurs, not moving an inch or opening his eyes.
You tiptoe into the room, making a kissy face at Key when the hound's tail starts wagging at the sight of you. The movement makes Lock slide off the dog, meowing helplessly as she does. You get to Jun's bedside and wince when you realize how sick he looks.
The Devil is pale, sweating with a sickly sheen, and looking so weak, it's the first time you've thought he could believably pass as human. You reach out to press the back of your hand to his forehead, but he swats it away.
"Hey!"
"Don't," he whispers, voice hoarse with fatigue. "Fever. I'll burn your skin off."
"Oh," you mutter, immediately taking your hand back. "You're sick. I didn't know the Devil could get sick."
"Demon Flu," he says, eyes fluttering open just enough to peek at you. "Soonyoung sneezed in my face the other day."
"Oh!" you blink at him in surprise. "Ew! Good to know! I will make a note to send him to the Hellhounds to serve as a chew toy for the day."
"Week."
"Got it," you say, nodding. You fidget a little, looking down at your boss with pity. He looks so helpless and sad and cute. You fight the urge to run your fingers through his damp hair. "What do you need? What can I do for you?"
"Nothing. I'll be down until 3:33 a.m. tomorrow," he informs you.
"Specific."
"Just… do… assistant things," he says pathetically, fingers twitching when he tries to wave his hand dismissively.
You can do that. Your first order of business is getting him a tall glass of water and force-feeding it to him until he has rivulets of water very distractingly dribbling down his chin, neck, and between his pecs, where it disappears under the covers.
Then, you get him a cold compress, screeching in surprise when the towel crackles and steams upon contact with his forehead. When that warms up within a minute, you try getting him an actual ice block, chipped straight off the furniture of his weird ice room. You take his moan of relief as a good thing and quickly get to work butchering the ice room until you have an endless supply of blocks for Jun's sizzling forehead.
When you're done with that, you make him the hot pot you made yourself one night and noticed he had several helpings of, spoon feeding it to him despite his several protests. After two slurps, though, there isn't much of a fight, with Jun relaxing back into his pillows and happily allowing you to feed him as he lets his eyes close. You pause, wondering if he fell asleep, but he immediately whines for his next spoonful.
"You're a baby when you're sick."
"I could die."
"You literally couldn't."
He slurps his latest spoonful of broth. "Feels like it."
"Mmm," you hum, smiling at how endearing he is when he doesn't have the energy to put up his big, bad act.
"Y'know…" he rasps, "when I said do assistant things, I meant at work."
"My work is making your life easier, no?" you counter, letting go of the spoon to pick up the chopsticks and pluck meat out of the broth for Jun to eat. He practically purrs when his mouth closes around the chopsticks, and you struggle not to watch his Adam's apple as he swallows. "So I am doing assistant things at work."
Jun opens his eyes, able to open them wider than he was when you first found him. "Just work, hm?"
You set the chopsticks down and pick up the spoon to chase his bite down with broth, but his fingers circle around your wrist, stopping before the spoon can touch his lips. His grip is hot but it doesn't hurt—not how you imagine his face would. "You're full?"
"Why are you feeding me?"
You raise your eyebrows at him. "Because you're sick and need to eat…?"
Jun's eyes narrow infinitesimally, but he releases your wrist, allowing you to feed him more broth.
"Not used to being cared for, are you?" you observe, chuckling. "Big, bad Devil has never been spoonfed?" Your boss rolls his eyes but doesn't entertain you by acknowledging your question.
After a few more bites, his long, slender fingers gently push the bowl away, and he shakes his head, muttering a quiet thank you as you set the food aside on his nightstand. You stand, pulling his blankets up even higher when you see him shiver.
"You don't have to do all this," he sighs as you shove your fingers under his back and legs, tucking his blankets in along his entire body until he looks like an oversized, swaddled baby. "It's not in your employment agreement. Go work."
"I will," you say, rolling your eyes at his stubbornness. "And you realize I can help you without being contractually obligated to, right?" you ask, laughing and collecting all the dishes you need to bring back to the kitchen. "You don't need to have me sign my soul away to get me to care, Junnie. I know I don't need to do any of this. Consider it a friend-slash-roommate helping you."
You finish cleaning up and don't allow him the chance to retort or protest, immediately turning away and calling Lock and Key to follow you out of the room.
"Come on, kiddies," you coo as his pets exit. "Your daddy needs to rest." You glance back up at Jun, who stares at you hard with a deep frown on his face. "Call if you need anything. I'll stay nearby and check on you in an hour!"
DAY THIRTY-SIX
Jun has been weird around you for the last week. It's like that dumb flu of his altered his brain chemistry and made him cold and detached.
There was no more going into your room to wake you up; now he has a shrill alarm clock appear to scream in your ear like a demented banshee, disappearing every time you try to smack wherever its snooze button is. He no longer sits for breakfast with you; now, he tells you he needs to be at the office ahead of you and will simply meet you there. Thankfully, he allows you to continue accompanying him to his summonings, but with how weird he's acting, you wonder if it would be better to just face your fears and be alone.
You attempted to talk to him throughout the week, trying not to take it personally when all you got were one-worded responses or grunts or blank stares.
Three days in, you started slacking a little to force him to say more than one word to you. You scheduled meetings so he'd show up ten minutes late. You sent a Hell-wide email promising everyone a four-day work week if quotas were met. You even threatened to release the lower-level sinners from their torture chambers to cause trouble for the archangels. All that got you was a severe glare, and a notice from Demon Resources that one more mistake would get you on a performance improvement plan, which you were informed would involve giving the Hellhounds baths alongside the damned souls in charge of that.
It's clear that Jun is in a mood—probably the aftereffects of the mysterious Demon Flu you can't catch. You've resigned yourself to riding it out, accepting that even the Devil is prone to tantrums and mood swings.
The phone on your desk rings, and you heave a tired sigh before answering.
"Hi. You've reached the desk of The Supreme Lord of Sulkiness," you greet loudly, ignoring the series of choked coughs that erupt from your boss's office behind you. "How may I help you?"
"Oh, uh…" the voice pauses like they're checking something. "This is His Infernal Majesty's desk, correct?"
"Yep, that's what I just saaaaid," you sing-song. "Now how can I help you?"
"This is the front desk. We have an archangel on the line that insists on speaking with His Infernal Majesty."
You roll your eyes. "Who is it?"
"Archangel Brayden…?"
The idiot is the biggest pain in your ass. You're not even sure why he constantly asks after Jun when Joshua is the archangel appointed with all relations having to do with Hell. It's probably a weird power play in Heaven that you're not privy to, but you've been dodging him for days now.
"Tell him he's not available."
"He is threatening to visit for the third time this week."
"Jesus Christ," you mutter.
"You want me to transfer him to Christ?"
You frown deeply at that. "What? We can transfer him to—wait, what?"
"You said—"
"Never mind, just—ugh," you groan in frustration, resting your elbows on the desk and cradling your head in your free hand. "Put him through."
"Will do." The line cuts to the agonized screams of damned souls as you wait for her to transfer him to you.
"Hello?" his dumb voice drifts through the receiver.
"Hi. You've reached the desk of—"
"Who am I speaking to?"
You clamp your mouth shut, rolling your lips between your teeth to keep from immediately snapping at him. When you're sure you won't, you state your name.
He still manages to say it wrong, but you don't bother correcting him. "I need a meeting with Satan."
"And why is that?"
He laughs arrogantly. "That's between me and him."
"Well, he's busy."
"I haven't even given you my availability."
"Don't need yours. I have his, and he's busy." You tack on "for the rest of time" for good measure.
There's a loaded silence long enough that you wonder if you've effectively driven him into hanging up. Of course, that would be too easy. "You really don't want to mouth off with me."
"Excuse me?" You huff a laugh of disbelief. You swear some of these angels are bigger assholes than the demons crawling around here.
"You heard me," he seethes. You feel your self-control dissolving by the second. "Now you can either transfer me to your boss like a good, little demon slave—"
"I am literally none of those four things."
"—or," he near-shouts over you, "you can put me in his books. This is a very important meeting, and I'd hate for you to have your soul ripped apart for failing to schedule it."
"Listen here," you hiss, "you repulsive, pretentious, foul excuse for an—"
"Brayden."
You freeze as Jun's voice cuts into the call. You turn toward his office to find him leaning against his desk, arms crossed over his chest and legs crossed at the ankles. His eyes slide over to you and he lazily lifts a hand and beckons you over with two fingers. You quickly hang the phone up and stand, entering Jun's office in time to catch the archangel bumbling nonsensically on speakerphone.
He nods at the seats in front of him and you take one, slowly lowering yourself as he speaks.
"I don't believe we've met," Jun says, interrupting his stuttering.
"Um, no, we haven't! I just wanted to schedule a coffee chat to introduce myself!" You glare at the phone. A coffee chat is his very important meeting?
"What a fucking tool," you murmur.
"A coffee chat," the Devil repeats.
"Yes. I figured Hell is a huge place. Maybe you need two archangels to serve as point. I'd love to put my name in the ring—"
"And you thought threatening my assistant was the best way to do it?" Jun asks, face blank as he stares at you.
"Oh, no," he says, laughing like it's a joke, "No, no, definitely not. I was not threatening her."
"Hm."
You've grown accustomed to Jun's many variations of hm. There's his thoughtful hm. The hm when he's trying not to smile or laugh. His angry hm. The that-is-the-dumbest-thing-I've-ever-fucking-heard hm. A hm reserved especially for when Soonyoung annoys him. This one isn't one you're familiar with.
"What was it you were saying about her soul being torn apart?" Saying the words again makes Jun's eyes turn a deep red. His hands turn into fists, making the veins running up his forearm pop.
"I was joking!" Brayden insists. "I was totally joking. She and I joke like that! We—"
"Lie to me one more time and I'll have God cast you out of Heaven so fast, you won't know how you ended up in my Hellhound's digestive system."
The line falls silent, and your body does interesting things in reaction to the words—the most obvious one being the odd ache between your legs. You fidget a little, finger slipping into your collar and pulling a little as you begin to feel warm.
"How long have you been an archangel, Brayden?"
"Uh, well, heh," he laughs nervously. "So, I'm not quite an archangel yet. I'm—"
Jun cuts him off with a sharp, terrifying laugh. "And now you never will be," he informs him. "I'm sure both Archangel Joshua and God will agree that you aren't fit for that role."
He squeaks in protest. "I—"
"Wow, how productive!" Jun says with feigned glee. "Look at us, we had a great chat and we didn't even need to waste time breathing each other's air or ruining the joys of drinking caffeine."
"Uh, I, um, sir—"
"Have any other demands you'd like to make?"
"No," he answers immediately. "No, I… I don't. I'm sorry. I—"
"Perfect," he says. "Now if you'll apologize to my assistant, we can get on with our lives. And make it good, Brayden. I don't like to repeat orders."
"I'm so sorry," Brayden grovels, sounding like he's on the verge of tears, if not fully crying already. He sniffles and his voice cracks on his next words. "I don't know why I was acting like such an asshole and bothering all of you when I had no business going over Archangel Joshua's head like that. I'm sorry, Satan."
Jun narrows his eyes. "I don't want your apologies."
"I'm sorry, Y/N."
"Hm," he accepts it. "Then I think our business is done. And Brayden?"
"Yes?" his voice trembles.
"If I hear that you called anyone here in Hell again, let alone my assistant," he starts, eyes flashing a bright and violent scarlet now, "I will personally come up there, pluck you right out of the fucking sky, and take my sweet, sweet time flaying you with a dull butter knife—wings and all—before I tear your soul apart, piece by agonizing piece myself."
There's a loud sniffle followed by a whimper on the line, but the ache inside you is so strong now, you can't even enjoy the sound.
"And if you think my friendships with your superiors will stop me, you are so sorely mistaken." His pause is pregnant with tension, his eyes boring into you as he lands his final threat. "I have absolutely no problem with starting a war over you."
The words send a chill down your spine, and you cross your legs tightly to keep from twitching at the sensation. You grip the arms of your chair and avert your eyes from your boss, trying to understand what the fuck is happening to your body right now. You quietly blow a breath out through your mouth when the sensation doesn't let up.
As expected, the angel doesn't have a proper response to that.
"Good talk, Brayden," Jun says sardonically. "Don't let me hear your voice ever again."
He reaches over and presses a button on his phone, ending the call. He looks back to you, his eyes finally fading back to that deep, comforting brown. He sighs, seeming suddenly and significantly less sure of himself than he was on the phone.
"Um," he clears his throat, coughing a little as he grips the edge of his desk with both hands. He looks down at his lap and inhales deeply. His breath is spicy with the smell of your chips on his exhale, blowing strands of your hair away from your face. "Sorry."
"Why?" you laugh in disbelief. The sound must unwind something in him because his posture relaxes and he looks back up at you. "That was amazing!"
He snorts, shaking his head at himself. "Yeah, well. It's going to result in a lot of discussions with God and Joshua, so… please find something on their calendars."
"Got it, boss," you say, standing to return to your own desk.
Before you get far, though, Jun calls your name, the syllables sounding weird from him—much softer and gentler than you've ever heard him be. It almost triggers your fight or flight for some reason.
"Yeah?" you ask slowly, eyes flitting about the room nervously.
"You don't have to stay on calls like that for my sake," he tells you, crossing his arms again, this time like he's almost trying to protect himself from you. "I know you took the blame for me missing all my meetings while sick, and I know you try to deal with all kinds of bullshit because you don't want people to think the Devil hired someone without a backbone."
The words strike a chord with you that you didn't realize even existed. Did you do that? If you think about it, you can see why your boss would think so. Day in and day out, no matter how much attitude you gave to whoever you were talking to, you still stayed and dealt with the problem so that the others would find you reliable—so that they wouldn't have to bring it to Jun.
You also took the blame for the missed meetings because Jun's health wasn't anyone's business, not until he made it clear it was okay to share with others, anyway. No one needed to know he missed a few meetings without notice.
"So… don't do that," Jun says, sighing. "Assholes—whether in Heaven or Hell—they're always going to try and give you a hard time because they're too scared to say it to my face. And I know without a doubt that you can handle it, but… you're not my shield, okay?"
"Okay."
"I know you were about to rip that prick a new asshole," he continues, making you smile, "but I want you to feel like you can do that from the jump if you need to. Next time, just tell him to fuck off. Or hang up. Or bring me in. Whatever. If anyone has an issue with the way you work, they can talk to me. Just… don't sit there and take it."
You nod slowly. "Alright, I won't… thanks."
"Mhm."
"Hey, Junnie," you say suddenly, taking advantage of his sudden willingness to talk to you now. He hums again, nodding for you to go on, his eyes skimming every surface of your face. It isn't until this moment that you realize he hasn't properly looked at you in a week. "Um. Are we good?"
He frowns. "What do you mean?"
"You've just been…" you trail off, shrugging. "I don't know, a little cold lately?" You hate how pathetic and whiny it makes you sound. "And if it's because I did something wrong, well, I would just like to remind you that our agreement can only be terminated by my death, the collapse of reality, or mutual agreement."
The corner of his mouth twitches upward, but his expression stays serious and he keeps taking his time watching you. So much time, you start to wring your hands nervously. Finally, when he seems to be finished with studying every last millimeter of your face, he shakes his head.
"You haven't done anything wrong," he assures you, sounding tired. "I was just feeling weird. I'm okay, though. We're okay. You don't have to worry about termination. You've made it clear I'm stuck with you."
You grin, nodding. "Good. Because I have grown very accustomed to my unlimited interior design budget and my 1,000-thread-count sheets."
He snorts, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure you have. Now go schedule me a coffee chat with God and Joshua for tomorrow, please. Move things around if you must. I'm sure Brayden has gone crying about it to Mommy by now."
You laugh. "Will do."
You leave his office feeling lighter than you have all week.
DAY THIRTY-SEVEN
Jun: where tf r u
Me: have a dr appt!!!
Jun: what why r u ok
Jun: i'll come over
Me: no it's ok it's just a check-up
Jun: liar we don't do check-ups in hell
Me: yeah well i am human and i need a check-up
Jun: u sure ur ok?
Me: yes! i'll be in the office soon.
Jun: fine… if a few hellhounds find u just send them back
Me: bruh
Me: did you give the dogs my scent to find me???
Jun: u never wake up before me let alone leave the house before me
Me: you could have just called
Jun: k wtvr noted
Me: 23 HELLHOUNDS IS NOT A FEW JUNNIE WTF
Jun: SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP JUST SEND THEM BACK
"His Infernal Majesty seems to be very… protective over you," the doctor observes, still clearly annoyed with having 23 fire-breathing Hellhounds at her door.
You wave a hand and laugh uncomfortably. "Oh, he's just a very concerned and, uh, considerate person."
The doctor just stares. "The Devil. Considerate. Right."
"Um. So anyway," you clear your throat, desperate to change the subject. "Do you have experience with humans?"
"No, but I will do everything I can to ensure you leave healthy." Her voice is stern and uncompromising, and you suddenly feel like you're in a principal's office rather than a doctor's. She sits down on a rolling stool, scoots closer to the table you're perched on, and mutters, "Wouldn't want more Hellhounds plowing my door down, ready to melt my face off because the Devil's charge was unhappy."
You shift on the table a bit uncomfortably but smile. It's clear that she will not be forgetting about the 23 Hellhounds sent to her office just because a human wasn't in bed when the Devil woke up anytime soon. Not while you're still in her office, at least.
Jun wouldn't do anything to her anyway. You'd probably just go to a doctor on Earth next time if Hell's medical services weren't sufficient.
"So what brings you in today?" she sighs, crossing her legs and folding her hands over her knees.
"Right, so I experienced something weird yesterday," you start. "I had a stressful workplace issue and my body reacted very unexpectedly, and I now require medical attention."
The doctor frowns, rolling closer to you on her stool. "Okay, if you're comfortable, can you describe the stressful event and how your body reacted?"
"Well, an angel was harassing the front desk so they had him talk to me, and then he started saying all this foul shit—"
"Brayden."
Your eyebrows shoot up. "Yes! How did you know?"
"He's called every department of this Devil-forsaken hellscape," she says, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. "How is a demon doctor supposed to get an archangel a meeting with the Devil?"
You scoff. "Well, he's not an archangel, and it was just a coffee chat."
The doctor snorts, and as you watch her terse personality start to melt, you deem it safe to dive into the full story. By the end of it, she's clapping and giggling, a massive difference from when she was forced to face 23 Hellhounds.
"Wow, that's very attractive of His Infernal Majesty."
You frown. "What?"
She raises an eyebrow at you. "You don't think so?"
"Uh…" You're stumped.
It's not that you've never found anyone attractive… actually, it absolutely is that you've never found anyone attractive.
You tried dating but stopped years ago when you recognized that you were doing it because you felt an obligation to. All your friends were dating or in long-term committed relationships—or at the very least, sleeping around. Dating apps seemed like something you were supposed to do. You quickly shut that idea down. Romance wasn't a hole you've felt in your life so it's not one you lingered on or thought about often. Sure, you knew when people were beautiful or handsome or hot or cute—you know without a doubt that Jun is all of the above. But attraction is harder. You're not sure you've ever felt it.
"You've never felt attraction." Your eyes widen at the demon physician.
"Can you read minds?"
She snorts. "No. I can read your face." She narrows her eyes at you and nods. "And I think I know what happened to you."
"But I haven't given you my symptoms."
"Let me guess," she says, crossing her arms and scooting her stool back so she can lean against the counter behind her. "Elevated heart rate, flushing, perspiration… maybe some pain in the abdominal area or… lower."
You stare at her. "Are you sure you can't read my mind?"
She smirks. "I'm sure, human." She sighs. "You're going to be perfectly fine. Though I do recommend you explore options for therapy."
You startle. "What? Why?"
"Because what you felt was arousal," she reveals, "and I'm guessing you might need someone to process those thoughts about your boss with and it will not be me."
You choke on nothing, triggering a coughing attack that lasts embarrassingly long. When you finally stop, your chest is heaving and the doctor is staring at you blankly.
"Are you done?"
"Coughing? Yes. With you? Absolutely not," you inform her, ignoring the way she sighs like this is an inconvenience. "What do you mean arousal?"
"I mean, you found His Infernal Majesty's defense of you attractive and your body responded accordingly. Very strongly—much more strongly than anyone else probably would—but accordingly."
Your face turns Hellfire hot, and you wish the dogs had barbecued you while they were here.
"You have nothing to worry about as far as your health is concerned. These feelings are very natural." She thinks for a moment before adding: "For humans. Demons are better at discretion."
"But… he was just being nice… why would that be attractive?"
She shrugs. "The bar is in Hell, literally."
"Oh god…" you murmur. Is this what happened to your friends when they insisted that a man paying half the bill after ordering several cocktails to their one water was modern day romance?
"I will say…" she starts, looking a little hesitant as she does.
"You can say it," you encourage her. "I won't tell anyone. HIPAA, right?"
"One, that's an American thing, and two, that's meant to protect the patient's privacy, not the other way around."
"Whatever," you sigh. "You get it."
"Between us girls," she says, even though you two aren't even of the same species. It makes you smile. "I understand why your body would react the way it did. It is quite nice to feel protected and safe."
"Protected and safe," you echo quietly.
"Mhm. Has anyone ever made you feel that?"
The answer comes to you fast. No. No one has ever made you feel protected or safe. That has been your own responsibility since you were four. Still, it takes you a moment to answer because you realize that although that would've been the answer a few months ago, it's more complicated now.
Now, the answer is: no. No one has ever made you feel that way. Not until Jun.
"Can I have a referral to that therapist?"
She smiles. "I'll give you a list of recs, but this isn't that putrid Hell hole you call Earth; you don't need a referral to seek healthcare."
"Right."
When you get into the office and Jun apologizes for the Hellhounds and asks if everything was fine at the doctor's (and if he needs to throw anyone into a vat of boiling oil), you feel your symptoms again. And you know Hell's doctor is right.
DAY FORTY-TWO
Hell is closed tomorrow, and it's all thanks to you. You hope that you'll be included in some sort of history book for this. Every demon you've come across has made it clear that you deserve to be anyway. Because after the debacle with Soonyoung's day off and a single complaint you made to Jun about how Hell doesn't have enough paid holidays, the underworld now has Demon Appreciation Day (DAD!), an unprecedented day off for all of Hell's employees as a thank you for their hard work terrorizing humans.
Unfortunately, it also means the damned souls get a break from torment, but Jeonghan, Chief Torment and Innovation Officer, has assured Jun he's already on it, figuring out ways to automate torture for one day so that the worst human beings in history do not get a break ever again.
"What are you going to do for DAD?" Soonyoung asks the current watercooler demon on shift as soon as she's done small talking a damned soul to tears.
"I'm going to abstain from speaking to anyone." You smile at the answer as you get your own cup of water.
"Oh," Soonyoung chirps, nodding slowly. She glares at him and he immediately walks away, beckoning you to hurry. "We don't want to mess with Jeongyeon when her social battery is dead." You wave bye to her and she winks at you. You know very well her social battery is always dead around Soonyoung no matter what. "Anyway, what are you, our amazing Queen of DAD, going to do on your day off?"
"Queen is a little excessive," you say, not very keen on taking a title that would encroach on any of Jun's millions, even as a joke. "Maybe mayor."
Soonyoung clearly doesn't like the suggested edit, scoffing. "No. Queen is fitting."
You roll your eyes. "Sure."
"What? It is! You're the reason we have our first mandated day off ever!" the demon reminds you. His mouth twists into a mischievous smirk now. "Plus, with all the rumors going 'round, 'queen' is perfect for our king."
You stop in your tracks. "What?"
He giggles so obnoxiously, you slap his arm more out of reflex than anything else. He gasps, rubbing the spot dramatically. "What?! I'm just the messenger! Everyone is talking about it."
"About what?"
"About how His Infernal Majesty must be in love with you if he's willing to create an entire day off just for you."
The words make your stomach jump into your throat. Ever since your appointment, you've been paying extra attention to your feelings, and you're convinced you actually have no idea what anything feels like. Have you ever properly known what you were feeling? What is a feeling anyway?
When Jun ripped the blankets off you in the morning, did you feel annoyed, furious, or helpless?
When Jun wordlessly handed you your coffee, did you feel grateful, enamored, or nothing at all because you were still half asleep?
When he wrapped his long ass fingers around your wrist to travel to Earth for summonings, did you feel giddy, excited, or grateful that you wouldn't be alone at home?
When Soonyoung says that there are rumors that Jun is in love with you, do you feel confused, anxious, or endlessly irritated with the demon?
Since you haven't had a chance to see a therapist, you pick the last one.
You scoff. "It isn't for me, you idiot. I just floated the idea by him."
"And any idea you float by him becomes a fully fleshed out thing by the end of the day."
"Okay, so he's a good and receptive boss."
His eyebrows rise at that. "He's the Devil."
Touché. "It's ridiculous."
"That he loves you to the point of invention? No, I d—"
You shove him into the wall, effectively making him spill his water all over himself. "Hey! You can't just go hitting people f—"
"Actually, I can!" you correct him, walking away. "Jun explicitly gave me permission to do whatever the fuck I want! So take it up with him!"
What a ridiculous rumor from an even more ridiculous demon.
Of all the much cooler rumors that could've been made, that one is the one they settled on? If you knew that's the news that would be spreading, you would've started your own rumors about yourself. Like you're actually God's super cool daughter and this is just a nepotism internship before you become the heiress of Heaven. Or that Hell is just a simulation being run by a crazy scientist named Jun and your arrival marks the imminent end of the experiment—an antichrist of sorts. Kind of poetic.
But the Devil being in love with his assistant? Both impossible and cliche and scary to think about because you don't think you'd be able to pick up on it even if it were possible.
When you return home, you're debating telling Jun about this rumor just to watch him stutter and squirm and turn red (and maybe make plans to disembowel a demon or two), but that's all forgotten when you find your boss back early from a meeting with God he took in purgatory. And endearingly enough, he's sprawled across the couch with both Lock and Key on his stomach and leg respectively, all three of them fast asleep.
You grin, taking several photos before you pocket your phone and watch his chest rise and fall, slowly coming to the realization that Jun needed this break too. You've never seen the man nap, and up until the day he got sick, you were still convinced he never even slept at all. If he's taking a nap, you know it's because he badly needs it. You're determined to leave him be, but you hear your name just as you're about to leave the living room.
"Hey," you greet him, smiling at how confused and sleepy he looks as he lifts his head and stares at his pets. "Sorry, did I wake you?"
He shakes his head, letting it plop back onto the couch when it's clear Lock and Key have no intention of moving. "No, I've been napping long enough," he says, his voice deep and gravely with sleep. You shift your weight from foot to foot as he continues speaking, settling for squeezing your thighs together when your sudden discomfort isn't alleviated. Oh god. Is this arousal again? "God cancelled last minute." He yawns, mouth opening comically wide. "Something about a miracle gone wrong."
"Ah," you nod, walking over to the three of them and taking the empty sectional by his head while you try to get yours to shut up. "What are your plans for this rare afternoon off then?" you ask. "And for DAD?"
Jun tilts his head up to look at you. "Stop calling it that," he deadpans.
"No," you say simply. "It's my holiday and I will call it what I want."
You expect him to point out it isn't your holiday; after all, you aren't even a demon. You're just the catalyst behind something that was a long time coming. But the argument doesn't come. Instead, your boss sighs and straightens his head again, staring at the ceiling.
"Fair enough, I suppose."
You raise your eyebrows, smiling. You're about to point out he basically just agreed that it's your holiday when you hear Soonyoung's stupid voice in the back of your mind. He created a holiday for you. Is that not a man who loves you?
You shudder, shaking a little like that will exorcise the demon from your subconscious.
"You okay?" Jun asks, looking back up at you.
"Huh? Yeah." You struggle to wipe the frown off your face before looking down at the Devil. "Want dinner?"
"Hot pot?"
"I've made hot pot several times this month," you groan. "Are you not tired of it?"
He looks at you like you're crazy. "No?" He sits up abruptly without removing Lock from his stomach first, and the cat releases an ear-piercing yowl before jumping off him. Key follows suit as Jun pulls his legs away and plants his feet on the floor. "You humans tire of things so fast. It's why you're all so vulnerable to temptation."
"Pfft. Me? Prone to temptation?" You pause and think of all the material things you've forced Jun to buy you under the guise of it being absolutely necessary for your productivity as his assistant. You shrug. "Okay, yeah. That is true."
Jun smirks and shakes his head. "Come on. Let's eat."
You nod, following him as he gets up ahead of you and walks into the kitchen. You slow at the door when you find him leaning his back against the fridge, his arms crossed and his lips pursed. He's blushing slightly, and he looks like he almost regrets doing this.
"Happy DAD, I guess."
The kitchen is decorated in every possible shade of pink you've ever seen—balloons, streamers, tinsel, confetti, a sign that says Demon Human Appreciation Day! And in the middle of the kitchen island is a cake, and just looking at it, you know it's not like the blood-based desserts that the demons around here like to indulge in.
"I never had a meeting with God," Jun mutters. "I just had you put that in for me. I was actually meeting Joshua to get this. It's angel cake. Actual angel cake. They use stardust sugar, moon milk, morning dew, and cloudberries. Figured you'd prefer this over devil's cake… actual devil's cake."
You stare at it, decorated beautifully with piped frosting and fresh berries. It's a pale pink—so pale, it looks white compared to the other shades that litter the space—and its frosting just barely glitters under the light. The top reads, Best Human Ever.
"Of course, the angels chose the message. To be clear, I would never call you the best."
You're finally snapped out of your daze at the words, which prompt you to roll your eyes. "Yes because you would use something much better. Like Most Perfect Human Ever, right, Junnie?"
His blush deepens and he glares at the wall across from him. "No."
You look around, stunned by the display of appreciation, especially for someone who was technically just fulfilling her part of the contract. You've never even gotten a birthday party thrown for you, and the happiness you're filled with threatens to strangle you. You swallow the knot forming in your throat, thinking that maybe DAD is your favorite holiday.
"Can I hug you?"
"Absolutely not."
"Oh come on!" you whine, already walking to him with open arms. "You can't do something so kind and cute and wonderful and not accept a hug!"
He backs away from you, hands splayed in front of him to keep you away. "The Devil doesn't do hugs."
"The Devil probably also doesn't have a history of showing his assistant appreciation," you point out. "Or securing her an angel cake she's going to eat in one sitting!"
Jun pauses, frowning. "One sitting?! It's meant to serve 10 people!"
"Give me a hug!" you shriek, jumping at him.
He, of course, disappears. You stumble into the space he was just standing in and gasp in mock offense at being evaded. You spin around, pouting, and find him right behind you, glaring. You sigh.
"Okay, if you're really not consenting to a hug, I will not force you into one. But if you're just being an emotionally constipated weirdo, I would ask that you suppress that for DAD and allow just one—" You hold up one finger for emphasis. "—hug. Please."
Jun's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows nothing, his eyes zoning out on something above your head. He shakes his head and sighs. "Fine. One hug, bu—oof."
You don't wait for him to finish his sentence, hugging him so tightly, you immediately start sweating from the heat radiating through his clothes. But you don't care, tightening your arms around his waist and pressing your cheek as far into his chest as it will go. You're on the verge of tears and your boss doesn't need to see it.
When he realizes you fully intend on making your hug last more than a millisecond, a single hand comes up to rest on your shoulder, thumb hesitantly sweeping back and forth in a comforting caress.
For the first time in several days, you don't bother to check in with your feelings and you decide maybe it's time to stop. Because this just feels nice, and if it feels nice, then that's all you want to know. Everything else is noise that threatens to pop this bubble of safety you're in—Jun's arms. You decide then that the nuances of your happiness are none of your business as long as you are happy. Happy. Something you're starting to think you've never fully been now that you've truly experienced it here, in Hell.
"Thank you, Junnie," you mumble against his chest. You know it's easy to tell you've been brought to tears from the way your watery voice trembles, but thankfully, the Devil doesn't point it out. "You don't know how much this means to me."
He sighs, squeezing your shoulder. "I think I do." After a moment, he adds: "Thanks for everything you do for Hell… and for me. You are very…" He clears his throat uncomfortably, "… appreciated here."
You smile, sighing as you finally pull away from him, wiping at your eyes discreetly as you do. "Thank you. Now let me make you hot pot and let's eat this cake."
You turn away fast to hide your glassy eyes, missing the way Jun rests a palm to his chest where you had just been pressed against him.
JOIN MY PERMANENT TAG LIST • next part »
A/N: again, this is already done and tumblr just kept me from keeping this a one shot bc of its 1000 block limit bc it HATES ME! i've queued the next part to release this wed 7/1 so pls stay tuned! :)
vernon is a waist grabber (canon), a wall leaner (basically canon), and a messy kisser (not canon but i'm drawing conclusions) and you cannot convince me otherwise.
genre & warnings: situationship to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, reader and hansol r biiiiggg idiots, suggestive content
desc: photos in the mirror, lips pouted cutely. photos on your macbook, scantily clad and sexy. photos on your digital camera, body exposed with a smirk on your face. however, none of them seemed to prompt your situationship, vernon, to even like your instagram story!
wc: 3.6k
𝄞: thirst trap by audrey hobert, pang by caroline polachek, claws by charli xcx
It had been exactly eight months and fourteen days since Hansol walked into your life. Like a whirlwind, he turned you completely upside down, riveting your senses every time he was within your vicinity.
It had been six months and nine days since you went on your first date, a cutesy expedition into the mountains, where he took you to his favourite hiking spot. Packing a picnic of all the foods you mentioned craving, sitting closely next to you whilst absentmindedly brushing your hands, kissing you sweetly under the sunset.
It had been six months and two days since you first slept together, heated and intense, his body eating up yours like a man starved. His whispered praises convinced you he was the one — his compliments utterly too much for someone who still hasn’t asked you to be his girlfriend.
You felt absolutely crazy. Suspicious and completely insane. Hansol spent every free moment dancing around your mind like a ballerina, his apprehension for anything pathetically raising such big questions in your mind.
‘What if there’s someone else?’ You whined to your best friend, Seungkwan, who had the lucky role of knowing you and Hansol a little too well. Seungkwan was sitting lazily on your loveseat, a coffee being sucked through a straw and into his lips.
He pauses his sipping, not bothering to tear his eyes away from his phone. ‘It’s Vernon, he couldn’t be bothered to tie his shoelaces up last time I saw him, he hasn’t got the stamina to two-time.’
On the bed, you were religiously taking selfies, your MacBook positioned to rehearsed perfection as you leaned forward, allowing your cleavage to be almost front-and-centre in the camera’s eye.
Seungkwan was unfazed by your faux sexiness, your pouting, jutting and head hanging, a familiar routine when you were desperate for your situationship’s attention.
‘But Kwan,’ You moan, pausing as three beeps and a camera shutter sound from your laptop, making you squint at the blurry pictures. ‘Oh, this one is good.’
You swivel the screen to show your best friend, whose gaze finds the selfie, ‘You’ve done better.’
With a vocal sigh of frustration, you strip off your cardigan and drop it to the bed, kicking it out of the view of the camera and ruffle your hair. ‘We’ve been going on dates, meeting each other’s families and fucking for months!’
The three beeps ring out again, the camera shutter effect flickering as you wordlessly turn the computer to Seungkwan as he holds his hand up in a ‘meh’ gesture.
‘Chivalry is dead, my love,’ he beckons, ‘Just ask him out.’ Seungkwan continues scrolling on his feed, the conversation a carbon copy of many the two of you have had before — Hansol being lazy, you overthinking it, and thus, Seungkwan has to rush to your side whilst you whine about your boyfriend-without-a-title.
‘I shall not!’ You feign offence, rolling to catch the lighting your fairy lights provide, your phone held centimetres from your face as you pull a sexy face. ‘I’m just getting tired of being in limbo.’
If Seungkwan had a penny for every time you said that, he’d be absolutely stinking fucking rich.
‘I’m going to tell you what I tell you every time.’ He says his iced coffee finished as the bottom of the plastic cup rattles with his empty inhalation. ‘Just ask him out.’
‘Just ask him out.’ You mimic back, throwing your friend a dirty look as he reaches lazily for your laptop and filters through the thirst traps you’d been taking. ‘You know him better than I do-‘
‘Debatable.’ He retorts.
‘Fine, you know him well enough. Tell me what he’s thinking, please.’ You beg, giving him the biggest puppy dog eyes you could physically muster, forcing him to fake a gag at you.
‘Oh my god, stop it!’ He exclaims, ‘That might work on Vernon, but it will never work on me.’
You sigh loudly, flopping onto your back once again and holding the camera above you.
‘____, you are the light of my life, my best friend on the planet, a star that shines in my galaxy, but I swear to god-‘ he pauses on a particular photo, his previous point lost in the wind as he eyes the photo up. ‘This photo!’
You scramble to your feet, perched on the arm of the loveseat and leaning over his shoulder. A saunter-y photo sits, your hair flowing and covering your face slightly as you pout and look away from the camera, a pencil between your lips seductively.
‘Fuck, that is a good photo.’ You stare in disbelief at yourself and lean on Seungkwan’s shoulder to airdrop it to yourself, the long and gruelling process of picking the perfect song beginning.
‘I just wish he’d decide what he wants.’ You say, the burst of I Don’t Understand But I Luv U by your favourite artist bouncing through the room.
‘Too sexy.’ Seungkwan offers. ‘I don’t think he’s consciously not choosing, I just think he already thinks you’re his.’
‘This?’ Fast Pace, another song by one of your favourite artists, comes bounding out of your phone speaker. ‘But I’m not! I haven’t heard from him in a day, and then he comes barrelling back in like we’re in love!’
‘Break-up song, next.’ Seungkwan says, leaning on his chin to watch as you scroll mindlessly through your playlist.
‘Ok, this?’ Spell, your most played song, rang out.
‘Yes, perfect!’ Seungkwan snaps in agreement, ‘A bit sexy, mysterious, no hidden meanings, I like it.’
You grumble in annoyance at his jab and press post — you’ve only put lyrics on your story, hoping Hansol would catch on like, four…maybe five times?
‘But I’m not already his, he needs to, you know, ask me?’ You complain, circling back to the previous point. ‘Oh, and maybe text me consistently, I have constant whiplash, I swear.’ You reach up to rub your neck as if you have actually been injured by Hansol’s whip-like behaviour.
Seungkwan just tuts at your complaints, his mind trailing to his other clueless best friend, who Seungkwan thinks is being very dumb at the moment. There’s only so much blame you can put on Hansol’s mindless nature before Seungkwan fears he may have to interject — and tell his best friend to get it together!
For the first hour, you watch the likes pour through, likes from your friends, likes from random men, even a like from your own mother. Yet not a peep of Hansol, not even a view, not a message, nothing.
‘Do you think he’s like, dead or something?’ Seungkwan was now rattling through your nail polish on the bed as you lounged with your head hanging lazily off the loveseat, your hand held up for Seungkwan to paint.
‘You’re unbearable.’ He mutters, concentrating with precision.
By hour five, three different guys have messaged you, including Mingyu, the guy whom you crushed on for almost a decade, yet you felt nothing but distaste and very, very intense longing — and to nullify your moaning, you and Seungkwan were both half a bottle of wine down, nattering mindlessly.
‘I can’t believe Kim fucking Mingyu replied to my story, but Hansol hasn’t even viewed it!’ You huff, blowing your hair out of your face in frustration and dramatically dropping your head onto your best friend’s lap, expertly moving as to not spill the beverage in your hand.
‘Shut up, he did not!’ Seungkwan gawked, watching your phone closely as you scroll through Mingyu’s account, ‘God, I think I might be drooling.’
‘Ew,’ you say, turning your head upwards to your best friend, who grabs your phone hastily and continues the stalk.
‘He is so gorgeous,’ Seungkwan coos, his eyes practically heart-shaped whilst he zooms in on a shirtless photo of Mingyu. ‘With all due respect to Vernon, I can’t believe you’re here mopeing because of a guy who wears rainbow tie-dye jumpers when Prince Charming is in your DMs.’
‘Hey,’ you slap his chest half-heartedly, ‘I like Hansol’s jumper.’
‘It’s a fucking crime to fashion.’ Seungkwan deadpans, and you bite your lip so as not to let out any sign of agreement.
By hour sixteen, you’ve woken up, bewildered and quite hungover. Seungkwan was passed out flatly next to you, just as he had many times; your teddy bear snuggled in his arms.
Immediately, your hands shoot to your phone, all notifications rendered useless as Hansol’s name stays absent. With a frustrated huff, you scroll slowly through the views, and your heart plummets when his profile is stacked amongst all the others. No like, no reply, nothing.
If the banging in your head wasn’t bad enough, your anxiety is now rife as you can’t help but feel sorry for yourself. Dragging yourself out of the bedroom, leaving your best friend to continue snoring, you trail to the bathroom — splashing your face to maybe ground you, brushing the stale alcohol off your tongue and attempting to tame your frizzy mane.
With an exhale, you beeline for your coffee machine, haphazardly preparing a beverage for yourself and your best friend, your mind sadly crawling to thoughts of Hansol, bitterness penetrating your brain as you think of his smile, his warm touch, his lusty gaze as he—
Knock knock.
Frozen, your eyes snap to the door, the coffee machine still buzzing in front of you as you eye the clock, who is knocking at 10 am on a Sunday?
Whoever it is does not deserve to see you in this state — head practically hanging in pounding pain, legs exposed, a huge hoodie concealing your figure, and a very dead look in your eyes.
Knock knock!
‘Get the door! It feels like someone is knocking on my brain!’ The coarse and sleepy voice of Seungkwan sounds from your bedroom, and you walk hesitantly towards the door, eyeing the wine glasses and empty bottles on the coffee table, the pillows and blankets strewn across the lounge, the dirty dishes in the sink. God, this place was a mirror of you.
Opening the door just a crack, you peek apprehensively out, the harsh sunrays making you squint as your head rattles with the brightness.
‘_____?’
Every nerve in your body seemed to activate, your hairs standing as the velvety smooth voice of Chwe Hansol infiltrated your senses. Forcing yourself to focus your vision, you drink him in.
He looked effortlessly cool, signature snapback resting on his head backwards with ease, dark wisps of hair peeking out. The brown in his eyes seemed to quiver slightly as you met them, the chocolate colour still bright even in this strange meeting. His attire was noticeably more put together, a black and red striped top and a pair of casual jeans adorning his figure — a difference from the usual sweats he showed up in.
To be honest, you thought he looked sensational. A picture of perfect boyness that could’ve had you falling to your knees. But, the stinging in your head reminded you of his lack of commitment, lack of interest and lack of anything.
‘What are you doing here?’ You croak out, squinting at him and attempting to conceal your unshowered and gross sweats from him.
‘I-, uh,’ He raised his hands, a bouquet of gorgeous carnations and lilies, hand-wrapped delicately. His other hand holding a shopping bag, snacks peeking out.
Normally you’d jump in joy and fling yourself into his arms, but that bitter taste wouldn’t budge from your tongue, the sight of him here after consistent on and off silence slightly too grating on your emotions.
‘Look, Hansol,’ you opened the door a crack more, just to let yourself stand in front of it, carefully speaking as to not alert Seungkwan — who would tease you both and practically have you both kiss just to coo. ‘I think we need to talk.’
Hansol’s outstretched arms slackened, his face dropping into an unreadable expression, one you’d never seen him wear. His eyebrows creased, and not like they did when he concentrated, no, his eyes also seemed to droop, his mouth seemingly fighting off a scowl at your coldheartedness.
‘Yeah, I also wanted to talk.’ He replies as you push the door open lightly.
Hansol couldn’t help but admire your casual wear, the oversized jumper that fit more like a dress, making you look so undeniably adorable, your hair swept off your face, and it let Hansol see all the features he was enamoured by — your smooth skin, your long lashes, your plump lips.
This was it. Your heart was practically in your throat as you let Hansol in, now or never ringing through your head. His tall figure felt like a shadow behind you, his scent infiltrating your senses as he stepped closer to walk into your apartment.
‘Maybe we should go to the balcony.’ You say with a quietened tone, your speech not lacking any tightness, especially as you refused to turn to speak to him.
Hansol didn’t miss the extra pair of shoes next to the door, or the extra wine glass next to yours on the table or the pillows that had apparently been strewn across the room. Was there someone else here? Had you found someone else?
His heart pounded in violent sprees, the hammering forcing a high-pitched ringing to pierce his eardrums. This was unfair, he shouldn’t feel like this, he shouldn’t be jealous of you and someone else — after all, he never made it official with you, he just presumed.
The cold air hitting his face forced the noise out of his body, the sound of the city floors below grounding him to this moment. Placing the flowers and snacks down on the patio table, he took to the railing, watching the late morning sun as it made the rooftops shine.
Behind him, you looked at his figure appreciatively, cherishing what might be the last few moments between you before this all goes away — soon to feel like a distant dream.
You leant over the balcony alongside him, leaving a strangely awkward distance between your arms. With a shy gulp, you opened your mouth to speak, not sure what you were going to say, but you had to say something, anything.
‘Is there someone else here?’ He questions with a hint of frustration. He couldn’t help himself, the thought of you with somebody else made him feel nauseous.
Your eyes practically bulge out of your head as you snap your head around to look at him. His jaw was tense, gaze unwavering as he refused to turn to look at you.
‘What?’ You exclaim, almost speechless.
‘I saw the shoes and the wine glasses.’ He says, forcing a monotone facade onto his voice.
‘You’re such an idiot.’ You reply, shaking your head. ‘Seungkwan is here, we got drunk last night, and he ended up crashing here.’
Well, fuck. Hansol felt like a dick. An immature and insecure boy who jumped to the worst conclusion instantly. You shifted uncomfortably — the first time he’d ever made you feel this way, as your heart panged in twisted sorrow.
‘I’m sorry.’ He finally turned to you, you now not meeting his gaze, your hungover brain struggling to decipher whether to be pissed off or angry.
After a few moments of painful silence, you speak, not allowing him to start, as you motivate yourself to tell him everything you needed to.
‘Look, Hansol.’ You speak, your voice icy in a way he’d never heard it. It terrified him, sending anxiety pulsing through every inch of his body. ‘What we’re doing, whatever this is, has to stop.’
‘That’s what I came here to talk to you about.’ He replies, faux calm in his voice.
‘So we’re in agreement?’ You push, the stinging of tears consuming you.
‘No.’
Again, you were frozen, his answer numbing your senses and rendering you completely and utterly transfixed in shock.
‘No?’ You stutter out, finally turning to face him. God, he looked so beautiful. The sun made his face glow in a way that could only be attributed to something angelic, and despite the tightness across it, a tear slipped out whilst you stared at him.
‘Hansol, are you serious? I feel like I’ve been strung along by you for months now. One moment you make me feel like the only girl in the world, and the next I don’t hear from you for days!’ You took a sharp breath, your words ragged and pointed as they spilt out of you. ‘It’s-’A strangled sob rips its way out of your mouth. ‘I feel like I’m fucking crazy Hansol, and I won’t let this happen anymore. It’s not fair on me!’
You breathe heavily, your head pounding after your outburst. Hansol just sat and took it all. Took the punches. Let them weigh on him as he carefully considered his next words.
‘You are the only girl in the world.’ He says shyly, your head still hung in an act of bitter defeat, and you scoff harshly at his words.
He panics and holds your hand, forcing your head to turn to his, you don’t withdraw your hand yet, lathering sourly in the warmth of his fingertips against yours. ‘I’m sorry I shouldn’t have snapped like that.’ You apologise with a sadness on your lips.
‘No, don’t apologise.’ He replies, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand tenderly. This would likely set you back months — this game of cat and mouse you fell into like a trap. ‘And I want to make this right.’
If your breath wasn’t hitched before, it most definitely was now.
‘I want you to be mine, my girlfriend,’ He says, confidence backing him for once, before cowering away as he continues, ‘and I didn’t want to ask you like this, but fuck it, I guess.’
He turned promptly, picking up the flowers which had been discarded and shimmying a CD case out of the plastic bag. It was decorated in a way that was acutely Hansol — stickers, drawings and the scribble of words on the front.
For ______, Love Hansol x
In your wordlessness, Hansol continued, a nervous smile on his face. ‘I spent so long thinking about how to ask you, I got so in my head, and I wanted to say the right thing, but I just worried too much about the wrong thing. So I made you this.’ He rambles as you stay dead still, the gifts still outstretched in his hands.
Hesitantly, you took the CD from his hand, looking at it closely, a few tracks on the list sticking with you:
this is how it felt when we kissed on the hike
Pang - Caroline Polachek
this is how i feel about you (lol)
claws - Charli xcx
It was so painfully him, so painfully you and him. So perfect, it was like he had translated your love language into music. Your heart had practically leapt out of your chest at his confession and his question, all that doubt and worry slipping through your fingers like sand.
‘Hansol,’ you say, that softness approaching like a ship sailing home.
Hansol had never been so relieved to hear your voice quirk in its usual way; he felt every nerve in his body relaxing as your face softened, a smile beginning to break through.
‘We’re such idiots.’ You say, your teeth shining as you smile widely and step closer to him.
‘I’ll be anything as long as it’s with you.’ He replies with a smoothness he didn’t know he was capable of.
With his romance, you bring your hand to the nape of his neck and tug his lips to yours. His warm, pillowy lips melt into yours instantly, adoration pouring into the kiss, like never before. Hansol’s arms found their way around your waist, pulling you flush to his chest in a swift movement, his lips not daring to leave yours.
Hansol drank in the feeling of you against him, allowing the adrenaline to pump into you as his tongue slid skilfully into your mouth, exploring those places he’d been so many times. But this time, it was different, there were no unsaid words and no cloudy mixed messages — just pure and beautiful passion.
‘Yes.’ You answer, ‘I’ll be your girlfriend.’
Hastily, you reconnect your lips, letting one of your hands cradle his jaw and cherish the smooth skin underneath, running the pad of your thumb along it like his skin was a masterpiece. Hansol’s smile penetrated the kiss, allowing you to withdraw slightly, foreheads resting against one another.
‘Took you long enough.’ A muffled voice rings out, and both of your heads snap to the sliding glass door. Seungkwan posed with a knowing attitude as he looked at you both, entangled with each other.
Giggles erupt between you as your lip gets caught between your teeth, and you turn your attention back to your boyfriend.
‘In my defence, I wanted to ask you months ago.’ He replies to Seungkwan’s jab, kissing your forehead.
‘Well, boyfriend, I’ve got a slightly less killer hangover. What do you want to do?’ You question with happiness dripping off every word.
‘Well, girlfriend, first, I want you to take the medicine I packed,’ He tilts his head to the plastic bag, ‘then, I want to sit and watch a movie with you whilst you recover,’ he teases, ‘and then when Seungkwan gets grossed out about how coupley we are and leaves, I want to make all of these months where you could’ve been mine up to you. How’s that sound?’
His proposal is a dream, and you nod. ‘I was always yours, you just couldn’t see it.’
blakekathryn
theartofmadeline
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
